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THE 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


DEVOTED  TO 


THE  DEVELOPMENT   OF  THE    COUNTRY. 


JULY— DECEMBER,  1883. 

VOLUME  II.— SECOND  SERIES. 


SAN    FRANCISCO: 

SAMUEL  CARSON,  PUBLISHER, 

No.  120  SUITER  STREET. 


BACON  &  COMPANY, 

PRINTERS. 


,  2- 

CONTENTS. 

Alaska,  The  Seal  Islands  of George  Ward-man 23 

American  Colony  at  Carlotta,  The Enrique  Farmer 488 

Annetta Evelyn  M.  Ludlum 17,  189,  311,  431,  538,  644 

Angel  on  Earth,  The :  A  Tale  of  Early  California  ..H.L.  Wright 402 

Art  of  Utterance,  The John  Murray 399 

Authority M.  Kellogg 637 

Avalon,  The  Precursor  of  Maryland L.  W.  Wilhelm 158 

Balm  in  November :  A  Thanksgiving  Story Elsie  Ange 499 

Bernardo  the  Blessed O.  S.  Godkin 283 

Book  Reviews. 

American  Citizen's  Manual,  107.— Authors  and  Publishers,  106.— Balladen  und  Neue  Gedichte  von 
Theodor  Kirch  hoff,  662.— Bay  of  Seven  Islands.and  Other  Poems.The,  661.— Beyond  Recall,  214.— 
Books  and  How  to  Use  Them,  107. — Catalogue  Illustredu  Salon,  107. — Courtship  of  Miles  Stand- 
ish,  661.— Cruise  of  the  Canoe  Club,  The,  108.— Daisy  Miller,  a  Comedy,  554.— Daniel  Webster, 
219.— Dosia,  663.— Earlier  Poems  of  Anna  M.  Morrison,  662.— Emerson's  Works,  663.— English 
as  She  is  Spoke,  220.— English  Bodley  Family,  The,  663.— Fair  Plebeian,  A,  216.— For  the  Major, 
213.— Freedom  of  Faith,  The,  105.— From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth,  106.— Germany  Seen  Without 
Spectacles,  333.— Golden  Chersonese,  and  the  Way  Thither,  The,  106;  Gray's  Elegy,  Artists' 
Edition,  661.— He  and  She,  662.— Her  Sailor  Love,  216.— Historical  Studies,  557.— Hot  Plow- 
shares, 211.— House-keeper's  Year-Book,  106.— How  to  Help  the  Poor,  660.— Illustrated  Art 
Notes,  National  Academy  of  Design,  107.— In  the  Carquinez  Woods,  553.— Italian  Rambles,  333. 
—James  Nasmyth,  Engineer,  106.— Ladies  Lindores,  The,  215.— Letters  and  Memorials  of  Jane 
Welsh  Carlyle,  104.— Life  on  the  Mississippi,  333.— Martin  the  Skipper,  444.— Miseries  of  Fo  Hi, 
The,  444.— Monographs  and  Reports,  445,  664.— Nan,  221.— Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  101.— Pages 
from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life,  220.— Poems,  Antique  and  Modern,  661.— Popular  History  of  Cali- 
fornia, A,  221.— Pyrenees  to  Pillars  of  Hercules,  333.— Questions  of  Belief,  556.— Reading  of 
Books,  The,  221.— Renan's  Recollections,  332.— Sea-Queen,  A,  211.— Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  334. 
— Shakespeare's  Venus  and  Adonis,  Tarquin  and  Lucrece,  and  Other  Poems,  334. — Studies  in 
Wave,  443.— 220.— Studies  in  Literature,  331.— Studies  in  Science  and  Religion,  442.— Surf  and 
Biography,  Theatre  Contemporaine,  107,  334,  663.— Times  of  Battle  and  Rest,  444.— Twelve 
Americans,  334.— Twenty  Poems  from  Longfellow,  Illustrated  by  his  Son,  661.— Vix,  445.— 
Voices  for  the  Speechless,  443.— Voyage  of  the  Jeannette,  The,  658.— Wealth-Creation,  105.— 
Work  for  Women,  663.— X  Y  Z,  216.— Yolande,  214. 

Botanical  Explorers,  Early,  of  the  Pacific  Coast C.  C.  Parry 409 

California  Cereals,  I.,  II., Joseph  Hutchinson 8,  144 

Carlotta,  The  American  Colony  at Enrique  Farmer, 488 

Census  of  our  Indian  Population Sherman  Day 465 

Child  Life  Among  the  California  Foothills Mary  E.  Bamford 56 

Characteristics  of  Our  Language,  Some Edwin  D.  Sanborn 345 

Chinese  Question,  The J.  P.  Widney 627 

Christian  Turk,  A C.E.  B 459 

Ciudad  De  La  Reyna  De  Los  Angeles,  La Clara  Spaulding  Brown 60 

Civilizing  the  Indians  of  California Sherman  Day 575 

Country  Walk,  A Lucy  H.  M.  Soulsby 582 

Crane,  William  Watrous,  Jr 653 

Current  Comment. 

Careers  of  Graduates  of  the  State  University 97 

The  Harvard  and  Yale  Examinations — The  People  and  the  Money  Power  in  Government. — 
The  Tendency  to  Law  of  College  Graduates.— Marking  Up  in  Teachers'  Examinations 217 


iv  Contents. 

Death  of  W.  W.  Crane,  Jr.— Charles  Francis  Adams,  Jr.,  on  Greek  and  French.— The  Modern 
Classical  Spirit.— The  Middle  Initial  in  England.— Reform  in  the  Higher  Grades  of  the  Civil 

Service 327 

The  Reception  of  the  Knights  Templar.— The  Civil  Service  Examinations 441 

Discussion  of  Chinese  Immigration.— State  Laws  for  Examination  of  Teachers.— Education  in 

the  Public  Schools  of  American  Cities.— Standards  of  Aristocracy 549 

Critics  of  Society  and  the  Pacific  Community.— California  the  Superlative  of  Americanism 657 

Day's  Ramble  in  Japan,  A .Jos.  F.  Taylor 533 

Drama  in  Dream-land,  The Charles  Warren  Stoddard 118 

Early  Botanical  Explorers  of  the  Pacific  Coast C.  C.  Parry 409 

Education,  Science  and G.  Frederick  Wright 369 

Episode  of  Old  Mendocino,  An A.  G.  T. 137 

Family  Names  and  Their  Mutations 323 

Freedom  of  Teaching,  The Josiah  Royce 235 

Frontier  Prospector,  The F.  M.  Endlich 125 

Glance  at  Short-hand  Past  and  Present,  A '. F.  E.  Tremper 40 

Guppy's  Daughter Charles  Howard  Shinn 113 

Illustrations,  by  M.  E.  Brown:  A  Redding  Bar  Pioneer;  Guppy's  Daughter. 

Hafiz,  The  Poet:  His  Life  and  Writings 0.  H.  Roberts : 200 

His  Messenger -. Margaret  Bertha  Wright 387 

Ideal  Club,  The K.  M .  Bishop 632 

Idle,  Good  for  Nothing  Fellow.  An 33 

Incidents  of  Horseback  Travel  in  an  Indian  Country.  N.  Dagmar  Mariager 614 

Indian  Population,  Census  of  Our Sherman  Day 465 

Indians  of  California,  Civilizing  the Sherman  Day 575 

Just  a  Wilful  Girl Millie  W.  Carpenter 131 

King  Cophetua's  Wife James  Berry  Bensel 65,  152,  292 

Lake  Tahoe,  Physical  Studies  of John  LeConte .   506,  595 

Language,  Some  Characteristics  of  Our Edwin  D.  Sanborn 345 

Lassen  Trail,  The  Old Oscar  F.  Martin 74 

Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes Charles  Warren  Stoddard 337 

Life,  Science  and 6.  Frederick  Wright 279 

Migration  Problem,  The Charles  Howard  Shinn 26? 

Music  and  Drama A.  A.  Wheeler 98 

Mute  Councilor,  The A.  A.  Sargent 516 

My  New  Friend 0.  S.  Godkin 164 

Old  Lassen  Trail,  The Oscar  F.  Martin 74 

Old  Mendocino,  An  Episode  of A.-G.T 137 

Old  Port  of  Trinidad,  The A.  T.  Hawley 276 

Our  New  Bell 258 

Outcroppings. 

Age  of  Cans,  The R.  E.  C.  S 557 

Fourth  of  July,  1848,  at  San  Jose'  del  Cabo  de 

San  Lucas Monterey Ill 

From  Camp E.  R ». 112 

Howl  Saw  the  Comet L 110 

How  Jennett  Saw  the  Comet L 336 

Once  Upon  a  Time Sara  D.  Halsted 559 

Out  of  the  World E.  E 223 

Photographic  Negative,  A K.  M.  B 221 

Poetry. 

Dying  Heroes,  The I.  C.  L 448 

Fate E.  C.  Sanford 223 

•    In  Lent Geoffrey  Burke 448 

Invitation,  An ..R.E.C.S 221 


Contents.  r 

Pretty  Vassar  Senior,  The Joel  Benton 447 

Private  Letters  of  Travel Ivy  Wandesforde  Kersey ;  M.  W 664 

Sestina -. .Florence  M.  Byrne 445 

Summer  Longing,  A Margaret  A.  Brooks UQ 

Woman,  A  Fantasy Edmund  Warren  Russell 000 

Rus  in  Urbe K.  M.  B 334 

Spanish  Captain's  Account  of  California,  A 445 

Uncle  Joshua's  Extraordinary  Experience L.  W.  S 447 

Past  and  Present  of  Political  Economy,  The Richard  T.  Ely 225 

Pacific  Houses  and  Homes Susan  Power 394 

Pericles  and  Kalomira:   A  Story  of  Greek  Island 

Life William  Sloane  Kennedy 241 

Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe John  LeConte 506,  595 

Pioneer  Sketches. 

I.    The  Old  Lassen  Trail Oscar  F.  Martin 70 

II.    An  Episode  of  Old  Mendocino '..A.O.T 134 

III.    Our  New  Bell 25? 

Poet  Hafiz,  The :  His  Life  and  Writings 0.  H.  Roberts 208 

Proud  Woman,  A Ralph  S.  Smith 178 

Political  Economy,  The  Past  and  Present  of Richard  T.  Ely 225 

Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally D.  S.  Richardson 3,  173 

Question  About  Our  Public  Libraries,  A Harriet  D.  Palmer 592 

Recent  Fiction . .  .211 

Rudimentary  Society  Among  Boys John  Johnson,  Jr 353 

Science  and  Education G.  Frederick  Wright 369 

Science  and  Life G.  Frederick  Wright. 279 

Science,  Uncertainties  of G.  Frederick  Wright 183 

Seat  Under  the  Beeches,  The W.  Winthrop 49 

Seal  Islands  of  Alaska,  The Geo.  Wardman 28 

Shepherd  at  Court,  A 358,  472,  561 

Short-hand,  Past  and  Present,  A  Glance  at F.  E.  Tremper 40 

Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek Geo.  B  Merrill 417 

Some  Characteristics  of  Our  Language Edwin  D.  Sanborn 345 

Summer  Canons Milicent  Washburn  Shinn 205 

Switzerland  of  the  Northwest,  The. 

I.  'The  Mountains W.  D.  Lyman 300 

II.  The  River W.  D.  Lyman 374 

Tim's  History  Elizabeth  B.  Willcox , 617 

Trinidad,  the  Old  Port  of A.  T.  Hawley 276 

Uncertainties  of  Science G.  Frederick  Wright 183 

Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon Abbot  Kinney 449 

Up  in  the  Sierras 44 

Utterance,  The  Art  of John  Murray 399 

Visit,  A Y.  H.  Addis .262 

Wagner  at  Home John  Parrott,  Jr 108 

Why S.  R.  Heath 83 

William  Watrous  Crane,  Jr 653 

Yesterday,  To-day,  and  To-morrow:  A  California 

Mosaic Kate  M.  Bishop . . 529 


vi  Contents. 


POETRY. 

Across  the  Plaius Emily  H.  Baker 240 

At  Morn 574 

August Charles  S.  Greene 117 

Beyond  the  Mountains E.  C.  G 59 

Buttercups Wilbur  Larremore 48 

Drifting Arthur  L.  J.  Crandall 416 

Felice  Notte E.  D.  R.  Bianciardi 96 

Gone •  Wilbur  Larremore 299 

In  a  Great  Library Charles  S.  Greene 352 

Leisure Margaret  A.  Brooks 612 

Lilies Ada  Lanyworthy  Collier 486 

Love  Deathless TJiomas  E.  Collier 182 

Mistaken Carlotta  Perry 257 

Mountain  Grave,  A Mary  E.  Bamford 505 

On  a  Picture  of  Mt.  Shasta,  by  Keith E.  R.  Sill 1 

Queen  and  the  Flower,  The Margaret  B.  Harvey 528 

Quern  Metui  Moritura E.  R.  Sill 34* 

Sonnet Katharine  Royce 537 

Sonnet Katharine  Royce 16^ 

Sonnet Amelia  Woodward  Truesdell 581 

Song E.  P.  B 464 

Song J.  C 636 

Sunshine  Found 73 

To  My  Soul Robertson  Trowbridge 408 

Vaquero  to  His  Horse Virginia  Peyton 136 

Wood-Chopper  to  His  Ax,  The Elaine  Goodale 2*5 


THE 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


DEVOTED   TO 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE   COUNTRY. 


VOL.  II.  (SECOND  SERIES.)— JULY,  1883.— No.  7. 


ON   A   PICTURE   OF   MT.   SHASTA  BY   KEITH. 

Two  craggy  slopes,  sheer  down  on  either  hand, 
Fall  to  a  cleft,  dark  and  confused  with  pines. 
Out  from  their  somber  shade — one  gleam  of  light — 
Escaping  toward  us  like  a  hurrying  child, 
Half  laughing,  half  afraid,  a  white  brook  runs. 
The  fancy  tracks  it  back  thro'  the  thick  gloom 
Of  crowded  trees,  immense,  mysterious 
As  monoliths  of  some  colossal  temple, 
Dusky  with  incense,  chill  with  endless  time: 
Thro'  their  dim  arches  chants  the  distant  wind, 
Hollow  and  vast,  and  ancient  oracles 
Whisper,  and  wait  to  be  interpreted. 

Far  up  the  gorge  denser  and  darker  grows 
The  forest:  columns  lie  with  writhen  roots  in  air;  • 
And  across  open  glades  the  sunbeams  slant 
To  touch  the  vanishing  wing-tips  of  shy  birds; 
Till  from  a  mist-rolled  valley  soar  the  slopes, 
Blue-hazy,  dense  with  pines  to  the  verge  of  snow, 
Up  into  cloud.     Suddenly  parts  the  cloud, 
And  lo!  in  heaven — as  pure  as  very  snow, 
Uplifted  like  a  solitary  world — 
A  star,  grown  all  at  once  distinct  and  clear — 
The  white  earth-spirit,  Shasta!     Calm,  alone, 
VOL.  II.— i. 


On  a  Picture  of  ML  Shasta  by  Keith. 

Silent  it  stands,  cold  in  the  crystal  air, 
White-bosomed  sister  of  the  stainless  dawn, 
With  whom  the  cloud  holds  converse,  and  the  "storm 
Rests  there,  and  stills  its  tempest  into  snow. 

Once — you  remember? — we  beheld  that  vision, 

But  busy  days  recalled  us,  and  the  whole 

Fades  now  among  my  memories  like  a  dream. 

The  distant  thing  is  all  incredible, 

And  the  dim  past  as  if  it  had  not  been. 

Our  world  flees  from  us;   only  the  one  point, 

The  unsubstantial  moment,  is  our  own : 

We  are  but  as  the  dead,  save  that  swift  mote 

Of  conscious  life1.     Then  the  great  artist  comes, 

Commands  the  chariot  wheels  of  Time  to  stay, 

Summons  the  distant,  as  by  some  austere, 

Grand  gesture  of  a  mighty  sorcerer's  wand, 

And  our  whole  world  again  becomes  our  own. 

So  we  escape  the  petty  tyranny 

Of  the  incessant  hour;   pure  thought  evades 

Its  customary  bondage,  and  the  mind 

Is  lifted  up,  watching  the  moon-like  globe. 

How  should  a  man  be  eager  or  perturbed 
Within  this  calm?     How  should  he  greatly  care 
For  reparation,  or  redress  of  wrong, — 
To  scotch  the  liar,  or  spurn  the  fawning  knave, 
Or  heed  the  babble  of  the  ignoble  crew? 
See'st  thou  yon  blur  far  up  the  icy  slope, 
Like  a  man's  footprint?     Half  thy  little  town 
Might  hide  there,  or  be  buried  in  what  seems 
From  yonder  cliff  a  curl  of  feathery  snow. 
Still  the  far  peak  would  keep  its  frozen  calm, 
Still  at  the  evening  on  its  pinnacle 
Would  the  one  tender  touch  of  sunset  dwell, 
And  o'er  it  nightlong  wheel  the  silent  stars. 

So  the  great  globe  rounds  on, — mountains,  and  vales, 
Forests,  waste  stretches  of  gaunt  rock  and  sand, 
Shore,  and  the  swaying  ocean, — league  on  league: 
And  blossoms  open,  and  are  sealed  in  frost; 
And  babes  are  born,  and  men  are  laid  to  rest. 
What  is  this  breathing  atom,  that  his  brain 
Should  build  or  purpose  aught,  or  aught  desire, 
But  stand  a  moment  in  amaze  and  awe, 
Rapt  on  the  wonderfulness  of  the  world. 

E.  R.  Sill. 


1883.] 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


PUTTING   IN   THE   SUMMER   PROFESSIONALLY.— I. 


MY  vagabond  friend  came  to  me  one  June 
day  in  Oakland  and  made  a  proposition. 
I  call  him  vagabond  because  he  rather  en- 
joyed the  appellation  than  otherwise;  and  as 
he  is  still  tramping  somewhere,  and  may  see 
this,  I  desire  to  please  him.  The  truth  of 
the  matter  is,  he  was  a  traveling  dentist,  and 
his  field  of  operations  extended  all  over  the 
State.  He  had  plugged  teeth  under  the 
shadows  of  Shasta,  and  plucked  molars  on 
the  plains  of  Yuma.  There  were  mouths 
up  among  the  Sierra  fastnesses  which  bore 
traces  of  his  handiwork,  and  celluloid  indi- 
cations of  his  presence  along  the  shore  from 
Humboldt  to  San  Luis  Obispo.  I  liked 
this  doctor  for  three  reasons:  in  the  first 
place,  he  liked  me;  secondly,  he  was  a  good 
fellow;  and  lastly,  I  was  in  his  debt.  I  do 
not  mean  by  this  that  I  owed  him  money. 
It  was  a  different  obligation;  for  did  he  not 
come  to  me  one  time — forty  miles  in  the 
hot  sun  over  a  high  mountain — and  stick  to 
me  for  two  days  and  nights  when  I  had  an 
ulcerated  face?  and  when  I  wanted  to  pay 
him  for  it  he  got  mad.  In  the  summer- 
time he  traveled  in  a  light  spring  wagon, 
and  carried  along  his  coffee-pot  and  blank- 
ets, his  tool  chest,  and  a  little  furnace  for 
cooking  teeth.  Where  night  overtook  him 
he  pitched  his  tent;  and  I  have  known  him 
to  work  for  days  in  the  open  field,  with  his 
improvised  dental  chair  set  beneath  a  friendly 
oak.  Whatever  the  people  had  to  pay  was 
currency  with  this  practitioner.  He  would 
put  in  a  set  of  teeth  and  take  in  payment  a 
colt,  a  steer,  or  a  brace  of  shotes.  .Hides, 
sheepskins,  and  chickens  were  often  tendered 
as  compensation  for  patched-up  grinders, 
and,  if  not  too  far  from  a  market,  were 
rarely  declined. 

On  various  occasions  I  had  accompanied 
the  doctor  on  his  dental  forays  into  the 
rural  districts,  and  we  had  become  fast 
friends.  In  fact,  he  wanted  me  to  join  him 
and  learn  the  business;  but  I  never  could 


acquire  the  art  of  pulling  a  tooth,  and  the 
monotonous  vigil  beside  a  pot  of  simmering 
biceps  had  no  charms.  It  was  the  free,  out- 
door life  I  loved — the  night  encampment 
under  the  stars;  the  fields  and  the  woods. 
So  I  listened  to  his  proposition.  Would  I 
join  him  on  a  trip  through  Lake  and  Men- 
docino  counties?  I  should  go  where  he 
went,  fare  as  he  fared,  sleep  where  he  slept, 
and  he  would  pay  all  the  bills.  Just  here  I 
must  tell  you  something.  For  several 
months  the  purpose  had  been  shaping  itself 
in  my  mind  to  try  my  hand  at  teaching  a 
country  school.  Although  still  a  beardless 
youth,  I  believed  I  could  do  it,  for  the 
world  was  young  then ;  O.  P.  Fitzgerald  was 
superintendent  of  public  instruction,  and  I 
had  a  State  certificate.  The  doctor's  prop- 
osition seemed  to  afford  the  opportunity  I 
desired  to  look  around.  So  I  accepted, 
imposing  the  single  condition  that  I  should 
have  the  privilege  of  deserting  the  itinerant 
dental  establishment  at  any  time,  if  an  op- 
portunity presented  of  securing  a  school. 

For  two  weeks  we  jogged  slowly  along,  up 
through  the  beautiful  Napa  Valley,  loitering 
here  and  there  at  farm-houses  and  camping 
in  the  open  fields.  The  weather  was  glori- 
ous, and  the  whole  summer  lay  before  us. 
To  the  doctor,  perhaps,  time  was  of  greater 
value  than  it  was  to  me,  but  it  was  easy  to 
tempt  him  into  idleness.  Notwithstanding 
the  sanguinary  and  unsympathetic  nature  of 
his  profession,  a  vein  of  poetry  cropped  out 
here  and  there  in  his  composition,  rendering 
him  vulnerable  to  the  charms  of  nature. 
Wherever  a  cool  spring  bubbled  out  of  the 
mountain  side  or  a  sylvan  nook  lured  us 
from  the  dusty  highway,  there  we  stopped 
and  pitched  our  tent.  Many  a  time,  when 
this  rambling  doctor  should  have  been  pull- 
ing teeth,  and  I  in  rapt  attendance  on  his 
steaming  pot,  we  were  snoozing  the  happy 
hours  away  in  the  corner  of  somebody's 
wheat  field,  or  stretched  along  the  green 


Patting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


[July, 


sward  by  stream  and  in  bird  thicket,  hiding 
from  the  noonday  sun.  It  was  not  profit- 
able, perhaps,  from  a  moneyed  standpoint; 
but  what  did  we  care  for  money?  Could 
anybody  put  a  price  on  the  warm  sunlight 
and  the  sweet,  free  air?  Did  it  cost  any- 
thing to  throw  ourselves  along  the  bosom  of 
Old  Mother  Earth  and  sleep,  or  dip  our 
faces  into  the  cool  streams  and  pools?  Nor 
were  we  in  danger  of  starving  when  the 
woods  were  alive  with  game  and  the  streams 
with  fish.  There  were  lonely  cows  to  be 
waylaid  and  robbed  of  their  milk,  and 
groaning  orchards  designed  and  planned  for 
midnight  forays.  Who  would  not  be  a  tramp 
in  a  land  like  this?  or  who  would  pay  for 
fruit  in  the  month  of  June  when  he  could 
steal  it?  A  fig  for  the  philosophy  of  toil! 
It  was  invented  by  some  bloodless  wretch 
who  never  saw  the  sun  or  a  land  of  plenty. 
Such,  at  least,  was  our  philosophy  as  we 
idled  away  the  summer  days,  and  grew  fat 
and  dusty.  The  doctor,  I  am  sure,  did  not 
get  down  to  business  until  after  we  parted 
company;  and  he  has  since  informed  me, 
with  something  of  reproach  in  his  tone,  that 
two  or  three  more  such  trips  would  ruin  his 
professional  reputation.  He  seemed  to  hold 
me  responsible,  somehow,  for  his  vagrancy 
— which  was  not  just  right. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the  second 
week  that  I  found  my  school.  By  this  time 
we  had  wended  our  way  up  over  Mount  St. 
Helena  and  down  into  the  borders  of  Lake 
County.  Here  there  is  a  little  valley  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  Coyote.  You  have 
been  there,  perhaps,  and  know  how  pretty  it 
is;  fields  of  golden  grain,  cozy  farm-houses 
nestled  here  and  there  among  the  trees,  and 
a  mountain  outlook  on  every  hand.  A  form- 
al call  was  made  upon  the  three  rustic  gen- 
tlemen constituting  the  local  school  board. 
Would  they  have  me  to  teach  their  young 
Coyotes?  They  looked  me  over  and  said 
they  would 

"O.  P.  Fitzgerald's  certificate  is  as  good 
as  wheat,"  remarked  one,  the  foreman  of  the 
trio,  who  gloried  in  the  name  of  Stumpit. 
"You  come  back  one  week  from  to-day, 
young  man,  and  start  in." 


That  this  off-hand  employment  of  a 
stranger  was  hasty  and  ill-advised  will  be 
seen  in  the  sequel.  My  conscience  has 
never  troubled  me,  however,  for  I  did  not 
know  at  the  time  how  bad  a  man  I  was. 
Knowledge  comes  with  experience;  and  it  is 
astonishing  how  much  a  man  will  learn  even 
about  himself  if  he  will  place  himself  under 
developing  conditions. 

Another  week's  lease  of  life,  and  then 
my  troubles  began.  The  doctor  and  I  spent 
it  pretty  much  as  we  had  its  two  predeces- 
sors, gradually  working  our  way  northward 
over  the  second  mountain  warll  and  down 
by  the  lake-shore.  Here  we  made  our  last 
camp  under  the  shadows  of  the  Konookta, 
and  here  one  bright  morning  we  parted. 
With  all  my  effects  packed  into  a  light  grip- 
sack, and  thirty-five  cents  in  my  pocket,  I 
started  back  on  foot  over  the  fifteen  miles 
of  mountain  road  separating  me  from 
Coyote  and  my  prospective  field  of  duty. 
If  the  doctor  had  known  how  impecunious 
I  was,  he  would  have  given  me  a  twenty; 
but  I  did  not  tell  him.  He  would  have 
given  me  the  shirt  on  his  back  if  I  had  in- 
timated my  necessity  for  it.  I  needed  the 
shirt  badly  enough;  but  I  was  prouder  in 
those  days  than  I  am  now,  and  so  said  noth- 
ing. Climbing  the  grade  a  few  hundred 
yards,  I  seated  myself  on  a  rock  and  watched 
him  drive  away  among  the  trees.  He 
waved  the  coffee-pot  in  affectionate  fare- 
well salutation,  when  a  turn  in  the  road  was 
reached  which  hid  him  from  view,  and  I  was 
left  alone  in  the  woods. 

The  day  which  followed  was  exceedingly 
hot,  and  the  up-hill  tramp  through  the  fine 
red  dust  became,  in  a  few  hours,  very  labo- 
rious. However  slowly  I  might  proceed, 
hugging  the  shade  spots  on  the  winding 
grade,  it  was  impossible  to  keep  cool,  and 
.my  grip-sack,  like  the  grasshopper,  became 
a  burden.  Life  seemed  too  short  and  pre- 
cious for  such  nonsense  on  a  summer  day,  so, 
towards  noon,  I  switched  off  under  a  man- 
zanita  bush  and  went  to  sleep.  It  must 
have  been  mid-afternoon  when  I  awoke,  with 
a  mighty  vacancy  in  my  stomach  and  a  col- 
ony of  tree-ants  -in  my  vest.  Far  up  the 


1883.] 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


mountain,  to  ray  left,  a  band  of  sheep  were 
grazing,  and  it  occurred  to  me,  after  getting 
rid  of  the  ants,  that  there  must  be  a  herd- 
er's camp  somewhere  in  the  vicinity,  and 
perhaps  I  could  "  work  "  that  rustic  individ- 
ual for  a  square  meal.  Former  experiences 
had  led  me  to  the  conviction  that  the  aver- 
age sheep-herder  is  a  pretty  good  fellow — 
inclined  to  be  hospitable  and  glad  to  see  you. 
It  makes  no  difference  whether  he  be  Dago, 
Kanaka,  or  Greek,  when  you  meet  him  on 
his  lonely  stamping  grounds.  He  is  human 
and  homely — in  keeping  with  his  rude  sur- 
roundings— and  the  smile  of  welcome  which 
percolates  his  oily  visage  is  apt  to  be  sincere. 
Having  in  my  mind's  eye  the  typical  repre- 
sentative of  this  fraternity,  imagine  my  con- 
sternation on  finding  myself  confronted  by  a 
rosy  damsel  of  sixteen,  bare-footed,  straw- 
hatted,  and  sweet-voiced  as  a  med-lark. 
She  had  seen  me  first,  and  stood  watching 
me  from  a  little  rocky  ledge  as  I  labored  up 
the  mountain  side.  For  a  moment  I  was 
dumb  with  astonishment.  Could  this  be 
the  sheep-herder  I  sought?  I  had  read 
somewhere  of  gentle  shepherdesses  tending 
their  flocks  on  Arcadian  hills,  and  ensnaring 
the  hearts  of  all  things  masculine;  but  that 
was  in  the  golden  age.  What  was  this 
Grecian  maiden  doing  in  Lake  County?  and 
where  was  her  crook  ?  Probably  imagining 
from  my  startled  attitude  and  voiceless 
stare  that  I  was  about  to  shy  off  into  the 
brush,  or  that  I  could  not  talk  yet,  she  said  : 

"Do  not  be  frightened.     Come  up." 

"  Do  you  herd  these  sheep?  "  I  stammered. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Are  you  not  afraid  to  be  out  here  in'the 
woods  alone?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"Are  you  not  afraid  of  me?" 

"No;  but  I  thought  you  was  of  me"; 
and  she  laughed  merrily,  somewhat  to  my 
discomfiture. 

"  If  I  am  not  capable  of  inspiring  fear," 
I  thought,  "would  that  I  might  excite  some 
gentler  emotion."  But  I  shall  not  tell  you 
all  the  nice  things  I  thought  and  said  during 
the  next  two  hours.  It  is  sufficient  for  you 
to  know  a  few  of  the  materialistic  facts. 


It  is  sufficient  for  you  to  know  that  I  came 
up  to  her  side;  that  I  told  her  I  was  hun- 
gry: that  I  was  a  vagabond  on  the  face  of 
the  earth,  going  to  teach  a  school  in  Coyote ; 
and  that  if  the  Lord  would  forgive  me  for 
attempting  to  walk  up  the  red-hot  mountain 
under  a  July  sun  I  would  never  be  guilty  of 
like  offense  again.  And  then  she  told  me 
that  she  had  a  bottle  of  milk  and  some 
lunch  at  a  spring  a  little  farther  up  the  cafio  n, 
and  that  I  should  share  it  with  her  if  I 
would.  And  what  a  lunch  we  had  !  Corn 
bread,  a  little  bacon,  some  wild  blackberry 
jam,  and  milk.  Perched  on  the  bank  above 
the  spring,  my  new-found  wood-nymph 
laughed  and  chattered,  and  make  me  eat  the 
most  of  it.  She  was  not  hungry,  she  said; 
she  had  just  relieved  her  brother  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  had  eaten  before  leaving  home. 

"Then  why  did  you  bring  the  lunch?" 
I  asked. 

"  O,  we  sometimes  feel  hungry  towards 
evening,"  she  replied. 

"  You  knew  I  was  coming,  didn't  you?" 

"  No;  but  I'm  sorry  you  are  going." 

And  so  was  I.  In  fact,  I  was  half  tempted 
to  turn  sheep-herder  then  and  there,  and  let 
the  Coyote  school  go  by  the  board;  but  I 
could  not  figure  far  enough  ahead.  That 
vexatious  brother  to  whom  she  alluded 
might  give  me  trouble.  She  also  had  the 
misfortune  to  have  parents  who  might  ques- 
tion my  continuous  presence  on  the  moun- 
tain. It  would  not  do. 

"  I  will  come  back  to  see  you,"  I  said. 
And  I  mean  to  do  it  one  of  these  days. 

Diving  into  the  bottom  of  my  sack,  I 
brought  out  a  pair  of  the  doctor's  forceps, 
left  there  by  accident,  and  begged  of  her  to 
accept  them  as  a  token  of  my  gratitude. 
It  was  all  I  had  to  give,  unless  she  would 
accept  some  portion  of  my  wearing  apparel, 
for  which  latter  I  presumed  she  had  no  use. 
Furthermore,  she  might  consider  these  for- 
ceps as  a  symbol  of  the  grip  she  had  on  my 
young  affections.  I  had  never  known  them 
to  let  go.  Stealing  a  last  look  into  her  mer- 
ry eyes — a  little  saddened,  I  thought,  when 
the  parting  came — I  shouldered  my  baggage 
and  trudged  away. 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


[July, 


It  was  now  near  sunset,  and,  as  the  result 
of  my  loiterings  along  the  way,  night  over- 
took me  long  before  I  reached  my  point 
of  destination,  which  was  Stumpit's  farm. 
The  moon,  however,  came  up  over  the  moun- 
tains full  and  mellow,  and  filled  the  world 
with  enchantment.  So  lovely,  indeed,  was  the 
night,  that  on  nearing  Stumpit's  house  and 
hearing  the  dog's  bark,  I  concluded  not  to 
go  in.  There  was  a  barley  stack  over  in  the 
field  a  little  way,  and  here  I  was  unwise 
enough  to  make  my  bed.  My  lack  of  wis- 
dom consisted  in  the  fact  that  I  retired 
with  my  coat  on,  which  was  a  light  blue 
flannel.  On  arising  in  the  morning  it  was 
literally  bristling  with  barley  beards,  which 
refused  to  let  go.  Life  being  too  short  to 
pull  them  out  one  by  one,  I  concluded  to 
face  Stumpit  as  I  was,  hay  seed  and  all. 
He  took  me  for  a  porcupine,  I  think,  when 
I  presented  myself  that  morning  at  his  door; 
but  justice  to  him  compels  me  to  add  that 
he  said  nothing  about  my  appearance. 
After  a  hearty  breakfast,  we  walked  out  into 
the  yard  together  and  sat  down  on  a  log. 
It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  the  school  was 
to  begin  next  day.  I  had  noticed  that  my 
host  was  a  little  reserved,  but  did  not  imag- 
ine the  cause  until  the  question  of  the  school 
finally  came  up. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Schoolmaster,"  he  com- 
menced, "but  we  have  concluded  not  to  em- 
ploy you  as  our  teacher." 

"Why?"  I  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Since  you  were  here  a  week  ago,"  he 
added,  "  we  learn  that  you  formerly  taught 
a  negro  school  in  Stockton." 

"  It  is  not  true,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  the  people  believe  it  is  true,  and 
three-fourths  of  them  declare  they  will  not 
send  their  children  to  a  man  who  puts  him- 
self on  an  equality  with  a  nigger." 

Memories  of  the  war  were  still  fresh  in 
the  minds  of  the  people  in  those  days, 
and  Coyote  was  largely  settled  by  men  of 
Southern  sympathies.  So  sudden  and  un- 
expected was  this  peculiar  turn  'of  affairs, 
that  for  a  moment  I  was  nonplused. 

"Are  there  any  other  charges  against 
me?"  I  finally  asked. 


"  Yes.  We  are  informed  that  on  your  re- 
cent trip  up  through  Napa  County  you  and 
the  doctor  stole  a  calf,  and  butchered  it  in 
the  brush." 

"It's  a  lie,"  I  screamed.  "Who  makes 
these  charges  against  me?" 

"I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you." 

"Do  you  believe  them?" 

"Yes." 

The  subsequent  proceedings  are  shrouded 
in  some  uncertainty.  I  know  I  was  very 
angry,  and  that  I  called  Stumpit  some  very 
unpopular  names;  and  then  there  was  a 
flutter  in  the  back  yard,  and  I  found  myself 
tossed  over  the  gate  into  the  dusty  road. 
Hurt  in  feelings  and  mortified  beyond  ex- 
pression, I  moved  slowly  away,  too  much 
agitated  to  care  especially  where  my  foot- 
steps led.  Wronged,  but  without  redress, 
friendless  and  moneyless  in  a  strange  land, 
this  merry  summer  jaunt  of  mine  began  to 
take  on  other  hues.  For  an  hour  I  contem- 
plated wicked  things,  among  which  were  a 
suit  for  damages,  a  horsewhipping  for  Stum- 
pit, and  death  for  the  wretch  who  had  lied 
about  me;  and  then  I  reached  the  woods, 
and  sat  down  to  cool  off.  With  reflection 
came  better  resolutions.  What  could  I,  a 
mere  boy  among  strangers,  do  towards  right- 
ing such  wrongs  as  these?  Better  make  a 
virtue  of  necessity,  and  acquiesce — accept 
the  inevitable,  and  skip.  Perhaps  a  commu- 
nity might  be  found  where  they  did  not 
have  nigger  on  the  brain.  Of  one  thing  I 
was  certain:  if  school-teaching  was  such 
solemn  and  dangerous  business,  I  could 
tear  up  O.  P.  Fitzgerald's  certificate,  and  do 
something  else.  It  would  be  easy  to  get  a 
job  in  the  harvest  fields,  or,  if  worst  came 
to  worst,  go  back  to  my  mountain-nymph 
and  help  tend  sheep.  As  for  overhauling  the 
doctor,  or  putting  myself  in  communication 
with  my  friends  at  home,  that  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  Humbled  though  I  was  by  my 
unceremonious  eviction,  there  was  consider- 
able pride  left  and  much  self-reliance. 

"  I'll  see  this  thing  through  now,"  I 
thought,  "if  it  takes  a  wing,  Stumpit  and 
all  his  Coyotes  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing." 


1883.] 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


Several  hours  of  the  holy  Sabbath  morn- 
ing had  been  spent  by  me  in  sylvan  medita- 
tion before  reaching  this  resolution,  and 
now  I  emerged  from  the  cover  of  the 
woods  and  took  a  seat  upon  the  fence'  by 
the  roadside.  The  morning  was  a  lovely 
one,  and  here  and  there  across  the  valley  I 
could  see  the  farmers  driving  down  to  church 
in  wagons  and  on  horseback.  Despite  the 
gravity  of  my  situation,  its  humor  kept  com- 
ing uppermost,  and  ere  I  knew  it,  I  laughed 
outright. 

"While  I  am  sitting  here,"  I  thought, 
"  like  a  crow  on  the  fence — a  homeless  out- 
cast— my  sisters  are  getting  on  their  Sunday 
toggery  for  church  down  in  Oakland.  What 
would  mother  think" —  and  I  saddened  a  lit- 
tle— "if  she  knew  that  I  was  burrowing  round 
here  in  the  hills  like  a  ground-squirrel,  with- 
out where  to  lay  my  head,  or  a  legitimate 
prospect  for  square  meals  to  come?  Stumpit 
could  not  shake  that  breakfast  out  of  me, 
though."  And  then  it  occurred  to  me  for 
the  first  time  that  my  grip-sack  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  In  fact,  I  did  not  see 
my  baggage  again  for  two  months,  when 
Stumpit  sent  it  over  the  mountain  to  me  by 
a  sheep-herder. 

A  mile  up  the  road  from  where  I  sat  was  a 
wayside  grocery.  Here  I  invested  two-thirds 
of  my  capital  in  soda-crackers  and  sardines; 
and  arming  myself  with  a  club,  lest  some  one, 
judging  from  the  appearance  of  my  clothes, 
should  think  that  I  had  been  stealing  hay 
and  try  to  arrest  me,  I  started  back  over  my 
road  of  the  day  before*  Tor  Lower  Lake. 
My  purpose  was  to  seek  employment  among 
the  farmers  of  that  locality,  and  at  the  same 
time  get  a  big  mountain  between  me  and 
Coyote  as  soon  as  it  could  comfortably  be 
done.  Comfort,  however,  was  not  to  be 
found  on  that  road  at  midday,  so  I  really 
did  not  get  down  to  business  locomotion 
until  late  in  the  afternoon.  Just  as  the  sun 
was  sinking  behind  the  mountain  tops — 
when  little  rabbits  began  to  scamper  across 
the  road,  and  sweet  azalias,  bending  down 
from  the  banks,  seemed  to  shake  loose  some 
rarer  fragrance — an  incident  occurred  which 
changed  my  whole  plan  of  action.  Sud- 


denly, on  the  grade  above  me,  there  was  a 
clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the  next  moment  a 
riderless  horse,  saddled  and  equipped,  came 
dashing  down  the  road  directly  towards  me. 
To  spring  before  him  was  instinctive,  and,  as 
the  grade  was  narrow,  I  succeeded  easily  in 
stopping  and  securing  him.  Thinking  at 
first  that  the  animal  had  thrown  his  rider, 
and  that  I  should  find  some  one  hurt  far- 
ther on,  I  was  a  little  startled;  but  my  fears 
were  speedily  put  at  rest  by  the  appearance 
of  a  fine,  strapping  fellow  striding  down  the 
grade  in  hot  haste.  He  was  not  over 
twenty-five  years  of  age — was  booted  and 
spurred  like  a  bandit,  and  wore  a  wide  hat 
and  a  breezy  blouse.  Seeing  me  standing 
in  the  road  holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle, 
he  hailed  me  with  a  cheery  "Hello,"  and 
came  forward. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  he  ex- 
claimed; "this  beast  has  given  me  a  two- 
mile  run." 

"He  would  have  gone  through  to  Napa, 
I  think,  if  I  had  not  been  here,"  I  an- 
swered; "how  did  it  happen?" 

"I  dismounted  for  a  moment  at  a  spring 
above  here,  and  trusted  him  to  stand." 

"You  are  not  the  only  victim  of  mis- 
placed confidence  that  I  am  acquainted 
with,"  I  remarked;  "I  believe  these  woods 
are  full  of  them." 

Although  the  full  significance  of  this 
speech  was  lost  upon  my  new  friend,  he 
laughed  heartily.  "Where  are  you  going?" 
he  asked. 

"To  Lower  Lake." 

"Good — my  lay  exactly ;  are  you  mount- 
ed?" 

"No." 

"Then  we'll  ride  this  fellow  double  to 
make  him  pay  for  his  trickery.  What  do 
you  say?" 

"Anything  suits  me,  if  you  think  he'll 
stand  it." 

"We'll  make  him  stand  it." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  young  fellow 
stood  looking  at  me  curiously. 

"You  don't  seem  to  belong  around  here," 
he  remarked. 

"O    no;    I'm   a   preacher   from    Fresno 


8 


California  Cereals. 


[July, 


County,  taking  a  little  recreation  among  the 
hills." 

"  You  seem  to  have  struck  a  barley  field 
in  your  rambles." 

"Yes;  and  I  was  so  well  pleased  with  it 
that  I  brought  it  along.  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  have  your  horse  browse  on  me  a  while  be- 
fore we  both  mount  him?" 

Another  laugh  followed,  in  which  I  was 
compelled  to  join.  In  fact,  it  did  not  take 
long  to  establish  very  cordial  relations  with 
this  handsome  stranger;  and  as  we  journeyed 
on  towards  Lower  Lake  together,  his  genial 
good  nature  so  won  upon  my  confidence 
that  I  told  him  all  about  myself  and  my 
trouble  with  Stumpit.  We  had,  in  the 
mean  time,  mounted  the  runaway  steed,  and 
were  slowly  ambling  along  the  grade. 

"Now  this  is  a  remarkable  piece  of  luck 
all  round,"  he  said,  when  I  had  finished 
my  story.  "I  live  in  Morgan  valley,  about 
twenty  miles  from  here,  where  my  father  is 
one  of  the  school  trustees.  When  I  left 
home  two  days  ago  to  hunt  up  some  stray 
cattle,  he  told  me  to  make  inquiries  at  Low- 
er Lake  for  a  teacher.  You  are  just  the 
man  I  want.  If  you  will  come  with  me  we 
will  cross  over  to  Morgan  to-night,  and  settle 
up  the  business  at  once.  Teachers  are 
scarce  in  these  parts,  and  we  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  picking  them  up  loose  in  the  hills 
when  we  are  out  looking  for  steers ;  but  this 
meeting  of  ours,  as  it  happens,  could  not 
have  been  better  planned." 

"  How  do  you  stand  on  the  nigger  ques- 
tion over  there?"  I  asked. 


"Never  heard  the  subject  broached,"  he 
replied  laughingly;  "but  we  don't  like 
Stumpit." 

"Then  I  am  with  you,"  I  answered;  "but 
did  •  you  say  we  could  make  your  place 
to-night?" 

"We  can  try  it,  if  you  don't  object  to 
losing  a  little  sleep.  Lower  Lake  is  but  a 
mile  or  two  below  us  now,  and  Morgan  is 
seventeen  miles  beyond.  When  the  moon 
comes  up,  it  will  not  be  unpleasant  travel- 
ing." 

So  this  plan  was  decided  upon.  At  the 
.lake  we  stopped  and  had  a  good  supper, 
thanks  to  my  friend's  generosity;  and  after 
resting  a  while,  our  all-night  tramp  began. 
All  night,  I  say,  for  it  was  six  o'clock  the 
next  morning  before  our  destination  was 
reached.  The  road  was  rough,  and  our 
horse  soon  "  petered,"  as  my  friend  expressed 
it,  under  his  double  load,  compelling  us  to 
ride  and  walk  by  turns.  Tired,  sleepy,  and 
badly  demoralized,  feeling  like  the  tradition- 
al "  boiled  owl,"  and  looking  like  a  member 
in  good  standing  of  that  ancient  and  per- 
petual order  of  Bay-front  hay-bunkers,  I  was 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  the  figure  I  cut 
was  a  sorry  one  when  my  friend  marched 
me  that  morning  into  his  father's  kitchen 
door.  Suffice  it  to  say,  however,  that  ex- 
planations followed,  succeeded  by  a  break- 
fast, a  bath,  a  borrowed  shirt,  and  sleep; 
and  then  I  was  officially  informed  that  O.  P. 
Fitzgerald's  certificate  was  "  good  enough," 
and  that  I  might  start  in  on  the  school  to- 
morrow if  I  liked.  • 

D.  S.  Richardson. 


[CONCLUDED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


CALIFORNIA   CEREALS.— I. 


IN  the  year  1880,  A.  N.  Towne,  Esq.,  of 
the  Central  and  Southern  Pacific  Railroad 
Companies,  addressed  letters  to  many  of 
the  representative  farmers  of  California,  ask- 
ing for  information,  founded  upon  their 
experience,  concerning  the  grain-growing 


industry  of  this  State.  Replies,  more  or 
less  complete  and  detailed,  were  received 
from  many;  among  others,  from  John  Bid- 
well  of  Butte  County,  C.  H.  Huffman  of 
Merced,  J.  P.  Raymond  of  Monterey,  John 
Boggs  of  Colusa,  John  Finnell  of  Tehama, 


1883.] 


California  Cereals. 


James  B.  Lankersheim  of  Los  Angeles,  J. 
M.  Mansfield  of  Napa,  H.  J.  Glenn  of 
Colusa,  and  G.  W.  Colby.  The  informa- 
tion contained  in  their  letters  is  very  valu- 
able, as  coming  from  men  of  such  practical 
experience.  The  letters  have  been  very 
kindly  placed  at  the  service  of  the  OVER- 
LAND by  Mr.  Towne,  and  from  them  the 
material  for  the  present  articles  has  been 
obtained. 

This  first  article  contains  a  brief  historical 
sketch  of  the  grain  industry  in  California, 
remarks  on  the  size  of  farms  and  the  nature 
of  the  tenure,  speaks  generally  of  the  char- 
acter of  the  soils  and  the  varieties  of  grain 
planted,  and  gives  some  of  the  practical 
details  of  plowing. 

The  second  article  will  give  the  details  of 
practical  sowing  and  harvesting,  remark  on 
the  size  and  general  character  of  the  yield 
and  the  cost  of  labor,  and  treat  fully  the 
subject  of  deterioration  of  soils  and  the  use 
of  fertilizers  and  other  means  to  prevent 
decrease  and  exhaustion  of  fertility. 

As  early  as  1770  the  Franciscans  planted 
wheat  in  California,  and  small  shipments 
were  made  to  Mexico  in  the  last  century. 
It  is  said  that  in  those  early  days  the  mis- 
sions at  times  gave  small  supplies  of  wheat 
and  coarse  flour  to  vessels  touching  upon 
the  coast.  About  the  year  1836,  it  is  said 
that  George  C.  Yount  raised  wheat  in  Napa 
Valley.  But  as  late  as  the  fall  of  1841, 
when  the  first  party  that  crossed  the  plains 
direct  to  California  arrived,  according  to 
General  Bidwell,  who  was  of  the  party, 
"the  country  was  without  bread,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  of  the  more  wealthy 
families,  and  these  had  but  a  limited  supply. 
A  few  of  the  more  provident  had  occasion- 
ally the  luxury  of  beans.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  all  the  country  deserving  the  name 
of  a  flour-mill;  and  if  there  had  been  mills, 
they  would  have  been  idle.  That  year 
(1841)  had  been  the  driest  ever  known,  and 
no  wheat  had  been  raised.  What  little 
there  was  to  use  from  the  previous  year 
was  ground  by  hand  by  the  women — by 
rubbing  on  a  stone,  called  the  metate,  and 
so  formed  into  thin  cakes,  called  tortillas. 


There  was,  in  fact,  a  general  absence  of 
everything  except  beef.  This  was  abundant, 
and  constituted  the  staple  food."  This  lack 
of  cultivation  of  the  land  to  cereals  seems 
to  have  arisen,  not  from  any  ignorance  as  to 
the  adaptability  of  the  soil  and  climate  to 
that  purpose,  but  from  the  want  of  any  con- 
siderable demand  for  the  product.  There 
were  at  that  time  only  about  twelve  thou- 
sand people  of  civilized  habits  living  within 
the  present  limits  of  California.  The  de- 
mand which  finally  led  to  the  first  extensive 
cultivation  of  wheat  for  export  arose  about 
this  time,  in  a  curious  manner.  The  same 
writer  tells  the  story:  "The  Russian  colony, 
which  had  for  many  years  occupied  Ross 
under  a  charter  from  old  Spain,  and  had 
later  overreached  and  taken  possession  of 
the  coast  as  far  south  as  Bodega,  sold,  in 
1841,  everything  they  possessed  to  Captain 
Sutter,  except  what  they  could  carry  away 
in  a  vessel.  This  sale  included  horses, 
cattle,  farming  implements,  buildings,  forty 
to  fifty  cannon,  and  their  charter  rights, 
which,  I  believe,  had  nearly  expired.  Pay- 
ment was  to  be  made  in  wheat,  in  annual 
installments.  The  said  colony  was  a  branch, 
or  in  the  service,  of  the  Russian- American 
Fur  Company,  and  the  wheat  was  to  go  to 
Sitka,  beginning  in  1842.  But  though  Sut- 
ter was  enterprising — -I  may  say  indefatigable 
— yet  too  many  obstacles  lay  in  his  way  to 
success.  Sometimes  the  seasons  were  too 
dry;  sometimes  too  wet.  The  country  was 
never  a  whole  year  quiet.  Proper  farming 
implements  could  not  be  had.  Those  of 
the  Russians  were  old  and  mostly  useless. 
They  were,  I  think,  nearly  as  rude  as  those 
in  use  before  the  Deluge;  and  besides,  of  a 
kind  that  no  one  could  use  but  a  Russian." 
Sutter's  farm  was  in  Sacramento  County. 
During  the  ten  years  immediately  following 
Sutter's  endeavors  to  raise  wheat  for  export, 
it  seems  that  the  industry  flagged.  Up  to 
the  time  of  the  discovery  of  gold,  in  1848, 
little  or  no  wheat  was  raised  in  California, 
beyond  the  limited  local  requirements  of 
the  few  small  towns  and  the  sparsely  popu- 
lated rural  districts,  and  scarcely  enough 
for  that.  The  discovery  of  gold  and  the 


10 


California  Cereals. 


[July, 


rapid  influx  of  population  increased  the 
local  demand;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  min- 
ing offered  more  allurements  than  farming. 
The  enormous  price  of  flour  in  the  mines 
in  early  days  is  proverbial. 

John  Boggs  says  that  the  first  land  he 
remembers  seeing  planted  in  wheat  was  on 
Cache  Creek,  in  Yolo  County,  where  the 
town  of  Yolo  now  stands.  The  ground 
was  plowed,  and  wheat  from  a  cargo  from 
Chili  sowed  in  February,  1851.  But  as  the 
season  was  dry,  or  a  dry  spell  came  in  Feb- 
ruary, the  wheat  did  not  produce  a  crop, 
and  was  destroyed  by  the  stock.  About 
I8S3,  W.  G.  Hunt  produced  a  very  fair 
crop  on  Cache  Creek,  just  opposite  Yolo, 
then  called  Cacheville. 

J.  P.  Raymond  of  Salinas  City  writes 
concerning  wheat  culture  in  the  early  days 
of  California:  "My  first  impressions  regard- 
ing wheat-growing  in  this  State  were  re- 
ceived about  June,  1852,  during  a  ride  on 
the  top  of  a  stage-coach  from  San  Francisco 
to  San  Jose,  and  return  through  Alameda 
County,  via  the  Old  Mission.  At  Hay- 
wards  and  Oakland,  previous  to  that  season, 
little  had  been  done:  enough,  however,  to 
prove  the  adaptability  of  the  soil  and  cli- 
mate around  the  bay  to  the  production  of 
grain;  and  that  season  wheat-growing  and 
barley  also  were  largely  engaged  in  on  lands 
bordering  the  bay;  but  it  was  never  thought 
that  it  could  be  done  here  except  in  greatly 
favored  localities.  But  the  complete  suc- 
cess of  that  season  made  farming  a  business 
in  California."  About  1854  attention  was 
turned  far  more  generally  to  wheat-growing, 
and  the  valley  lands  suitable  for  the  purpose 
were  sought  out,  and  gradually  brought  un- 
der extensive  cultivation.  Wheat  and  barley 
were  then  the  only  cereals  raised  for  profit, 
and  of  these,  wheat  predominated.  In  the 
winter  of  1854-55,  J.  M.  Mansfield  planted 
in  Napa  County  three  hundred  acres  of 
wheat  and  one  hundred  acres  of  barley,  the 
former  being  the  largest  area  sown  to  wheat 
at  that  time  north  of  the  Bay  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, if  not  in  the  State.  In  1855  was 
made  the  first  notable  export  to  New  York 
of  wheat  after  the  gold  discovery.  Then 


Napa  was  the  leading  wheat  county.  In 
the  same  year  the  cultivation  of  wheat  in 
the  Sacramento  Valley  became  quite  general. 
That  season  many  good  crops  were  pro- 
duced. In  this  valley  the  production  of 
wheat  has  increased  every  year  since  that 
time,  and  it  is  now  the  principal  crop.  The 
cultivation  of  the  cereals  has  pushed  down  in- 
to the  San  Joaquin  Valley;  and  this,  together 
with  the  Sacramento,  is  the  granary  of  the 
State.  The  smaller  valleys  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  bay  continue  to  raise  large 
quantities  of  the  cereals.  Salinas  Valley, 
on  the  Bay  of  Monterey,  has  been  brought 
largely  under  this  cultivation,  being  particu- 
larly adapted  to  the  raising'  of  barley.  San 
Fernando  Valley,  in  Los  Angeles  County,  was 
but  quite  recently  added  to  the  grain-grow- 
ing regions  of  the  State.  James  B.  Lanker- 
sheim  writes  concerning  this  region:  "There 
were  several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  raise 
wheat  in  this  county  prior  to  1875;  parties 
planted  at  different  times  from  one  to  five 
hundred  acres  without  getting  any  returns, 
and  when  we  came  here  it  was  considered 
impossible  to  raise  wheat.  In  1875  we  put 
in  two  thousand  acres  on  the  San  Fernando 
ranch.  The  rainfall  was  light — about  twelve 
inches;  but  the  crop  yielded  about  ten 
bushels  to  the  acre  of  very  good  quality. 
The  following  year,  1876,  was  a  very  good 
one.  We  had  in  four  thousand  acres,  and 
the  yield  was  an  average  of  thirty  bushels. 
Some  parts  yielded  fifty  bushels  per  acre,  and 
others  not  over  eighteen.  We  shipped  two 
cargoes  of  this  crop  to  England  direct  from 
Wilmington.  They  arrived  in  good  shape, 
and  we  were  informed  that  one  of  the 
cargoes  that  went  to  London  was  the  best 
of  the  season."  Los  Angeles  County  is  now 
established  as  a  grain-growing  region:  not 
only  the  valley  lands,  but  also  large  tracts 
near  the  coast,  being  now  under  cereal 
cultivation. 

Thus,  from  very  small  and  doubtful  be- 
ginnings, the  cultivation  of  cereals  in  Cali- 
fornia has  grown  in  less  than  thirty  years  to 
be  the  paramount  industry  of  the  State. 
Instead  of  a  few  hundred  acres  sown  here 
and  there  almost  as  an  experiment,  we 


1883.] 


California  Cereals. 


11 


have  one  farm  of  fifty  thousand  acres,  many 
that  approach  this  in  size,  and  large  num- 
bers of  small  farms  devoted  exclusively  to 
this  industry.  The  acreage  under  cereal 
cultivation  is  constantly  increasing,  new  re- 
gions proving  adapted  to  the  purpose.  In- 
stead of  occasional  small  shipments,  we 
now  send  in  the  neighborhood  of  one  mil- 
lion tons  of  wheat  and  flour  per  annum  to 
Europe.  Central  and  South  America,  the 
islands  of  the  Pacific,  Australia,  and  Africa 
receive  consignments  of  California-grown 
grain.  And  even  the  great  western  wheat- 
growing  regions  of  our  own  country  are 
finding  their  product  rivaled  at  their  very 
doors  by  shipments  from  our  farmers. 

The  great  size  of  California  farms  is 
much  spoken  of,  and  Dr.  Glenn's  farm  in 
Colusa  County  is  cited  as  the  leadijig  illus- 
tration. In  1880  he  was  cultivating  fifty 
thousand  acres.  Of  these  he  rented  four- 
teen thousand  acres  on  shares,  and  farmed 
the  remaining  thirty-six  thousand  acres  him- 
self. John  Finnell  may  also  be  mentioned 
among  the  large  farmers  of  the  State.  In 
1880  he  had  thirty-eight  thousand  acres  of 
wheat  in  Napa,  Colusa,  and  Tehama  coun- 
ties. Of  these,  he  farmed  only  six  thousand 
acres ;  the  rest  was  leased  out  at  a  rental  of 
one-third,  delivered  in  sacks  on  the  bank 
of  the  Sacramento  River  or  at  depot,  all 
expenses  paid  by  the  tenant.  But  refer- 
ence to  these  large  wheat-growers  gives  a 
very  wrong  impression  as  to  the  size  of  Cal- 
ifornia farms  and  the  general  character  of 
the  California  farmers.  The  late  B.  B. 
Redding  estimated  that  fully  seven-eighths  of 
all  the  grain  grown  in  this  State  is  raised  on 
small  farms,  and  his  opinion  is  supported  by 
the  following  figures  from  the  land  agents  of 
the  Central  and  Southern  Pacific  Railroad 
Companies  : 

The  number  of  purchasers  of  land  from 
both  companies,  of  160  acres  and  under,' 
5,551;  of  320  acres  and  over  160,  1,234;  of 
640  acres  and  over  320,  670;  of  over  640 
acres,  272. 

From  these  figures  it  would  appear  that 
the  small  farmers  of  160  acres  and  under 
are  72  per  cent,  of  the  whole;  320  acres 


and  over  160,  16  per  cent,  of  the  whole; 
640  acres  and  over  320,  9  per  cent,  of  the 
whole;  640  acres  and  over,  3  per  cent,  of 
the  whole. 

These  percentages  have  not  varied  materi- 
ally for  three  years  last  past. 

Among  the  large  farmers,  the  custom  of 
renting  portions  of  their  tracts  on  shares,  as 
in  the  cases  of  Glenn  and  Finnell  above 
cited,  seems  to  prevail. 

As  to  the  localities  in  the  State  fitted  for 
the  growth  of  cereals,  Mr.  Bidwell  says: 
"Speaking  generally,  all  arable  lands  in 
California  are  adapted,  and  pre-eminently 
so,  to  wheat  culture.  To  show  how  natur- 
ally soil  and  climate  conspire  to  favor  wheat 
production,  I  will  state  that  I  have  seen  on 
grassy  plains,  far  away  from  where  plow  had 
ever  disturbed  the  virgin  soil,  wheat  spring- 
ing up  where  it  had  casually  dropped  from 
a  passing  wheat-laden  wagon.  It  had  not 
only  taken  root  in  the  tough,  indigenous, 
grass  sod,  but  was  bearing  fine  heads.  The 
same  in  regard  to  barley,  In  fact,  barley, 
oats,  and  rye  flourish,  if  possible,  better 
than  wheat.  The  best  lands  of  California 
would  be  hard  to  surpass."  It  was  the 
opinion  of  the  late  Dr.  Glenn  that  the  allu- 
vial land  with  clay  subsoil  is  better  adapted 
than  any  other  description  for  all  seasons  to 
produce  wheat. 

In  the  historical  sketch  above,  it  appeared 
how  the  industry  has  spread  from  valley  to 
valley  throughout  the  State.  The  bay 
counties,  the  Napa,  Sacramento,  San  Joa- 
quin,  Salinas,  and  San  Fernando  valleys  have 
one  by  one  been  brought  under  cereal  culti- 
vation. It  is  said  that  the  Sacramento  and 
San  Joaquin  valleys  alone  contain  about 
twenty  million  acres  of  good  wheat  land. 
And  each  year  experiments  in  hitherto  un- 
tried locations  bring  in  new  regions  to  swell 
the  already  vast  area  of  the  State  known  to 
be  fitted  for  this  industry. 

In  the  Sacramento  and  San  Joaquin  val- 
leys the  soils  consist  of  loams  and  adobes. 
The  loams  form  the  larger  part  of  the  creek 
and  river  bottoms  proper.  The  adobes 
and  mixed  loams  and  adobes  constitute 
the  largest  percentage  of  the  elevated  plains 


12 


California  Cereals. 


[July, 


running  from  the  bottoms  to  the  foot-hills. 
Upon  these  plains  the  grain  is  mostly  grown. 
Mr.  James  B.  Lankersheim  describes  the 
soil  in  Los  Angeles  County  as  very  rich,  as 
a  rule,  and  well  adapted  to  wheat  and  bar- 
ley. The  light  and  dark  heavy  loam,  of 
both  of  which  there  is  a  great  deal,  are 
easily  worked,  and  are  suitable  for  wheat- 
growing.  Some  adobe  land  yields  well,  but 
is  difficult  to  work.  There  is  also  in  the 
same  county  a  red  sandy  soil  that  gives 
good  crops. 

The  varieties  of  wheat  planted  in  Califor- 
nia are  quite  numerous.     At  first  probably 
little  selection  was  exercised  by  the  farmers : 
whatever   was   available   was   planted.      In 
Sutler's  time  the  principal  kind  raised  was 
called  "  Russian  wheat " — a  red  wheat,  grain 
plump,  head  broad  and  branched  somewhat 
like   Egyptian   wheat,    very   prolific.      The 
wheat  planted  on  Cache  Creek  in  1851,  re- 
ferred to  above,  came  from  Chili.      Wheat 
from  Australia  and  the  East  has  been  used. 
As  varieties  and  localities  have  been  tested, 
the   growers   choose   intelligently.      Where 
heavy  winds  prevail,  grain  which  produces 
strong  straw  is  planted.     Small  farmers,  who 
have  to  wait   their  turn  for  a  contract   for 
harvesting,  plant  wheat  that  produces  heads 
which  do  not  shell  out  easily,  lest  the  delay 
in  waiting   for   the   contractor   should  lose 
them  a  portion  of  their  crop.     In  very  wet 
localities  it  is  desirable  to  plant  grain  which 
longest  resists  rust.       The   late  Dr.  Glenn 
writes  as  follows  on  this  subject,  as  to  the 
neighborhood   of  his  great   Colusa  County 
farm:    "The    description   of  wheat   mostly 
raised  in  our  section  is  White  Club;  I  find 
it  the  most  reliable  for  a  crop.     It  is  not  as 
good  milling  wheat   as   other   descriptions, 
but  for  crop  purposes  I  consider  it  better,  for 
the  following  reasons  :    It  is  harder  to  shell, 
straw  stronger  and  stiffer,  does  not  grow  as 
tall,  and  yields  fully  as  well  as  other  species." 
In  the  Salinas  Valley  the  varieties  mostly 
grown    are    the    White    Australia  and    the 
Sonora.     On  some  of  the  lighter  soils  the 
Sonora  is  preferred  on  account  of  its  early 
maturing.      But  on   the   whole,   the  White 
Australia  has  very  largely  the  preference. 


In  Los  Angeles  County  experiments  have 
been  made  with  Sonora,  Mediterranean, 
Club,  and  Chili  wheats,  and  the  preference 
finally  given  to  Australia.  The  reasons  as- 
signed for  this  preference  are,  that  the  Aus- 
tralia stands  the  drought  better,  yields  more 
per  acre,  and  makes  better  flour  than  the 
others. 

Before  attempting  to  give  an  account  of 
the  details  of  practical  grain-farming  in  Cal- 
ifornia at  the  present  time,  I  shall  introduce 
a  description  of  the  industry  as  it  existed 
forty  years  ago,  in  the  "early  days,"  when 
Sutter  was  struggling  to  raise  wheat  enough 
to  fill  his  contract  with  the  Russians.  It  is 
taken  from  a  letter  written  by  John  Bidwell. 
As  this  account  has  never  been  printed,  and 
as  it  is  so  characteristic,  vivid,  and  interest- 
ing, I  shall  not  mutilate  it  by  attempting  to 
condense,  but  insert  it  in  full.  After  giving 
an  account  -of  Suiter's  contract  with  the 
Russians,  and  detailing  some  of  the  difficul- 
ties in  the  way  of  its  fulfillment,  he  contin- 
ues: 

"With  the  exception  of  a  few  plows  im- 
provised by  Sutler's  blacksmiths,  all  the 
plowing  had  to  be  done  in  the  same  manner 
as  at  the  old  missions  and  on  the  ranches. 
The  advantages  of  this  plow  were  that  In- 
dians and  anybody  could  use  it,  it  cost  but 
little,  anybody  could  make  it;  and  in  rude- 
ness it  certainly  should  antedate  the  Russian 
plow.  It  was  simply  a  crooked  limb,  or 
part  of  a  small  tree  with  a  limb  so  bending 
or  branching  as  to  answer  for  a  handle;  a 
long  pole  was  so  fastened  as  to  serve  both  for 
plow-beam  and  a  tongue  or  pole  to  pull  by. 
This  tongue  or  pole  was  fastened  to  the  top 
of  the  yoke,  and  the  yoke  placed  on  top  of 
the  oxen's  necks  and  lashed  fast  to  the 
horns.  A  piece  of  flat  iron,  a  little  broader 
than  the  hand  and  pointed  at  the  end,  was 
spiked  to  the  sloping  end,  that  plowed,  or 
rather  scratched,  the  ground.  This  was  the 
kind  of  plow  used  at  all  the  missions  and 
ranches  in  California.  Sutter  managed  to 
put  in  a  large  crop  every  year.  By  large 
crop  I  mean  some  two  thousand  acres,  more 
or  less;  this  was  large  for  those  early  times. 
"Now  a  few  words  in  regard  to  harvesting 


1883.J 


California  Cereals. 


13 


implements.  The  grain-cradle  had  never 
found  its  way  to  this  coast,  nor  was  there 
any  substitute  nearer  than  a  sickle,  and  poor 
sickles  at  that.  What  I  saw  may  illustrate 
the  difficulties  of  a  large  harvest  in  those 
early  times.  Indians  (some  had  been  taught 
in  the  missions,  but  most  were  wild)  were 
the  reapers;  and  as  far  as  possible  they 
were  supplied  with  sickles.  Those,  how- 
ever, who  received  sickles  constituted  the 
favored  few.  Next  in  rank  came  such  as 
could  be  furnished  with  long  butcher-knives. 
Then  pieces  of  hoop-iron,  haggled  so  as  to 
imitate  somewhat  coarsely  the  edge  of  a 
sickle,  were  given  to  another  squad.  Out 
of  four  hundred  harvest  hands,  one  hundred 
or  so  were  left  without  anything  to  work 
with.  These  were  told  to  use  their  hands, 
and  break  off  the  brittle  straw.  These,  and 
those  armed  with  the  hoop-iron  saws,  could 
only  work  in  the  hottest  part  of  the  day, 
when  the  straw  was  dry  and  brittle.  But 
the  unarmed  brigade,  their  hands  becoming 
sore,  armed  themselves  by  taking  round, 
dry  willow  sticks  of  convenient  length  and 
an  inch  or  so  in  diameter,  splitting  them  in 
halves,  and  then  using  the  sharp  edge  to 
aid  in  severing  the  standing  grain.  Each 
member  of  the  force  with  sticks  resorted  to 
the  willow  thicket,  and  came  forth  into  the 
harvest  field  with  a  bundle  of  sticks.  It 
was  necessary  to  provide  an  ample  supply, 
for  as  soon  as  the  edge  of  the  stick  became 
blunted,  it  was  cast  aside  and  a  new  one 
split.  These  were  slow  times;  and  a  har- 
vest would  often  last  from  June  to  October. 
The  sickle  outranked  the  stick  as  the  mod- 
ern separator  does  the  olden  flail. 

"Threshing  time.  The  primitive  harvest 
scene  would  not  be  complete  without  say- 
ing something  about  how  the  threshing  was 
done.  A  round  pen  or  inclosure  was  made 
convenient  to  the  field.  Then  the  ground 
was  wet  and  tramped  by  horses  till  perfectly 
hard  and  dry,  and  then  swept.  Day  by 
day  the  grain  was  conveyed  to  and  piled  in 
the  center  of  the  pen  (called  an  era),  in  the 
form  of  a  huge  stack,  or  mound-shaped  pile, 
of  unthreshed  grain.  The  grain  was  not 
bound;  very  little  binding  was  done  in  those 


days.  It.  would  take  days,  sometimes  weeks, 
to  fill  a  large  era  ready  for  threshing.  But 
once  ready,  the  threshing  was  rapid  enough. 
In  fact,  it  was  more  rapid  than  any  known 
modern  ways  of  threshing.  But  threshing 
was  one  thing,  and  separating  the  grain 
from  the  chaff  and  straw  a  very  different 
affair.  I  have  seen  two  thousand  bushels 
of  wheat  threshed  in  an  hour;  but  it  would 
take  a  week,  perhaps  two  weeks,  to  winnow 
and  clean  the  grain.  The  whole  surface  of 
the  era  had  to  be  covered  with  the  straw, 
while  the  main  part  was  in  the  huge  mound 
or  pile  in  the  center.  The  wild  horses, 
three  hundred  or  four  hundred  or  five  hun- 
dred in  number,  wild  as  deers,  were  then 
turned  in;  and  round  and  round  like  the 
wind  they  would  go;  Indians  whooping  at 
the  frightened  band,  the  strongest  and  fleet- 
est always  foremost.  The  ground  literally 
shook  under  the  thundering  feet.  Soon  the 
stack  was  trampled  flat  all  over  the  era,  and 
thoroughly  threshed  on  the  upper  surface, 
and  in  many  places  through  and  through. 
But  to  make  the  threshing  thorough,  the 
whole  mass  had  to  be  stirred  to  the  very 
bottom.  To  effect  this,  the  motion  of  the 
whole  band  must  be  increased,  and  then  in- 
stantly reversed.  Wild  horses,  at  a  given 
signal,  do  this  to  perfection.  The  Indians, 
with  a  wild  whoop,  can  safely  spring  in 
front;  horses  will  never  run  over  a  human 
being  if  they  can  help  it.  The  horses  in 
the  rear  propel  those  in  front  at  the  sudden 
halt;  and  the  long  straw  (which  is  the  un- 
threshed portion)  is  plowed  up  from  the 
bottom  by  the  sliding  of  the  hoofs  on  the 
ground.  By  this  being  skillfully  repeated 
for  a  short  time,  the  grain  is  not  only 
thoroughly  threshed,  but  the  whole  mass  is 
converted  into  chaff,  broken  straw,  and 
threshed  grain. 

"The  separating  process.  The  straw  is 
too  fine  to  be  handled  by  rake  or  pitchfork, 
and  must  be  shoveled  into  a  heap,  and  the 
era  swept.  It  has  now  all  to  be  tossed  by 
shovelfuls  high  into  the  air  to  winnow  it. 
This  can  only  be  done  when  the  wind  blows. 
This  will  often  try  one's  patience,  for  he 
must  wait  hours,  sometimes  days,  for  the 


14 


California  Cereals. 


[July, 


wind;  and  it  may  take  weeks  sometimes  to 
finish  cleaning  up  wheat  that  was  threshed 
in  an  hour. 

"These  early  scenes  I  can  never  forget. 
They  were  thrillingly  wild;  I  mean  the 
threshing.  It  was  hard  work  for  the  horses. 
But  that  did  not  signify;  horses  were  abun- 
dant and  cheap;  were  often  killed  for  oil  to 
use  in  dressing  leather,  yielding  but  one  or 
two  gallons  each  at  that. 

"Barring  some  pieces  of  earth,  and  gravel 
if  the  soil  was  gravelly  where  the  era  was 
made,  the  cleaning  of  wheat  by  winnowing 
in  the  manner  described  was  perfect.  The 
wheat  was  never  cracked  as  by  the  modern 
separator.  But  I  have  no  desire  to  return  to 
the  early  practice  of  a  California  harvest." 

This  lively  picture  presents  a  strange  con- 
trast to  the  systematic  mechanical  farming 
of  to-day.  Yet  a  California  harvest  field  of 
the  present  is  exceedingly  interesting  to  those 
unaccustomed  to  country  scenes.  And  the 
operation  of  some  of  the  latest  improved 
machinery  affords  pictures  by  no  means 
wanting  in  animation.  Take,  for  instance, 
the  combined  reaper  and  thresher  used  in 
some  parts  of  the  State.  A  cumbrous  box, 
as  large  as  a  small  house,  armed  with  mow- 
ing knives  at  the  front,  is  pushed  into  the 
army  of  standing  grain  by  twenty-four  horses 
yoked  to  a  long  pole  extending  out  behind 
it.  Two  long,  stout  beams,  or  double-trees, 
are  fastened  across  this  pole.  The  horses 
are  yoked  in  sixes  on  each  end  of  the  dou- 
ble-trees, twelve  on  each  side  of  the  pole. 
On  top  the  house  is  an  iron  wheel  like  the 
brake-wheel  of  a  railroad  car,  by  which  the 
pilot  of  the  vast  machine  steers  it,  the  wheel 
being  connected  by  long  iron  rods  with  an 
upright,  sharp-edged  wheel  which  runs  upon 
the  ground  under  the  rear  end  of  the  pole 
to  which  the  horses  are  hitched.  Over  this 
latter  wheel,  which  is  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
behind  the  house,  is  the  driver's  seat.  On  a 
low  platform  just  behind  the  house,  and  in 
front  of  the  horses,  two  men  stand  ready  to 
sack  the  threshed  grain  as  it  pours  out  of 
the  machine.  On  top  the  house,  with  his 
hands  free,  stands  the  captain.  He  gives 
his  orders.  The  horses  strain,  struggle,  puff, 


and  sweat.  The  driver  shouts.  The  pilot 
holds  firmly  to  his  wheel,  guiding  the  pon- 
derous machine.  With  din  and  clatter  the 
vast  engine  presses  forward  into  the  grain. 
The  grain  falls  before  the  knives,  is  taken 
on  an  endless  draper  up  to  the  top  of  the 
house,  and  dropped  into  the  threshing  ma- 
chinery inside  the  latter.  Through  this  ma- 
chinery it  is  forced,  the  straw  falling  out  at 
the  opposite  end  of  the  house,  and  the 
clean  grain  pouring  out  of  a  spout  behind 
the  house  into  the  sacks  made  ready  for  it 
by  the  men  on  the  platform.  As  each  sack 
is  filled,  it  is  sewed  up,  and  goes  sliding 
down  a  chute  at  one  side  of  the  platform 
into  the  portion  of  the  field  already  cleared. 
And  so  the  standing  grain  is  converted  at 
once  into  sacked  wheat  ready  for  shipment. 
The  scene  is  not  so  exciting  as  the  Indians 
and  wild  horses  trooping  aroifnd  the  era,  as 
described  by  Mr.  Bidwell.  But  it  possesses 
a  deeper  though  more  quiet  interest,  in  that 
it  illustrates  the  highest  triumphs  of  civilized 
man. 

In  this  description  of  the  combined  reaper 
and  thresher,  I  have  been  tempted  into  an 
anticipation.  For  my  plan  is  to  take  up  in 
order  some  of  the  detailed  features  of  Cal- 
ifornia grain  culture  to-day,  beginning  with 
the  preparation  of  the  soil,  and  ending  with 
the  product  ready  for  shipment. 

Plowing  usually  commences  after  the 
rainy  season  sets  in — sometime  in  Novem- 
ber. In  some  districts,  as  in  the  Sacramento 
Valley,  the  first  rain  rarely  wets  the  ground 
sufficiently  to  permit  of  proper  plowing. 
When  the  earth  is  sufficiently  moistened,  the 
plows  are  put  to  work.  But  it  sometimes 
happens  that  land  which  has  been  cultivated 
before  can  be  plowed  to  advantage  before  the 
first  rainfall.  This  was  done  in  Los  Angeles 
County  in  1879,  with  a  loose  loam  soil  which 
had  been  previously  plowed  and  cultivated. 
Of  course  this  could  not  be  done  with  new 
land.  Plowing  continues  from  November 
as  late  as  April.  The  land  which  is  to  be 
summer-fallowed — that  is,  rested  during  the 
summer — is  plowed  in  the  early  part  of  the 
year,  after  the  sowing  of  the  winter-plowed 
land  is  finished.  Land  is  rarely  plowed 


1883.] 


California  Cereals. 


15 


more  than  once  in  one  season,  though  every 
plowing  improves  the  crop.  Summer-fallow 
— that  is,  land  which  is  plowed  in  the  early 
part  of  the  year  and  allowed  to  rest  during 
the  summer — should  be  plowed  over  once 
or  more,  if  clean  grain  and  a  full  crop  is  de- 
sired. Every  plowing  cleans  the  ground, 
and  it  is  said  increases  the  production  five- 
fold over  the  expense  of  cultivation.  John 
Finnell  of  Tehama  County  finds  that  by 
plowing  the  summer-fallow  the  second  time 
the  production  of  wheat  is  increased  five 
bushels  to  the  acre,  and  that  with  less  rains. 
In  Contra  Costa  County,  in  1879,  G.  W. 
Colby  summer-fallowed,  and  replowed  once 
and  some  of  it  twice.  The  result  was  over 
fifty  bushels  to  the  acre  of  Australian  wheat ; 
while  his  neighbors  on  the  same  class  of 
land  (only  divided  by  a  fence)  with  one 
plowing  produced  only  fifteen  to  twenty 
bushels  from  common  seed.  Mr.  Colby, 
however,  attributed  a  portion  of  his  great 
success  in  this  instance  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  changed  the  seed. 

The  depth  of  plowing  varies  with  the  soil 
and  season.  The  average  depth  of  plowing 
in  the  Sacramento  Valley  is  from  six  to  nine 
inches.  John  Boggs  of  Colusa  says  on  this 
subject:  "The  depth  plowed  varies  accord- 
ing to  the  kind  of  soil.  On  soil  of  an  alkali 
nature,  the  deeper  the  plowing  the  better — 
say  eight  or  ten  inches.  Clay  soil  is  also 
better  with  deep  plowing,  especially  after 
being  cultivated  for  a  few  years.  Sandy  and 
gravelly  soils  do  not  require  so  deep  plowing ; 
three  inches  being  ample  for  the  first  several 
years  of  cultivation.  After  the  land  has  be- 
come somewhat  exhausted  from  constant 
and  successive  cultivation,  it  is  better  to 
plow  deeper,  and  turn  up  a  new  and  fresh 
soil."  Dr.  Glenn  of  the  same  county  says: 
"New  land  should  not  be  plowed  more  than 
five  or  six  inches  deep.  Land  that  has  been 
cultivated-  a  number  of  years  should  be 
plowed  deeper — say  nine  or  ten  inches — so 
as  to  continually  turn  up  new  soil.  The  top 
stratum  in  virgin  soil  is  always  the  richest." 
In  Tehama  County,  the  plowing  for  win- 
ter sowing  is  five  inches  deep  ;  for  summer- 
fallow,  eight  inches.  In  Napa  County,  the 


average  depth  is  six  inches.  In  the  San 
Joaquin  Valley,  new  land  needs  to  be  plowed 
to  the  depth  of  ten  or  twelve  inches.  C.  H. 
Huffman  of  Merced  thus  describes  the  ef- 
fect of  plowing  new  land  to  a  less  depth: 
"The  growing  grain  soon  absorbs  the  moist- 
ure, and  if  the  grain  is  suffering  for  the  need 
of  rain,  the  roots  commence  to  grow  down- 
wards, and  their  coming  in  contact  with  the 
ground  nof  plowed  retards  the  growth  of  the 
grain,  and  the  consequence  is,  the  grain  is 
shrunken."  In  the  same  valley,  old  land 
needs  to  be  plowed  to  the  depth  of  six  or 
eight  inches.  In  Salinas  Valley,  for  many 
years  the  plowing  was  done  to  a  depth  of 
three  or  four  inches  only ;  but  recently,  par- 
tial failures  of  the  crop  have  led  to  deeper 
plowing  to  the  depth  of  ten  inches.  In  Los 
Angeles  County,  they  do  not  seem  to  have 
felt  the  need  of  deep  plowing,  the  industry 
being  comparatively  new  in  that  district.  In 
that  county  the  depth  may  average  from 
four  to  six  inches.  Of  course  it  is  under- 
stood that  the  depth  of  the  plowing  must  be 
determined  by  all  the  circumstances  and 
conditions  of  the  soil,  climate,  and  locality. 

The  single  plow  is  in  very  large  use,  es- 
pecially on  the  smaller  farms.  But  on  the 
large  farms,  gang-plows  are  used  almost  alto- 
gether, but  with  varying  results  as  to  satis- 
faction given.  The  gang-plows  used  have 
from  two  to  eight  plows  each,  the  number 
being  determined  by  the  size  of  the  farm, 
the  character  of  the  soil,  and  the  depth  to 
which  the  plowing  is  to  be  done.  Where 
the  soil  is  comparatively  fresh,  and  shallow 
plowing  is  sufficient,  the  largest  number  of 
shares  to  each  gang-plow  may  be  used.  For 
instance,  in  Los  Angeles  County  the  Stock- 
ton gang-plow,  carrying  from  six  to  eight 
plows,  has  been  much  used.  For  deep 
plowing,  the  late  Dr.  Glenn  of  Colusa  used 
the  two-gang  Eureka,  consisting  of  two 
twelve-inch  plows,  cutting  twenty-four  inches, 
and  drawn  by  eight  animals.  For  shallow 
and  cross  plowing  he  used  the  Granger, 
carrying  five  eight-inch  plows,  cutting  forty 
inches.  The  plows  are  drawn  by  horses  or 
mules,  the  number  varying  with  the  number 
of  shares  in  the  gang-plow  used,  the  charac- 


16 


California  Cereals. 


[July, 


ter  of  the  soil,  and  the  depth  of  the  plowing. 
A  two-gang  plow  requires  from  four  to  six 
animals.  With  broken  ground,  and  plowing 
to  the  depth  of  six  inches  with  a  two-gang 
plow,  four  good  animals  will  do.  With  a 
three-gang  plow  from  six  to  eight .  animals 
are  used;  with  a  five-gang,  from  eight  to  ten. 
A  Stockton .  gang-plow,  spoken  of  above 
as  being  much  used  in  Los  Angeles  County, 
carrying  eight  plows  with  molds  only  and 
no  shares,  plowing  to  a  depth  of  four  inches 
and  less,  with  eight  mules  and  one  man,  will 
turn  over  from  eight  to  ten  acres  per  day. 

Although  gang-plows  are  so  generally  used, 
they  are  not  so  popular  as  at  first.  Genera 
Bidwell's  remarks  on  the  subject  are  very 
pointed.  He  says:  "Most  of  the  plowing 
is  done  with  gang-plows,  especially  on  large 
farms.  The  idea  prevails  that  like  most 
modern  inventions  they  are  labor-saving. 
Everything  considered,  I  have  come  to 
doubt  all  the  advantages  claimed  for  them. 
They  are  made  to  ride  on.  Plowmen  can- 
not conveniently  see  how  they  plow,  and 
drive  team  at  the  same  time,  and  some  do  not 
care.  Those  who  use  them  are  apt  to  be- 
come careless  about  the  depth.  They  prefer 
to  have  their  teams  walk  along  briskly,  be- 
cause it  makes  the  riding  more  pleasant.  A 
gang-plow  requires  more  power  to  pull  it  than 
single  plows  cutting  the  same  breadth  and 
depth  drawn  singly.  They  nominally  save 
the  labor  of  one  man.  But  two  single  plows, 
with  the  same  team  power  divided,  will  plow 
wider,  deeper,  make  more  rounds,  fatigue 
the  horses  less,  turn  the  land  better,  and 
thereby  more  than  make  up  for  the  extra 
man.  In  all  cases  the  cost  of  gang-plows  is 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  usefulness. 
Most  of  the  imperfect  plowing  is  done  with 
them.  If  you  direct  your  land  plowed  five 
to  nine  inches  deep,  you  will  probably  find 
on  examination  that  it  will  range  from  three 
to  six  inches.  When  the  team  begins  to  fag, 
the  lever  is  too  handy;  move  it  a  notch  or 
two,  and  the  horses  walk  better.  If  you 
keep  it  deep  in  the  ground,  it  is  a  waste  in 
labor,  in  horse-flesh,  in  expense.  In  a  word, 


the  gang-plow  is  a  modern  luxury,  and,  like 
most  luxuries,  costs  too  dearly." 

The  almost  universal  adoption  of  the  gang- 
plow  in  California  is  a  natural  outgrowth  of 
the  spirit  which  has  been  altogether  too  rife 
in  more  than  one  industry  on  this  coast.  I 
refer  to  the  reckless,  headlong  determination 
to  torture  out  of  the  almost  exhaustless  bounty 
of  nature  immediate  fortunes,  without  one 
thought  for  the  future  well-being  of  the 
country.  For  some  years  now,  sad  experi- 
ences have  been  teaching  the  farmers — as 
they  had  others  before — the  inevitable  ulti- 
mate ruin  which  awaits  those  who  persist 
in  this  course.  An  excellent  illustration  in 
point  is  furnished  by  the  Salinas  Valley 
farmers.  Mr.  J.  P.  Raymond  says:  "In 
reference  to  the  mode  of  cultivation  thus 
far  adopted,  it  seems  to  have  been  that 
which  would  secure  a  wheat  or  barley  crop 
of  the  greatest  number  of  acres  at  the  least 
expense,  counting  the  prospective  gain  more 
upon  the  number  of  acres  than  the  mode  of 
cultivation;  consequently,  winter  plowing, 
commencing  as  soon  as  sufficient  rain  has 
fallen  to  moisten  the  earth  for  three  or  four 
inches,  and  turning  it  to  that  depth  with 
gang-plows  (usually  two  plows  in  one  frame) 
drawn  by  four  horses.  On  the  large  ranches, 
the  Granger  plow,  five  plows  in  one  frame, 
and  drawn  by  eight  horses,  is  much  used. 
Thus  plowed,  the  seed  is  sowed  on  the  fur- 
row, and  then  follow  light,  broad  harrows, 
drawn  by  four  horses  each,  going  over  the 
ground  twice;  and  the  seeding  is  done." 
This  mode  of  shallow  plowing  and  harrow- 
ing, together  with  sowing  the  land  continu- 
ously to  the  same  crop,  was  continued  for 
many  years.  Partial  failures  resulted.  At 
last,  but  quite  recently,  some  of  the  more 
thoughtful  in  the  valley  changed  their  gang- 
plows  for  the  single  plow  drawn  by  five 
horses  and  cutting  ten  inches  deep.  I  shall 
speak  again  on  this  subject  of  the  abuse  of 
the  land,  under  the  head  of  the  deteriora- 
tion of  soils,  and  treating  of  irrigation,  sum- 
mer-fallowing, fertilizing,  and  other  means 
adopted  to  prevent  exhaustion  of  fertility. 
Joseph  Hutchinson. 


[CONCLUDED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.! 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


17 


ANNETTA. 


XL 


BARTMORE'S  head  was  thrown  backward, 
after  the  wont  of  persons  given  to  embon- 
point and  self-conceit;  Dan  carried  his  head 
calmly  erect.  Bartmore's  features  were  dis- 
torted, his  skin  blotched  with  red;  Dan's 
face  was  rendered  finer  by  a  pale  emotion. 
Bartmore's  shallow  eyes  shifted  and  gleamed; 
Dan's  glowed  with,  a  deep,  steady  light. 

"Tisn't  the  first  time,  damn  you,"  Bart- 
more  began  overbearingly,  "that  I've  come 
home  late  and  have  found  you  prowling 
round  my  house." 

"  It's  barely  half  after  nine,  sir.  Miss 
Bartmore  (I  pronounce  her  name  with  the 
deepest  respect)  was  just  teaching  me  a  bit 
of  reading  and  writing." 

'"Tisn't  the  first  time  I've  come  late  and 
found  you  prowling  around  my  sister,  but 
it'll  be  the  last  time,  you  dog ! " 

At  this,  the  volcanic  fire  burning  in  Dan's 
quiet  breast  burst  forth.  "No  man  lives 
who  has  the  right  to  call  Dan  Meagher  a 
dog." 

Annetta  had  been  trembling  almost  nerve- 
less. Still  trembling,  she  stepped  to  her 
brother's  side  and  put  her  arms  about  him. 
Not  from  any  hope  to  soften  his  anger  by 
caresses,  but  that,  leaning  her  head  against 
his  shoulder,  she  might  turn  a  beseeching 
glance,  unseen  of  him,  toward  Dan. 

Dan's  great  heart  promptly  responded. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I've  offended  you  in  anny 
way,  sir,"  he  said  meekly. 

'"Tisn't  the  first  time  I've  caught  you 
prowling  round  my  house,"  roared  Bart- 
more. 

"You  have  said  it  must  be  the  last  time." 

"I  have.  You're  several  layers  too  com- 
mon for  any  one  belonging  to  me  to  associ- 
ate with.  Make  tracks  this  minute." 

"Step  aside  and  I'll  do  as  I'm  bid." 

"Damn  it !  I'll  step  aside  when  I'm  ready, 
and  not  before.  Don't  presume  to  dictate 
Voi,  II.— 2. 


to  me,  or  I'll  blow  off  the  top  of  your  inso- 
lent head." 

The  attitude  which  at  Annetta's  wordless 
entreaty  had  become  humble  now  quick- 
ened into  rugged  determination.  But  Bart- 
more  made  no  motion  indicative  of  an  in- 
tention to  carry  out  his  threat.  He  did, 
however,  shake  his  fist  in  Dan's  unflinching 
face.  Then  he  moved  to  one  side,  yet  not 
so  far  as  to  relinquish  an  aggressive  com- 
mand of  the  doorway. 

Annetta's  first  embrace  had  been  rudely 
broken.  She  now  flung  herself  passionately 
against  her  brother's  laboring  breast.  Be- 
fore Bartmore  could  rid  himself  of  her,  Dan 
had  obeyed  the  command  in  her  eyes,  and 
had  strode  calmly  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
affront  save  that  of  words. 

Bartmore  yelled  furiously,  "  Come  to  the 
office  to-morrow  morning,  you  damned  dog, 
and  I'll  pay  you  off." 

Dan  vouchsafed  no  answer.  He  retired 
into  the  darkness  just  outside  the  kitchen 
door,  where  he  stood  rigidly,  his  clenched 
fists  hanging  at  arms'  length.  He  listened 
to  the  ranging  tones  of  a  disagreement,  fierce 
enough  as  to  Bartmore's  part  in  it.  Once 
he  overheard  Annetta  say  spiritedly: 

"You'd  better  raise  your  hand  and  strike 
me  to  the  floor,  Tom,  than  to  accuse  me  of 
such  things." 

Dan's  breath  thickened  at  that.  But 
Bartmore  contented  himself  with  words,  de- 
claring— how  domineeringly,  how  coarsely ! — 

"If  I  can't  put  a  stop  to  your  damned 
low  fancy,  I  can  keep  you  from  making  a 
holy  show  of  yourself." 

Dan  remained  on  guard  until  the  voices 
ceased  and  the  light  disappeared  from  the 
kitchen.  His  fists  unclenched,  he  walked 
slowly  away. 

Next  morning  the  carts  left  the  camp  with- 
out him.  He  lingered  about  the  stables 
until  nine  o'clock,  then  beginning  an  attend- 
ance at  the  door  whence  he  had  been  in 


18 


Annetta. 


[July, 


some  remote  danger  of  being  kicked  over- 
night. He  inquired  diligently  of  Maggy  if 
the  "boss"  were  up  yet.  The  persistent 
question  having  at  last  elicited  the  informa- 
tion that  Bartmore  was  breakfasting,  Dan 
betook  himself  to  the  outer  office  door, 
knocked  there  by  way  of  ceremonial  ap- 
proach, turned  the  knob,  and  entered. 

Fully  an  hour  later,  Bartmore,  bounding 
through  the  room  en  route  to  his  buggy 
waiting  this  long  while  at  the  garden  gate, 
started  back  and  ejaculated,  "Hi,  Dan!"  at 
the  vision  of  his  under-foreman  sitting  stiffly 
on  the  old-fashioned  horse-hair  sofa. 

"I've  called  according  to  your  orders, 
sir." 

Even  as  these  words  were  leaving  his  lips, 
and  before  Bartmore  had  echoed,  "My  or- 
ders?" Dan  knew  that  he  had  worked  his 
own  undoing  by  a  literal  obedience  to  a 
maudlin  command.  A  more  adroit  man 
might  have  thought  of  some  mode  of  escape. 
Dan  looked  downcast  and  answered  with 
sober  directness : 

"  You've  forgot  what  you  said  last  night, 
sir.  You  were  hardly  yourself,  and  'twas  only 
because  Miss  Bairtmore — " 

"There,  that  will  do!"  interrupted  the 
other,  the  puzzled  expression  he  wore  giving 
way  to  lines  of  hardness  and  implacability. 

"  I've  so  much  on  my  mind — a  thousand 
irritating  things — I  can't  be  expected  to  re- 
member every  trifle.  My  sister's  got  some 
tomfool  notion  into  her  head  about  teaching 
you.  I  don't  countenance  her  associating 
in  any  shape  or  form  with  my  hired  men. 
You  kicked  up  one  dirty  dust  for  me  to  set- 
tle by  following  her  about — and  I  settled  it. 
After  that,  I'd  have  thought  you'd  have  had 
sense  enough  to  keep  your  distance.  But 
no !  The  trouble  is,  Meagher,  that  I  treated 
you  too  well,  and  you've  shown  pretty  damn 
plain  how  little  you  deserve  what  you've  had 
in  the  way  of  favors." 

Bartmore  had  gradually  worked  himself 
up  into  such  a  temper  as  he  felt  the  situation 
demanded.  His  conclusion  fierily  reached, 
he  strode  to  his  office  chair,  and  prefaced 
a  consultation  of  his  pay-roll  by  banging 
some  heavy  ledgers  about  on  his  desk. 


The  rustle  of  thick  leaves  noisily  turning 
carried  Dan's  thoughts  backward  to  that 
evening  when  he  had  been  momentarily  ex- 
pecting what  was  now  inevitable.  Then  he 
had  felt  he  could  not  bear  to  be  exiled 
from  Annetta's  presence.  To-day,  despite 
the  ruffling  discovery  of  his  employer's  for- 
getfulness,  he  bore  himself  with  strange  in- 
ward composure.  Not  that  he  cared  less 
for  Annetta,  but  infinitely  more.  Then,  he 
had  regarded  an  exile  from  her  as  an  un- 
mixed evil;  now,  it  appeared  to  him  as  a 
possible  benefit. 

"She  never  could  think  well  of  me  while 
I  work  under  her  brother,  to  whom  every 
laborer  is  little  better  than  a  slave."  This 
was  one  of  the  fugitive  thoughts  that  gave 
him  flitting  comfort.  So  fate  sometimes 
deals  with  us,  bringing  us  almost  to  welcome 
what  we  have  bitterly  dreaded. 

Having  turned  to  a  certain  page  of  his 
pay-roll,  Bartmore's  thick  forefinger  swept 
down  a  list  of  names  written  there,  turned  a 
sharp  corner  at  "Meagher,  Daniel,"  and 
went  off  across  the  page.  A  few  hasty  fig- 
ures made  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  Bartmore 
thrust  a  hand  into  either  pocket  of  his  trow- 
sers,  drew  forth  some  coins,  added  another 
from  a  vest  pocket,  and  tossed  all  upon  the 
desk  with  such  force  that  several  spun  to  the 
floor,  rolling  away  in  as  many  different  di- 
rections. 

"Thirty-six  dollars  is  all  I  have  about 
me,"  he  said;  "I'll  give  you  a  check  for  the 
balance." 

By  the  time  that  Dan,  his  forehead  red 
and  corded  from  unusual  postures,  could 
stand  up,  Bartmore  was  ready  to  rise  too. 

"You  might  have  avoided  this  break, 
Meagher.  You  might  have  gone  on  and  got 
to  be  foreman.  I  don't  think  Norris  intends 
to  stay  with  me  long." 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,  perhaps,  sir,"  Dan 
returned  gravely.  "At  anny  rate — well; 
I'll  say  good  by,  sir." 

He  inclined  his  head  slightly,  then  lifted 
it  with  something  of  a  freer  air,  to  step 
sturdily  from  the  office  and  the  yard,  never 
again  to  enter  thereuntil  everything  should  be 
marvelously  different  in  the  Bartmore  house. 


1883.] 


Annelta. 


19 


Dan  had  no  sooner  disappeared  than 
Bartmore  dismissed  him  entirely  from  his 
mind,  and  took  up  the  schemes  which  had 
occupied  him  previous  to  the  Meagher  diver- 
sion. 

"I'm  sacked,  lads,"  Meagher  had  informed 
the  camp  at  breakfast.  "The  boss  has 
never  forgive  me,  I  take  it,  for  losing  him 
Melody's  horse."  , 

These  words,  as  Dan  meant  they  should, 
gave  safe  direction  to  all  discussions — and 
these  were  many — of  the  reasons  for  his 
misfortune.  No  tongue  touched  Annetta's 
name  in  this  connection.  Two  persons 
whom  Dan's  going  away  had  really  saddened 
said  almost  nothing.  Maggy's  kind  brown 
eyes  were  for  days  red-rimmed,  and  Annetta's 
feelings  went  out  too  strongly  for  her  own 
peace.  Her  brother's  scornful  treatment  of 
Dan  enlisted  her  entire  sympathies  upon 
the  side  of  the  latter. 

"  The  intrinsic  differences  between  the  two 
men  are  all  in  Dan's  favor" — so  she  indig- 
nantly told  herself. 

The  fact  that  she  had  not  seen  the  poor 
fellow  since  the  unhappy  evening  added  to 
her  regard  for  him.  He  had  taken  leave  of 
Maggy,  as  well  as  all  the  camp,  without  mak- 
ing any  attempt  to  speak  with  her.  That 
he  could  evince  such  unconcern  materially 
heightened  her  desire  for  a  continuance  of  the 
affection  she  had  accepted  quite  as  her  due. 
But  suddenly,  when  she  had  resigned  herself 
to  meeting  Dan  only  in  the  romantic  realm  of 
wild  dreams,  one  afternoon  about  a  fortnight 
later,  Maggy  ran  in  from  a  garden  chat  with 
old  Refugio  to  say,  breathlessly: 

"  It's  Dan  himsel'  who's  afther  axin'  at 
the  front  gate  will  yez  spake  to  him  there?" 
"  I  couldn't  leave  the  city,  Miss  Bairt- 
more,"  said  Dan,  lifting  his  hat,  "without 
thanking  you  for  what  you've  done  for  a 
poor  common  boy." 

"  You  do  leave  the  city,  Dan  ?  Step  inside 
the  gate  and  we  can  talk  at  our  ease." 

"No,  miss;  if  I  should  set  foot  again  on 
any  spot  of  ground  your  brother  is  master 
of,  I'd  lose  my  self-respect  He's  scarcely 
treated  me  like  a  human  being,  miss.  I've 
always  done  an  honest  day's  work  for  him ; 


but  that's  saying  no  more  than  that  I  earned 
the  wages  he  paid  me.  I've  a  place  to  fore- 
man a  gang  of  men  at  a  mine.  My  sister 
Eliza's  nephew,  or  rather  a  nephew  of  my 
sister  Eliza's  husband's  brother's  first  wife  " — 
bringing  out  this  succession  of  possessives 
with  the  greatest  painstaking  and  gravity, 
thus  implying  that  attenuated  threads  of  re- 
lationship are  of  more  value  to  men  having 
few  ties  in  a  strange  land  than  closer  ties  to 
those  nearer  home — "he  knew  me  when  I 
was  a  little  lad  back  in  the  old  country.  A 
good  man  he  is,  too — Con  Devine — who 
used  to  be  no  better  fixed  in  life  nor  I  am 
now." 

"  Than  I  am  now,"  corrected  Annetta,  by 
mere  force  of  habit.  She  was  thinking  of 
other  things  besides  Dan's  grammar. 

Dan  repeated  the  phrase  after  her,  adding, 
"  You  must  get  sore  tried  with  my  mistakes, 
miss."  He  then  said: 

"  Wasn't  it  true — the  feeling  I  told  you  of 
that  night — how  I'd  soon  be  sent  where  I'd 
never  see  your  face?  But  I  didn't  think 
how  soon.  Something  here" — laying  his 
hand  upon  his  breast,  a  locality  dimly  felt  to 
be  the  source  of  all  premonitions — "tells  me 
you  will  wan  day  be  in  trouble  and  will 
want  me.  If  that  come  true,  like  the  other, 
why  just  send  a  bit  of  a  letter  to  this 
address." 

Then,  while  Annetta  examined  the  slip  of 
paper : 

"It's  the  superintendent's  brother,  miss — 
Tim  Devine.  He's  in  a  broker's  office,  and 
will  forward  whatever  is  meant  for  me." 

To  study  the  slip  of  paper  had  needed 
but  a  glance.  Save  for  that  instant,  Annetta 
had  been  closely  studying  Dan.  She  found 
him  too  resigned  to  the  changed  order  of 
things. 

"The  camp  will  be  irredeemably  sordid 
in  all  its  associations  now  that  you  are  leav- 
ing," she  murmured. 

"Sure,  no  one  will  miss  poor  Dan." 

The  answer  was  without  bitterness. 

"  I  will  miss  you.  Am  I  nobody?  "  pouted 
the  girl. 

"  You,  nobody  !  But  I  was  minding  the 
camp  when  I  spoke." 


20 


Annetta. 


[July, 


"  You  see,  I've  made  a  sort  of  hero  of 
you,  Dan.  When  you  go,  it's  like  taking 
something  heroic  out  of  my  life." 

"  God  forbid  I  should  take  annything  out 
of  your  life,  miss." 

"Anything"  corrected  Annetta,  petulant- 
ly. Why  need  the  man  be  so  tiresomely 
devout — and  distant  ? 

"I  haven't  your  gift  for  looking  into  the 
future,  Dan.  It  seems  to  me  that  we  may 
never  meet  again.  If  there's  aught  you'd 
like  to  say  to  me  before  we  part,  speak  out." 

"  There  is  a  word  I  wish  you'd  give  me 
leave  to  speak  before  I  go,"  murmured  Dan, 
his  lips  beginning  to  tremble. 

Annetta  looked  her  gentle  readiness  to 
hear.  She  was  secretly  telling  herself  that 
if  she  desired  this  poor  fellow  to  finish  alone 
the  good  work  begun  under  her  teaching, 
she  must  anchor  him  to  some  hope.  True, 
a  recollection  of  her  resolve  in  Maggy's  be- 
half haunted  her,  but  very  dimly — as  a  mere 
ghost  in  the  strong  daylight  of  other  yearn- 
ings. An  empty  future  was  in  store  for  her 
when  Dan  should  be  gone. 

"You  won't  be  angry,  Miss  Bairtmore?" 

"Why  should  I  be  ?" 

"  You  were  angry  with  me  once  for  taking 
the— letter." 

"Naturally." 

She  ejaculated  this,  starting  as  if  stung  by 
disagreeable  suggestions. 

"  It  was  my  property." 

"Then,"  retorted  Dan,  with  a  leaping 
sense  that  she  had  furnished  him  with  an 
unanswerable  argument,  "  I'll  only  be  giv- 
ing you  back  your  own,  miss." 

But  Annetta  eyed  the  somewhat  soiled 
and  crease-worn  paper  which  he  was  holding 
forth,  without  making  any  attempt  to  take 
it. 

"There's  naught  set  down,"  murmured 
Dan,  his  utterance  thickening  as  it  would 
oftentimes  under  pressure  of  deep  feeling, 
"but  what  the  likes  o'  you  might  receive 
from  the  likes  o'  me." 

•  Annetta  impetuously  put   her  hands   be- 
hind her. 

"  Why  have  you  chosen  to  ignore  my  pos- 
itive orders?  Did  I  not  command  you — " 


"  How  could  I  destroy  what  was  to  set 
me  right  wid  you  ?  " 

Annetta  would  not  listen  to  any  excuses, 
any  explanation. 

"I  refuse  to  speak  to  you — even  to  look  at 
you — until  you  have  done  the  thing  I  asked." 

An  appealing  gesture  was  made  toward 
her  shapely  back. 

"Then  you  refuse  ever  to  know  the  truth, 
miss?" 

Uttering  this  sentence  not  as  a  plea,  but 
as  a  forlorn  conclusion,  Dan  was  deliber- 
ately tearing  the  letter  to  fragments ;  which 
the  wind,  careless  of  his  sudden  pallor,  im- 
mediately scattered. 

Annetta  turned  herself  about  again,  and 
relented.  She  had  been  arbitrary  indeed. 

But  obedience  with  so  palpable  a  strain, 
with  so  much  suppressed  emotion,  helped 
Dan's  cause. 

"  I  believe  that  you  care  for  me  now.  I 
believe  that  you  are  capable  of  self-sacrifice. 
Remember  Annetta  Bartmore  as  one  who 
will  always  be  thinking  well  of  you,  who 
will  be  watching  and  waiting  for  encourag- 
ing news  of  you.  If  I  have  hurt  your  feel- 
ings, forgive  me." 

These  hurried  sentences,  tenderlybreathed, 
were  as  sunshine  after  dungeon-twilight  to 
Dan's  eyes.  He  was  dazzled. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss  Bairtmore.  If 
there's  annything  good  or  great  in  a  man, 
sure  you'd  stir  it  up.  I  will  yet  be  a  little 
higher  if  not  better  than  you  have  known 
me.  Yes;  I  feel  that." 

The  deep,  manly  tones,  foregoing  all  bit- 
terness, in  which  these  words  were  uttered, 
were  exultantly  satisfying  to  the  listener. 

"Hoping  as  you  say  you  do,  Dan,  I'm 
not  sorry  to  have  you  go  away." 

Her  cheek  kindled,  her  eyes  meeting  his, 
the  light  of  enthusiasm  leaped  forth. 

"O,  Miss  Annetta,  if  ever  the  day  comes 
that  I  can  speak  to  you  as  your  equal — in 
the  sense  o'  riches!" 

"If  ever  the  day  comes,"  Annetta  an- 
swered, obeying  an  ardent  impulse,  "that 
you  have  won  an  honorable  place  among 
men,  whether  you  be  rich  or  poor,  I  will 
listen  to  you  gladly." 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


21 


Annetta  had  never  been  able  to  think  of 
Dan  without  an  "if."  Neither  could  she, 
howbeit  in  the  glow  of  this  moment,  prom- 
ise him  aught  without  using  that  little  word. 

But  he,  dwelling  rapturously  on  her  clos- 
ing sentence,  went  from  her  presence  a  new 
man. 

Having  failed  to  secure  his  nomination, 
Bartmore  manifested  quivering  suspicions  of 
being  made  fun  of.  As  a  successful  politi- 
cian, his  social  graces  would  have  bloomed 
out  to  hide  his  natural  defects  of  character. 
Now,  he  became  unbearably  dictatorial  and 
quarrelsome.  Even  quiet  Dr.  Bernard  com- 
plained of  him.  Moreover,  he  threw  him- 
self almost  fiercely  into  the  business  of 
money-making.  His  days  of  intense  activity 
were  succeeded,  oftener  than  ever,  by  nights 
of  waking  and  wassail.  He  played  for  high- 
er stakes  at  cards,  and  won  largely  of  all  his 
friends.  Annetta  saw  nothing  of  him  except 
through  occasional  meals.  If  he  stayed  at 
home  for  any  considerable  time,  it  was  only 
to  sleep.  He  seemed  to  abhor  the  four 
walls  within  which  reigned  domestic  quiet. 
If  any  of  his  friends  called  of  an  evening, 
and  happened  to  find  him,  he  would  soon 
take  them  away,  Annetta  knew  not  whither. 

Missing  Mr.  Treston  from  among  these 
occasional  comers,  Annetta  asked  about 
him  one  morning  as  she  was  helping  her 
brother  search  for  a  paper  mislaid  among 
the  accumulated  rubbish  of  his  disordered 
desk. 

"Why,  didn't  I  tell  you,  Net?  Frank 
went  up  north — to  Mendocino,  I  believe — 
there!  see  if  that  isn't  it  sticking  out  of  that 
ledger?  No?  Darn  the  luck!  Wanted  to 
put  in  the  bid  to-day.  Well,  you  look  until 
you  find  it.  I  must  go  now."  And  he  was 
about  to  dart  through  the  office  door,  but  a 
sudden  recollection  seized  him,  and  he 
paused  to  say : 

"He  started  in  a  hurry  one  afternoon. 
Sent  a  good  by  to  you.  Confound  the  fel- 
low !  I  shouldn't  wonder,  by  jingoes,  if  he 
would  be  persuaded  into  buying  timber  land 
up  there." 

About  this  time,  even  Rodney  Bell  came 


no  more  to  talk  of  love.  Very  likely  the 
wings  of  his  fancy  were  sunning  themselves 
in  the  beams  from  other  eyes. 

The  loneliness  newly  fallen  upon  Annetta 
seemed  far  deeper  than  the  old.  Going 
those  wonted  rounds  among  her  poor,  she 
sadly  felt  herself  as  poor  in  all  that  makes 
life  rich  as  the  humblest.  Whither,  seeking 
happiness,  could  her  thoughts  fly? 

The  exact  place  of  Dan's  abiding  was  un- 
known to  her.  But  the  mountains  were  his 
high,  vague  habitation.  What  mystery  and 
majesty  the  mere  word  suggested  to  this  girl 
who  had  never  been  beyond  the  sight  of  low, 
treeless  hills;  who  lived,  as  it  were,  in  the 
very  dust  and  grind  of  newly  graded  streets! 
Her  dreams  of  him  who  had  left  her  so 
hopefully — what  wonderful  backgrounds  they 
had  of  upheaval,  of  woods  as  thick  as 
smoke,  of  eagle-circled  crags,  of  snow-en- 
shrouded domes! 

XIII. 

Perfect  days  were  those  given  to  earth  in 
October,  187-,  after  a  week  of  impetuous 
raining.  The  delicious  air  was  something 
to  be  quaffed  as  one  athirst  quaffs  from  an 
inexhaustible  beaker.  The  sunshine  was 
something  not  languidly  to  bask  in,  but  to 
be  up  and  doing  in  with  the  joy  of  bounding 
pulses.  All  outlines,  whether  of  gravestones 
in  the  slanting  cemetery  or  of  the  lifted 
hills,  were  exquisitely  clear ;  all  colors  daz- 
zling bright.  Distance  was  in  a  measure  an- 
nihilated. The  parched  brown  of  the  slopes 
had  given  way  to  a  faint,  ubiquitous  green, 
which  inspiringly  promised  to  grow  rich  and 
richer.  Even  Pioche's  Quarry,  fountain- 
head  of  the  red  summer  dust,  was  touched 
by  the  rejoicing  change.  That  living  hue 
overran  what  was  left  of  its  warty  knob,  and 
pushing  exultantly  to  its  long,  irregular 
edges,  leaped  the  precipice,  and  started 
afresh  at  the  very  foot. 

"It's  good  just  to  be  alive,"  said  Maggy 
one  afternoon,  drawing  a  great  breath  and 
letting  it  go  as  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

Annetta's  answering  sigh  was  not  of  satis- 
faction. 


Annetta. 


[July, 


"Your  stummick's  turnin'  on  yez,  miss," 
exclaimed  Maggy,  with  an  air  of  venturesome 
candor.  "If  we  don't  give  our  stummicks 
their  cravin's,  they  turns  on  us  an'  gnaws  us. 
Yez  haven't  swalleyed  annything  the  day 
but  a  bit  iv  toast  the  large  o'  my  thumb." 

"I  don't  seem  ever  to  have  cared  for  any- 
thing, Maggy." 

Maggy  understood  these  words  to  signify 
indifference  to  things  edible.  They  had  a 
wider  meaning. 

Annetta's  air  these  late  days  was  one  of 
dull  apathy,  very*  sad  indeed  when  contrasted 
with  her  birdlike  gayety  of  happier  times. 
No  object  her  eye  could  light  on  struck  forth 
one  spark  of  interest.  No  suggestion  of 
memory  or  of  imagination  brought  with  it 
any  thrill  of  pain  or  of  pleasure.  She  suc- 
cumbed to  this  condition  of  mind  and  body 
quite  as  unquestioningly  as  a  child.  How 
long  it  had  lasted  she  did  not  know;  how 
long  it  might  yet  last  she  was  too  weary  and 
indifferent  to  care.  Drooping  near  an  open 
window  looking  westward,  her  shoulder  rest- 
ing heavily  against  the  frame,  she  watched 
the  long,  clanking  line  of  carts  passing  by. 
She  had  now  no  cheery  nod,  no  quick, 
bright  smile,  for  the  rough  faces  turned 
eagerly  her  way. 

The  dying  sun  breathed  full  upon  those 
sordid  shapes.  They  had  an  atmosphere, 
become  visible  as  a  rich  golden  vapor,  in 
which  to  climb  the  bit  of  road  leading  to  the 
stables.  Arriving  there,  the  sun  was  gone, 
the  golden  vapor  had  dissolved.  Only  a 
broad,  amber  translucence  was  seen  over  the 
hills.  Against  this,  the  great  water-tank,  the 
roller,  the  long  dump-wagons,  the  square 
high  carts,  were  outlined  in  sharp  relief,  and 
moving  horses  and  moving  men. 

When  all  was  still  about  the  stables,  the 
west  had  become  a  pearl-white,  negative 
gleam.  A  dark  blue  duskiness  grew  and 
hung  in  the  valley,  rose  as  high  as  the  earth 
rises  there  in  knoll  or  knob  or  peak — soft- 
ening these  lineaments — but  leaving  the  sky 
fleckless,  the  sky-line  marked  with  wonderful 
distinctness. 

Annetta  noted  every  change;  but  auto- 
matically. Once  or  twice  those  dull  glances 


of  hers  had  wandered  to  Pioche's  Quarry, 
where  two  figures  were  stirring  dimly.  That 
was  Heavy  Weather  standing  up  by  the 
stake.  Was  he  holding  the  rope  whereon 
hung  a  human  life?  His  burly  form  showed 
no  alertness  of  poise.  That  was  Terry  over 
the  edge  of  the  hill,  slight,  nimble,  making 
his  perilous  way  along  the  jagged  facets  of 
rocks.  His  feet  finding  the  smallest  ledges, 
his  whizzing  pick  pecked  at  the  hill  like  a 
fierce  but  ineffectual  beak.  Annetta  could 
hear  his  voice  calling  inarticulately,  now  and 
again,  for  slackening  or  for  tightening  the 
cord  passed  in  a  slip-noose  around  his  waist. 

Bits  of  dislodged  rock  went  slipping  down- 
ward. Ominous  handfuls  of  earth  kept  roll- 
ing from  above,  where  the  heavy  rains  had 
softened  the  bank.  A  slide  came  with 
stealthy  suddenness,  sinking  slowly  at  first, 
and  then  swiftly,  terribly.  But  Terry,  ever 
on  the  watch,  had  stepped  aside.  He  was 
clinging  hand  and  foot  to  the  uneven  surface, 
when  the  dusk  reached  the  quarry  and  hid 
everything  behind  a  dark  blue  blur.  An- 
netta heard  tired  voices,  Heavy  Weather's 
and  Terry's;  and  shuffling  footsteps  under 
her  window  presently. 

She  still  stood  there,  seeking  refreshment 
for  her  inward  fever.  No  refreshment  came. 
Odors  other  than  those  rapt  from  her  gar- 
den, scents  stronger  than  honeysuckle  and 
heliotrope,  fetid  breathings  fr6m  rills  of 
sewage  trickling  down  the  street,  horrible 
stenches  from  the  narrowing  pond  came  to 
her  delicate  nostrils,  grown  sallow  and  waxen 
these  later  days. 

She  closed  the  window  shudderingly. 
She  swung  back  more  heavily  against  the 
wall,  dimly  trying  to  hold  herself  by  one 
feeble  thread  of  consciousness  to  life.  Tin- 
kles, as  of  a  bell,  thrilling  along  this  invisi- 
ble wire,  startled  her.  She  felt  herself 
mechanically,  with  dizzy  surges  toward  for- 
getfulness,  obeying  the  summons.  A  face 
at  the  door  fixed  hers.  It  was  strangely 
familiar  amidst  unfamiliar  adjuncts.  The 
broad  sombrero,  the  rough  coat,  seemed  to 
have  the  odors  of  woods  and  wilds  clinging 
to  them.  Those  brown  cheeks  roughened 
by  a  full  young  beard,  that  gracious  and 


1883.] 


Annelta. 


23 


gladdening  smile:  did  these  belong  together? 
The  visitor  spoke,  and  doubt  vanished. 

"It  is  Mr.  Treston." 

A  hand  closed  warmly  over  the  chill,  long 
fingers  charily  given. 

"  I  could  not  find  your  brother  at  any  of 
his  haunts,  so  I  made  bold  to  come  directly 
on  in  my  tramping  rig." 

To  see  whom?  If  Bartmore,  Treston 
seemed  the  reverse  of  anxious  for  him  to 
appear.  Getting  both  of  Annetta's  hands 
into  both  of  his,  he  stood  gazing  into  her 
face  as  if  demanding  a  warmer  welcome 
than  that  accorded  him. 

Annetta's  languid,  dark-rimmed  eyes  grew 
unconsciously  appealing. 

"How  long  has  this  been  going  on,  my 
child?"  queried  Treston,  leading  her  toward 
the  sofa. 

"  I — a  fortnight,  perhaps,  or  more.  Yes, 
more.  But  I  can't  think  clearly.  It  is  noth- 
ing." 

"Nothing,  of  course!" — in  a  tone  of  gen- 
tle irony. 

Annetta  had  sunk  down  heavily,  letting 
her  leaden  arms  fall  their  languid  length. 
Her  head  dropped  softly  against  the  wall. 
A  tear  or  two  welled  slowly  through  her 
close-pressed  eyelids.  She  was  resting  with 
a  sense  of  satisfaction,  exquisite  even  unto 
pain,  upon  that  rich,  earnest,  solicitous 
voice. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Annetta — Miss  Bart- 
more." 

."  I  don't  know  what  to  tell  you.  I — I  am 
feeling  much  worse  this  evening.  Maggy 
has  gone  out.  I  tried  to — to  waken — " 

"Is  Tom  in  the  house?" 

She  answered  by  a  very  slight  affirmative 
motion.  She  seemed  to  force  herself  to 
say  tremulously : 

"  I — I  thought  he  might — that  perhaps 
'twould  be  better  to — to  send  for  Dr.  Port- 
meath — " 

"O,  my  dear!" 

This  ejaculation,  impetuously  unlike  Tres- 
ton's  calm  self,  was  called  forth  by  a  sudden 
change  in  Annetta.  It  fell  on  dulled  ears. 
He  had  scarcely  time  to  think,  when  the 
poor  girl  lay  in  an  uncomfortable  heap,  part- 


ly on  the  floor,  partly  on  his  breast.  He 
murmured  her  name.  She  answered  only 
by  a  stertorious  sigh. 

Annetta  went  out  of  Treston's  sight  into 
the  silence  and  seclusion  of  a  sick-chamber, 
but  never  out  of  his  thoughts.  Nor  could 
he  be  content  with  such  sanguine  bulletins 
as  Bartmore  brought  him  from  day  to  day. 
He  sought  Dr.  Portmeath  at  his  office,  and 
inquired  diligently  of  her  condition.  He 
visited  the  house,  and  painstakingly,  by  dint 
"of  many  questions,  gathered  Maggy's  view  of 
the  case,  couched  in  none  the  less  earnest 
because  unprofessional  language. 

From  the  doctor  he  learned  of  obstinate 
typhoid  symptoms  gradually  succumbing  to 
his  skill;  from  the  rough,  honest  girl,  between 
whom  and  her  young  mistress  the  kindliest 
feelings  existed,  he  gleaned  that,  although 
Annetta  had  a  "  b>t  of  low  faver,  'twas  most- 
ly her  moind  that  was  goin'  back  on  her." 

"She  doesn't  seem  to  care  to  be  well 
an'  shtrong  again,"  Maggy  declared.  "  She 
says  sometimes,  says  she,  '  What  have  I  to 
live  for,  Maggy  ? ' " 

Upon  the  strength  of  this  information, 
Treston  made  bold  to  place  before  Bartmore 
the  advisability  of  getting  his  sister  away 
from  the  city  for  a  change  of  air. 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  lingering  abed  so 
long,  Bartmore,"  he  said.  "I  more  than 
suspect  that  there  is  something  wrong  in 
her  environment.  What  is  it  that  a  French 
writer  has  to  say  upon  this  very  point? 
'Peu  de  maladies  gue"rissent  dans  les  cir- 
constances  et  dans  les  lieux  ou  elles  naissent 
et  qui  les  ont  fakes.' " 

"  What  does  it  mean?"  inquired  Bartmore, 
blankly. 

"Tersely  translated,  'Few  diseases  can 
be  cured  where  they  are  contracted.' " 

"  I'll  speak  to  Netta,"  Bartmore  declared. 
Though  he  railed  against  education,  he  was 
now  and  again  forcibly  struck  by  things  out 
of  books,  especially  when  quoted  in  Mr. 
Treston's  quiet  fashion. 

But  Annetta,  it  seems,  only  wept  as  her 
brother  talked  of  sending  her  to — Hay  wards. 
That  little  country  place  had  for  her  the 


Annetta. 


[July, 


gloomiest  associations.  Thither  had  poor 
Carrie  Bartmore  been  exiled  when  too  late, 
there,  despite  Annetta's  presence,  to  suffer 
the  horrors  of  homesickness. 

"  If  I  am  going  to  die,  let  me  die  here  ! " 
Annetta  burst  out  piteously. 

"  She  doesn't  need  a  thing  under  heavens 
but  lively  company,"  Bartmore  told  Treston. 
"  I've  been  so  confoundedly  busy  that  I've 
permitted  her  to  get  blue." 

To  rectify  his  fraternal  sins  of  omission, 
he  gave  all  the  time  he  could  possibly  spare 
from  an  ensuing  week. 

There  are  those  whose  nature  utterly 
unfits  them  for  gracious  sick-room  minis- 
trations. Bartmore's  unfitness  was  often 
artificially  enhanced.  To  modulate  his 
blustering  voice,  to  restrain  himself  from 
striding  vigorously  about,  to  cease  from 
banging  doors  and  clashing  articles  of  furni- 
ture— surely  if  these  things  never  once  oc- 
curred to  him,  much  less  did  it  occur  to 
him  to  strive  after  comprehending  the  needs 
of  another  soul.  Whatsoever  interested  him 
must  interest  Annetta.  He  filled  the  sick- 
chamber  with  the  clangor,  the  unrest,  the 
strain,  the  excitements,  the  angers,  of  his 
day's  doings. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Dr.  Portmeath 
became  alarmed. 

"  I  cannot  conceive  what  is  causing  such 
intense  cerebral  excitement,"  he  confessed, 
eying  Treston  as  if  possibly  that  gentleman 
might  be  culpably  concerned.  "This  is 
more  to  be  feared  than  her  lethargic  indiffer- 
ence; something  is  driving  that  hapless  girl 
into  a  brain  fever;  what  is  it?" 

Treston  had  recourse  to  Maggy. 

"It's  the  'boss,'"  the  honest  girl  de- 
clared, blazing  out  in  strong  indignation. 
"  Miss  Annitta  cries  and  cries  like  the  day 
rainin'.  'Let  me  cry,  Maggy,'  she  says; 
'  it  will  do  me  good.  An'  let  me  tell  yez,  or 
my  head  will  shplit,  Tom's  a  killin'  iv  me, 
Maggy,  bit  be  bit,'  she  says,  'wid  his 
dhrinkin'  an'  caird-playin's,  an'  threatenin's 
and  hatin's.  It's  all  in  me  head,  night  an' 
day,  seein'  him  brought  home  in  his  gory 
blood.  'Twill  come,  Maggy,  an'  for  why 
should  I  live  to  bear  it?'  she  says.  O 


glory,  glory,  I  wisht  Maggy  O'Day  was  in 
God's  pocket  afore  ever  she  set  fut  intil  this 
wild  house.  An'  she  niver  breathin'  a  harrd 
worrd  till  him  but  'O  Tom!'  'T would 
shplit  a  shtone's  hairt,  just." 

Made  a  sharer  in  Treston's  enlightenment, 
Dr.  Portmeath  saw  Bartmore,  explained  his 
sister's  grave  danger,  and  issued  positive 
commands  that  no  one  should  enter  the  sick- 
chamber  save  a  professional  nurse  and  him- 
self. 

The  new  order  of  things  was  not  per- 
mitted to  work  any  benefit.  Bartmore  came 
home  in  a  suspiciously  hilarious  frame  of 
mind  late  one  evening.  He  attempted  to 
see  his  sister.  The  nurse  interfered.  An 
altercation  followed,  which  Annetta  over- 
heard. The  nurse  was  turned  out  of  doors. 
Maggy  sat  all  night  by  Annetta's  couch  of 
raving,  Tom  lying  asleep  in  the  adjoining 
room. 

The  next  morning  he  peremptorily  dis- 
missed Portmeath,  and  loudly  announced 
his  intention  of  treating  his  sister  himself. 

"  She  doesn't  need  a  thing  under  heavens 
but  a  stimulating  diet  and  good  company. 
Them  sharks  of  doctors  always  want  to 
dreen  a  man's  pocket  dry — just  at  a  time, 
too,  when  Portmeath  knows  I'm  straining 
every  nerve  to  meet  expenses  that  would 
swamp  ninety-nine  contractors  out  of  a  hun- 
dred." 

What  to  do  in  this  strait,  Treston  could 
not  easily  contrive.  Having  witnessed  the 
doctor's  summary  dismissal,  he  had  a  whole- 
some dread  of  falling  under  Bartmore's  irra- 
tional displeasure. 

"Maggy,"  said  he,  after  a  serious  consulta- 
tion with  the  faithful  soul,  "I  suspect  that 
your  master  will  be  missing  for  several  days. 
He  will  be,  if  I  can  bring  it  about.  Mean- 
while, I  charge  you  with  the  care  of  our 
poor  little  sufferer.  I  shall  see  Portmeath — 
he  understands  the  case — and  get  him  to 
write  out  minute  directions  for  you  to  follow. 
This  is,  perhaps,  the  best  we  can  do.  But 
stay  :  her  brother's  absence,  if  unexplained, 
may  conduce  to  the  very  excitement  we  are 
desirous  of  allaying." 

He   pondered   a  moment,  then   wrote  a 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


25 


few  words  at  a  dash  upon  a  leaf  rent  from 
his  memorandum-book. 

"For  her,"  he  murmured,  sighing  deeply. 

Whatever  his  plan,  it  succeeded:  Bart- 
more  remained  away  from  home  for  four 
days. 

Maggy  did  not  wait  until  Annetta  had 
grown  anxious  before  handing  over  the  in- 
trusted message. 

"Need   you  feel   any  alarm  about   your  brother, 

knowing  that  he  is  with 

"TRESTON." 

"  He  is  kind  and  good,  Maggy,"  was  An- 
netta's  comment,  made  in  that  feeble  quaver 
to  which  illness  had  diminished  her  gay 
voice. 

"  Tom  would  never  dream  of  letting  me 
know,  though  it  might  save  me  hours  of 
agony." 

"  The  thinkin'  soart  o'  min  is  the  best  for 
husbands,  Miss  Annitta." 

"Yes" —  pursuing  not  Maggy's  sugges- 
tion, but  her  own  fancy.  "I  never  shall  for- 
get how  good  and  kind  he  was  the  night 
Tom  was  hurt.  At  first,  I  used  to  believe 
his  polished  manners  mere  worldliness ;  but 
not  after  that.  I  began  to  think  everything 
of  him  then." 

"An'  he's  afther  thinkin'  everything  of 
you,  miss,"  said  Maggie,  robustly. 

"But  not  in  the  way  you  imagine.  O, 
not  at  all." 

"What  for  else  is  he  always  axin'  afther 
yez?  Why,  it's  niver  less  than  once  an' 
sometimes  twice  a  day." 

"So  often?" 

"It's  niver  missin' twenty-four  hours  he  is, 
since  yez  was  tuck  down  to  death's  door  in 
his  arrms." 

"The  evening  he  came  back  from  the 
country,  wasn't  it?" — a  shy  impulse  carrying 
one  thin,  white  hand  to  her  face.  "How 
long  ago  it  seems !  Did  I  really  faint  away 
in  his  arms?" 

"  Why,  him  an'  me  got  yez  into  bed,  miss." 

"O  Maggy!" 

"  In  cases  iv  life  an'  death,  is  annybody 
goin'  to  shtand  back  all  iv  a  blush?" 

"What  did  he  do,  Maggy?  I  insist  upon 
knowing." 


"  O,  if  yez  insist:  he  tuck  off  your  shoes 
an'  shtockin's,  an'  rubbed  your  feet,  an' 
got  some  hot  wather  intil  a  shtone  bottle  an' 
brought  it  in — yez  was  abed  be  that — an'  put 
it  under  the  covers  himsel'  as  serious  as  a 
priesht  an'  handy  as  the  mother  o'  fourteen. 
Thin  he  run  for  the  docthor,  an'  'twas  an 
hour  afther  he  came  before  yez  began  to 
look  as  if  ye'd  give  up  takin'  to  your 
shroud." 

Annetta  had  gotten  both  hands  tremu- 
lously over  her  face. 

"An'  he's  niver  see  yez  from  that  time 
to  this — five  weeks  ago  a  Monday.  Poor 
man ! — he  appears  so  distroyed  like." 

"Why  does  he  take  such  an  interest  in 
me?" 

"An'  he's  afther  coaxin'  Mr.  Bairtmore 
out  o'  the  house  just  to  lave  yez  in  peace." 

"Does  he  know  how  Tom  tortures  me?" 

"He's  the  divil's  own  at  guessin',  miss" 
— mendaciously. 

"Tom  is  safe  with  him." 

"An'  he  wint  to  Dr.  Portmeath's  himsel,' 
an'  sint  up  a  paper  all  writ  out  wid  what  I'm 
to  do  for  yez." 

"Where  is  the  paper,  Maggy?" 

The  girl  produced  it  from  some  secret  re- 
cess of  the  kerchief  covering  her  broad 
bosom. 

Annetta  merely  glanced  at  it,  and  then  lay 
dreaming,  a  thin  palm  between  her  white 
cheek  and  the  white  pillow,  her  expression 
far  more  natural  than  it  had  been  for  days. 

"I  niver  see  aught  that  looked  a  clearer 
case  o'  love,"  said  Maggy,  coming  in  pres- 
ently from  the  kitchen  with  a  bowl  of 
gruel. 

"But  it  isn't  love;  at  least,  not  the  marry- 
ing kind,"  Annetta  declared,  feeding  from 
Maggy's  hand  with  dainty  sips.  "  He's  en- 
gaged to  somebody  in  Troy,  New  York. 
That's  where  he  used  to  live.  Tom  told  me ; 
and  that  so  soon  as  he  gets  settled  in  busi- 
ness here  or  elsewhere,  he  will  marry.  I've 
known  it  quite  a  long  time — yes;  I  knew  it 
before  Dan  went  away.  I'm  glad  I  found  it 
out  soon;  for" — with  a  shadowy  smile — 
"  I  might  easily  have  cared  too  much  for 
him." 


26 


Annelta. 


[July, 


"It's  well  for  yez,  indade,"  retorted 
Maggy,  heaving  a  sigh  as  long  and  vigorous 
as  herself. 

When  Bartmore  came  home,  it  was  with 
an  air  very  like  contrition,  and  suggestive  of 
apology.  He  tip-toed  in  at  the  back  door, 
and  asked  of  Maggy  in  a  gusty  whisper — 
but  a  whisper — "How  is  she?" 

"Betther,"  was  Maggy's  curt  answer,  al- 
most betraying  the  "and  no  thanks  to  you," 
secretly  addled. 

Then  Bartmore  strode  gayly  into  the  bed- 
room, and  finding  Annetta  sitting  in  an  in- 
valid-chair, he  began  forthwith  to  roar  out 
all  the  exultation  that  was  in  him. 

"I  knew  you'd  start  to  pick  up  the  mo- 
ment that  doctor's  back  was  turned.  Darn 
doctors,  anyway.  They're  all  alike.  Thiev- 
ing quacks,  every  one  of  'em.  Portmeath 
wasn't  satisfied  to  have  his  hand  in  my 
pocket,  but  he  must  hire  a  nurse  to  stick  in 
her  hand." 

The  sick  girl  looked  at  him,  eager  to  hear 
where  he  had  been  and  what  doing.  Yet 
she  would  not  have  confessed  to  herself  that 
her  chief  yearning  was  to  have  him  speak 
the  name  she  was  expectant  of.  He  did 
speak  it ;  but,  alas  !  Annetta  listened  with 
chagrin  and  amazement. 

"I've  been  winning  a  mint  of  money, 
sis." 

"O  Tom!" — a  limpid  melancholy  in  her 
lifted  glance. 

"  Hand  over  fist.  Of  whom  do  you  think? 
He's  always  been  as  close  as  a  shut  rat-trap, 
by  jingoes!  But  he  lost  game  after  game; 
we  played  the  longest  bout  I  ever  played  in 
my  life." 

"  Which  is  saying  a  good  deal,"  murmured 
Annetta,  sadly. 

Tom  indulgently  let  this  observation  pass 
unnoticed. 

"When  I  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  ahead, 
I  quit,  although  luck  was  with  me.  But  I 
didn't  want  to  act  the  Shylock.  And  he's 
going  to  buy  the  Flynn  Row  property  of  me. 
That's  only  a  starter.  No  telling  how  big  a 
purchase  he'll  make  next.  Darn  me  !  if  I 
don't  think  Treston  has  more  money  than 
he's  willing  to  let  on.  I've  been  his  guest 


these  four  days,  and  he's  entertained  me  like 
a  prince." 

The  picture  of  him  for  whom  Annetta  had 
cherished  the  warmest  feelings  of  gratitude 
sitting  flushed  and  eager  over  a  card-table 
was  a  sadly  disenchanting  one.  Yet  some- 
thing flashing  into  her  mind  kept  her  from 
being  entirely  downcast.  She  blessed  that 
intuition. 

"Wasn't  it  the  only  way  to  make  sure  of 
Tom — and  for  my  sake?"  she  asked  her- 
self. 

Her  first  conversation  with  Treston,  which 
took  place  quite  as  soon  as  she  could  creep 
out  of  her  room,  condensed  these  floating 
and  attenuated  fancies  into  dewy  beliefs. 

"  I  have  been  wanting  so  very  much  to  see 
you,"  Treston  began,  warming  her  heart  as 
well  as  her  pale  face  by  the  subdued  cor- 
diality of  his  welcome.  And  he  wheeled 
her,  chair  and  all,  into  a  sunny  space  before 
a  window,  bringing  the  soft  lamb's-wool  rug 
from  the  door  to  cover  her  feet.  "  You 
know,  perhaps,  how  I've  been  buying  a  bit 
of  property — Flynn's  Row,  as  Tom  calls  it. 
Well " —  seating  himself  directly  in  front  of 
her,  with  an  air  of  being  wholly  absorbed  in 
his  listener — "  I  want  to  make  some  changes 
there.  Judging  from  an  exterior  examina- 
tion, the  houses  are  in  a  ruinous  condi- 
tion." 

"They  are  no  better  within,"  Annetta 
eagerly  assured  him. 

"You  visit  those  tenants — mine,  now?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Dr.  Portmeath  has  told  me  what  the 
poor  people  think  of  you — little  Joe,  Mon- 
sieur Caron,  and  the  rest.  Now,  Miss  An- 
netta, pray  give  me  your  ideas  of  what  I 
might  venture  to  set  about  in  order  to  render 
my  new  acquisition  more  decent  and  desir- 
able. Mind,  we'll  say  nothing  as  to  the  in- 
creased happiness  and  comfort  of  the  ten- 
ants." 

But  Annetta  could  only  take  that  one  view 
of  the  matter.  Treston  watched  her  with 
concealed  satisfaction  and  delight  as  she  di- 
lated upon  plans  which  she  had  long  dreamed 
over.  They  were  simple  enough,  demand- 
ing no  very  great  outlay,  save  of  enthusiasm. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


27 


"  If  there  might  be  gardens,  too ! "  she  ex- 
claimed fervently.  "  There's  so  much  heaven 
and  hope  in  just  a  single  growing  rose !  What 
a  marvel  of  pink  or  scarlet  or  golden  petaled 
delicacy  to  rise  up  out  of  the  dark,  dank 
soil!  I  feel  that  when  I  am  tired  and 
disenchanted  with  everything.  Why,  I've 
often  been  ashamed  of  my  discontent  and 
restlessness  after  watching  my  darling  ger- 
aniums and  verbenas  and  fuchsias,  each  richly 
content  with  its  own  color,  its  fragrance  or 
no  fragrance,  its  brief  taste  of  living." 

The  talk  ran  on  farther  and  into  minute 
details,  Annetta  taking  earnest  part  in  it. 
At  last  Treston  said : 

"  So  soon  as  you  are  able  to  be  abroad 
again,  I'll  ask  you  to  superintend  the  work 
I'll  set  on  foot.  Everything  shall  move 
according  to  your  directions.  A  week  from 
to-day,  if  you  continue  to  improve,  the 
workmen  will  be  on  hand." 

What  doubt  that  the  prospect  of  an  activ- 
ity quite  in  the  line  of  her  old  dreams  and 
schemes  hastened  the  return  of  Annetta's 
health  and  strength  ? 

But  Treston  had  not  fulfilled  all  his  in- 
tentions for  doing  the  girl  good  in  his  unob- 
trusive fashion. 

"  Your  sister  has  a  lovely  voice.  Did  you 
never  think  that  you  might  have  it  culti- 
vated?" 

This  question  was  asked  of  Bartmore 
during  an  after-dinner  chat.  A  prevalent 
smokiness  of  atmosphere  seemed  just  suited 
to  the  mild  equability  of  those  inquiring 
tones.  Bartmore  answered : 

"I  don't  see  the  need  of  all  that.  There's 
too  much  talk  of  cultivation  nowadays. 
It's  on  a  par  with  farmers  studying  chemis- 
try and  a  lot  of  stuff.  I  don't  like  them 
machine-made  singers.  They  all  go  on  in 
the  same  way.  It's  shake  and  screech,  and 
screech  and  shake.  I  never  enjoy  anything 
but  a  sweet,  natural  sort  of  voice.  But 
then" — with  a  candid  air  of  differing  from 
opinions  generally  received— "I  don't  really 
care  for  a  song  until  everybody  else  is  about 
tired  of  it." 

Treston  was  not  led  astray  into  any  unim- 
portant discussion. 


"We  men,  you  see,  are  apt  to  get  so  ab- 
sorbed in  business,  so  carried  away  with  the 
swing  of  our  own  importance,  that  we  miss 
noting  how  ministering  to  us  fails  to  satisfy 
all  the  needs  of  our  women-folk.  I  am  sure 
that  musical  opportunities  would  add  great- 
ly to  your  sister's  happiness." 

"Did  she  tell  you  so?"  queried  Bart- 
more, blowing  aside  the  smoke  to  glance 
sharply  at  Treston  through  a  clearer  medi- 
um. 

"Not  at  all" — deliberately,  while  obscur- 
ing counsel  by  a  fresh  cloud — "  and  perhaps 
I  am  wrong  in  fancying  that  she  would  care 
to  undertake  the  labor  which  a  thorough 
course  of  instruction  involves." 

"If  Annetta  wants  anything,  she  has  only 
to  say  the  word." 

This  last  Bartmore  uttered  with  supreme 
forgetfulness  of  the  many  ways  in  which 
he  had  overridden  Annetta's  innocent  de- 
sires. 

"Then  suppose  we  put  the  question  to 
her?"  said  Treston. 

It  was  done  that  very  evening. 

Bartmore's  vanity  was  wounded  by  her 
unguarded  ecstasy.  Why  need  she  make  it 
appear  to  Treston  as  if  he — Tom  Bartmore, 
whose  very  name^.  was  a  synonym  for  gen- 
erosity— had  actually  denied  her  such  a 
thing?  But  after  loudly  haranguing  upon 
the  fault  of  keeping  her  wishes  secret,  Bart- 
more told  her  flatly  to  find  out  what  the 
leading  teachers  of  the  city  would  charge, 
and  report  to  him. 

They  were  alone  together  when  she  did 
so  report. 

"Whew!  devilish  steep!"  he  ejaculated. 
"In  advance,  too,  you  say?  Darn  impu- 
dence, anyway.  I  don't  get  my  money  be- 
fore I  do  street-work.  Well;  I  suppose 
you'll  be  willing  to  deny  yourself  gloves  and 
ribbons  to  help  make  up  the  amount." 

A  quick  "Yes,  indeed,"  by  way  of  self- 
sacrificing  assent,  was  accompanied  with 
timid  doubts  as  to  how  a  girl  could  manage 
wtth  less  than  she  had  been  receiving  lately. 
In  the  best  of  times,  Tom  gave  her  money 
only  when  he  happened  to  take  the  notion, 
rarely  responding  when  asked. 


28 


The  Seal  Islands  of  Alaska. 


But  her  lessons  began,  and  the  repairs 
at  Flynn's  Row  began.  Besides,  Mr.  Tres- 
ton  came  oftener  than  ever,  expressing  the 
keenest  interest  in  whatever  she  was  do- 
ing. 

Directly  and  indirectly,  he  had  created 
in  and  about  her  a  new  life  quick  with  hope, 
with  enjoyment  present  and  possible,  with 
ambition,  with  resolves  looking  to  the  attain- 
ment of  all  excellences  of  mind  and  heart. 
Yet  she  was  not  entirely  content.  Now  and 
again,  along  with  some  chance  reference  to 
his  old  home — his  past — a  sharp  pang  would 
dart  through  her. 

"He  will  be  going  away,"  she  thought; 
and  trembled  to  picture  what  that  would 
mean  to  her. 

At  last  she  found  a  sudden,  saucy  bravery, 
and  asked  the  question  often  on  the  tip  of 
her  tongue. 

("CONTINUED  IN 


"  When  are  you  to  be  married,  Mr.  Tres- 
ton?" 

He  turned  slowly  upon  her.  His  only 
answer  was  a  strongly  circumflexed  iteration: 

"When!" 

Annetta  put  a  hand  quickly  over  her  eyes, 
as  if  dazzled. 

"But  you — you  are  engaged.  Tom  says 
so." 

"  Does  Tom  say  so?" 

There  was  a  pause,  wildly  speculative  on 
Annetta's  part. 

"  Didn't  I  promise  to  tell  you  my  story, 
Annetta?" 

"Will  you  tell  it  to  me — now?" 

"Now.     Sit  here." 

Annetta  sank  into  the  chair  rolled  toward 
her.  Treston  leaned  upon  the  mantelpiece, 
looking  down,  with  what  expression  she 
dared  not  seek  to  know. 

Evelyn  M.  Ludlum. 

NEXT   NUMBER.] 


THE   SEAL   ISLANDS  OF   ALASKA. 


IT  is  a  singular  fact  that  in  the  negotia- 
tions for  the  purchase  of  Alaska  by  the 
United  States,  the  value  of  the  seal  islands 
was  not  considered.  The  value  of  those 
islands  was  not  known  even  to  Mr.  Seward. 
He  was  very  enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of 
great  benefits  to  be  derived  by  this  country 
from  the  fisheries  and  timber  of  his  promised 
land,  but  evidently  he  did  not  dream  of  the 
seal  islands  as  a  treasury  which  was  to  pay 
the  interest  on  the  entire  purchase-money 
for  Alaska.  Yet  thus  far  the  seal  islands 
alone  have  saved  us  from  an  unprofitable 
investment  in  the  acquisition  of  what  was 
formerly  known  as  "Russian  America." 
The  annual  rental  received  by  the  govern- 
ment from  the  seal  islands  is  $55,000.  The 
tax  collected  on  each  fur-seal  skin  shipped 
from  the  islands  is  $2.62^,  which  on  one 
hundred  thousand  skins,  the  greatest  num- 
ber the  company  are  allowed  to  take  in  any 


one  year,  amounts  to  $262,500,  making, 
along  with  the  rental,  a  total  of  $317,500. 
Alaska  cost  us,  as  purchase-money,  $7,500,- 
ooo ;  and  as  we  now  pay  an  average  of  only 
four  per  cent,  interest  on  the  public  debt, 
the  interest  on  that  sum  amounts  to  $300,- 
ooo.  Thus  it  appears  that  as  a  business 
proposition  the  purchase  of  Alaska  has  been 
justified  by  the  revenue  from  the  seal  islands, 
after  paying  all  expenses  of  collection. . 

Yet  those  seal  islands  are  a  mere  group 
of  rocks,  situated  in  Behring  Sea,  envel- 
oped in  fog  during  one  half  of  the  year 
and  shrouded  in  snow  the  other  half.  There 
are  two  seasons  at  the  seal  islands — the  hu- 
mid and  the  frigid.  During  the  humid  sea- 
son, there  is  no  sun  visible,  nor  is  there 
darkness,  for  this  print  might  easily  be  read 
at  any  hour  of  the  night,  without  artificial 
light,  in  what  is  there  accepted  as  summer. 
But  during  the  humid,  foggy,  long-day  sea- 


1883.] 


The  /Seal  Islands  of  Alaska. 


29 


son,  there  is  not  a  moment  when  the  roar  of 
seals  may  not  be  heard  for  a  mile  at  sea  off 
the  coast  of  those  islands.  During  the  frigid 
season,  the  days  are  cut  very  low  in  the 
neck  and  quite  short  in  the  skirt,  so  that 
they  would  hardly  be  worth  while  men- 
tioning were  it  not  for  the  exceedingly  em- 
phatic weather,  which  drives  the  seals  away 
to  sea,  and  makes  itself  felt  even  by  the 
oleaginous  natives  ;  and  a  gale  howls  all  the 
time.  During  the  frigid  season,  the  surf  nev- 
er ceases  to  whip  itself  into  foam  upon  the 
shores.  And  yet  those  rocks  are  cheap  at 
$7,500,000.  If  we  should  advertise  them 
for  sale  at  $10,000,000 — allowing  ourselves 
a  profit  of  $2,500,000  on  the  purchase  of 
Alaska — they  could  be  sold. 

The  islands  in  question  were  called  by  the 
Russians  the  Pryvolof  group — so  named  in 
honor  of  their  discoverer,  who  was  cruising 
around  about  one  hundred  years  ago  in 
search  of  sea-otter,  which  were  then  found 
to  be  almost  as  scarce  but  not  quite  so 
dear  as  now  in  the  Aleutian  chain.  The 
Pryvolof  group  consists  of  the  islands  of  St. 
George,  the  most  southerly  and  the  first  dis- 
covered, St.  Paul,  Otter  Island,  and  Walrus 
Island.  A  few  seals  haul  out  upon  Otter, 
but  none  upon  Walrus  Island.  The  seals 
killed  by  the  lessees  of  the  islands  are  all 
taken  upon  St.  Paul  and  St.  George.  The 
maximum  number  for  St.  Paul  is  75,000 
seals  each  year;  for  St.  George,  25,000; 
making  altogether  the  full  quota  of  100,000 
seals  per  annum. 

The  seals  begin  to  land  there  about  the 
ist  of  May,  unless  prevented  by  ice,  and 
the  killing  (except  for  food)  does  not  begin 
before  the  ist  of  June,  by  which  time  they 
are  there  in  thousands.  By  the  ist  of  July 
there  are  millions  of  seals  upon  the  two 
islands — doubtless  four  millions  upon  St. 
Paul,  and  a  million  upon  St.  George.  Lit- 
erally, they  are  in  countless  numbers.  They 
are  estimated  by  counting  all  those  lying 
within  a  well-marked  small  section  of  the 
breeding-grounds  and  then  measuring  the 
entire  space  of  the  "  rookery,"  as  it  is  called, 
after  they  all  leave  later  in  the  season,  and 
allowing  a  given  number  to  each  square 


yard  or  rod.  This  is  the  only  process  by 
which  the  number  of  seals  resorting  to  the 
islands  can  be  approximated. 

"Seal  fisheries"  is  not  only  a  misnomer, 
but  it  is  absurd  when  applied  to  the  mode 
of  taking  skins.  When  skins  are  wanted, 
the  natives  walk  to  the  "rookeries,"  crawl 
along  the  sand  until  they  arrive  in  a  line  be- 
tween the  seals  and  the  water,  then  spring 
to  their  feet,  yell  and  flourish  clubs  simulta- 
neously, and  the  selected  victims,  destined 
for  sacrifice  upon  fashion's  altar,  stampede 
up  the  beach,  and  once  started,  are  driven 
like  sheep  to  the  slaughter.  They  pull 
themselves  along  as  one  might  expect  a  dog 
to  travel  with  his  fore  legs  broken  at  the 
knees  and  his  spine  over  the  kidneys.  For 
locomotion  on  land,  the  fur-seal  depends 
mainly  on  his  fore  quarters,  the  hind  flippers 
being  dragged  along.  At  sea,  the  hind  flip- 
pers serve  mainly  as  steering  apparatus, 
though  they  have  some  propelling  power, 
being  twisted  like  the  propeller  of  a  screw- 
steamer;  but  the  fore  flippers  perform  most 
of  the  propulsion  in  the  water  as  well  as  on 
land.  The  hair-seal,  on  the  contrary,  de- 
rives more  propelling  power  in  the  water 
from  his  hind  than  from  his  fore  flippers. 

The  seals  on  St.  Paul  and  St.  George 
Islands  are  often  driven  two  or  three  miles 
from  the  "rookery"  to  the  killing-ground  ad- 
jacent to  the  warehouse  where  the  skins  are 
salted.  The  killing  is  easy  enough  after 
the  seals  are  once  arrived  at  the  ground  se- 
lected for  the  slaughter.  Suppose  one 
thousand  seals  to  be  driven  up,  forty  or 
fifty  are  cut  out  from  the  large  drove.  The 
smaller  group  is  moved  a  few  rods  away 
from  the  others,  and  then  knocked  down  by 
men  with  hickory  clubs  five  feet  in  length. 
Being  knocked  senseless,  the  seal  is  quickly 
stabbed  to  the  heart,  and  generally  dies  a 
painless  death,  after  receiving  the  knock- 
down blow.  The  work  is  divided;  some 
men  knock  down,  some  stab,  and  some 
draw  knives  around  the  neck  and  flippers 
and  along  the  belly,  so  that  the  skinners 
have  only  to  separate  the  skin  from  the  blub- 
ber. All  the  men  employed  in  this  work 
are  natives.  The  skinners  are  experts,  with 


30 


The  Seal  Islands  of  Alaska. 


such  professional  pride  as  prohibits  dulling 
their  razor-edged  knives  upon  the  outside  of 
the  skin,  which  contains  more  or  less  sand 
from  the  drive.  All  the  time  of  the  knock- 
ing down,  the  seals  in  the  main  drove  sit  on 
one  hip  like  dogs,  panting,  growling,  and 
steaming;  but  apparently  not  interested  in 
the  fate  of  their  friends  dying  before  their 
eyes,  nor  caring  for  what  may  befall  them- 
selves. They  do  not  seem  to  be  at  all  sen- 
sitive on  the  subject  of  death.  They  can  be 
driven  up  to  and  over  the  warm,  bloody  car- 
casses which  cover  the  ground,  without  man- 
ifesting any  concern  whatever. 

The  skins  are  taken  off  with  wonderful 
rapidity  by  the  natives,  and  with  very  few 
cuts  or  slashes.  As  soon  as  the  skins  are 
cool,  or  at  the  end  of  a  day's  killing,  they 
are  hauled  to  the  salt-house  and  laid  in  bins, 
the  flesh  side  up,  and  salted.  In  the  course 
of  a  week,  they  are  taken  from  the  bins  and 
examined.  Those  in  which  the  curing  pro- 
cess has  not  been  perfected  have  more  salt 
applied  to  the  pink  spots,  after  which  they 
are  again  packed  in  layers  to  await  the 
bundling  process,  which  takes  place  at  any 
convenient  time  after  the  booking.  The 
system  with  which  the  work  is  pursued  has 
been  reduced  to  such  an  exactness,  that, 
though  the  season  begins  after  the  ist  of 
June,  generally  not  before  the  loth  or  i2th, 
the  one  hundred  thousand  skins  are  some- 
times aboard  the  vessel  for  shipment  to  San 
Francisco  by  the  25th  of  July,  and  always 
before  the  ist  of  August. 

Upon  St.  Paul  Island  the  work  is  done  by 
about  seventy  native  men  and  boys,  and  on 
St.  George  by  about  twenty-five.  The  total 
native  population  of  the  two  islands  is  about 
three  hundred  and  sixty  or  three  hundred  and 
seventy.  They  earn  forty  thousand  dollars 
in  six  weeks,  and  having  no  house  rent  to 
provide,  no  meat,  fish,  nor  fuel  to  purchase, 
nor  taxes  to  pay,  nor  doctors'  bills  to  settle, 
they  are  as  well  off  as  the  families  of  men 
in  San  Francisco  whose  income  is  one 
thousand  dollars  per  annum.  The  natives 
have  warm  frame  houses ;  they  receive  sixty 
tons  of  coal  free  each  year,  under  the  terms 
of  the  lease;  they  are  furnished  with  more 


salmon  than  they  need;  they  can  catch  cod 
and  halibut  whenever  the  sea  permits  them 
to  put  out  in  a  boat;  a  doctor  and  school- 
master are  provided  for  them,  upon  each 
island,  at  the  expense  of  the  lessees;  and  the 
sick  and  infirm  men,  as  well  as  the  widows 
and  orphans,  are  fed  and  clothed  by  the 
same  corporation.  Whatever  sins  the  gov- 
ernment may  have  to  answer  for  in  its  deal- 
ings with  our  Indian  tribes,  it  may  be  set 
down  that  the  native  seal-islanders  are  well 
cared  for. 

Neither  King  Solomon  nor  the  Queen  of 
Sheba — no,  nor  the  lilies  of  the  field — ever 
wore  richer  raiment  than  the  modern  seal-skin 
cloak;  but  when  the  skin  is  taken  from  the 
animal  to  which  nature  gave  it,  when  it  goes 
into  and  when  it  comes  out  of  the  salt,  or 
when  it  is  first  sent  to  market,  it  is  not  what 
it  appears  later  upon  fashion's  form.  Before 
the  fur-seal  skin  becomes  the  valuable  article 
of  commerce  which  goes  into  the  manufac- 
ture of  a  fashionable  garment,  it  is  shaved 
down  on  the  flesh  side  until  it  is  not  much 
thicker  than  a  sheet  of  letter-paper;  the 
long,  coarse  hairs  must  be  plucked  out,  and 
the  fur  dyed;  it  may  be  a  brown  or  almost 
black  according  to  the  prevailing  taste, 
which  now  runs  to  darker  hues  than  former- 
ly. The  raw  skins  are  sold  at  trade  sales  in 
London  before  they  take  on  their  artificial 
hue,  the  greater  portion  of  their  cost  to  the 
"consumer"  being  added  after  their  pur- 
chase at  the  sales.  Returning  them  to  this 
country,  paying  duties  and  the  expense  of 
making  them  into  garments,  constitute  the 
major  portion  of  the  final  cost. 

After  the  killing  season  on  the  islands, 
the  remaining  seals  go  through  the  process 
of  shedding  their  hairy  coats  and  taking  on 
a  new  crop.  The  "stagy"  season,  as  this 
is  called,  commences  about  the  ist  of  Sep- 
tember and  terminates  in  six  weeks  or  there- 
abouts. Not  only  the  old  seals,  but  the  very 
youngest — the  "pups,"  which  come  into  the 
world  in  July,  with  black  hair  and  not 
enough  fur  to  speak  about — shed  their 
dark  coats  in  September  and  October, 
and  take  on .  the  regulation  gray,  with  an 
undergrowth  of  fine  light  brown  fur  before 


1883.] 


The  Seal  Islands  of  Alaska. 


81 


starting  out  on  the  long  voyage  into  the 
Pacific.  The  little  fellows  are  shy  of  the, 
water  at  first :  coming  into  the  world  with  a 
sort  of  hereditary  idea  that  they  are  intended 
to  prowl  about  bear-like,  and  devour  people 
on  dry  land;  and  the  smallest  specimens 
are  spunky  enough  to  try  it  whenever  a  man 
attempts  to  corner  them.  But  after  urgent 
persuasion  and  persistent  instruction  on  the 
part  of  the  mothers,  they  take  to  the  water 
and  catch  fish  for  a  living  upon  leaving  the 
islands.  The  young  seals  are  exceedingly 
playful,  spending  most  of  their  time  on 
shore,  tumbling  about  over  each  other  upon 
the  sand  or  in  the  long  grass  which  grows  in 
short-lived  luxuriance  upon  the  islands.  In 
the  water,  after  once  gaining  confidence  in 
their  ability  to  swim,  they  take  great  delight, 
when  the  surf  is  not  so  strong  as  to  kill 
them  against  the  rocks. 

The  old  bulls,  which  are  the  first  to  ar- 
rive in  the  spring,  are  the  first  to  disappear 
in  the  fall.  They  leave  the  females  behind 
to  look  after  the  young,  and  go  cruising 
away  into  the  boundless  ocean.  There  are 
more  seals  upon  the  ground  during  July  and 
August  than  in  any  other  two  months. 
Then  the  sight  is  wonderful.  So  much  life, 
such  unceasing  activity,  the  roaring  of  the 
old  bulls,  the  whining  cry  of  the  cows,  and 
the  snarling  of  the  pups  forms  a  concert 
which  frequently  enables  navigators  to  find 
the  islands  when  the  fog  around  them  is  so 
thick  as  to  render  objects  invisible  at  the 
distance  of  a  ship's  length.  Sometimes,  too, 
when  a  vessel  is  so  far  to  leeward  that  no 
sound  can  be  heard,  an  odor  is  wafted  off 
from  the  "rookeries"  which  serves  to  warn 
the  sailor  of  rocks  within  a  few  miles.  By 
November,  the  "rookeries "are  but  thinly  in- 
habited, and  by  the  first  of  December  they 
are  quite  deserted;  and  only  the  winter's 
gale  is  heard  to  roar  and  the  surf  to  thunder 
upon  the  rocks. 

There  are  various  opinions  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  fur-seals  during  the  win- 
ter months.  One  theory  is,  that  they  scatter 
out  through  the  Pacific  so  widely  that  the 
millions  are  lost  amid  its  immeasurable 
spaces.  The  seals  are  seen  to  go  southward 


through  the  passes  between  the  Aleutian 
Islands  during  the  autumnal  months.  They 
do  not  go  ashore  there,  nor  anywhere  else 
so  far  as  known,  until  their  return  to  the 
Pryvolof  group.  They  leave  the  islands 
in  a  lean  and  blubberless  condition,  from 
their  long  fast  while  on  shore,  and  they  re- 
turn fat  in  the  following  spring.  Evidently 
they  go  south  to  their  feeding-grounds. 
But  wherever  they  go,  they  must  have  some 
guide,  instinct,  or  rule,  to  enable  them  to 
find  their  way  back.  The  buffaloes,  which 
once  roamed  annually  from  Dakota  and 
Manitoba  into  Texas,  had  mountains  and 
rivers  for  their  guides,  as  well  as  the  cold 
winds  to  drive  them  down  from  the  north  in 
autumn,  and  southerly  breezes  to  fan  them 
toward  the  cooler  latitudes  in  summer.  Mi- 
gratory birds,  too,  have  their  courses  marked 
out  by  the  land  and  the  streams  'and  lakes, 
and  by  the  upper  currents  of  air;  but  the 
movements  of  the  migratory  seal  seem 
more  mysterious.  Millions  of  those  won- 
derful animals  start  out  from  their  summer 
home  in  Behring  Sea,  and  almost  to  a  day 
of  the  same  time  every  year  they  reappear 
at  the  islands,  haul  out  at  the  same  spot,  and 
take  up  the  position  which  they  vacated  six 
or  eight  months  before,  and  nobody  can  say 
where  they  have  been  since  their  departure. 
Without  chart  or  compass,  without  taking  a 
sight  at  the  sun,  they  return  as  regularly  as 
mail  steamers  between  Europe  and  America. 
Salmon  return  to  fresh-water  streams  in 
the  spring,  but  they  nose  along  shore,  and 
wherever  they  taste  fresh  water  they  go  up  ; 
any  sort  of  a  stream  of  fresh  water  will 
serve  them.  But  the  fur-seal  do  not  so.  A 
few  are  found  in  the  spring  traveling  north 
off  the  coast  of  British  Columbia  and  south- 
east Alaska,  where  there  are  thousands  of 
islands,  but  they  do  not  attempt  to  make  a 
landing  there.  In  returning  to  Behring 
Sea  they  must  pass  through  the  channels 
running  between  the  Aleutian  Islands,  which 
in  formation  and  character  are  precisely, 
according  to  human  eyes,  like  the  Pryvolof 
group;  but  the  seals  do  not  mistake  the 
Aleutian  Islands  for  their  home.  It  may  be 
that  the  fur-seals  on  leaving  their  summer 


32 


The  Seal  Islands  of  Alaska. 


home  follow  lines  of  fish-banks  or  shoals,  or 
enter  into  certain  currents  where  their  food 
exists,  and  by  the  currents  are  directed  back 
to  the  point  of  departure;  but  navigators 
have  no  knowledge  of  such  steadily  prevail- 
ing currents  into  and  out  of  the  middle  of 
the  Pacific.  The  Japanese  current  runs 
northerly  on  the  west  side,  and  swings  around 
among  the  Aleutian  Islands  till  it  is  carried 
south  along  the  east  shores  of  that  sea. 
That  may  be  a  guide  for  the  seals,  but  it 
does  not  bring  over  to  the  east  from  the 
west  the  fur-seals  from  the  Commander 
Islands  off  the  coast  of  Kamtchatka,  which 
appear  and  disappear  as  our  own  seals  do, 
but  do  not  mingle  with  ours  on  this  side  at 
least.  That  they  do  not  mingle  is  proven 
by  the  fur  experts  in  London,  who,  mix  the 
skins  as  you  may,  can  always  pick  out  'the 
Alaska  skins,  which  are  of  better  quality 
than  the  others. 

There  is  another  theory  that  the  Alaskan 
seals  on  leaving  the  islands  in  Behring  Sea 
in  the  fall  resort  to  some  undiscovered  is- 
lands in  mid-Pacific,  where  they  pass  the 
time  pleasantly  during  the  winter  months. 
Many  expeditions  have  been  fitted  out  in 
San  Francisco,  from  time  to  time,  for  the 
discovery  of  those  mysterious  islands,  but 
they  yet  remain  undiscovered.  There  are 
signs  of  land  out  there  between  53°  and  55° 
north  latitude  and  160°  to  170°  west  longi- 
tude, there  are  drift-wood  and  feathers  and 
sea-weed;  but  there  is  an  eternal  fog  there 
also  (a  favorable  sign  for  seals),  and  the 
islands  remain  invisible. 

The  China  steamers  may  have  sailed  over 
every  inch  of  that  region,  but  yet  there  are 
those  who  still  believe  in  the  undiscovered 
seal  islands  of  the  north  Pacific.  Matter-of- 
fact  mariners  who  do  not  believe  in  the  mys- 
terious islands  attribute  the  signs  of  land 
thereabouts  to  the  existence  of  a  great  eddy, 
a  product  of  the  immense  current  above  al- 
luded to,  into  which  are  carried  and  held 
the  various  articles  of  drift.  There  are  signs 


of  land  upon  the  surface  of  the  water,  but 
.there  is  "no  bottom"  there  for  a  hundred- 
fathom  line ;  and  the  masters  of  vessels  in 
the  San  Francisco  and  China  trade  have 
no  fears  of  running  ashore  in  that  region.  A 
strong  argument  against  the  existence  of  the 
undiscovered  seal  islands  in  the  north  Pa- 
cific is,  that  when  the  seals  leave  the  Pryvo- 
lof  group  they  are  lean  and  gaunt,  after  their 
four  or  six  months'  sojourn  upon  shore. 
When  they  return,  like  old  sailors  after  a 
voyage,  they  are  again  in  good  condition, 
and  fall  easy  victims  to  those  of  mankind 
who  live  by  preying  upon  them.  If  the 
seals  spent  their  winter  months  ashore,  on 
some  Pacific  islands  in  the  mysterious  region 
of  fog  and  eddy,  they  should  return  to 
Alaska  as  lean  as  when  they  go  away. 

The  seal,  it  should  also  be  considered, 
cannot  remain  below  the  surface  long  enough 
to  catch  deep-water  fish;  but  the  cod,  which 
haunts  the  banks  or  shallows  of  the  sea,  and 
the  salmon,  which  cruises  along  the  coasts 
in  the  spring,  form  its  chief  article  of  am- 
mal  food;  and  kelp,  which  is  found  only 
upon  reefs,  is  its  favorite  vegetable  diet. 
Wherever  the  seal  may  go  to  spend  the  win- 
ter, it  returns  to  its  favorite  summer  quarters 
with  wonderful  regularity ;  and  notwithstand- 
ing the  slaughter  of  one  hundred  thousand 
annually  upon  land,  and  the  consumption  of 
perhaps  a  greater  number  of  tender  pups  by 
sharks  and  "killers"  at  sea,  the  areas  of  the 
several  "rookeries"  upon  the  Pryvolof  Is- 
lands are  gradually  expanded  year  by  year, 
and  there  is  reason  for  the  belief  held  among 
the  natives  that  the  numbers  are  gradually  in- 
creasing. At  all  events,  it  may  be  confi- 
dently asserted  that  so  long  as  the  present 
system  prevails  of  killing  no  females,  and 
only  a  limited  number  of  males,  the  revenue 
to  the  government  from  the  fur-seal  islands 
runs  no  apparent  risk  of  diminution;  and 
the  natives  may  look  for  their  comfortable 
annuity  to  continue  for  succeeding  genera- 
tions indefinitely. 

George  Wardman. 


1883.] 


"An  Idle,  Good-for-nothing  Fellow." 


33 


'AN    IDLE,   GOOD-FOR-NOTHING   FELLOW." 


I. 


PLANTER  VAN  ARNEN  modeled  his  house 
in  Blackville  after  the  picturesque  architectur- 
al ugliness  of  the  home  of  his  ancestors — 
a  house  with  many  gables,  and  a  porch  with 
an  overhanging  roof;  and,  unlike  the  other 
houses  of  Blackville,  without  a  veranda.  The 
house  stood  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river  that 
flows  through  Blackville,  and  commanded  a 
view  of  the  rising  sun.  The  house  that 
Planter  Van  Arnen  and  many  generations  of 
Van  Arnens  were  born  in  faced  the  east;  and 
had  he  been  born  in  a  lake  village,  in  a  hut 
set  up  on  posts  in  the  waters  of  Maracaybo, 
he  would  have  built  just  such  a  hut  in 
Blackville.  If  the  idea  that  in  the  latitude 
of  Blackville  a  veranda  was  a  necessity  had 
been  suggested  to  him  he  no  doubt  would 
have  said  that  the  desire  for  ease  and  com- 
fort had  made  many  things  necessities;  and 
very  likely  he  would  have  told  how,  away 
back  in  the  prehistoric  age  of  his  native 
country,  the  people  met  under  a  sheltering 
oak  in  a  wide-spreading  plain  to  hold  their 
councils  of  state,  but  that  now  a  building 
was  thought  necessary,  although  with  the 
progress  of  civilization  the  climate  had  some- 
what ameliorated. 

The  planter  worried  along  for  two  years 
without  a  cool,  shady  place  to  smoke  his 
noonday  pipe  in,  during  which  time  his 
ideas  on  the  subject  of  verandas  became 
slightly  modified;  then  he  built  an  arbor  and 
covered  it  with  vines.  The,  breeze  from  the 
river  swept  through  it,  cooling  the  atmos- 
phere, and  the  profusion  of  vines,  with  their 
interwoven  foliage,  made  it  impossible  for 
the  sun  to  penetrate  the  latticed  arbor.  But 
it  was  nearly  always  damp,  and  the  planter's 
wife  took  a  severe  malarial  cold  while  sitting  in 
it  after  a  shower,  from  which  she  never  fully 
recovered.  There  were  stinging  insects  in 
it,  and  cold,  moist  worms  that  made  one 
shudder  to  come  in  contact  with.  The 
Vol.  II.— 3. 


worms  had  an  irritating  way  of  coming 
down  "thug"  upon  the  planter's  head  as  he 
sat  smoking  his  pipe  or  running  up  and 
down  the  gamut  of  a  post-prandial  snore; 
and  when  the  planter's  daughter  Margaret 
found  a  moccasin  snake  suspended  from  the . 
branch  of  a  tree  at  the  entrance  of  the  arbor, 
she  would  never  enter  it  again. 

The  only  Van  Arnen  not  mentioned  so 
far  was  John,  the  son,  a  young  man  of 
twenty-six,  and  nearly  nine  years  Margaret's 
senior.  John  had  studied  medicine  in  Ley- 
den,  and  had  had  a  doctor's  degree  conferred 
upon  him.  It  was  now  several  months 
since  he  came  to  Blackville,  and  his  only 
occupation  seemed  to  be  to  sit  in  the  arbor 
smoking  or  taking  an  infinite  number  of 
naps.  None  of  the  disagreeables  of  the 
place  ever  troubled  him.  If  a  poisonous  rep- 
tile ventured  into  his  presence,  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  it  mistook  him  for  some  inan- 
imate object,  and  glided  peacefully  away. 

Although  Blackville  was  not  noted  for  its 
energy,  but  was  the  drowsiest  place  to  be 
found  outside  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  inhab- 
itants could  not  tolerate  such  indolence  in 
a  new-comer  and  a  doctor,  and  they  looked 
upon  him  with  cold  disapproval.  This,  like 
most  other  things,  did  not  trouble  John  in  the 
least.  He  didn't  like  "Blackvillains,"  he  said, 
and  he  was  willing  that  they  should  not  like 
him. 

But  one  morning  in  December  his  placid- 
ity appeared  disturbed.  He  spoke  irritably 
to  the  servants,  and  called  Margaret  a  scold. 
Eleven  o'clock  found  him  in  the  arbor,  where 
he  had  gone  immediately  after  breakfast. 

"Smoking  still?"  said  Margaret,  keeping  at 
a  safe  distance  from  the  dreaded  place,  and 
speaking  to  John.  "  I  shouldn't  think  you 
would  waste  your  time  so." 

This  was  a  remark  that  she  had  made 
every  day  for  several  weeks,  and  he  had  lis- 
tened to  her  amiably,  and  with  quiet  indiffer- 
ence; but  now  he  arose,  threw  down  his  pipe 


"An  Idle,  Good-for-nothing  Fellow" 


[July, 


<on  a  seat,  and  walked  out  of  the  arbor  in  a 
manner  that  made  Margaret  think  that  he 
might  have  slammed  the  door  had  there  been 
any  for  him  to  slam. 

"You  make  my  life  miserable,"  he  said  as 
he  passed  her,  "and  I  am  going  away  from 
home." 

"Very  well,"  said  Margaret,  sarcastically. 
"  Don't  go  before  dinner ;  we  are  going  to 
have  plum-pudding,  that  you  are  so  fond  of; 
and,  John,"  she  added,  "don't  fail  to  write 
when  you  get  there." 

This  was  too  much.  John  Van  Arnen  was 
really  angry.  The  idea  of  leaving  Black- 
ville  had  occurred  to  him,  cursorily,  as  he 
was  engaged  in  the  arbor  in  what  was  for 
him  profound  meditation.  "  I  would  go 
away  from  Blackville,"  he  had  thought,  "if— 
It  would  be  hard  to  say  what  objection  to 
leaving  Blackville  John  was  going  to  make; 
just  then  Margaret  spoke  to  him. 

On  his  way  to  the  house  John  met  his 
father,  and  told  him  in  a  few  words  that  he 
was  dissatisfied  with  life  in  Blackville,  and 
that  he  thought  he  should  go  elsewhere. 
The  elder  Van  Arnen's  tranquillity  was  not 
at  all  disturbed  by  this  announcement. 

"I  think,  my  son,"  he  answered  in  his 
slow  way,  "it  is  time  that  you  were  doing 
something  for  yourself;  when  I  was  at  your 
age,  I  was  practicing  law." 

John  was  astonished.  His  father  had 
never  spoken  to  him  in  this  way  before.  His 
feelings  were  deeply  hurt. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  his  father, 
after  an  interval  of  silence. 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  just  thought  of 
going." 

"Have  you  thought  what  you  shall  do?" 

"Practice  my  profession,  I  suppose." 

"When  do  you  wish  to  go?" 

"To-day,  in  the  afternoon  express,"  John 
answered,  in  a  rage. 

"Very  well,  my  son,  I  will  give  you  a  sum 
of  money  sufficient  to  last  you  some  time, 
and  when  that  is  gone,  I  hope  you  will  have 
more  that  you  have  earned  yourself." 

John  went  to  his  room,  and  rang  the  bell 
so  violently  that  Rice,  the  house  boy,  came  in 
great  haste  to  see  if  "Marse  John"  was  sick. 


"No,  Rice,  I  am  not  sick,"  answered  John ; 
"I  am  going  away,  and  I  want  you  to  ask 
Aunt  Rachel  for  my  clean  linen,  and  then 
come  and  help  me  to  pack  my  trunk." 

"I'se  heap  sorry  you're  gwine,  sah,"  said 
Rice,  as  visions  of  stray  coppers  never 
asked  for  and  past  donations  of  beer  flitted 
through  his  mind.  "Gwine  to  trabel,  sah?" 

"Yes" — without  thinking. 

"Take  me  wid  you?" 

"No." 

"Who'll  wait  on  you,  sah?" 

No  answer. 

"Jes'  ax  Marse  Van  Arnen." 

"No." 

"Le'me  ax  him;  I'll  say  you  tole  me  ter." 

"Rice,"  said  John,  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
ill-humor,  "hold  your  tongue,  and  do  as  you 
are  told  to  do." 

Rice  left  the  room  and  soon  appeared 
again,  followed  by  Aunt  Rachel  carrying  a 
tray  of  clean  clothes  on  her  head. 

"I'se  come,  Marse  John,  to  pack  yer 
trunk,"  she  said,  setting  down  the  tray. 
"Dat  Rice,  he  dun  know  how  to  pack  a 
trunk,  nohow.  I'll  pack  it  fer  you  dat  handy 
and  snug-like  yer'll  know  jes'  whar  to  find 
things  if  yer'll  look  for  dem."  With  this 
doubtful  compliment  to  herself,  and  meet- 
ing no  opposition  from  John,  Aunt  Rachel 
went  to  work  folding  the  clothes  neatly,  and 
carefully  placing  them  in  his  trunk. 

John  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  sighed 
wearily,  and  thought  how  unhappy  he  was. 
After  a  while  he  took  out  a  cent  and  began 
to  toss  it  up.  "  Heads — I  go  to  Kingstown; 
tails — to  Cottondale."  Aunt  Rachel  looked 
on  with  the  greatest  interest.  The  "heads" 
won;  and  John  settled  himself  in  his  chair 
and  went  fast  asleep.  He  did  not  awake 
until  Margaret  came  to  call  him  to  dinner. 

Now  that  John  was  really  going  away, 
Margaret  was  all  kindness.  "  Come  to  din- 
ner, John.  Didn't  you  hear  the  gong?"  she 
asked.  "  Dinner  is  all  on  the  table.  We 
have  your  favorite  dishes  —  gumbo  soup, 
fried  chicken  and  cream,  curried  ham,  potted 
venison,  rice  cakes  and  jam,  and  plum-pud- 
ding; and  father  has  opened  a  bottle  of  his 
Amsterdam  port,  and  Harriet  has  made  you 


1883.] 


"An  Idle,  Good-for-nothing  Fellow.'" 


35 


a  seed  cake  to  put  into  your  trunk,"  she  rattled 
off  breathlessly.  John  followed  her  down- 
stairs without  speaking. 

There  was  never  much  conversation  car- 
ried on  at  the  Van  Arnens'  table,  and  at  this 
dinner  there  was  less  said  than  usual.  John 
left  the  table  after  eating  a  hearty  dinner,  to 
enter  the  carriage,  which  was  waiting  to  take 
him  to  the  station.  His  father  accompanied 
him.  He  could  not  say  good  by  to  his  mother, 
for  she  was  so  ill  that  day  it  was  not  thought 
best  to  tell  her  that  John  was  going  away. 

"  John,  don't  you  see  that  the  servants  are 
waiting  to  say  good  by  to  you,"  reminded 
his  father,  as  John  was  about  to  get  into  the 
carriage  after  having  bade  Margaret  farewell. 
John  turned  half  around,  drawled  out  a  lazy 
good  by,  and  again  reminded  by  his  father, 
put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a 
handful  of  small  coin,  which  he  scattered 
among  the  expectant  group  of  negroes.  The 
carriage  drove  rapidly  away,  leaving  them  to 
pick  up  their  largess. 

Before  night  all  Blackville  knew  that 
•Rose  Hiller,  the  pretty  daughter  of  the  owner 
of  the  adjoining  plantation,  had  jilted  John, 
and  that  he  had  gone  away  in  consequence. 

If  "there  is  a  soul  of  truth  in  things  erro- 
neous," as  a  writer  of  philosophy  asserts, 
there  was  some  foundation  for  Blackville 
gossip.  Rose  Hiller  was  very  pretty  and 
interesting,  and  John  enjoyed  her  society. 
She  was  Margaret's  intimate  friend,  and  John 
naturally  saw  her  frequently.  He  thought 
his  regard  for  Rose  was  reciprocated ;  but  the 
evening  before,  he  had  overheard  Margaret 
reflecting  severely  upon  his  idleness  and  lack 
of  interest  in  everything.  "He  is  not  a  bit 
like  the  John  he  used  to  be,"  said  Margaret; 
and  Rose  had  joined  her  in  calling  him  "an 
idle,  good-for-nothing  fellow." 

"She  can't  have  any  respect  for  me,  if  she 
talks  like  that,"  mused  John,  after  he  had  re- 
covered from  his  mortification  a  little;  "and 
I  don't  mean  to  trouble  myself  about  her  in 
future."  That  was  the  reason  why  he  was 
so  unusually  sensitive  that  morning;  but 
neither  Margaret  nor  Rose,  nor  anybody  else 
in  Blackville,  knew  that  John  had  heard  what 
they  said. 


IL. 


Three  months  passed  away,  and  nothing 
was  heard  from  John.  Blackville  had  now 
positive  knowledge  of  his  fate.  It  was  whis- 
pered, and  whispered  so  loud  that  the  Van 
Arnens  heard  it,  that  he  had  been  so  terri- 
bly disappointed  he  had  committed  suicide. 
Gossip,  however,  is  not  evidence  to  every- 
body, and  there  were  some  people  who  gave 
no  credence  to  the  tale,  among  whom  were 
the  Van  Arnens  and  Rose  Hiller. 

The  planter  wrote  to  John,  directing  the 
letter  to  the  care  of  the  postmaster  at  Kings- 
town. The  letter  was  returned,  with  the  in- 
formation that  no  one  by  that  name  could  be 
found.  The  planter  was  now  truly  anxious 
about  his  son.  He  advertised  in  the  leading 
journals  of  several  different  States,  but  the 
only  response  he  ever  had  was  from  the 
freight  agent  at  Walden,  telling  him  that  a 
trunk  with  the  initials  "J.  Van  A."  was  at 
the  office  at  that  place,  and  that  he  could 
have  the  same,  if  it  belonged  to  his  son,  by 
proving  property  and  paying  charges.  Plant- 
er Van  Arnen  went  immediately  to  Walden 
and  brought  home  the  trunk. 

Margaret  spoke  hopefully  of  John's  return; 
but  as  the  months  rolled  away  without  any 
tidings  of  him,  she  began  to  share  her  fa- 
ther's conviction  that  something  serious  had 
happened  to  him,  although  she  still  spoke  of 
John's  return  as  certain. 

Meanwhile,  what  had  become  of  John? 
We  will  go  back  to  the  afternoon  of  the 
second  day  after  he  had  left  Blackville.  He 
sat  fast  asleep  in  the  car,  after  all  the  other 
passengers  had  left  the  train. 

"Gwine  to  stop  in  Walden,  sah?"  asked 
the  colored  porter  of  the  train.  He  repeated 
the  question  several  times,  and  at  last  John 
awoke  and  answered,  "  No." 

"Want  to  take  dis  train,  sah?"  asked  the 
porter,  pointing  to  a  train  just  ready  to  steam 
out  of  the  depot.  John  answered  that  he 
did,  supposing  it  to  be  the  train  going  to 
Kingstown. 

"Better  hurry  up,  sah.  De  train  '11  be 
done  gone  in  a  minute,  sah.  I'll  carry  your 
valise,  sah."  And  in  less  .than  two  minutes 


36 


'•An  Idle,  Good-for-nothing  fellow." 


[July, 


John  was  carried  away,  at  the  rate  of  twenty- 
five  miles  an  hour,  in  a  contrary  direction 
to  that  which  he  had  intended  to  take. 

Soon  the  conductor  came  around.  John 
hunted  for  his  ticket.  He  could  not  find  it 
anywhere,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  for  him  to  buy  another.  "Want  a 
through  ticket?"  questioned  the  conductor. 
John  answered  "  Yes,"  and  having  paid  for  it, 
folded  it  up  and  stuck  it  into  his  hat-band. 
In  a  short  time  the  motion  of  the  car  put 
him  fast  to  sleep  again. 

It  was  not  light  the  next  morning  when 
John,  with  the  other  sleepy  passengers,  strug- 
gled on  board  another  train.  As  the  day  ad- 
vanced, he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  was 
traveling  through  a  country  he  had  never 
seen  before.  Once  he  asked  the  conductor 
where  they  were.  The  conductor  mentioned 
a  town,  the  name  of  which  was  familiar  to 
John.  He  knew  that  he  should  have  to  pass 
through  a  town  of  that  name  in  going  to 
Kingstown.  This  satisfied  him  for  a  time. 
He  did  not  know  that  there  were  more  than 
twenty  towns  of  that  name  in  the  United 
States,  several  of  which  were  on  lines  of  rail- 
roads. 

His  doubts  returned  after  a  while;  the 
train  was  so  slow,  too,  he  thought,  and  he 
had  never  been  on  board  of  a  train  that  jolt- 
ed him  as  this  one  did.  It  made  every  bone 
in  him  ache.  He  said  this  to  the  conductor, 
who  told  him  that  the  road  was  called  the 
easiest  one  in  America  to  travel  over. 

Occasionally  he  fell  into  a  doze,  and  as 
often  as  he  did  so  he  dreamed  that  he  was 
in  China,  and  a  victim  of  one  of  that  coun- 
try's ingenious  modes  of  torture.  He  was 
never  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  again;  and  he 
had  been  placed  upon  this  train  that  the  sen- 
tence might  be  fulfilled.  He  was  sure  death 
could  not  be  far  distant;  he  was  grateful  to 
the  Chinese  for  choosing  such  a  quick  way  of 
killing  him.  Then  he  would  wake  suddenly, 
look  out  of  the  window,  and  wonder  if  the 
train  would  ever  get  to  Kingstown. 

Later  in  the  day  John  observed  a  new 
conductor  passing  through  the  car.  He 
stopped  him  and  asked  when  the  train  would 
reach  Kingstown. 


' ' Kingstown ! "  echoed  the  conductor ;  "this 
train  goes  to  Rindland." 

"I  wanted  to  go  to  Kingstown,"  said 
John. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  asked  the 
conductor. 

"From  Blackville,  by  the  way  ofWalden." 

"Then  you  took  the  wrong  train  at  Wai- 
den.  What  did  you  buy  a  ticket  for  Rind- 
land  for  if  you  wanted  to  go  to  Kingstown  ?  " 
queried  the  conductor. 

John  felt  in  his  hat  for  his  ticket  and  did 
not  find  it.  "The  other  conductor  took  the 
tickets  before  leaving  the  train  at  Border 
Town,  and  he  probably  took  yours  while  you 
were  asleep,"  explained  the  conductor. 

"I  lost  my  ticket  before  reaching  Walden, 
and  bought  another  on  the  train  after  leaving 
there,  and  I  never  looked  at  it."  John  said,  in 
reply  to  the  conductor's  question. 

"And  you  have  just  discovered  that  you 
are  not  on  the  road  to  Kingstown  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  conductor  looked  hard  at  John.  He 
thought  that  he  must  have  been  on  a  very 
long  spree,  or  that  he  was  not  in  his  right 
mind.  He  stood  at  John's  side  waiting, 
without  speaking.  John  was  thinking :  "  It 
does  not  make  so  much  difference,  after  all. 
Father  has  some  old  friends  in  Vineland,  and 
I  will  go  to  see  them ;  perhaps  they  can  offer 
me  some  inducement  to  stay  there;  if  not,  I 
can  go  to  Kingstown";  then  aloud,  "When 
do  we  arrive  in  Vineland?" 

The  conductor  did  not  notice  John's  mis- 
take. "In  a  half-hour,  at  the  longest,"  he 
answered.  "Perhaps  you  would  like  to  stop 
at  Shaker  Village,  this  side  of  Rindland,"  he 
said,  glancing  at  John's  broad-rimmed  hat. 
It  was  of  a  style  common  to  Blackville,  but 
not  worn  in  that  section  of  the  country  ex- 
cept by  the  Shakers. 

John  could  never  tell  why  he  said  "Yes." 
The  conductor  was  pleased  with  himself  for 
having  made  the  suggestion.  At  the  same 
time,  he  wished  that  all  passengers  who  had 
been  carried  out  of  their  way  would  make 
as  little  fuss  about  it  as  this  one  did. 

"Well,  then,  be  ready  to  get  off  at  the  next 
stopping  place.  I'll  bring  in  the  stage-driver 


1883.] 


"An  Idle,  Good-for-nothing  Fellow." 


37 


that  goes  up  to  the  village  to  help  you  out 
with  your  valise,"  he  said,  and  left  the  car. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  returned  with  a 
tall  man  whose  face  resembled  a  baked  apple. 

"Here's  your  passenger,  Uncle  Nathan; 
take  good  care  of  him,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"Good  by,  sir." 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  bright  moonlight, 
when  the  driver  stopped  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  village,  got  down  from  the  stage,  and 
asked  John  to  what  house  he  wanted  to  go. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John,  with  a  shiver. 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  well,"  volunteered 
Uncle  Nathan,  sympathetically. 

"I  believe  I  am  not,"  answered  John, 
with  another  shiver. 

"I  see  that  you  have  got  the  shakes,  or 
something  like  them,  right  bad,  and  I'll 
drive  you  to  Elder  Bones's  house,  if  you  say 
so;  he  is  the  doctor  up  there,"  Uncle  Nathan 
said. 

John  moaned  an  answer.  This  was  the 
last  that  he  knew  for  many  weeks. 

III. 

The  first  time  that  John  opened  his  eyes 
in  consciousness,  he  found  himself  in  a  plain- 
ly furnished  room  with  white-washed  walls. 
A  small  deal  table  stood  at  the  bedside,  on 
which  were  several  bottles  of  medicine, 
glasses,  and  spoons.  There  was  a  fire  burn- 
ing in  an  open  fireplace,  and  a  young  wo- 
man, dressed  in  gray  homespun,  sat  by  it 
knitting.  He  thought  she  looked  like  a  pic- 
ture that  he  had  seen.  He  tried  to  think 
where  he  had  seen  it,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
was  sure  that  she  was  the  portrait  itself,  come 
out  of  its  frame  to  take  care  of  him.  He 
could  see  the  canvas  around  her.  The  por- 
trait arose,  came  to  the  bedside,  poured  out 
a  few  drops  of  medicine  in  a  spoon,  and  gave 
it  to  John  to  swallow;  then  she  stood  look- 
ing at  him  a  minute  or  so.  He  wished  she 
would  not  look  at  him;  he  wanted  her  to  go 
back  to  her  frame ;  he  shut  his  eyes  so  that 
he  could  not  see  her,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
he  fell  into  a  long  sleep. 

The  next  time  he  saw  the  young  woman 
the  delusion  was  gone ;  he  recognized  in  her 


a  living  object,  who  left  the  room  when  she 
observed  that  he  was  attentively  regarding 
her.  From  that  time  an  elderly  woman  or 
a  man  was  always  with  him. 

The  early  fruit  trees  were  in  bloom  before 
John  took  his  first  walk  around  Shaker  Vil- 
lage, and  it  was  not  long  after  when  Elder 
Bones  sent  for  him  to  come  to  the  parlor, 
where  grave  community  matters  were  delib- 
erated. John  found,  besides  Elder  Bones, 
the  other  members  of  the  house,  Brother 
Timothy,  Brother  Joseph,  and  Sister  Pa- 
tience— all  excepting  "the  portrait" — await- 
ing him. 

"We  have  been  considering  thy  case," 
Elder  Bones  said,  when  John  seated  himself. 
"Thee  has  been  mercifully  restored  to 
health." 

John  bowed,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"And  it  is  the  opinion,"  continued  the 
Elder,  "of  Brother  Joseph,  Brother  Tim- 
othy, Sister  Patience,  and  myself  that  thee 
is  able  now  to  return  to  thy  friends  when 
thee  wishes." 

John  started.  "I  don't  want  to  go  away 
from  here,"  he  said. 

"  But  we  can  have  no  idlers  here,"  remon- 
strated Brother  Joseph. 

"  Let  me  work,  then." 

"Would  thee  like  to  join  our  brother- 
hood?" asked  Sister  Patience. 

"Yes." 

"Does  thee  know  what  thy  words  imply?" 
asked  Brother  Joseph. 

"  I  am  afraid  thee  would  soon  tire  of  our 
quiet  life,"  said  Brother  Timothy. 

"  Has  thee  considered  the  matter?"  Elder 
Bones  asked. 

John  was  obliged  to  confess  that  he  had 
not,  but  he  was  sure,  he  said,  that  their  quiet 
life  would  just  suit  him. 

"Why  did  thee  leave  thy  friends?"  Elder 
Bones  asked. 

"  Because  I  was  an  idle,  good-for-nothing 
fellow,"  answered  John,  using  Margaret's 
very  words. 

"And  thee  would  like  to  lead  a  more  use- 
ful life?"  asked  good  Sister  Patience. 

John  answered  "Yes"  in  some  confusion. 
He  had  an  extremely  vague  idea  as  to  what 


38 


"An  Idle,  Good-for-nothing  Fellow." 


[July, 


he  should  like  to  do  in  that  direction.  His 
present  desire  was  not  to  leave  Shaker  Vil- 
lage. 

"Has  thee  ever  wrought  with  thy  hands?" 
Brother  Joseph  asked. 

"No;  I  was  educated  for  a  physician." 

"Perhaps  he  might  help  thee,  sometimes, 
Elder  Bones,"  suggested  Brother  Timothy. 

Elder  Bones  nodded. 

"I  am  the  only  physician  left  in  the  com- 
munity," he  said  solemnly.  "Good  Brother 
David  passed  away  last  fall ;  perhaps  thee 
can  fill  my  place  when  I  am  gone.  Has 
thee  thy  diploma  with  thee?" 

Then  for  the  first  time  John  thought  of 
his  trunk.  "I  had  it  when  I  left  home,"  he 
said.  "It  was  put  into  my  trunk,  and  that 
is — I  do  not  know  where." 

"Thee  must  try  to  recover  it,"  said  Elder 
Bones. 

"Will  thy  friends  not  object  to  thee  join- 
ing our  people?"  asked  Sister  Patience. 

John  thought  they  would  not,  and  said  so. 

"Thee  must  bear  the  burden  of  the  day 
with  the  rest  of  us,"  Brother  Joseph  said. 

John  expressed  his  willingness  to  do  so. 

"The  subject  will  be  considered  at  our 
next  Society  meeting,"  Elder  Bones  said, 
rising  as  a  sign  that  the  conference  was 
over. 

Sister  Patience  now  came  forward  with 
writing  materials,  and  handing  them  to  Johns 
told  him  that  he  ought  to  write  to  his  friends 
and  tell  them  of  his  welfare.  John  had  oth- 
er plans  for  the  day,  and  he  was  in  a  hurry. 

"To-morrow  will  do  just  as  well,"  he  said. 

"  Thee  must  not  get  into  that  unfortunate 
way  of  putting  off  until  to-morrow  what  thee 
should  do  to-day,"  reproved  Sister  Patience, 
gently.  "Thee  had  better  write  at  once." 

"And  thee  would  do  well  to  write  about 
thy  trunk  at  the  same  time,"  advised  Elder 
Bones. 

John  took  the  writing  materials,  sat  down 
at  the  table,  and  wrote  to  his  father,  telling 
him  of  his  long  illness,  and  of  his  intention 
of  joining  the  Shakers.  This  letter  he  di- 
rected to  Kingstown.  He  then  wrote  to  the 
freight  agent  at  Vineland,  inquiring  about  his 
trunk,  which,  he  told  the  agent,  he  had  left 


at  that  place  several  months  before.  These 
letters  he  took  to  the  village  office  that  day. 

There  were  no  objections  made  to  John's 
joining  the  Shaker  Society.  What  was  most 
needed  in  the  community  was  youth  to  take 
the  place  of  departing  age,  and  Elder  Bones 
took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  informing 
John  of  his  election. 

The  same  day  John  went  to  live  in  anoth- 
er house  at  the  other  side  of  the  village;  for 
Reba  Taylor,  Sister  Patience's  pretty  niece, 
the  portrait  of  John's  delirium,  lived  in  Elder 
Bones's  house,  and  it  was  not  thought  best 
for  two  young  people  of  opposite  sexes  to  live 
under  the  same  roof. 

As  John  was  not  strong,  his  first  work  was 
to  assist  Sister  Martha,  the  matron  of  the 
household,  in  her  housework.  He  sanded 
the  floors  after  she  had  scrubbed  them  to  a 
snowy  whiteness,  plied  the  dasher  of  the  old- 
fashioned  churn  until  the  butter  came,  split 
up  kindling-wood,  pumped  water,  pared  veg- 
etables, and  made  himself  generally  useful. 

In  a  few  weeks  Brother  Josiah  took  him 
to  the  barn,  and  instructed  him  in  milking 
and  how  to  feed  the  cattle;  and  soon  the 
time  came  when  he  went  into  the  field  with 
the  other  brothers,  and  hoed  corn  and  other 
crops.  John's  back  ached  in  those  days,  but 
in  spite  of  his  unaccustomed  labor  he  grew 
strong  every  day.  He  was  often  observed 
to  take  off  his  hat,  pass  his  hand  over  his 
head  several  times  with  a  perplexed  air,  as 
if  he  were  trying  to  think  of  something. 

Hay-making  time  came.  That  was  more 
interesting  work  than  hoeing,  for  the  young 
people  of  both  sexes  worked  in  the  hay-field, 
and  John  always  worked  by  Reba's  side. 
John  liked  Reba.  She  and  Sister  Patience 
were  the  only  ones  of  his  adopted  sisters 
that  he  cared  for.  They  were  all  so  one- 
sided, John  thought — all  but  Reba.  She 
had  ideas  above  and  beyond  the  mere  daily 
drudgery  of  her  life. 

This  intimacy  worried  Sister  Patience  a 
good  deal.  She  kept  a  dragon's  watch  over 
her  niece,  but  that  did  not  prevent  them 
from  talking  whenever  they  met. 

"Thee  talks  a  great  deal  to  Brother  John. 
I  am  sure  thee  will  bring  no  scandal  upon 


1883.] 


'•An  Idle,  Good-for-nothing  Fellow." 


39 


our  people,"  she  said  anxiously  to  Reba  one 
day,  when  she  and  John  had  been  carrying 
on  what  Sister  Patience  thought  an  unneces- 
sarily long  conversation  on  the  subject  of 
the  best  gruel  for  certain  kinds  of  sickness. 
Sister  Patience  had  been  ailing  for  a  few 
days,  and  Reba  was  making  gruel  for  her; 
hence  the  conversation. 

Reba's  cheeks  blazed,  but  she  answered 
mildly,  "Do  not  thee  fear,  Aunt  Patience; 
there  will  be  no  gossip  in  our  community  if 
it  depends  upon  Brother  John  and  myself." 

When  the  harvesting  was  nearly  over, 
John  was  as  strong  as  he  ever  was,  and  with 
returned  health  his  life  in  the  community 
became  more  and  more  distasteful  to  him. 
He  often  asked  himself  how  he  came  to  join 
the  Shakers.  He  wondered  how  Reba,  so 
young  and  handsome,  could  be  contented, 
as  she  evidently  was.  Once  he  asked  her 
how  she  came  to  belong  to  the  Shakers. 

"My  mother  died  and  left  me  to  Aunt 
Patience  when  I  was  a  baby,  and  I  have 
never  known  any  other  life,"  replied  Reba. 

"  And  nothing  would  induce  thee  to  leave 
here?"  asked  John. 

Reba  colored  a  little  as  she  answered :  "I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  the  world's 
people  have  a  better  time  than  we  do,  but  it 
is  wrong  to  dwell  on  such  thoughts.  But 
why  does  thee  ask,  Brother  John?  Thee  is 
not  discontented,  is  thee?" 

John  evaded  an  answer  by  saying  that  he 
should  like  to  see  his  friends  once  more. 

"Has  thee  heard  from  thy  father?"  in- 
quired Reba. 

"No." 

"And  thee  has  only  written  once?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  thee  has  done  very  wrong.  Thee 
should  most  certainly  have  written  again. 
Thy  letter  or  thy  father's  letter  may  have 
miscarried." 

This  set  John  to  thinking.  "Reba,"  he 
asked,  "  how  long  is  it  since  I  came  here?" 

"Twelve  months,  come  the  last  month, 
ninth  day." 

"So  long?"  John  wondered  more  and 
more  that  he  had  not  written  again.  Where 
had  time  flown  to? 


A  letter  came  from  the  freight  agent  at 
Vineland  soon  after  John  had  written,  saying 
that  no  trunk  of  the  description  John  gave 
was  at  the  office  there;  and  the  reader  can 
understand  why  John  had  not  heard  from 
his  father. 

When  the  harvesting  was  over,  John  told 
Elder  Bones  that  he  must  go  home  to  make 
a  visit ;  and  the  Elder  advised  the  other 
brothers  not  to  make  any  objections  to 
his  going. 

IV. 

"Hiyah,  Jake,"  see  dat  gen'man  comin' 
up  de  avenue?"  asked  one  small  black  imp 
of  another  of  about  the  same  size. 

"Course  I  do;  I  ben't  blind." 

"'Clare  to  gosh,  now,  don't  he  look  like 
Miss  Marg'ret?" 

"  Geracious,  don't  he?  dat  am  a  fac'." 

"Looks  like  Marse  John,  too.  Only  he 
ain't  so  fat-like." 

"  Hush  yer  mouth,  you  black  nigger,"  said 
Jake;  "de  gen'man  '11  done  hear  you,  an'  tell 
Marse  Van  Arnen,  and  den  you'll  kotch  it." 

"'Clare  to  gosh,  now,"  iterated  the  first 
darky,  "don't  he  look  like  Miss  Marg'ret? 
'Specs  he  must  be  some  of  de  Kernul's 
'lations  from  York  State  " ;  and  with  a  whoop 
he  disappeared  in  the  dust,  followed  by  the 
other  imp,  to  spread  the  news  in  the  negro 
quarters. 

Rice  answered  the  summons  to  the  door. 
He  stared  intently  after  John,  as  he,  with  a 
kind  "How  do  ye  do,  Rice?"  walked  past 
him  and  went  into  the  family  sitting-room. 

"Tis,  'tis  Marse  John,"  shouted  Rice.  "I 
done  see  his  'schaum  stickin'  out  his  pocket"; 
and  he,  too,  hurried  to  the  kitchen  quarters 
to  tell  the  news. 

Margaret  arose  as  John  entered  the  room. 
She  had  not  changed  much  the  past  year, 
John  thought;  perhaps  she  was  a  little  taller. 

The  mother  sat  in  an  easy-chair  with  her 
hands  folded.  Her  hair  had  grown  whiter, 
her  cheeks  thinner  and  more  sallow,  than 
when  John  saw  her  last.  She  turned  around 
in  her  chair  when  she  heard  John's  footsteps, 
and  after  looking  at  him  searchingly,  simply 
said,  "It  is  our  John  come  home  again." 


40 


A  Glance  at  Shorthand,  Past  and  Present. 


[July, 


Margaret  was  almost  hysterical  with  joy ; 
and  soon  the  planter  came  in  to  add  his 
heartfelt  welcome. 

John  told  about  his  long  illness  and  his 
life  among  the  Shakers,  omitting,  however, 
many  little  details,  such  as  his  services  to 
Sister  Martha.  He  couldn't  tell  Margaret 
that  he  peeled  onions  and  potatoes  for  Sister 
Martha,  even  now,  when  she  was  so  kind 
and  sympathizing. 

It  was  decided  before  the  evening  was 
over  that  John  must  not  go  back  to  Shaker 
Village,  and  the  next  day  he  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  Elder  Bones,  expressing  his  grati- 
tude to  him  and  all  the  brothers  and  sisters 
in  the  community.  He  excused  his  aposta- 
sy to  Elder  Bones,  by  explaining  that  had  he 
been  in  his  present  state  of  health  he  should 
not  have  joined  the  brotherhood;  and  Plant- 
er Van  Arnen  inclosed  in  the  letter  a  peace- 
offering  to  the  community. 

The  same  morning,  before  breakfast,  the 
planter  sent  for  Braddall,  the  house-builder. 
"I  want  you,"  he  said,  when  the  carpenter 
arrived,  "to  build  a  veranda  around  my 


house.  The  health  of  my  family  is  almost 
ruined  by  that  arbor.  My  wife  is  sick;  my 
son  came  near  dying  last  year,  with  malarial 
fever,  and  he  was  not  in  his  right  mind  for 
many  months.  I  don't  myself  feel. as  well 
as  I  used  to.  My  daughter  never  goes  into 
the  arbor,  and  she  is  the  only  one  of  us  who 
is  in  good  health." 

The  veranda  was  built  according  to  di- 
rections, and  the  Blackville  people — many  of 
them  were  close  relations  of  the  "  I  told  you 
so's  " — laughed  loud  and  long. 

Blackville  was  slow  to  recover  from  its 
prejudice  against  Doctor  Van  Arnen,  even 
when  it  was  well  understood  that  malaria  was 
the  cause  of  his  former  indolence.  But 
when  he  had  performed  two  or  three  credit- 
able cures,  and  given  a  scientific  lecture  on 
zymotic  diseases,  most  of  which  was  beyond 
the  grasp  of  the  average  Blackville  intellect, 
then  they  gave  him  their  unqualified  praise. 

The  following  year  John  went  to  Europe 
and  married  the  daughter  of  a  burgemeester, 
to  whom  he  had  been  engaged  before  leav- 
ing Leyden. 


A  GLANCE   AT   SHORTHAND,    PAST  AND   PRESENT, 


THE  origin  of  shorthand,  like  that  of  near- 
ly all  arts  and  professions,  is  lost  in  obscur- 
ity, the  earliest  record  we  have  of  its  use 
being  in  Egypt,  some  centuries  before  the 
Christian  era.  Law,  medicine,  painting, 
sculpture,  have  all  counted  their  students 
and  devotees  by  the  thousand,  almost  from 
the  beginning  of  time;  while,  until  scarcely 
a  century  since,  shorthand  has  been  almost 
a  secret  art,  little  known  except  to  its  au- 
thors. 

It  is  said  that  the  first  shorthand  writer  of 
note  was  one  Marcus  Tullius  Tiro,  the  freed- 
man  of  Cicero;  and  we  are  told  that  by 
means  of  his  invention  some  of  the  finest 
specimens  of  Roman  oratory  have  been  pre- 
served to  us.  Seneca,  the  Stoic  philosopher, 
who  lived  about  a  century  later,  is  said  to 
have  added  some  five  thousand  characters 


to  those  of  Tiro.  Two  hundred  years  after 
that,  Cyprian,  the  Bishop  of  Carthage,  put 
the  finishing  stroke  to  Tiro's  system  (or, 
rather,  "collection  of  signs"),  by  the  addi- 
tion of  many  more  characters,  which  ren- 
dered the  work  "much  more  useful  to  the 
faithful."  For  more  than  five  hundred  years 
the  "Tironian  Notes"  were  in  great  favor 
with  the  learned;  but,  like  all  terrestrial 
things,  they  could  not  last  forever,  and  final- 
ly had  the  honor  of  dying  at  the  hands  of 
an  emperor.  The  great  Justinian  "forbade 
the  text  of  his  Codex  to  be  written  by  the 
catches  and  short-cut  riddles  of  signs."  Af- 
ter that  the  "Notes"  began  to  disappear, 
and  so  scarce  had  copies  of  them  become 
that  when  search  was  made  in  many  libraries 
for  them,  about  the  year  1500,  only  one  copy 
could  be  found.  A  few  years  ago  the  "  Notes  " 


1883.] 


A  Glance  at  Shorthand,  Past  and  Present. 


41 


were  reprinted  in  Germany,  and  now  copies 
may  be  readily  purchased. 

It  is  very  doubtful  whether  Tironian  short- 
hand was  capable  of  doing  any  rapid  verba- 
tim work.  The  specimens  which  have  come 
down  to  us  do  not  compare  with  our  modern 
English  shorthand  for  brevity;  and  it  would 
seem,  from  a  passage  in  Plutarch's  "Life  of 
Cato  the  Younger,"  that  in  order  to  get  a 
full  report  of -a  speech  it  was  necessary  to 
have  a  number  of  stenographers  taking  notes 
at  the  same  time,  so  that  what  was  lost  by 
one  would  be  probably  caught  by  some  of 
the  others;  and  thus  the  combined  notes  of 
all  the  reporters  were  used  in  making  up 
the  report.  The  passage  is  as  follows: 
"Cicero,  the  consul,  dispersed  about  the 
Senate  House  several  expert  writers,  whom 
he  had  taught  to  make  certain  figures,  which 
did  in  little  and  short  strokes  express  a  great 
many  words." 

Another  ancient  writer,  in  speaking  of 
the  plans  adopted  by  the  early  stenogra- 
phers, says:  "Several  writers  agree  to  divide, 
mentally  or  by  signals,  what  may  be  deliv- 
ered into  portions  of  about  six  or  eight 
words  each ;  to  write  those  down  in  succes- 
sion as  they  are  able  to  follow  a  speaker,  and 
afterwards  to  compare  notes  to  find  out  the 
whole  discourse  verbatim" 

If,  however,  the  Roman  stenographers 
could  write  as  the  poet  Ausonius  told  one 
who  practiced  his  art  some  fifteen  hundred 
years  ago,  then  the  less  said  about  our  mod- 
ern systems  the  better.  The  translation  is : 
"Fly  !  young  and  famous  stenographer,  pre- 
pare the  tablets  on  which  thou  dost  express, 
with  simple  points,  entire  discourses,  with  as 
much  facility  as  others  can  express  a  sin- 
gle word.  I  dictate  volumes,  and  my  pro- 
nunciation is  as  compressed  as  the  hail,  yet 
nothing  escapes  thy  ear,  though  thy  pages 
fill  not.  Thy  hand,  of  which  the  movement 
is  scarcely  visible,  flies  upon  a  surface  of 
wax ;  and  though  my  sentences  are  diffuse, 
and  intricately  constructed,  thou  dost  em- 
body my  ideas  on  thy  tablets  before  they 
have  passed  my  lips.  Is  it  possible  that  I 
cannot  think  as  rapidly  as  you  write !  Tell 
me,  then,  since  you  outstrip  my  imagina- 


tion— tell  me,  I  say,  who  has  betrayed  me? 
Who  has  revealed  to  thee  my  thoughts?" 
Of  course,  the  reader  will  make  due  allow- 
ances for  the  use  of  hyperbole,  and  the  ex- 
aggerated style  assumed  by  most  ancient 
writers,  more  especially  poets  like  Ausonius. 

It  has  been  claimed  by  some  that  Xeno- 
phon  was  the  inventor  of  shorthand,  and 
that  he  used  it  in  recording  the  "Memora- 
bilia" of  Socrates;  and  a  modern  French 
stenographer,  named  Gue"nin,  thinks  that 
most  of  the  characters  used  in  the  "  Tiro- 
nian Notes  "  came  originally  from  the  Egyp- 
tians, through  the  Greeks.  However,  it  is 
more  generally  believed  that  Greek  short- 
hand was  subsequent  to  Tiro,  and  adapted 
from  the  famous  "Notes"  of  that  author. 

It  is  now  generally  believed  that  the  first 
inventor  of  a  real  stenographic  alphabet  was 
an  Englishman  named  John  Willis,  about 
the  time  of  Charles  I.  His  alphabet  was 
very  imperfect,  but  it  was  the  pioneer  of  the 
vast  strides  of  improvement  which  have  in 
our  time  culminated  in  Pitmanic  Phonog- 
raphy. 

In  1654  Jeremiah  Rich  published  a  work 
entitled  "Semigraphy,  or  the  Art's  Rarety; 
approved  by  many  honorable  persons,  and 
allowed  by  the  learned  to  be  the  easiest,  ex- 
actest,  and  briefest  method  of  short  and 
swift  writing  that  was  ever  known."  Wil- 
liam Mason's  works,  published  1672,  1682, 
and  1707,  were  valuable  additions  to  the 
material  used  at  that  time.  Lewis,  in  his 
History  of  Shorthand,  published  in  1816, 
speaks  of  Mason  as  "the  most  celebrated 
shorthand  writer  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury." Mason  was  followed  by  a  large  num- 
ber of  "  improvers,"  but  no  notable  addition 
was  made  to  the  art  until  the  time  of  Byrom, 
in  1767.  In  1758  John  Angel  published 
"Stenography,  or  Shorthand  Improved." 
Boswell,  in  his  Life  of  Johnson,  says  that  a 
stenographer  named  Angel  called  on  the  Doc- 
tor, requesting  him  to  write  a  preface  to  a 
work  on  shorthand  which  he  was  about  to 
publish.  Poor  Angel!  he  claimed  that  he 
was  able  to  write  as  fast  as  another  could 
read,  and  the  cynical  Johnson  took  a  book 
and  commenced  reading ;  Angel  failed  to  fol- 


42 


A   Glance  at  Shorthand,  Past  and  Present. 


[July, 


low  him,  whereupon  the  Doctor  said  that  to 
write  as  fast  as  a  person  read  was  an  impossi- 
bility. In  1786  Samuel  Taylor  brought  out 
his  system,  which  soon  became  very  popular. 
It  is  said  that  Taylor's  system  was  imitated 
and  pirated  from  more  than  all  others  pre- 
vious to  his  time. 

That  shorthand  writers,  and  more  espe- 
cially shorthand  authors,  are  somewhat  given 
to  brag  is  manifest  by  the  curious  titles 
given  to  many  of  their  publications.  Peter 
Bales  (1597)  published  "The  Art  of  Brachy- 
graphy,  that  is,  to  write  as  fast  as  a  man 
speaketh  treatably."  In  1654,  John  Farth- 
ing wrote  "Short  Writing  Shortened."  In 
1672,  one  William  Facy  claims  to  be  yet 
the  "shortest."  William  Mason,  the  same 
year,  issued  "A  Pen  Pluck'd  from  an  Eagle's 
Wing,"  and  subsequently  "A  Regular  and 
Easie  Table  of  Natural  Contractions — the 
like  never  done  by  any  other  hand.'''1  William 
Hopkins,  in  1676,  wrote  the  "Flying  Pen- 
man." A  quaint  little  volume  appeared  in 
the  year  1678,  "Short  Hand  Writing;  be- 
gun by  Nature,  completed  by  Art.  In- 
vented, taught,  and  published  by  Lawrence 
Steele."  George  Ridpath,  in  1687,  pub- 
lished "Shorthand  yet  Shorter."  Henry 
Barmby,  in  1700,  gave  "Shorthand  Un- 
masked"; and  the  year  after,  1701,  John 
Jones  came  forward  with  "Practical  Phonog- 
raphy." Thomas  Gurney's  System  (an  im- 
provement on  Mason's),  still  used  by  many 
stenographers  of  to-day  (mostly  English- 
men), was  introduced  in  1746,  as  "Brachy- 
graphy,  or  the  Art  of  Short  Writing  made  easy 
to  the  Meanest  Capacity."  In  1747,  Aulay 
Macaulay  issued  his  "Polygraphy,  or  Short- 
hand made  easy  to  the  Meanest  Capacity." 
In  Scovil's  System,  now  published  in  this 
country,  Macaulay's  alphabet  is  adopted  with- 
out variation.  Henry  Taflin,  in  1760,  in- 
vented another  system  "adapted  to  the 
meanest  capacity."  In  1779  tne  world  was 
presented  with  "The  Writers'  Time  Re- 
deemed, and  Speakers'  Words  Recalled,  by  a 
Pen  shaped  both  for  Oral  Expedition,  and  the 
most  legible  Plainness  and  Punctuality;  or 
Annet's  Shorthand  Perfected,  engaging  to 
the  Meanest  Capacity."  William  Mavor,  in 


1780,  published  "Universal  Stenography;  a 
new  and  complete  system,  attainable  in  a 
few  hours,  by  the  most  common  capacity." 
John  Mitchell  (1782)  produced  "How  to 
take  down  verbatim  a  week's  pleading  on 
one  page."  (That  is  the  kind  of  system  the 
writer  hankers  after.) 

Nearly  all  of  the  above-mentioned  systems 
were  composed  of  arbitrary  characters,  to 
learn  which  and  apply  them  involved  a 
long  struggle  and  wearisome  mental  appli- 
cation. 

Some  forty  years  ago,  Isaac  Pitman,  of 
England,  completely  revolutionized  short- 
hand by  bringing  out  his  "Phonography." 
(Phonos,  a  sound,  and  graphein,  to  write.) 
He  conceived  the  idea  of  a  purely  phonetic 
alphabet,  in  which  each  sound  was  to  be 
represented  by  a  separate  character,  and  so 
that  any  combination  of  sounds  could  be 
shown  by  a  combination  of  the  respective 
characters,  just  as  we  combine  letters  in 
longhand  to  form  words.  Pitman's  inven- 
tion proving  a  great  success,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  a  multitude  of  "improvers"  soon 
appeared,  especially  in  the  United  States, 
where  there  are  probably  more  shorthand 
authors  (or  rather  "improvers")  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  globe. 

It  is  not  the  intention  of  the  writer  to  give 
here  any  opinion  of  his  own  as  to  the  rela- 
tive merits  of  the  many  different  systems 
now  taught,  but  rather  to  stick  to  his  sub- 
ject, as  the  cobbler  to  his  last,  and  speak 
only  of  the  history  and  progress  of  this 
beautiful  art. 

Among  the  authors  of  the  present  time 
(all  of  whom  honorably  give  Pitman  his  de- 
served credit)  are  James  E.  Munson,  who  is 
one  of  the  ablest  reporters  in  New  York 
City,  and  whose  system  has  been  adopted 
as  one  of  the  regular  branches  in  the  College 
of  the  City  of  New  York ;  Benn  Pitman 
(brother  of  Isaac),  resident  at  Cincinnati; 
Mrs.  Eliza  Burns,  who  also  publishes  her 
longhand  with  phonetic  spelling;  the  late 
Andrew  J.  Marsh,  whose  system  has  become 
so  popular  on  the  Pacific  coast;  Andrew  J. 
Graham,  who  is  popular  with  a  large  class; 
and  a  great  many  others.  There  are  also 


1883.] 


A  Glance  at  Shorthand,  Past  and  Present. 


43 


several  systems  of  "Tachygraphy,"  notably 
that  of  D.  P.  Lindsey,  New  York. 

Continental  Europe  is  showing  signs  of 
considerable  activity  and  general  advance- 
ment in  shorthand.  A  Frenchman,  named 
Berlin,  in  1792,  adapted  Samuel  Taylor's 
(1786)  system  to  the  French  language.  In 
1822,  M.  Grosselin  published  an  improve- 
ment on  Berlin,  and  finally  one  Provost  gave 
it  what  has  been  to  this  date  the  finishing 
stroke ;  this  system  is  now  very  popular  in 
France.  Barrue  has  made  an  effort  to  adapt 
Isaac  Pitman's  system  to  the  French  lan- 
guage, but  thus  far  has  made  little  progress. 
A  new  system  has  lately  been  introduced  in 
France  by  a  certain  Gue"nin.  In  the  French 
system  of  Duploye,  the  Holy  Bible  is  writ- 
ten in  shorthand,  comprising  two  volumes 
of  one  thousand  pages  each.  Dr.  Thierry- 
Meig,  a  prominent  French  author,  laments 
the  tardy  progress  made  by  the  profession 
in  France,  as  compared  to  England  and 
America. 

Throughout  Germany,  Austria,  and  Swit- 
zerland, two  systems  of  shorthand  prevail 
almost  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  all  others ; 
namely,  Gabelsberger  and  Stolze.  Of  these 
two,  Gabelsberger  has  in  Germany  alone 
some  twelve  thousand  followers,  while  Stolze 
has  about  one-half  that  number.  The  same 
proportion  exists  in  Austria,  where  Gabels- 
berger has  some  four  thousand  disciples  and 
Stolze  some  two  thousand.  In  Switzerland, 
however,  Stolze  has  about  one  thousand  fol- 
lowers, while  Gabelsberger  has  scarcely  two 
hundred. 

In  Italy,  shorthand  is  receiving  consider- 
able attention  from  the  government,  and  it 
is  proposed  to  adopt  it  for  commercial  pur- 
poses. Indeed,  the  Italian  language  being 
so  purely  phonetic,  it  is  far  better  adapted 
to  this  study  than  any  other  modern  tongue. 
In  the  phonetic  order,  the  Spanish  language 
ranks  next  to  Italian;  but  the  Castilians 
have  thus  far  made  very  little  effort  in  the 
way  of  stenography. 

It  sounds  somewhat  strange  to  hear  that 


a  country  like  Russia  should  show  far  more 
advancement  in  the  study  of  shorthand  than 
many  other  nations  with  whose  people  and 
customs  we  are  more  familiar;  but  neverthe- 
less, the  fact  exists  that  shorthand  is  made  a 
compulsory  study  in  its  military  schools. 

What  the  future  of  phonography  will  be 
is  obvious  to  all  who  have  watched  its  ad- 
vancement during  the  past  few  years.  There 
are  now  stenographic  journals  and  magazines 
(of  regular  issue)  and  stenographic  societies 
and  associations  to  be  found  in  almost  every 
part  of  the  enlightened  world.  An  inter- 
national convention  of  stenographers  is  to 
be  held  in  London  during  this  present 
summer,  and  there  are  rumors  of  national 
and  international  conventions  to  be  held 
in  other  places.  Just  as  steam  and  ma- 
chinery have  to  a  marvelous  extent  taken 
the  place  of  hand-labor,  and  at  the  same 
time  created  for  that  same  labor  a  widened 
and  more  intelligent  sphere  of  action,  just 
so  shorthand  must  in  time  inevitably,  it 
seems  to  the  writer,  crowd  out  longhand. 
In  these  days  of  labor-saving  inventions  and 
universal  progress,  our  constant  motto  is  that 
"time  saved  is  life  lengthened";  and  assur- 
edly, a  few  generations  hence  shorthand  will 
have  followed  this  great  law  of  progress,  and 
replaced  our  present  tedious  and  inadequate 
method  of  writing;  this  indeed,  will  be  but 
the  natural  sequence  of  the  vast  strides 
made  by  the  profession  since  Pitman  gave 
system  and  stability  to  the  alphabet. 

It  is  reported  recently  that  Germany  has 
decided  to  teach  purely  phonetic  spelling  in 
its  schools.  The  adoption  of  this  same 
principle  in  the  schools  of  this  and  other 
English-speaking  countries  would  be  a  most 
gigantic  step  towards  the  general  use  of 
shorthand,  as  all  phonographers  must  admit 
that  this  would  lighten  the  labor  of  acquiring 
phonography  by  at  least  one-third.  The 
next  grand  step  would  be  the  adaptation  to 
our  needs  of  some  one  phonographic  system, 
and  then  its  universal  adoption.  Common 
sense  and  time  would  do  the  rest. 

F,  E.  Tremper. 


44 


Up  in  the  Sierras. 


[July, 


UP   IN   THE   SIERRAS. 


IT  was  not  in  this  case  refugees,  escaped 
to  the  mountains  from  San  Francisco,  with 
the  rattle  of  Market  Street  in  their  ears,  but 
mountaineers  to  begin  with,  who  prepared 
themselves  for  a  three  days'  trip  "above." 

Now,  "going  above"  is  of  infinitely  less 
importance  than  "going  below."  It  is  the 
old,  old  story  of  downward  paths  being  the 
most  enticing;  and  to  go  to  "the  city"  is  so 
much  more  popular,  fashionable,  and  advan- 
tageous to  a  person  than  to  go  above,  that 
the  downward  way  grows  broader,  and  many 
there  be  that  follow  it. 

But  these  people,  who  at  an  elevation  of 
three  thousand  one  hundred  feet  considered 
themselves  scarcely  out  of  the  foot-hills,  were 
moved  to  turn  their  faces  to  the  mountains. 

They  set  forth  in  a  double  rockaway,  fully 
equipped  with  the  usual  paraphernalia  of  a 
"tramp" — linen  dusters  and  a  valise  for  the 
ladies ;  ulsters  and  a  paper  bundle  for  the 
gentlemen.  Aside  from  these  indispensables, 
the  Lady  of  Lyons  had  a  book  in  which  to 
press  ferns  and  wild-flowers,  while  the  Artist 
modestly  hid  a  sketch-book  under  the  car- 
riage-robe. 

"  I  can't  say  what  success  I  shall  have,  for 
I  never  attempted  to  sketch  from  nature," 
she  ventured  to  say,  lest  they  might  be  so 
uncultivated  in  their  tastes  as  not  to  know 
that  such  was  the  case  when  they  beheld  her 
attempts. 

Notwithstanding  that  the  dust  lay  ankle- 
deep  in  the  roads,  there  was  that  peculiar 
beauty  and  freshness  about  the  morning  scene 
that  we  only  find  in  the  mountains.  The  road 
for  ten  miles  lay  through  wooded  tracts,  up 
hill  and  down,  with  now  and  then  a  view  of 
the  purple  hills  sleeping  in  the  distance — 
with  an  occasional  diversity  lent  to  the  same- 
ness of  tar-weed  and  pine  trees  by  the  pale, 
hazy  outlines  of  the  snow-capped  summits 
whither  their  faces  were  bent.  They  paused 
once  in  that  lonely,  somewhat  dreary  pre- 
cinct for  a  long  look  at  the  distant  outlines 


of  Saddle  Back  and  Fir  Cap  mountains; 
and  the  Critic,  who  sat  on  the  back  seat  with 
the  Artist,  picked  up  the  sketch-book. 

"Now,"  he  said,  suggestively — but  did 
not  complete  the  sentence.  The  Artist 
thought  it  was  too  early.  It  was  altogether 
likely  that  Benjamin  West  and  William 
Hunt  would  have  said  the  same,  she  reflect- 
ed; all  good  artists  agreed  upon  that  head, 
that  it  was  indiscreet  to  attempt  to  paint  or 
draw  a  sunrise  behind  blue  mountains !  It 
couldn't  be  done  by  any  means — it  would 
be  a  pure  case  of  sacrilege. 

Ten  miles  from  their  starting  point,  they 
ran  upon  what  is  called  "Nigger  Tent." 
What  sort  of  monster  named  this  lonely 
spot,  tongue  cannot  tell.  But  it  is  not  a 
tent,  any  more  than  a  pigeon-house  is  a 
windmill.  A  not  over-observing  person 
would  pronounce  it  a  barn,  and  such  it  ap- 
pears; but  the  sign-boards  on  the  way,  recom- 
mending it  to  teamsters  as  "the  only  house 
on  the  road  where  no  China  cook  is  em- 
ployed," impresses  one  with  an  idea  that  it 
is  a  public  house,  and  in  old  countries 
would  be  an  inn.  In  the  winter  season  it 
is  literally  an  "in,"  for  the  snows  so  com- 
pletely infold  it  that  the  men  must  dig 
down  and  put  on  additional  stove-pipe. 

Beyond  the  "tent"  with  the  offensive 
name  which  a  good  Republican  hesitates  to 
pronounce,  the  road  for  two  miles  is  on  a  down 
grade;  and  within  half  a  mile  of  what  is 
called  the  Mountain  House,  it  changes  to 
a  gentle  decline,  winding  in  and  out  along 
the  sides  of  the  hills — a  dusty  line  of  white, 
chalky  soil.  Thence  for  five  miles  it  is 
various  and  beautiful — down,  down  all  the 
way,  to  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Yuba. 
Turning  suddenly  around  a  sharp  bend  in 
the  narrow,  chalky  shelf  dug  out  of  the  hill- 
side, the  four  inmates  of  the  carriage  ex- 
claimed in  one  voice  of  delight,  at  sight  of  a 
superb  grotto  fringed  with  ferns  and  maiden- 
hair, with  a  crystal  thread  of  a  waterfall 


1883.] 


Up  in  the  Sierras. 


45 


dripping  over  the  moss-covered  rocks  into 
the  green-cushioned  basin  below.  It  was  ir- 
resistible. They  must  all  dismount  and  pry 
among  the  ferns  until  they  had  sufficiently 
mutilated  the  spot;  then  clamber  into  the 
vehicle  again,  and  press  ferns  and  wild  col- 
umbine between  the  pages  of  the  book 
brought  for  the  mangling  purpose.  And  so 
ended  the  sweet  lives  begun  in  innocence 
and  ended  in  ignominy.  Henceforth,  their 
faded  mummies  look  sadly  at  the  curious 
visitor  who  takes  them  from  the  table,  their 
dead,  brittle  leaves  resting  against  draw- 
ing-paper instead  of  soft-lipped  mosses. 

The  five-mile  hill  ended  at  the  little  set- 
tlement called  Goodyer's  Bar — a  fossilized 
spot,  where  half  a  dozen  men  were  discov- 
ered, and  one  girl  in  a  pink  calico  gown  and 
blue  waist.  The  school-house  was  closed, 
the  front  doors  of  the  houses  were  closed, 
and  only  the  sawmill  and  variety  store  ex- 
hibited any  signs  of  life.  Mining  was 
abandoned  some  five  years  ago,  and  only 
Chinamen  persist  in  sluicing  the  river  for  a 
small  pittance. 

Thence  for  four  miles  the  road  lies  along 
the  river's  edge,  while  on  either  side  rise 
the  dark  green  mountains.  The  myriads  of 
pine  trees  keep  up  a  ceaseless,  solemn  chant, 
broken  only  by  the  roar  of  the  rushing  Yuba. 

Farther  on  was  enough  beautiful  scenery 
to  fill  a  whole  book  of  poetry ;  but  it  soon 
assumed  the  air  of  civilization  when  Downie- 
ville  appeared  in  sight,  with  its  church 
steeples  and  court-house  tower,  its  three 
red  bridges  and  sidewalk-bordered  streets. 
Here  was  as  pretty  a  mountain  village  as 
any  that  ever  nestled  between  the  heights  of 
the  Alps  or  Pyrenees,  only  it  wore  the  stamp 
of  modern  improvement.  Here,  as  in  the 
city,  ladies  promenade  the  streets  in  silks  and 
brocaded  stuffs,  and  men  swing  gold-headed 
canes  and  doff  the  late  styles  in  hats.  What 
is  it  that  so  signally  distinguishes  the  Cali- 
fornian  mountaineers  from  those  of  the  old 
States  of  Georgia  and  the  Carolinas,  whose 
primitive  life  contributes  so  quaint  material 
to  literature?  In  the  California  Alps  one 
may  enter  almost  any  house  and  find  mod- 
ern life.  Even  the  miner's  cabin  is  not 


destitute  of  marks  of  civilization.  He  has 
his  library  of  standard  books,  where  Shaks- 
pere,  Ben  Jonson,  and  Goethe  are  scat- 
tered about  with  the  latest  magazines.  It  is 
natural  enough,  after  all,  when  one  remem- 
bers how  great  has  been  the  influx  of  eastern 
population;  how  many  men  and  their  fami- 
lies have  settled  in  California  within  the  last 
quarter  of  a  century,  leaving  cultivated 
homes  in  the  East,  sacrificing  all  for  gold, 
yet  bringing  with  them  their  taste  and  enter- 
prise. 

The  Carolinian  has  lived  and  died  in  his 
mountain  home,  leaving  his  seed  to  inherit 
his  slack  energies  and  primitive  tastes.  From 
the  time  the  first  settler  put  up  his  log  hut 
in  those  wilds,  the  succeeding  generations 
have  run  in  the  same  groove  until  they 
neither  know  nor  desire  to  know  of  any 
other. 

From  Downieville,  the  rockaway  turned 
toward  Sierra  City,  twelve  miles  distant.  No 
sooner  had  it  reached  the  beginning  of  the 
narrow  grade  along  the  river  than  a  loaded 
team  was  encountered.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  scramble  out  into  the  dusty  road, 
while  the  men  united  their  efforts  and  pushed 
the  carriage  to  one  side,  two  wheels  fastened 
in  the  bank,  the  other  two  just  missing  those 
of  the  loaded  wagon  as  it  passed.  The  cen- 
ter of  gravity  was  barely  retained — no  more. 
Let  it  be  said  that  the  same  adventure  was 
repeated  no  less  than  a  dozen  times  during 
the  three  days.  The  road  to  Sierra  City  lies 
along  the  river ;  so  narrow  is  it  in  many 
places  that  there  is  barely  room  for  passage 
— not  one  linear  foot  to  spare.  As  for  two 
teams  passing  each  other — that  is  as  abso- 
lutely out  of  the  question  as  it  would  be  in 
any  Oriental  "needle's  eye."  Some  kind 
providence,  aided  by  the  tinkling  bells  with 
which  the  mules  and  laboring  horses  are  al- 
ways equipped,  prevents  accidents.  Several 
times  teamsters  have  been  caused  whole  days 
of  delay  by  having  to  take  their  wagons  apart, 
piece  by  piece,  to  make  the  pass. 

Along  the  entire  twelve-mile  route  there 
were  no  towns  or  villages :  only  rude  mining 
settlements,  where  the  Chinese  worked  at 
river-sluicing  or  derrick-mining,  living  in 


46 


Up  in  the  Sierras. 


[July, 


brush  huts   and   subsisting   on   their  usual 
meager  rations. 

The  scenery  was  every  hour  growing  more 
ruggedly  beautiful.  Now  and  then  came 
glimpses  of  the  Buttes — the  bare,  craggy 
peaks  whither  the  travelers  were  going,  their 
summits  blue  and  hazy  and  glinted  with  the 
warm  rays  of  the  August  afternoon  sunshine. 
Here  and  there  along  their  massive,  ribbed 
sides  were  small  patches  of  snow  which  sum- 
mer suns  had  failed  to  melt,  and  which  cow- 
ered in  the  ravines  as  though  fearful  of 
detection. 

Nearing  Sierra  City,  the  Sierra  Buttes 
loomed  up  in  grand  relief,  not  dim  and  hazy 
now,,  but  sublimely  distinct,  making  the  sur- 
rounding wooded  mountains  bow  down  at 
their  bare  feet,  like  Joseph's  brethren.  Down 
through  a  purple,  shady  vista,  where  the  sun- 
set shadows  sleep,  rolls  the  Yuba— the  very 
same  Yuba  whose  thick,  muddy  waters  are 
so  repugnant  to  lowlanders,  but  which  here 
sparkles  over  the  rocks  as  clear  as  its  tribu- 
tary rills,  and  with  a  pebbly  bottom.  On 
one  side,  where  a  small  stretch  of  meadow 
land  lies,  nestles  Sierra  City.  Now,  Sierra 
City  is  no  city  at  all ;  it  is  only  a  small  vil- 
lage of  some  three  or  four  hundred  inhabi- 
tants, whose  chief  source  of  life  and  animation 
is  the  great  Sierra  Buttes  mine,  one  of  the 
largest  quartz  mines  in  California. 

The  rockaway  with  its  four  dusty  occupants 
rolled  down  the  one  long  street  of  the  town, 
the  observed  of  all  observers,  and  then 
turned  into  a  side  street,  where  it  was  drawn 
up  at  a  hotel  and  a  stone  put  under  a  wheel 
to  keep  it  from  rolling  back  into  the  main 
street  again. 

The  sunrise  over  the  Buttes  next  morning 
was  a  sublime  sight,  indeed.  The  sun  crept 
stealthily  over  the  "saw  teeth"  of  the  highest 
peak,  heralded  by  rosy  flushes  and  a  mellow 
glow.  A  before-breakfast  walk  revealed  that 
all  the  water  from  a  thousand  rills  was  turned 
loose  in  this  place.  It  went  pouring  down 
every  street,  through  every  door-yard,  and 
fell  in  "miniature  Niagaras  over  every  log  and 
rock. 

To  the  Buttes  mine  was  the  next  move, 
and  to  the  venerable  Buttes  Mountains  as 


well.  The  road  wound  up  at  a  gentle  grade 
as  far  as  the  mine;  and  the  number  of  load- 
ed teams  that  were  passed  impressed  one 
with  some  sort  of  an  idea  of  the  importance 
of  the  great  Sierra  Buttes  mine,  with  its  force 
of  two  hundred  and  eighty  employees. 
Neither  of  the  ladies  had  ever  seen  a  quartz- 
mill,  and  this  one  with  its  eighty  stamps  and 
powerful  machinery  impressed  them  with 
awe.  There  are  three  distinct  mills,  where 
the  "wheels  go  'round"  unceasingly,  day 
and  night ;  beside  these,  are  the  immense 
boarding-house,  the  private  cottages  of  the 
leading  employees,  the  blacksmith  and  car- 
penter shops,  the  telegraph  office,  refining 
rooms,  etc. — all  forming  in  themselves  a 
village  of  unusual  bustle  and  activity.  For 
grandeur  of  scenery,  the  Yosemite  itself  is 
hardly  superior.  Along  the  wide  vista  where 
the  Yuba  flows,  the  eye  wanders,  tracing  the 
shades,  from  the  deep  heath-purple  of  the 
nearer  mountains  to  the  hazy,  opal  tints  of 
those  far  away.  There  is  an  indescribable 
veil  hung  over  it  all,  such  as  no  painter 
could  ever  reproduce.  What  a  contrast  to 
this  dim,  shadowy  picture  of  a  mist-wrapt 
river-canon  is  that  of  the  bare,  rocky  Buttes, 
towering  directly  above,  seeming  to  look 
down  with  a  serene  scorn  on  animal,  veg- 
etable, and  mineral  kingdoms — most  of  all 
on  the  multitudinous  toil  of  the  mine ! 

The  first  mill  they  entered  was  reached 
by  a  hilly  route  not  wholly  free  from  damp- 
ness, and  the  explorers  found  themselves  in 
a  dark,  noisy  basement,  where  only  gigantic 
wheels  with  their  massive  belts  revolved 
eternally.  There  was  not  much  to  see 
there,  so  they  ascended  a  short  flight  of 
steps  to  the  upper  floor,  where  sixteen 
"stamps"  danced  up  and  down  as  lightly  as 
though  their  weight  was  five  ounces  instead 
of  one  thousand  pounds  each.  As  the 
quartz  was  crushed  by  the  iron  jaws  of  a  ma- 
chine whose  insatiable  appetite  for  bowlders 
was  wonderful  to  see,  the  ground  rock  was 
passed  on  to  a  lower  inclined  plane,  where 
men  with  shovels  continually  fed  the 
"stamps."  From  the  "stamps"  the  pow- 
dered quartz  passed  through  openings  cur- 
tained with  a  flapping  piece  of  cloth  to  save 


1883.] 


Up  in  the  Sierras. 


47 


the  small  particles,  then  through  the  tiny 
sluice-boxes,  down  the  pipes,  down  the  hill- 
side to  the  last  process.  This  last  process 
is  by  means  of  a  Mexican  invention,  an 
arasta,  more  than  a  dozen  of  which  revolve 
in  their  beds  in  the  creek.  They  are  large, 
wheel-like  machines,  kept  in  motion  by  wa- 
ter power,  and  the  fine,  almost  invisible 
particles  of  gold  are  saved  by  adherence  to 
the  rocks  bedded  in  the  sides  and  center  of 
the  machine,  the  revolving  grinder  being 
composed  also  of  rock.  It  is  a  rude  inven- 
tion, but  one  that  is  very  valuable  to  this 
immensely  wealthy  corporation.  After  pass- 
ing through  a  succession  of  arastas,  the 
sand  is  deposited  on  the  hillside,  where  it 
accumulates  from  year  to  year,  looking  like 
a  great  snow-bank,  and  is  at  length  "  worked 
over  "  with  profit. 

The  two  other  mills  differ  only  in  that 
they  are  larger;  one  containing  twenty-four, 
the  other  forty,  stamps. 

"We  will  go  up-stairs,  and*  see  them  bring 
up  a  car-load  of  rock  on  this  railroad  pat- 
terned after  the  Mount  Washington  one," 
said  the  Humorist. 

They  went  up.  The  small  car,  whose 
capacity  for  rock  did  not  exceed  one  ton, 
was  drawn  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  moun- 
tain by  an  endless  chain,  on  the  principle 
of  the  dummy-cars  on  the  San  Francisco 
hills. 

The  roar  of  water  and  machinery  followed 
the  carriage  as  it  drove  briskly  away  over  the 
white,  dusty  roads.  It  was  a  long  and  slow, 
but  by  no  means  a  tiresome,  drive  up  the 
steep,  winding  road  which  led  to^the  nearest 
approach  to  the  summits  of  the  Buttes.  The 
scenery  was  like  an  ever-changing  panorama 
— now  showing  the  blue,  far-off  mountains 
crested  with  snow,  and  surrounded  by  their 
dark  green  footstools,  the  nearer  hills ;  now 
changing  from  the  wild  and  grand  to  the 
quiet  picture  of  a  clear  cascade  falling  over 
the  rocks  and  moss  of  a  little  ravine  which 
shut  one  in  from  other  sights. 

Therew  was  no  such  thing  as  monotony 
in  these  regions,  and  as  they  approached 
what  was  called  Whitney's  Camp,  a  timber- 
felling  point  where  they  had  been  directed 


to  hitch  their  horses  and  "foot  it"  up  to  the 
peak,  a  novel  sight  met  their  eyes. 

"Do  drive  through  that  snow-bank, 
please,"  said  the  Artist;  "it  will  be  some- 
thing to  relate  as  a  summer  adventure." 

"This  is  nothing  to  what  you  will  see  at 
the  summit,"  said  the  Humorist,  as  he 
turned  out  of  the  road  and  crunched  through 
a  drift  some  two  or  three  feet  deep. 

The  Artist  was  satisfied  for  the  time  being. 
But  presently,  as  a  new  impulse  seized  her : 

"I  want  to  get  out  and  walk,"  she  said, 
"and  gather  some  of  those  lovely  wild  flow- 
ers. This  is  spring-time  in  the  heart  of 
summer." 

So  she  and  the  Critic  alighted,  and  the 
carriage  jolted  on  over  the  rocky  apology  for 
a  road.  The  Critic  lighted  a  cigar  and 
pensively  sauntered  along,  pausing  to  gath- 
er flowers  and  ferns. 

The  Camp  was  reached,  and  the  horses 
allowed  to  rest  for  a  while.  If  a  more  deso- 
late place  could  be  found  than  that  rude, 
log-cabined,  pine-treed  spot,  Dickens  would 
have  to  describe  it.  He  concocted  some  of 
the  greatest  scenes  of  dismal  gloom  that 
ever  were  in  writing.  But  this  was  not 
gloomy.  It  was  simply  lonely — dreadfully 
and  awfully  lonely — in  spite  of  the  China- 
man in  the  log  hut  clearing  away  the  refuse 
of  the  dinner  left  by  the  men,  and  their  far- 
away ax-strokes  which  now  and  then  echoed 
over  the  still  hillside. 

Armed  with  stout  sticks,  they  proceeded 
to.  climb  through  thick  brush,  fallen  timber, 
and  deep  snow-banks,  to  the  top  of  the 
nearest  Butte,  stopping  at  sundry  intervals 
to  snowball  each  other  and  to  slide  down  a 
declivity  where  the  snow  was  some  six  or 
seven  feet  deep  and  frozen  solid.  They 
could  almost  fancy  they  were  boys  and  girls 
again.  The  summit  was  attained,  and  on  a 
throne  of  rocks  the  Artist  took  her  seat,  drew 
off  her  gloves,  tossed  back  her  hat,  took  out 
her  sketch-book  and  pencil,  and  began  an 
attack  on  the  Buttes.  There  they  were, 
right  before  her,  rugged,  gigantic,  treeless, 
and  rocky.  She  presently  found  herself 
alone;  her  companions  had  wandered  off. 
But  she  was  all  the  better  satisfied  in  this 


48                                                     Buttercups.  [July, 

magnificent   solitude.     She   forgot  her  pic-  When  the  Buttes  were  sketched,  also  the 

ture,    and,  folding   her   hands,    sat  silently  distant,  snow-crowned  "Old  Man  Mountain," 

gazing  at  the  continuous  chain  of  lovely  pic-  the  party  prepared  to  descend,  for  the  even- 

tures.     The  Critic  returned  after  a  short  ab-  ing  was  coming  on  and  the  air  was  chilling, 

sence,  with  his  arms  filled  with  great,  pure,  Each  shouldered  one  of  the  great,  fragrant 

golden-torched  lilies,  whose  odor  was  sweet  lilies  as  they  returned  to  the  carriage — the 

almost  to  excess.  first  step  on  the  return  journey  from  "above." 


GIVE  me  the  secret  of  life  universal: 

How  does  the  earth,  like  a  poet's  ripe  brain, 

Bring  forth  the  fruitage  of  fact  and  of  fancy — 
Gnarled  oaks  and  buttercups  over  the  plain? 

Whence  the  mysterious  instinct  that  broodeth, 
Silent,  immortal,  through  torpor  and  cold, 

Till  the  sun  tempts  one  more  summer,  green-bladed, 
Out  from  the  tomb  of  the  years  in  the  mold? 

Thus  could  I  stand  with  my  questions  till  doomsday, 
You,  my  sweet  flowers,  are  heedless  and  mute; 

Yes — though  perchance  the  great  All-soul  of  nature 
Bides  just  beneath  in  the  soil  at  your  root. 

But  I'm  beginning  to  moralize  gravely, 

Touching  on  themes  that  sage  heads  have  perplexed; 
Here  will  I  pause — you  are  my  inspiration, 

You  the  whole  sermon  as  well  as  the  text. 

Yours  unalloyed  is  the  gladness  of  being; 

Tremble  with  rapture  and  spill  on  the  ground 
Sunshine  by  thimblefuls — each  little  chalice 

Lavish  the  infinite  joy  it  has  found. 

Then,  as  the  winds  gently  breathe  from  the  distance, 
Scattering  fragrance  abroad  as  they  pass — 

Shallops  on  breast  of  the  meadow  at  anchor — 
Ride  the  green,  languorous  billows  of  grass. 

Little  it  matters  what  fate  is  ordaining; 

Children  may  wantonly  pluck  you  in  play; 
Your  fleeting  span  has  been  amply  sufficient; 

You  have  been  beautiful  for  a  whole  day. 

Wilbur  Larremore. 


1883.] 


The  Seat  under  the  Seeches. 


49 


THE   SEAT   UNDER  THE   BEECHES. 


I. 


IT  was  hot  in  Washington.  The  tar  was 
stewing  out  of  the  asphalt  pavements  in 
little  shiny  puddles.  Every  night  a  mias- 
ma, lifting  stealthily  from  the  river-flats, 
enveloped  the  sleeping  town.  Save  a 
few  subordinate  government  officials,  the 
blond  element  of  the  population  had  prac- 
tically abandoned  the  Capital,  leaving  it 
in  the  possession  of  the  African  contin- 
gent. 

As  for  myself,  dull  aches  and  fitful,  fever- 
ish creeps  warned  n>y  experience  that  the 
enemy — Malaria — was  approaching,  and* 
would  presently  dominate  the  vicinage.  And 
what,  some  ingenuous  Californian  may  ask, 
is  malaria?  To  shiver  with  heat  and  burn 
with  cold;  to  be  all  prickly  nerves  and  mor- 
bid antipathies;  to  become  at  once  indiffer- 
ent and  exacting,  apathetic  and  choleric, 
prostrate  with  lassitude  while  aggressively 
irascible;  to  be  too  demoralized  to  be  cour- 
teous to  your  grandmother,  too  spiritless  to 
cut  off  your  July  coupons,  or  even  to  appre- 
ciate their  merit  as  engravings; — this  is 
malaria.  And  whence  is  it,  this  baleful 
influence?  From  venomous  vegetable  or 
animal  ferx  natural  From  a  myriad  of 
microscopic  spores  of  toadstool  or  germs  of 
hellebore  that  we  imbibe  with  our  breath,  or 
a  swarm  of  infinitesimal  vampire-scorpions 
that  mob  us  from  without?  If  plant,  is  it 
evergreen  or  deciduous,  annual  or  perennial, 
fungous  or  parasitic?  If  beast,  is  it  biped 
or  milliped,  mammal  or  mollusk,  stinger  or 
biter,  reasonable  or  rabid?  Or,  if  not  as- 
signable to  flora  or  fauna,  may  it  not  be  form 
of  devil,  vexing  us  for  our  sins?  Hardly; 
for  pirate,  peculator,  and  cad  are  punished 
no  more  sternly  than  the  exemplary  classes. 
Is  it  not  rather  a  noxious  exhalation  from 
the  political  atmosphere — an  emanation  of 
the  poison  which  the  intrigues,  frauds,  and 
base  ambitions  that  rendezvous  at  national 
VOL.  II. — 4. 


capitals  have  infused  into  the  air  of  the 
dwellers  by  the  Pdtomac? 

Listlessly,  at  my  Bureau  desk,  I  revolved 
these  questions.  I  ought,  of  course,  to  have 
been  anywhere  else.  But  chez  the  Shakes, 
you  neither  do  nor  dare.  As  writes  the  au- 
thor of  "John  Brent,"  "I  was  in  that  state 
when  one  needs  an  influence  without  him- 
self to  move  him  from  his  place."  And 
while  vainly  essaying  to  pin  to  some  plan  in- 
volving action  and  flight,  lo !  to  me  enters  a 
letter — a  letter  with  the  postmark  "Knoll- 
ridge." 

Instantly  a  perfume  as  of  herbs  and  flow- 
ers and  cream-producing  animals  seemed  to 
pervade  the  room.  With  an  unwonted  eager- 
ness I  opened  and  read,  dwelling  especially 
on  these  concluding  words : 

' '  As  old  age  grows,  I  cherish  more  and  more  those 
early  memories.  Thus  the  son  of  my  first  and 
truest  friend  will  be  a  most  welcome  guest.  Indulge 
me,  then,  for  a  while,  with  your  face  and  speech,  so 
like  his  of  forty  years  ago.  Moreover,  you  must 
need  a  change.  Do  not  I  know  Washington  in  mid- 
summer !  Come,  then,  and  resuscitate  your  forces 
with  us  simple  peasantry.  Come  and  uncorrugate  your 
brow,  prematurely  wrinkled  with  the  cares  of  state. 
It  is  not  to  myself  alone  that  I  invoke  you.  Books 
without  end  and  a  few  good  pictures  await  your 
perusal  and  criticism.  Also,  a  multitude  of  young 
people  are  gathered  here.  They  recall  the  kalei- 
doscope that  Sir  David  Brewster  gave  me  in  the  year 
'18.  They  will  refresh  and  amuse  you,  these  pretty 
ones.  But  Nature  no  doubt  is  your  true  love,  with 
whom  you  would  oft  commune  alone.  So,  as  a  last 
and  most  moving  inducement,  I  offer  you  our  pride 
and  boast— the  Seat  under  the  Beeches !  Fontaine- 
bleau  itself  has  no  trees  more  majestic,  and  the  site 
is  the  loveliest  and  most  romantic  in  all  this  region. 
It  is  also  the  only  point  that  commands  a  view  at 
once  of  the  distant  sea  and  the  mountains — and  such 
a  view !  You  shall  have  it  quite  to  yourself;  my 
years  will  not  let  me  accompany  you.  Here,  taking 
no  thought  of  the  hours,  you  shall  lounge  with  your 
book,  while  the  ozone  of  the  hills  oxygenates  your 
blood  and  phosphorizes  your  brain.  Here,  off  duty 
and  unlimbered,  you  shall  muse  at  will,  till  all  things 
formal  and  official,  which  have  been  crowding  your 
head,  shall  become  of  the  slightest  possible  impor- 
tance, and  even  the  Revised  Statutes  shall  be  less  to 


50 


The  Seat  under  the  Seeehes. 


[July, 


you  than  a  four-leafed  clover.  This  is  what  you 
most  need,  my  dear  George — to  be  disencumbered  of 
yourself.  So,  come  to  us  at  once.  We  will  meet 
you  at  the  station.  A  voi  di  cuore. 

"JOHN  YESTERWOOD." 

Here  was  clearly  my  opportunity,  nor  did 
I  hesitate.  To  notify  my  departure  to  an 
"acting"  chief,  to  turn  over  duties  and 
quinine  flask  to  a  pale-faced  substitute,  to 
hasten  to  my  quarters  and  pack  a  portman- 
teau, was  the  work  of  the  briefest  possible 
period.  A  short  hour  found  me  ready  and 
waiting  where  lines  of  rails  most  numerous, 
converging  as  they  stretched  on  and  away, 
invited  to  the  Unknown,  the  Tonic,  the  Free. 

The  familiar  "All  aboard!"  as  we  glided 
off,  thrilled  like  music.  It  was  the  "En 
voiture!"  the  "//«  wagen!"  the  "Partenza- 
a-af"  of  French,  German,  Italian  conductor, 
combined  in  one  cheery  and  inspiring  cry.  , 
I  was  leaving  Grenoble  for  Voiron  and  the 
Grande  Chartreuse.  I  was  starting  from 
Weimar  for  the  Thiiringerwald.  I  was  about 
to  climb  from  Pistoja  to  Porretta  for  an 
Appenine  holiday. 

Once  fairly  en  route,  I  recalled  all  that  I 
knew  of  my  father's  friend,  with  whom  from 
time  to  time  I  had  had  correspondence,  but 
whom  I  had  not  seen  since  I  was  a  lad 

My  father  used  to  say  that  never  was  an 
American  so  like  that  most  un-English  of 
Englishmen,  William  Beckford,  in  tempera- 
ment and  capacity  for  experiences,  as  was 
John  Yesterwood.  Full  of  talent  and 
promise,  brave  with  youth  and  health,  and 
possessed  of  a  competence,  he  had  entered 
upon  his  travels  with  a  zest  and  'an  enthu- 
siasm which  seemed  quite  inexhaustible. 
His  long-protracted  absence  disappointed 
those  prudent  friends  who  had  anticipated 
for  him  a  distinguished  career  at  home. 
But  he  was  not  idle  abroad ;  a  man  with  his 
nature  could  not  be;  and  whenever  and 
wherever  reported,  he  was  always  expending 
that  marvelous  energy  of  his  in  the  cause  of 
the  People  and  on  the  side,  or  what  seemed 
to  be  the  side,  of  Justice  and  Right.  In  1823 
news  came  of  his  fighting  with  Bozzaris 
at  Kerpenisi.  Later,  he  was  said  to  have 
helped  the  Poles  expel  Constantine  and  his 


Russians  from  Warsaw.  In  '36,  and  again 
in  '37,  he  served  as  aide-de-camp  with  Espar- 
tero  at  Madrid.  In  '48  he  threw  his  heart 
and  force  into  the  cause  of  young  Italy. 
Taking  part  with  the  Milanese  in  the  revolt 
against  Austria  and  the  rout  of  Radetsky,  he 
stood  soon  after  by  Mazzini  and  his  Roman 
republic,  and  then  by  Manin  in  Venice 
during  the  long  siege.  The  repulse  here  dis- 
heartened him,  but  in  France  a  republic  had 
been  initiated,  and  he  came  on  presently  to 
Paris  to  join  fortunes  with  its  friends.  But 
he  had  no  faith  in  the  Prince-President; 
Bonaparte  being  to  him  a  name  even  more 
detestable  than  Bourbon.  At  the  coup  d'etat 
he  fought  from  one  barricade  to  another  till 
all  was  over.  Then,  indignant  at  seeing  how 
tamely  France  succumbed  to  the  imperial 
tyranny  of  treason  and  crime,  he  felt  that  the 
thour  had  arrived  to  seek  again  his  native  land. 
Meanwhile,  he  had  had  his  first  and  only 
love  episode,  and  had  married  a  beautiful 
Sicilian,  whose  kindred  had  perished  in  the 
dungeons  of  Bomba. 

Now  at  last  returning,  he  found  himself 
appreciated  and  popular.  Soon  (in  spite 
of  himself,  for  he  had  no  taste  for  "politics") 
his  State  insisted  on  making  him  its  Governor, 
and  at  the  outset  of  the  late  war,  he  was  repre- 
senting it  in  Congress.  Though  then  sixty- 
four  years  of  age,  it  was  for  him  a  very  simple 
thing  to  gird  on  a  sword  and  lead  troops  to 
battle,  and,  throughout  the  long  conflict,  he 
was  ever  the  freshest  and  youngest  man  in 
his  command.  He  had  also  that  quality, 
most  rare  among  our  military  chiefs — initia- 
tive ;  and  wherever  so  placed  that  he  could 
design  and  execute  his  own  movement  or  at- 
tack, his  success  was  complete  and  signal. 
The  war  at  an  end,  no  name  was  more 
proudly  repeated  than  his,  and  there  was  no 
public  position  to  which  he  might  not  nat- 
urally and  legitimately  have  laid  claim.  But 
his  wife  was  now  dead ;  he  was  approaching 
seventy,  his  life  had  been  one  of  incessant 
activity,  and  the  time  had  come  for  rest.  So, 
retiring  to  his  old  family  home,  he  gathered 
about  him  a  household  of  daughters  and 
nieces,  and  cheered  by  their  youth  and  hap- 
piness, and  by  the  society  of  many  an  old 


1883.] 


The  Seat  under  the  Beeches. 


51 


friend,  was,  at  the  time  of  this  writing,  glid- 
ing tranquilly  to  old  age. 

Such  was  the  gentleman  who  had  invited 
me  to  Knollridge.  I  need  scarcely  say  that 
I  appreciated  the  honor,  that  I  determined 
to  be  an  eloquent  listener  in  his  presence, 
and  that  I  proposed  to  absorb  my  full  from 
his  stores  of  varied  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence. Not  over-gregarious  of  habit,  my  an- 
ticipations did  not  so  much  dwell  upon  the 
attractive  young  persons  whom  I  was  to 
meet  as  upon  the  charm  of  the  country  life 
and  landscape,  and  that  fascinating  seat  un- 
der the  beeches,  where  I  promised  myself 
many  a  peaceful  hour. 

A  ghastly  night  in  a  so-called  "sleeping 
car,"  then  a  recent  invention  of  the  Evil 
One  for  the  demoralizing  of  humanity,  fol- 
lowed by  the  usual  disreputable  toilet, 
brought  me  betimes  in  the  morning  to  a 
little  country  station  in  a  wooded  vale,  where, 
as  I  stepped  from  the  train,  the  pure  air  and 
sweet  nature  seemed  to.  make  me  a  gentle- 
man again  almost  instanter. 

"Chaise  for  Knollridge,  sir!  Carry-all 
for  Knollridge,  sir ! ,  Pony -phaeton  for 
Knollridge,  sir!  Donkey-cart  for  Knoll- 
ridge, sir!" 

Electrified,  I  saw  before  me  some  dozen 
bright-faced  and  charmingly  upholstered 
young  ladies,  gesticulating  with  vehemence 
and  smiles,  and  brandishing  whips  withal. 
It  was  the  Knollridge  manner  of  meeting 
you  at  the  station. 

Duly  acknowledging  the  unexpected  at- 
tention, I  distributed  my  impedimenta  among 
the  divers  charioteers,  and  deposited  myself 
in  the  vehicle  of  the  steadiest-looking  of  the 
gay  bevy.  This  done,  our  cavalcade  was 
presently  ascending  the  hill  in  picturesque 
disorder ;  my  companions  shouting  and 
laughing  in  the  highest  spirits,  dropping 
things,  stopping  short,  trotting,  galloping, 
racing,  barely  not  upsetting— all  with  that 
careless  facility  and  absence  of  fatal  casualty 
characteristic  only  of  the  young,  the  alert, 
and  the  elastic. 

I  need  not  describe  the  dashing  and  viva- 
cious manner  in  which  we  drove  up  to  the 
broad,  vine-shaded  piazza,  where,  in  a  frame 


of  tendrils  pendulous  with  leaflet  and  flower, 
sat  the  noble  patriarch,  surrounded  by  as 
many  more  young  persons  as  I  had  already 
encountered.  As  he  rose  and  took  both 
my  hands  with  words  of  welcome,  greetings 
and  felicitations  were  repeated  by  many  mu- 
sical voices,  in  the  midst  of  which  the  an- 
nouncement of  breakfast  summoned  all 
within. 

The  morning  was  delightfully  spent  in 
the  picture-gallery;  my  host,  as  he  con- 
ducted me,  interjecting  many  an  agreeable 
reminiscence  recalled  by  one  work  or  anoth- 
er. Gathered  from  time  to  time,  as  he  saw 
and  fancied  them  while  straying  through 
Europe,  the  paintings  in  his  collection  rep- 
resented a  remarkable  variety  of  scenes  and 
creations.  How  did  I  ever  take  my  eyes 
from  that  exquisite  gauzy  group  by  Greuze  ! 
How  did  I  separate  from  that  deep,  rich 
wood  with  sheeny  pool  and  cattle  by  Troyon ; 
that  torrent  plunging  in  storm  and  lightning 
through  that  wild  gorge  by  Achenbach ;  that 
rural,  restful  English  homestead  by  Consta- 
ble ;  that  silvery  sea  with  stately  ships  by 
Stanfield!  Why  did  I  not  dwell  longer  on 
those  princely  heads  by  Lawrence  and  Graff 
and  Ingres — those  gem-like  miniatures  by 
Cosway  and  Isabey  and  Malbone !  My 
friend's  preferences  had  clearly  been  for 
landscape  and  for  portraits.  A  striking 
representation  of  scenery  in  Java  recalled  a 
series  of  excursions  by  coast  and  mountain 
road,  amid  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  that 
Dutch-Malay  paradise.  A  view  in  the  Cas- 
cade range  induced  him  to  describe  his 
ascent  of  the  snow  dome  of  the  peerless  Ta- 
coma.  A  vessel  thrown  upon  a  strange 
coast  brought  back  his  shipwreck  off  Taewan 
and  episode  among  the  Formosans.  A  head 
of  Shamyl  led  to  interesting  recollections 
of  that  intrepid  prophet-chief. 

In  the  afternoon  we  adjourned  to  the 
library,  and  here  the  memorabilia  which  sug- 
gested themselves  to  my  host  were  even 
richer  and  more  instructive.  The  dark 
policy  and  measured  momentum  of  Russia, 
Austria's  heterogeneity,  Prussia's  passion  fot 
a  littorale,  the  German  morganatic  marriages 
with  the  romance  of  the  Countess  of  Meran, 


The  Seat  under  the  Beeches. 


[July, 


the  combined  sagacity  and  daring  of  Cavour, 
the  nobility  of  nature  and  brilliant  states- 
manship of  our  own  Hamilton,  the  mystical 
genius  of  Swedenborg,  the  power  and  charm 
•of  the  quatrains  of  Omar  Khayyam — these 
and  many  other  topics  were  touched  by  my 
friend  with  a  point  and  spirit  which  left  me 
in  doubt  whether  I  was  being  instructed  or 
inspired. 

•  Toward  evening,  as  the  family  met  upon 
the  piazza,  I  perceived  that  some  dozen 
young  gentlemen  had  been  added  to  our 
force.  Gradually  each  of  these  took  posses- 
sion of  a  particular  young  lady,  and  marched 
her  away  into  the  right  or  left  distance.  Mr. 
Yesterwood  remarked  incidentally  to  me 
that  these  young  people  were  considered  to 
be  "engaged";  adding  of  one  of  the  gentle- 
men that  he  was  a  promising  naturalist,  of 
another  that  he  was  an  enthusiastic  astrono- 
mer, of  another  that  he  was  a  rising  poet,  of 
a  fourth  that  he  was  a  gallant  lieutenant, 
and  so  on.  The  circumstance  that  so  many 
pretty  girls  had  been  thus  appropriated  made 
me  sensible,  as  I  must  confess,  of  a  certain 
vague  chagrin ;  but  as  my  entertainer,  under 
the  suggestion  of  the  moment,  proceeded  to 
speak  at  length  of  betrothal  as  a  religious 
-ceremony,  of  the  Spozalizio  in  Italian  art, 
the  antiquity  of  engagement  rings,  etc.,  I 
•disposed  myself  to  listen,  and  quelled  the 
mild  regret. 

But  the  day  was  passing,  and,  attentive  as 
I  was  to  my  senior,  the  thought  would  still 
recur  that  I  had  not  yet  visited  that  prom- 
ised seat  under  the  beeches,  with  its  charming 
surroundings  and  exceptional  view.  So, 
later,  when  my  venerable  host  bade  me 
good  night  and  retired  within,  I  strolled 
forth  toward  a  clump  of  great  trees  dis- 
cerned in  the  gray  moonlight  on  a  slope  of 
the  lawn. 

"Just  the  hour,"  I  said  to  myself,  "for  an 
enchanting  outlook  from  the  famous  seat; 
for  a  vision  to  give  peace  to  my  sleep  and 
grace  to  my  dreams.  Nothing  could  be  in 
better  taste  than  that  moon  half  concealed 
by  the  feathery  foliage,  nothing  more  be- 
coming to  a  landscape  than  this  soft,  lumi- 
nous haze." 


Eagerly  I  quickened  my  pace — but  hark, 
voices !  The  seat  was  occupied. 

It  was  the  naturalist  and  his  intended  who 
had  anticipated  me. 

"How  charming,"  I  heard  him  say,  "to 
have  been  the  prehistoric  man  and  woman 
of  the  good  old  post-tertiary  times!" 

"O,  but  I  should  have  been  so  afraid  of 
the  cave-lion  and  the  woolly-haired  rhinoce- 
ros," exclaimed  the  lady. 

"  We  would  have  domesticated  them,  and 
the  mammoth  too.  And  then  imagine  our 
having  a  world  all  to  ourselves ! " 

"But  lovers  always  live  in  a  world  of  their 
own,  do  they  not,  mio  carol" 

There  was  a  movement — they  were  going. 
Stepping  aside  from  the  path,  I  took  a  turn 
among  the  shrubbery.  Returning  after  a 
brief  interval,  I  again  heard  the  murmur  of 
conversation.  Could  I  have  been  mistaken? 
No;  the  voices  were  different. 

"To  think  that  I  have  always  dreamed  of 
discovering  a  new  .star  or  nebula  and  having 
it  named  after  me,  and  that  my  dream  is  now 
to  be  realized!" 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  Besides,  am 
I  a  star  or  a  nebula?" 

"We  are  a  double  star;  like  our  neighbor 
Alpha  Centauri,  for  instance,  only  closer  to- 
gether and  enveloped  in  a  light-blue  nebula 
or  pink  photosphere  of  our  own — " 

"Which  our  love  has  wreathed  about  us?" 

It  were  sacrilege  to  have  awaited  the  an- 
swer. Disappointed,  I  betook  myself  to  the 
library,  and  there,  quite  alone,  skimmed  lan- 
guidly through  'one  volume  after  another,  till 
the  tall  hall  clock  sleepily  sounded  the  mid- 
night hour. 

Again  I  sought  the  lawn.  The  promise 
of  a  perfect  night  had  fulfilled  itself.  The 
full  night  was  to  the  evening  what  glory  is 
to  glimmer;  what  a  happily  married  woman 
is  to  an  engaged  young  girl.  "But  why 
should  I  dwell  upon  engaged  people?  All 
such  must  now  have  disappeared  from  the 
scene.  I  shall  have  the  night  and  the  seat 
to  myself."  Thus  communing,  I  approached 
the  object  of  my  desires.  But  again  a  voice 
— the  voice  of  a  poet  reciting  to  his  sweet- 
heart : 


1883.] 


The  Seat  under  the  Beeches. 


"The  moon  is  lovers'  lamp  and  guide, 
And  when  she  shines  at  eventide, 
Deep  in  their  dream  may  lovers  stray — 
She  will  not  let  them  lose  their  way. 

"The  moon  looks  down  on  many  a  pair 
Of  lovers — love  is  everywhere ! 
But  peering  through  the  leafy  bowers, 
She  finds  no  love  so  sweet  as  ours. 

"And  she  is  conscious  of  our  bliss, 
Has  heard  our  vow,  has  seen  our  kiss, 
Our  plots  and  plans  she  knows  full  well, 
But  she  will  never,  never  tell ! " 

I  fled  silently  like  a  criminal.  What  right 
had  I  to  a  confidence  denied  to  the  world 
and  imparted  only  to  its  satellite?  To  linger 
were  treason;  even  now  how  could  I  look 
the  moon  in  the  face  again? 

My  sleep  that  night  was  troubled,  and, 
waking  early,  I  sought  the  open  air,  assured 
that  at  this  hour  I  should  be  alone.  It  was 
the  sacred  instant  of  dawn.  The  perfect 
moment  of  freshness  and  repose  was  still  un- 
broken, while  from  far  away  in  the  east 
came  a  flush  of  light  like  a  grateful  surprise. 
"How  rarely  beautiful  at  such  a  time,"  I 
thought,  "must  be  the  scene  at  the  beeches! 
How  glorious,  seated  there,  to  watch  the 
magnifying  day ! " 

Again  I  drew  near  the  desired  goal.  But 
what  sound  was  that !  The  early  bird  quav- 
ering half  awake  its  morning  song?  No,  a 
human  accent — that  of  a  girl  parting  in  tears 
from  her  lover. 

"Dearest,  do  take  care  of  yourself,  and 
keep  away  from  danger,  and  guns,  and  can- 
non-balls, and  battles,  and  all  such  dreadful 
things,  for  my  sake ! " 

"I  will,  dearest,  so  far  as  is  consistent 
with  Duty;  but  the  talisman  of  your  love 
shall  be  ever  present  to  charm  away  peril 
and  deflect  the  course  of  the  projectiles. 
Besides,  a  shot  or  shell  can  always  be  avoid- 
ed by  a  rapid  calculation  of  the  equation  of 
its  trajectory.  Readily  estimating  its  diam- 
eter and  the  angle  of  departure,  you  allow 
something  for  windage,  balloting,  the  force 
of  gravity,  and  the  resistance  of  the  air  (in 
the  ratio  of  the  square  of  the  velocity),  and 
a  trifle  more  for  the  rotation  of  the  earth — 
and  you  have  it.  The  trajectory  is,  in  fact, 
nothing  in  the  world  but  an  expotential 


curve  with  two  asymptotes;  and  I  will  send 
you  my  "Benton,"  and  you  shall  amuse 
yourself  with  tracing  parabolas,  and  integrat- 
ing differential  equations  while  I  am  away. 
As  for  battles,  they  are  only  play  to  us  mili- 
tary men.  The  bands  strike  up,  the  artillery 
bangs  away,  the  colors  are  let  fly,  and  with 
cheers  and  paeans  you  charge  your  platoon 
at  the  enemy.  Suppose  an  accident.  Ten 
to  one  you  wake  up  the  next  day  in  good 
order  in  a  cozy  hospital,  to  find  sisters  of 
charity  mixing  you  champagne  cobblers  and 
spreading  your  toast  with  apricot  jam,  and  a 
brigadier's  commission  for  '  gallant  and  mer- 
itorious service '  awaiting  your  acceptance." 

.  The  brave  young  fellow,  I  saw,  was  doing 
his  best  to  console  his  fiancee;  but  I  knew, 
from  experiences  of  my  own,  that  a  full 
hour  is  no  more  than  enough  thoroughly  to 
console  a  young  lady  under  the  circum- 
stances ;  and  as  I  now  remembered  having 
heard,  the  evening  before,  that  the  lieuten- 
ant was  to  depart  in  a  six-o'clock  train  to- 
join  his  regiment,  I  had  every  reason  to 
believe  that  the  seat  would  not  be  vacated 
for  a  very  considerable  space  of  time.  So,, 
ignominiously  perhaps,  but  probably  wisely,, 
I  went  back  to  bed. 

I  will  not  bore  the  reader  by  detailing  my 
further  attempts  to  gain  the  coveted  position. 
Effort  toward  the  unattainable  is  always  a 
sad  and  dreary  business.  Let  it  suffice  to- 
record  that  at  every  endeavor  I  found  myself 
forestalled  by  some  one  of  the  divers  pairs- 
of  lovers,  who,  in  the  occupancy  of  the  fa- 
vorite resting  place,  seemed  by  a  kind  of 
tacit  agreement  to  succeed  each  other  in  an 
irregular  order  from  early  morning  till  late 
at  night.  At  the  end  of  two  weeks  I  bade 
adieu  to  my  kind  host  and  to  the  army  of 
the  betrothed,  some  dozen  of  whom  accom- 
panied me  to  the  station,  and  so  departed 
from  Knollridge  without  having  once  sat 
under  the  shade  of  the  beeches  or  enjoyed 
the  famous  view. 


II. 


The  next  summer  found  me  again  hon- 
ored with  an  invitation  from  Mr.  Yesterwood. 


The  Seat  under  the  Beeches. 


[July, 


An  escort  of  young  ladies,  somewhat  fewer 
in  number  than  before,  by  reason  of  sundry 
marriages  during  the  winter  holidays,  met 
me  as  at  first  at  the  station,  and  again  con- 
ducted me,  at  the  peril  of  my  life,  to  the 
hospitable  mansion. 

This  time  I  came  resolved  to  sit  on  that 
seat  or  perish  in  the  venture;  but — must  I 
confess  it? — I,  the  mature,  the  sagacious  man 
of  the  world,  was  on  every  occasion,  as 
before,  foiled  by  these  sentimental  courting 
couples.  After  a  succession,  indeed,  of  un- 
successful strategic  movements,  I  became 
sensible  of  the  absurdity  of  my  continuing 
to  prowl  about  with  a  view  to  circumvent 
these  philandering  youngsters,  and  gravely 
concluded  that  it  would  be  both  ridiculous 
and  unmanly  to  pursue  the  quest  farther. 
So  I  abandoned  it  altogether. 

Thus  baffled  and  beaten,  I  found  that  I 
no  longer  properly  enjoyed  the  original  re- 
flections and  rare  experiences  lavished  upon 
me  by  Mr.  Yesterwood.  Nor,  reader  and 
student  though  I  was,  did  the  manifold 
treasures  of  literature  and  art  with  which  I 
was  surrounded  avail  to  command  my 
thought  or  occupy  my  soul.  Something  ap- 
peared to  be  wanting  to  the  harmony  of  my 
being :  what,  I  could  not  explain.  Certainly 
so  slight  a  circumstance  as  the  disappoint- 
ment about  the  seat  was  scarcely  adequate 
to  account  for  the  incompleteness  and  unrest 
of  which  I  was  now  conscious. 

Even  at  this  period,  however,  I  remained 
fully  faithful  to  one  source  of  refined  enjoy- 
ment— my  daily  repasts.  Despite  mental 
uneasiness,  I  appreciated  as  freshly  as  ever 
the  high  art  which  thrice  a  day  expressed 
itself  in  an  appetizing  variety  of  admirably 
prepared  food  and  drink,  served  with  ele- 
gance and  discrimination.  And  here  I  may 
note  a  circumstance  which  impressed  me  on 
my  first  visit,  but  now  struck  me  with 
especial  emphasis.  It  was  that  this  large 
establishment  of  daughters,  cousins,  lovers, 
guests,  and  servants  was  administered,  and 
perfectly,  by  a  single  person,  a  niece  of  my 
host.  This  lady,  who  could  scarcely  have 
been  older  than  thirty,  ordered  and  regulated 
everything — marketed,  kept  the  accounts, 


counseled  with  the  farmer,  instructed  the 
gardener,  directed  the  domestics,  put  up  the 
preserves,  housekept  in  general  and  in  detail. 
All  this  without  tumult,  jar,  or  confusion. 
No  raucous  voices,  slammings  of  doors,  or 
breakings  of  crocks  assailed  the  ear.  A  tran- 
quilizing  presence  pervaded  the  mansion  and 
made  of  it  a  "home  of  ancient  peace." 
A  discipline  to  which  all  yielded,  but  which 
none  perceived,  governed  the  household. 
You  were  conscious  of  agreeable  results, 
knew  that  your  wants  were  provided  for  and 
your  tastes  gratified,  but  the  agencies  and 
processes  were  not  obtruded. 

The  lady  whom  I  now  discovered  to  be 
the  inspirer  of  this  perfected  system,  and 
whom  Mr.  Yesterwood  never  addressed  by 
her  first  name,  as  he  did  the  rest,  but  always 
as  "Niece,"  not  only  ordered  the  menage, 
but  dispensed  its  charities,  received  callers, 
and  assumed  the  responsibility  of  the  fam- 
ily visiting-list  and  correspondence.  These 
duties  she  accomplished  with  the  same  grace 
and  dignity  which  she  displayed  when  at 
the  head  of  the  table  she  deftly  blended 
the  constituents  of  our  morning  or  evening 
beverage,  or  drew  the  plenished  ladle  from 
the  copious  tureen.  But  except  here  we 
rarely  saw  her  during  the  day. 

As  to  the  viands  which  she  caused  to  be 
served  for  our  refection  at  Knollridge — of 
these  I  cannot  speak  with  adequate  admira- 
tion. All  were  most  excellent,  many  were 
marvels.  In  my  travels  I  had  partaken  of 
dishes  prepared  in  their  supremest  agony  of 
invention  by  some  of  the  most  noted  master- 
chefs  of  the  period,  had  studied  and  thought 
much  upon  the  subject  of  the  physiologic 
du  goiit,  and  as  to  the  theory,  if  not  the 
practice,  of  the  cuisine,  had  become  to  my 
friends  an  authority  and  a  guide.  And  I  say 
— and  saying  it  I  weigh  my  words — that 
not  Careme  nor  Soyer  nor  Francatelli  com- 
posed, nor  Brillat-Savarin  commemorated, 
repasts  more  astutely  conceived  or  skillfully 
*  constructed,  more  appropriate  to  season,  oc- 
casion, or  character  of  guests,  more  satisfac- 
tory either  to  an  educated  appetite  or  a 
refined  taste,  than  those  that  signalized  the 
dinner  hour  at  Knollridge.  And  the  com- 


1883.] 


The  Seat  under  the  Seeches. 


55 


bination  of  carved  and  polished  mahogany, 
antique  silver,  cut-glass,  and  rare  porcelain 
could  scarcely  have  been  surpassed  in  castle 
or  chateau  of  the  old  world.  Indeed,  the 
most  choice  had  probably  once  adorned  the 
salons  and  dining-halls  of  royal  and  princely 
personages,  whom  revolution,  that  bete  noir 
of  the  ornamental  classes,  had  summarily 
dispensed  with  as  anachronisms. 

Such  was  the  housekeeping,  thus  illus- 
trated was  the  economy,  of  the  lady  whom  I 
then  knew  only  as  "Niece" — the  niece  par 
excellence.  Peerless  expert,  all  that  she  then 
was  she  still  is  and  more !  But  I  am  antici- 
pating. It  is  enough  now  to  say  that  as 
daily  I  noted  and  enjoyed  the  results  of  her 
skill,  her  thought,  and  her  care,  I  came  grad- 
ually to  admire  aod  to  honor  herself.  Thus 
it  happened  that  when,  at  the  end  of  my 
visit,  I  took  leave  of  the  household,  it  was 
to  "Niece"  that  I  made  my  special  and  most 
respectful  adieus. 

III. 

A  year  has  passed,  and  for  a  third  time  I 
find  myself  at  Knollridge.  Why  was  it  that 
during  the  night  journey  my  dreams  and 
visions  had  been  of  marriage,  and  of  myself 
as  a  marrying  man?  Methought  I  had  taken 
my  bath  in  Kallirrhoe  water,  and,  erect  in  a 
new  biga,  was  driving  my  bride,  arrayed  in 
an  embroidered  chiton  and  veil  of  Amargos 
muslin,  to  the  door  of  my  dwelling,  where 
my  mother  stood  awaiting  us,-  holding  on 
high  burning  torches.  The  scene  changed : 
our  sheep  had  been  sacrificed,  our  wedding- 
cake  had  been  cooked  by  the  vestal  virgins, 
and  I  was  taking  home  my  spouse,  a  distaff 
and  spindle  in  her  hands,  her  hair  divided 
with  the  point  of  a  spear,  and  the  yellow 
flammeum  veiling  her  face. '  A  third  vision : 
borne  in  a  norimon,  mid  the  dancing  lights 
of  many-colored  lanterns,  my  bride,  veiled 
in  the  white  silk  which  was  one  day  to  com- 
pose her  shroud,  had  been  escorted  to  my 
house  by  the  family  procession.  Silently 
and  motionless,  I  had  received  her  silent. 
Silently  had  we  drunk  our  fill  of  sake  out  of 
the  two-spouted  kettle. 


Why  these  imaginings,  quite  outside  as 
they  were  of  my  usual  vein?  Were  they 
suggested  by  the  fact  that  I  was  on  my  way 
to  a  very  nest  and  nucleus  of  lovers,  where 
betrothal  and  marriage  were  the  industries 
of  the  inhabitants?  Or  were  they  prompted 
by  reflections  upon  the  homelessness  and 
misery  of  my  then  mode  of  existence — abid- 
ing as  I  did  amid  the  gorgeous  squalor  and 
indigestible  splendor  of  a  "first-class"  hotel? 
Was  it  not  the  horror  of  a  longer  continu- 
ance of  such  a  status  that  impelled  me  to 
dwell  upon  the  only  remedy — to  imagine 
myself  bringing  to  a  veritable  home  a  female 
companion,  as  yet  veiled,  but  who,  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  love  and  sentiment  which  I 
was  about  to  penetrate,  could  scarcely  fail  to 
be  revealed  to  me? 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  inciting 
cause  of  these  meditations,  the  fact  remains 
that,  before  I  arrived  at  Knollridge,  I  had 
concentrated  my  faculties  upon  a  momen- 
tous final  problem.  Did  I  desire  even  more 
intensely  than  ever  to  occupy  the  seat  un- 
der the  beeches'!  Undoubtedly.  Did  I  also 
desire  to  emancipate  myself  from  the  dis- 
reputable conditions  of  a  bachelor  existence? 
This,  also,  most  certainly.  And  might  not 
the  one  achievement  be  somehow  involved 
in  the  other?  If  the  seat,  as  my  researches 
had  indicated,  was  forbidden  to  gentlemen 
unaccompanied  by  ladies,  might  I  not  gain 
it  by  assuming  a  plural  capacity?  And  in 
thus  gaining  it,  would  I  not  gain  more — a 
future?  It  was  in  mentally  responding  to 
this  giant  conundrum  that  I  fell  into  a  placid 
doze,  and  so,  for  once,  got  the  better  of  the 
Fiend  by  actually  sleeping  in  a  "sleeping  car." 

It  was  evening.  A  perfectly  composed 
dinner  had  stimulated  my  forces  while  tran- 
quilizing  my  soul.  On  the  lawn  the  air  was 
soft  and  persuasive.  The  birds  were  whis- 
tling the  Swedish  wedding  march  by  way  of 
good  night.  The  last  locust  was  droning  a 
drowzy  hum.  Strolling  sedately  toward  the 
beeches,  I  felt  that  I  had  rarely  assisted  at  a 
more  successful  sunset. 

But  why,  with  my  experience  of  the  past, 
was  I  again  wending  in  this  direction?  Had 


56 


Child-life  among  the  California  Foot-hills. 


[July, 


the  vision  of  a  lady — clearly  the  Niece — in 
the  path  before  me  anything  to  do  with  my 
forward  movement?  Probably;  for  I  now 
remember  that  I  was  presently  at  her  side. 
I  remember,  also,  that  I  offered  her  my  arm, 
and  that  she  took  it.  Further  than  this,  I 
know  that  in  a  few  minutes  more,  and  as  if 


it  were  the  simplest  and  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world,  we  were  sitting  together  on  the 
Seat  under  the  Beeches ! 

"And  was  the  view  so  fine?"  a  practical 
reader  may  inquire.  Really,  my  friend,  I 
have  quite  forgotten.  Ask  my  wife. 

W.   Winthrop. 


CHILD-LIFE  AMONG  THE   CALIFORNIA  FOOT-HILLS. 


I  HAVE  often  heard  persons  on  this  coast 
regret  that  their  children  could  never  have 
such  pleasant  memories  of  childish  pleasures 
as  were  possessed  by  themselves:  memories 
of  hours  spent  in  coasting  down  the  New 
England  hills,  skating  on  frozen  ponds,  rid- 
ing behind  the  jingling  sleigh-bells;  mem- 
ories of  "maple-sugar  time,"  when  merry 
boys  and  girls  turned  the  hot  sirup  on  the 
snow,  and  eagerly  waited  for  its  cooling; 
memories  of  chestnutting  and  blue-berrying, 
and  the  thousand  other  delightful  things  that 
make  up  the  happiness  of  a  New  England 
child.  But  children,  East  or  West,  have 
merry  little  hearts  that  find  much  pleasure  in 
their  surroundings,  and  I  doubt  if  any  per- 
sons have  happier  remembrances  than  those 
who  have  passed  their  childish  years  in  this 
State. 

It  is  my  good  fortune  to  belong  to  this 
number,  and  the  place  most  clearly  recalled 
by  me  is  a  little  mining  town  among  the 
foot-hills  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  in  Amador 
County.  The  town  is  of  more  importance 
at  present  than  formerly,  for  there  is  now  a 
railroad  connecting  it  with  Sacramento,  but 
at  that  time  it  seemed  to  me  a  wonderful 
place.  It  was  built  on  two  sides  of  a 
small  creek — a  very  mysterious  little  stream 
to  childish  minds,  for  it  did  such  queer 
things.  In  summer-time  it  would  dwindle 
down  to  a  mere  thread,  winding  along  under 
the  blazing  sun,  and  of  no  consequence  at 
all  to  children,  except  as  it  kept  alive  the 
great  red  and  yellow  lilies  that  grew  out  of 
the  hot,  white  sand  near  its  bank. 

But  in  winter-time  or  early  spring,  such  a 


change  as  the  little  stream  showed !  It  was 
small  no  longer,  but  widened  out  until  it 
stretched  from  the  live-oaks  on  the  bank  on 
one  side  to  the  house-yards  on  the  bluff  on 
the  other.  And  then,  when  the  snow 
melted  in  the  far-away  mountains  down 
came  the  floods. 

Well  do  I  remember  being  awakened  in 
the  night  by  the  sound  of  logs  being  dashed 
violently  against  the  house,  and  hurrying  out 
of  bed  to  look  from  the  window  at  the  great 
flood  of  dark  waters  surrounding  the  build- 
ing, stretching  away  as  far  as  I  could  see, 
and  rushing  in  a  swift,  powerful  tide  past 
the  front  piazza,  carrying  along  with  it  great 
beams  of  wood,  broken  branches  of  trees, 
and  splintered  boards,  all  on  their  journey 
toward  the  Sacramento  River. 

Little  did  it  matter  to  me  that  in  the  up- 
per end  of  the  town  there  were  people  astir 
in  all  the  houses,  dreading  lest  the  founda- 
tions of  their  homes  should  give  way  at  any 
moment,  and  they  and  all  their  possessions 
be  swept  down  by  the  mass  of  rushing  wa- 
ters; that  all  communication  between  the 
two  sides  of  the  town  was  stopped  by  the 
carrying  away  of  the  bridge  connecting 
them;  that  men  were  already  struggling  in 
the  waves  that  would  perhaps  beat  out  their 
lives ;  that  our  own  house  was  in  danger. 
Children  do  not  realize  the  extent  of  peril 
in  such  times,  and  I  regarded  all  the  excite- 
ment as  a  new  variety  of  extremely  interest- 
ing play,  especially  the  part  in  which  a 
portion  of  one  of  our  floors  was  taken  up, 
and  all  haste  was  made  by  my  father  and 
some  one  else,  whom  I  very  indistinctly  re- 


1883.] 


Child-life  among  the  California  foot-hills. 


57 


member,  to  reach  down  and  throw  up  from 
below  some  of  our  firewood  that  was  rapidly 
being  carried  away  by  the  flood  that  swept 
in  at  one  cellar  window  and  out  at  the  other. 
Indeed,  I  remember  this  very  flood  with  es- 
pecial gratitude,  from  the  very  agreeable 
circumstance  that  a  turnip,  washed  out 
probably  from  somebody's  garden,  came 
floating  down  the  tide  directly  to  our  back- 
door, where  it  was  discovered  and  fished 
out,  and  afterwards,  much  to  my  delight,  it 
appeared,  mashed  and  buttered,  beside  my 
plate  at  supper  that  night.  I  have  never 
eaten  such  a  turnip  since.  Its  flavor  was 
enhanced  by  the  fascination  of  its  having 
come  from  some  unknown  quarter,  through 
unimaginable  perils,  up  to  our  very  own 
door. 

After  many  weeks  the  flood  subsided,  and 
a  new  suspension  bridge  was  built  across  the 
creek,  that  was  now  a  very  meek-looking 
stream  indeed.  This  new  bridge  was  an 
iron  one,  and  I  recollect  it  very  distinctly, 
for  it  was  the  greatest  bugbear  of  my  life,  as 
I  had  to  cross  it  on  my  journeys  for  milk. 
No  matter  how  carefully  I  began  to  traverse 
that  bridge,  even  if  I  walked  on  tiptoe,  the 
wires  all  heard  me  and  began  to  shake  and 
quiver,  until,  by  the  time  I  had  reached  the 
central  portion  of  the  bridge,  the  whole 
structure  would  be  dancing  and  trembling  at 
such  a  rate  that  I  was  certain  it  would  fall 
this  time  and  precipitate  me  into  the  creek 
far  below.  Many  a  time  have  I  stood  in  the 
center  of  that  bridge,  and  lifted  up  my  voice 
and  wept  at  the  fate  momently  expected, 
much  to  the  amusement  of  certain  pitiless 
boys  who  were  sure  to  discover  me,  and 
jump  up  and  down  on  the  bridge  in  hopes 
of  increasing  my  terrors. 

Warned  by  the  flood,  my  father  had  a 
large  levee  built  all  around  our  block.  The 
levee  was  many  months  in  construction,  and 
was  about  six  feet  wide  and  four  or  five  feet 
high,  of  earth  faced  with  boards.  I  remem- 
ber how  the  next  flood  swept  by  us,  but  it 
could  not  rush  through  the  levee,  much  as  it 
tried.  However,  the  water  soaked  through 
the  ground,  and  our  cellar  was  covered  to 
the  depth  of  about  three  feet.  So  we  children 


had  our  flood,  after  all,  and  we  enjoyed  it 
thoroughly;  for  here  was  a  ready-made  sea, 
and  all  that  was  needed  was  vessels  and 
oars.  Tubs  and  broomsticks  supplied  these, 
and  we  sailed  about  from  one  apple-shelf  to 
another,  from  Baldwin  Gulf  to  Pippin  Point, 
and  from  Bellflower  Bay  to  Greening  Strait — 
the  latter  a  place  of  much  danger,  situated 
between  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  the  op- 
posite apple-shelf,  and  so  narrow  as  to  hardly 
admit  of  the  passage  of  our  tubs.  I  have 
since  floated,  on  a  summer's  day,  on  the 
waters  of  a  blue  lake  among  the  New  Hamp- 
shire hills;  I  have  taken  a  brisk  trip  down 
Boston  Harbor  when  the  wind  blew  out  the 
white  sails  and  the  little  waves  danced  in 
the  sun;  I  have  watched  from  the  deck  of  a 
great  steamer  the  receding  shores  of  Long 
Island  Sound; — but  the  best  voyages  of  all 
were  those  made  in  the  tubs  on  the  sea  down 
cellar. 

Numbers  of  the  "Digger"  Indians,  as  they 
were  called,  frequently  visited  our  house.  I 
can  remember  seeing  some  motley  group, 
consisting  of  a  man,  a  couple  of  squaws,  and 
a  papoose,  ascending  the  steps  that  scaled 
the  levee,  and  appearing  at  our  door  with  a 
demand  for  watermelons.  There  was  no 
use  in  refusing  the  requests  of  these  Indians, 
as  we  discovered  to  our  cost,  for  if  they  were 
not  granted  the  visitors  disappeared,  merely 
to  return  in  the  night  and  carry  off  many 
more  melons  than  they  would  have  eaten  in 
the  day-time.  If  given  permission,  the  man 
would  go  off  to  our  field,  choose  his  melons, 
and  bring  them  back  to  the  house,  where  the 
company  would  sit  down  around  the  pump 
and  begin  their  feast — the  papoose  having 
before  this  been  unfastened  from  his  moth- 
er's back,  and,  still  strapped  into  his  frame, 
placed  up  against  the  house,  where  he 
blinked  his  black  eyes  at  the  exploits  of  the 
others.  Having  finished  their  repast,  the 
party  would  rise,  the  mother  would  again 
strap  on  her  burden,  and  away  they  would 
go,  leaving  the  scene  of  their  banquet  strewn 
with  broken  rinds  and  pieces  of  watermelon. 
Again  and  again  were  these  visits  repeated 
throughout  the  summer. 

Some  of  the  Indians  were  to  be  hired  as 


58 


Child-life  among  the  California  Foot-hills. 


[July, 


washer-women  in  default  of  other  more  satis- 
factory servants.  A  few  of  the  men,  even, 
condescended  to  such  employment.  I  re- 
member one  in  particular,  named  Tom,  who 
used  to  come  at  regular  intervals  to  our 
house  to  wash.  He  was  unreliable,  however, 
having  a  taste  for  the  white  man's  fire-water. 

These  Indians  burned  their  dead,  as  do 
other  California  tribes.  Often,  on  still, 
moonlight  summer  nights,  we  could  plainly 
hear,  borne  on  the  quiet  air  from  the  camp 
miles  away,  the  wailing  of  these  Indians  over 
some  one  of  the  tribe  that  was  being  cremat- 
ed; and  the  next  day  perhaps  some  Indian 
would  come  to  town  having  his  face  streaked 
with  the  ashes  of  his  dead  friend. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  uncivilized  beings 
who  were  to  be  seen.  On  one  of  the  hills  just 
outside  the  town  were  the  camps  of  the 
Chinese  miners,  near  which  I  remember  to 
have  seen  with  delight,  one  day,  a  real  Chi- 
nese woman  trying  to  walk  on  her  little  feet. 
These  camps  were  chiefly  to  be  valued,  in 
my  estimation,  as  the  source  whence  came  a 
peculiar  kind  of  brown-sugar  candy,  much 
relished  by  children.  The  only  other  note- 
worthy things  were  the  large  hats,  fringed 
round  the  brim  with  beads,  which  were  worn 
by  the  Chinese. 

In  the  spring-time  the  hills  about  the 
town  were  aglow  with  wild  flowers.  Such 
brilliant  colors,  such  massing  of  shades,  such 
a  bewildering  variety  of  blossoms !  There 
were  great  patches,  gorgeous  with  the  royal 
purple  of  the  larkspurs  and  the  lighter 
blue  and  white  sweet-peas,  mingled  with 
the  golden  poppies,  and  long  hillsides  cov- 
ered with  yellow  wild  pansies.  How  the 
fields  flashed  with  red  and  orange  and  pur- 
ple, as  the  wind  ruffled  their  surface  !  Of 
what  use  was  it  to  tell  me  not  to  wet  my  feet 
by  going  into  the  long  grass  in  the  morning, 
but  to  wait  until  it  was  dry,  when  there, 
close  before  me,  gleamed  such  treasures? 
So,  as  a  consequence  of  my  misdoings,  I 
often  paid  penance  by  sitting  before  the  fire 
for  a  half-hour  after  one  of  my  wanderings. 
One  of  the  places  for  pansies  was  in  the  woods 
back  of  our  little  church  upon  the  hill,  from 
whence  I  could  look  across  at  the  mining 


flume  and  ditch  opposite,  and  farther  on  at 
the  little  grave-yard,  which  was  connected 
with  the  death  of  one  of  my  playmates — my 
first  experience  with  that  dread  mystery  that 
mingles  some  time  or  other  with  the  memo- 
ries of  all  children,  East  or  West.  Then,  too, 
farther  out  on  the  hills,  were  the  manzanita 
bushes,  famous  for  their  red  berries,  which 
tasted  as  no  other  berries  ever  can.  And 
then — O  joyful  discovery  ! — there  once  in  a 
while  was  to  be  found  on  the  hills,  down 
among  the  dry  grass  of  summer,  a  veritable 
horned-toad,  with  spines  standing  out  sharp 
and  bristling  over  his  head  and  sides. 

Of  course,  a  climate  so  hot  as  that  of  the 
foot-hills  could  not  fail  to  produce  good 
fruit;  and  I  remember  the  fig-trees,  into 
whose  branches  I  used  to  climb  from  the 
levee,  and  from  which  I  used  to  pick  the 
purple  fruit.  Then  there  were  great  plum- 
trees,  which,  at  certain  seasons,  almost 
broke  their  own  branches  with  the  accumu- 
lated weight  of  plums;  and  there  were  huge 
peaches  and  pears,  sweet  with  the  warmth 
of  summer.  In  fact,  I  considered  my  home 
a  perfect  one,  and  the  idea  of  its  ever  being 
taken  away  had  never  occurred,  until  one 
day  when  I  saw  a  sight  that  frightened  me. 

At  this  time  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
trouble  about  the  Arroyo  Seco  grant.  I 
knew  nothing  about  it,  being  a  mere  child 
at  the  time;  but  I  remember  one  day  looking 
out  .at  the  road  far  back  of  our  house  and 
seeing,  filing  along  on  horseback,  a  large 
band  of  soldiers.  Where  were  they  going? 
I  watched  and  saw  them  come  to  the  house 
of  one  of  our  nearest  neighbors,  a  kind  old 
man  whom  I  knew  very  well,  and  whom, 
with  his  wife,  I  used  to  visit  occasionally.  I 
watched  the  movements  of  the  soldiers  with 
dismay,  until,  overcome  with  terror,  I  rushed 
into  the  house  to  find  my  mother  and  get 
some  explanation  of  the  probable  fate  of  my 
old  friend.  Was  he  to  be  shot  ?  Would  the 
wicked  soldiers  come  and  kill  us  next?  But 
my  mother  told  me  that  our  neighbor  had 
not  properly  bought  his  land,  and  that  the 
soldiers  would  make  him  either  pay  or  give 
up  his  possessions.  But  this  information 
merely  increased  my  terror.  Would  not  the 


1883.J                                      Beyond  the  Mountains.                        •                    59 

soldiers  come   to  our   house  and   drive  us  left,  when,  finding  he  had  really  done  us  no 

away  from  our  pretty  home,  too?     No  as-  harm,  I  immediately  forgot   all  about  him, 

surance  to  the  contrary  could  entirely  calm  and  became  once  more  jubilant  over   the 

my  mind.     Although  I  was  told  that  my  fa-  beauty  around  me.     It  is  strange  how  few 

ther  had  bought  the  Arroyo  Seco  title  to  his  disagreeable  things  will  be  remembered  by 

land,  yet  I  felt  uneasy.     Nor  were  my  fears  people  who  look  back  at  childhood's  occur- 

at  all  diminished  by  the  appearance  of  the  rences.     It  seems  to  be  natural  for  us  to 

agent  of  the  Spanish  claim  at  our  house  at  forget  almost  all  those  things  that  annoyed 

dinner   a   few  days   afterwards.     He  was  a  us,  and  to  remember  so  many  pleasant  ones 

tall,  dark  man,  and  I  can  distinctly  remem-  that  our  childhood,  whether  spent  East  or 

ber  how  very  much  afraid  of  him  I  was.     I  West,  seems  to   us   the  happiest  one   that 

know  my  fears  did  not  pass  away  until  he  could  ever  have  been  lived. 

Mary  E,  Bamford. 


BEYOND   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

BEYOND  the  mountains — ah !  beyond 

How  fair  in  fancy  gleams 
The  valley  with  its  spreading  fields, 

The  glint  of  winding  streams! 
Beyond  the  purple  mountain's  height 

Stray  all  our  happy  dreams. 

We  sit  beneath  the  moaning  pine, 

By  waves  that  pass  our  door; 
We  say,  this  scene  is  fair,  and  yet 

We  sigh  for  something  more;     • 
And  long  to  pass  with  eager  feet 

The  far-off  mountains  o'er. 

At  eve  the  night  bird  faintly  sings, 

In  murmurs  sweet  and  low; 
The  new  moon's  slender  crescent  gives 

The  sky  a  tender  glow. 
How  fair  the  stars,  how  warm  the  wind, 

How  soft  the  river's  flow! 

But  there,  where  longing  fancy  flies, 

And  wayward  hearts  still  turn, 
A  deeper  music  charms  the  soul, 

The  red  stars  brighter  burn; 
And  laughing  streams  go  leaping  down 

From  nooks  o'erhung  with  fern. 

When  heavy  clouds  above  us  roll, 

Blue  skies  are  over  there; 
When  storm-winds  fret  around  our  eaves, 

There  zephyrs  whisper  fair. 
Beyond  the  mountains — ah  !  beyond 

Love  fills  the  sunny  air. 

E.  C. 


.60 


La  Ciudad  de  la  Reyna  de  los  Angeles. 


[July, 


LA   CIUDAD   DE   LA   REYNA   DE   LOS   ANGELES.— II. 


To  the  eastern  tourist  entering  by  the 
Southern  Pacific  road,  Los  Angeles  is  a 
perpetual  surprise.  That  great  connecyng 
thoroughfare,  the  Southern  Pacific  railway, 
traverses  for  hundreds  of  miles  a  barren, 
desolate  country,  not  wholly  uninteresting, 
but  far  from  attractive.  The  ride  is  tedious 
and  dusty,  the  broad  sands  of  the  Colorado 
Desert  finally  weary  the  eye,  and  the  traveler 
looks  forward  eagerly  to  the  garden  of  the 
gods  that  he  is  told  to  expect  on  the  other 
side  of  that  nearing  range  of  mountains. 

The  mountains  are  crossed,  through  the 
grand  natural  roadway  of  the  Sierra  Gor- 
gonia  Pass,  and — as  if  one  had  stepped' 
through  a  door  from  a  poverty-stricken  room 
into  another  furnished  like  a  palace — the  train 
is  passing  through  a  rolling  expanse  of  ver- 
dure, free  from  rocks,  or  even  cobble-stones; 
past  broad  grain  fields  and  thrifty  corn 
patches ;  past  smooth  hillsides  covered  with 
sheep.  Downward  the  train  goes,  past  the 
old  Mission  of  San  Gabriel  vnith  its  weather- 
beaten  walls,  yet  sturdily  upholding  a  mod- 
ern roof,  until  the  level  sweep  of  the  Los 
Angeles  valley  is  reached,  and  the  clustering 
habitations  ahead  show  where  the  once  frail 
offshoot  of  the  decayed  Mission  triumphant- 
ly stands.  The  old-time  Porciuncula  River, 
now  dividing  the  main  city  from  its  pleasant 
suburb — East  Los  Angeles — is  crossed,  and 
the  train  halts  at  the  busy  station  one  mile 
from  the  heart  of  the  city.  Even  now,  when 
one  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  seen  any- 
thing of  Los  Angeles,  he  is  charmed  with 
the  luxurious  vegetation  and  with  the  soft- 
ness of  the  air. 

The  original  settlement  of  the  Spaniards 
lies  between  the  station  and  the  American 
town,  little  changed  since  the  days  of  Mex- 
ican rule,  except  that  the  ruthless  mark  of 
time  is  upon  the  large,  low,  adobe  buildings. 
Most  of  the  houses,  however,  are  in  a  hab- 
itable condition^and  here  the  native  element 
of  the  city  is  congregated.  The  narrow, 


dirty  streets  have  a  sleepy,  semi-deserted  air, 
that  is  strikingly  in  contrast  to  the  bustling 
Anglican  portion  of  the  town.  It  is  as  if  a 
slice  of  Mexico  and  a  slice  of  the  United 
States  were  set  side  by  side  where  the  eye 
can  study  the  peculiarities  of  each  at  one  and 
the  same  time,  and  it  gives  Los  Angeles  an 
unusual  and  unique  interest.  The  plaza, 
around  which  were  arranged  the  homes  of 
the  twelve  original  families,  is  a  pretty  spot, 
covered  with  ornamental  trees  and  semi- 
tropical  shrubs  and  flowers;  like  the  older 
streets,  it  is  of  no  such  liberal  size  as  public 
parks  or  streets  laid  out  nowadays.  A  por- 
tion of  the  Mexican  town  has  been  con- 
verted to  the  uses  of  the  inevitable  Chinaman. 
Wherever  there  are  houses  and  people,  you 
also  find  "John."  The  old  adobe  buildings, 
rented  or  owned  by  the  Chinamen,  are  re- 
constructed in  their  interiors  so  as  to  furnish 
accommodations  for  a  large  number  of  per- 
sons in  an  astonishingly  small  space.  An 
apartment  the  size  of  an  ordinary  stateroom 
in  an  ocean  steamer  is  considered  ample 
for  the  occupancy  of  a  dozen — indeed,  one 
may  almost  say  an  unlimited  number  of 
Chinamen.  Tier  after  tier  of  rude  berths 
line  the  walls ;  in  the  majority  of  cases,  no 
window  admits  the  light  of  day  or  serves  to 
purify  the  opium-laden  atmosphere;  it  is, 
therefore,  not  a  matter  of  surprise  that  such 
buildings,  after  being  monopolized  by  the 
Chinese,  are  totally  unfit  for  occupation  by 
any  other  race,  and  must  remain  in  the 
hands  of  their  Celestial  tenants,  or  else  be 
destroyed  to  make  room  for  new  structures. 
Almost  the  entire  laundry  work  of  the  town 
is  done  by  Chinamen,  and  the  "  washee- 
houses  "  are  permitted  to  stand  outside  the 
limits  of  "Chinatown,"  at  various  points 
about  the  city.  But  the  line  of  demarkation 
between  the  old  town — commonly  called 
Sonora — and  the  new  is  very  distinct.  From 
the  plaza  westward,  the  features  are  unmis-  * 
takably  those  of  a  rapidly  growing  American 


1883.] 


La  Ciudad  de  la  Eeyna  de  los  Angeles. 


61 


city.  Here  there  are  no  defined  limits. 
With  a  vast  amount  of  available  space,  the 
city  is  spreading  itself  almost  like  magic 
over  the  level  valley,  and  up  the  hillsides, 
and  upon  the  heights.  From  these  heights 
there  is  an  unparalleled  view  of  the  beautiful 
town  nestled  amid  a  wealth  of  perennially 
green  foliage,  of  the  wide  orchards  and  vine- 
yards stretching  far  out  toward  the  sea, 
dotted  with  villas  and  farm-houses,  and  of 
the  fertile  fields  and  pastures.  On  clear 
days,  the  ocean  itself  may  be  discerned,  with 
the  bold  outline  of  Catalina  Island;  and  a 
fitting  background  to  the  picture  is  formed 
by  spurs  of  the  Coast  Range,  the  Sierra 
Madre  Mountains  (or  San  Gabriel — both 
names  are  in  use)  to  the  north,  and  the 
Sierra  Santa  Monica  range  to  the  west. 
It  is  to  this  partially  sheltered  situation, 
and  to  its  nearness  to  the  ocean,  that  Los 
Angeles  owes  its  notably  mild  and  equable 
climate.  The  force  of  the  westerly  and 
northwesterly  winds — which  are  the  rough 
winds  of  the  Pacific  coast — is  broken  by 
the  peculiar  trend  of  the  mountains;  and  the 
heat  of  the  sun — which  in  summer  is  exces- 
sive— is  counteracted  by  the  cool  sea  breeze 
that  blows  every  afternoon.  The  winters 
are  never  severe,  and  the  summers  are  far 
more  endurable  than  those  of  the  Atlantic 
coast,  since  the  atmosphere  is  less  damp, 
and  a  higher  degree  of  heat  may  be  endured 
without  discomfort  than  in  the  heavier  air 
east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Moreover, 
the  nights — elsewhere  the  worst  part  of  hot 
weather — are  invariably  cool  and  pleasant 
here,  even  after  the  warmest  day.  A  pair 
of  blankets  is  essential  the  year  round,  and 
one  awakes  from  sleep  refreshed  for  the 
new  day.  The  mean  temperature  for  the 
month  of  January  has  been  given  at  52°, 
and  for  the  month  of  July  at  75°.  What 
with  these  figures,  which  bear  comparison 
favorably  with  those  of  any  health  resort 
now  known  in  the  world,  and  the  varied  sur- 
face of  mountain  and  seashore,  lowlands 
and  mesa,  in  "  semi-tropic  California,"  from 
which  to  select  one's  individual  desideratum f 
there  seems  every  justification  for  the  claims 
of  the  region  as  a  sanitarium.  Until  recent : 


ly,  this  country  has  been  somewhat  difficult 
of  access,  but  the  newly  opened  transconti- 
nental route  has  brought  it  within  a  few  days' 
journey  of  any  point  of  the  East. 

Prior  to  the  advent  of  the  Southern 
Pacific  railway,  in  1876,  the  growth  of  Los 
Angeles  was  very  slow.  In  1871,  the  pop- 
ulation of  the  entire  county,  which  con- 
tains an  area  of  over  three  million  acres,  was 
but  sixteen  thousand.  The  census  of  1880 
gave  eleven  thousand  as  the  population  of  the 
city,  a  year  and  a  half  later  it  was  estimated 
at  'fourteen  thousand,  and  to-day  at  twenty- 
two  thousand.  An  activity  unprecedented  in 
its  history  has  prevailed  since  the  beginning 
of  the  year  1882.  Strangers  have  flocked 
to  the  place  from  all  quarters,  in  such  num- 
bers that  adequate  accommodations  could 
scarcely  be  provided.  Hotels  and  lodging- 
houses  have  been  crowded  to  their  utmost 
capacity,  and  have  been  forced  to  reject 
many  applicants  for  admittance.  Every 
private  house  has  been  brought  into  requi- 
sition, many  being  made  to  do  duty  for  sev- 
eral families.  Rents  have  increased  fifty 
per  cent.,  notwithstanding  that  as  many  as 
twelve  hundred  houses  were  built  last  year, 
and  quite  as  many  are  being  erected  this 
year.  It  is  not  infrequently  the  case  that  a 
house  is  engaged  by  some  anxious  pater- 
familias as  soon  as  the  lumber  of  which  it 
is  to  be  constructed  is  hauled  to  the  ground; 
and  there  is  an  equal  scarcity  of  places  for 
business.  The  construction  of  stores  and 
offices  has  kept  pace  with  the  growth  of 
residences,  and  the  business  portion  of  the 
town  is  fast  assuming  a  substantial  aspect. 
There  has  been  a  very  noticeable  progressive 
movement  in  religious  affairs,  and  the  va- 
rious denominations  are  providing  them- 
selves with  handsome  buildings.  The  fine 
cathedral  of  St.  Vibiana,  consecrated  in 
1876,  is  the  largest  house  of  worship  in  the 
State,  with  the  exception  of  that  built  not 
long  since  by  the  Jesuits  in  San  Francisco, 
and  the  Mexican  church,  "Our  Lady  of  the 
Angels."  This  church  was  founded  in  1826, 
and  contains  some  well-preserved  oil-paint- 
ings of  the  saints  and  Biblical  scenes.  The 
city  employs  over  forty  teachers  in  the  publk 


62 


La  Ciudad  de  la  Reyna  de  los  Angeles. 


[July, 


schools,  at  salaries  ranging  from  seven  hun- 
dred to  eighteen  hundred  dollars  per  annum, 
and  sends  to  its  schools  two  thousand  pupils ; 
there  are  besides  several  private  schools  and 
kindergartens,  a  Roman  Catholic  college,  and 
a  large  school  kept  by  the  Sisters  of  Charity. 
The  University  of  Southern  California  is  situ- 
ated on  the  western  outskirts  of  the  city,  and 
is  in  a  highly  prosperous  condition,  though 
only  in  the  third  year  of  its  work.  A  branch 
of  the  San  Jose  State  Normal  School,  in  a 
sightly  position  upon  the  brow  of  a  hill,  was 
opened  in  August,  1882,  with  one  hundred 
pupils.  Los  Angeles  County  is  the  third  on 
the  list  of  State  appropriations  for  schools, 
receiving  from  that  source  last  year  $96,- 
679.99.  In  addition  to  this  fund,  $61,241.- 
05  were  derived  from  the  county,  city,  and 
special  taxes.  Ten  per  cent,  of  the  State 
fund  is  by  law  devoted  to  the  purchase  of 
books  and  apparatus  for  each  school  dis- 
trict, so  that  even  a  remote  mountain  dis- 
trict possesses  a  constantly  enlarging  library. 
There  are  about  eighty  schools  in  Los 
Angeles  County  at  present,  exclusive  of  those 
in  the  city.  Los  Angeles  is  well  supplied  with 
newspapers;  the  Spanish,  French,  and  Ger- 
man nationalities  are  represented  by  weekly 
journals,  and  there  are  several  English  daily 
and  weekly  publications.  Four  good-sized 
and  well-furnished  rooms  are  devoted  to  the 
uses  of  a  public  library.  The  stock  of 
books  is  less  than  four  thousand,  but  what 
is  lacking  in  quantity  is  made  up  in  quality, 
the  selection  being  unusually  admirable. 

Los  Angeles  is  a  city  of  especial  beauty 
in  the  very  general  appearance  of  refinement, 
thrift,  and  even  luxury  in  its  homes;  not 
merely  because  of  a  large  number  of  well-to- 
do  dwellings,  but  because  of  the  custom  of 
surrounding  every  one,  rich  or  poor,  with 
beautiful  gardens.  The  long  rows  of  bare 
tenement  houses,  or  of  monotonous,  if  pala- 
tial, swell  fronts,  that  are  so  common  in 
eastern  cities,  are  not  seen  in  Los  Angeles; 
instead,  even  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  are 
detached  homes,  each  with  its  own  lawn 
and  flower-garden.  In  these,  numberless 
varieties  of  flowers  bloom  throughout  the 
year.  Pets  of  eastern  green-houses  fearless- 


ly rear  their  heads  in  the  freedom  of  the 
out-door  atmosphere,  and  grow  to  gigantic 
proportions.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  see  an 
aspiring  geranium  climbing  to  the  roof  of  a 
cottage,  a  heliotrope  spreading  its  fragrant 
blossoms  over  a  bay-window,  or  a  rose  or 
honeysuckle  making  a  perfect  screen  of  the 
trellis  of  a  veranda.  These  roses ! — whether 
sturdy  tree  or  vine,  they  are  perfection,  in 
their  great  variety,  their  exquisite  shades  of 
color,  and  their  profusion  of  bloom.  They 
are  everywhere,  even  in  the  season  when  all 
vegetation  is  blighted  in  Eastern  States;  and 
much  is  the  enthusiasm  of  strangers  over 
them,  and  over  the  rows,  sometimes  forty  or 
fifty  feet  in  length,  of  stately  callas,  loaded 
with  white  blossoms.  Nearly  every  yard  is 
surrounded  by  a  thrifty  hedge,  sometimes  of 
geraniums,  generally  of  closely  cut  Monterey 
cypress;  and  various  sorts  of  evergreen  and 
ornamental  trees  and  shrubs  are  a  general 
feature  of  these  pretty  gardens.  The  lawns 
are  perennially  gre.cn  and  carefully  tended; 
the  streets  are,  along  much  of  their  course, 
lined  with  the  rapidly  growing  pepper-tree, 
whose  red  berries  against  the  vivid  green  of 
its  graceful  foliage  are  a  pretty  feature ;  or 
with  the  tall,  bluish  eucalyptus.  The  heav- 
ily freighted  orange  and  lemon  trees  mingle 
their  green  and  gold  with  the  other  trees  in 
most  of  the  yards.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
seek  the  open  country  for  a  view  of  the  or- 
chards whose  fame  has  gone  far  abroad; 
they  lie  hither  and  yon,  here  but  a  small  in- 
closure,  there  a  generous  tract,  within  the 
confines  of  the  city  itself;  others  are  in  the 
suburbs,  and  still  others  out  in  the  valley. 

The  city  is  one  great  garden,  six  miles 
square — a  proof  of  the  capabilities  of  this 
southern  soil  (a  loose,  sandy  loam,  with  oc- 
casional patches  of  adobe)  when  assisted  by 
an  abundant  use  of  water.  An  apparently 
barren,  worthless  spot  soon  blooms  out  under 
irrigation.  The  supply  requisite  to  maintain 
this  luxuriance  of  verdure  is  obtained  from 
the  Los  Angeles  River  by  a  system  of  ditches, 
or  zanjas,  and  is  considered  ample  for  a 
city  of  much  greater  size  than  Los  Angeles 
is  at  present,  if  carefully  husbanded  and  ju- 
diciously distributed.  The  present  system 


1883.] 


La  Ciudad  de  la  Reyna  de  los  Angeles. 


63 


of  open  ditches  and  wooden  flumes,  however, 
is  liable  to  much  leakage  of  the  precious 
fluid,  and  demands  continual  repairs.  The 
loose,  sandy  soil,  too,  absorbs  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  stream  in  the  ditches  before 
it  reaches  its  destination.  Doubtless  iron 
pipes  will  erelong  be  substituted  for  these 
zanjas.  The  city  controls  all  the  water  of 
the  river.  That  devoted  to  irrigation  is 
taken  out  of  the  stream  by  two  small  canals 
(one  for  the  city  proper,  and  one  for  East 
Los  Angeles),  from  which  the  zanjas  proceed. 
The  main  ditches  are  three  feet  by  two  in 
dimensions,  and  the  others  are  two  feet  by 
one.  The  charge  for  individual  use  of  the 
water  in  summer  is  fifty  cents  by  the  hour, 
two  dollars  by  the  day,  or  one  dollar  and 
twenty-five  cents  if  taken  at  night.  The 
rates  are  fifty  per  cent,  lower  during  the 
rainy  season.  Parties  wishing  to  obtain  the 
water  must  make  application  at  the  zanjerds 
office  at  the  last  of  each  month;  he  will  then 
apportion  a  certain  day  and  hour  to  each 
applicant,  and  furnish  a  ticket  entitling  the 
possessor  to  the  privilege  decreed.  The  zan- 
jero,  or  water  commissioner,  has  six  deputies 
in  summer,  when  the  greatest  amount  of  ir- 
rigation is  required,  and  three  in  winter;  and 
ticket  holders  receive  the  water  from  one  of 
these  deputies  at  their  own  connecting-gate, 
which  when  not  in  use  is  kept  fastened  by  a 
stout  padlock.  Two  water  companies  also 
furnish  water  to  the  city  for  domestic  pur- 
poses :  one  from  the  river,  some  ten  or  twelve 
miles  above  the  irrigating  canals;  the  other 
from  a  a'enega,  or  marsh,  of  thirteen  acres, 
near  by.  There  are  also  several  natural  and 
artificial  reservoirs  used  by  the  city  for  the 
storage  of  water  during  the  rainy  season. 

The  sanitary  condition  of  Los  Angeles, 
however  good  it  may  be,  is  in  spite  of  its  sew- 
eragesy  stem,  which  is  only  beginning  to  be 
attended  to.  Nevertheless,  for  a  city  that  is 
a  popular  resort  for  invalids,  the  death-rates 
are  not  great.  There  is  some  malaria  along 
the  river-bottom,  but  scarcely  enough  to  be 
worthy  of  comment;  while  epidemics  are 
virtually  unknown;  sun -strokes  or  thunder 
and  lightning  are  out  of  the  question.  A 
climate  which  averages  two  hundred  and 


forty  sunny  days  in  the  year,  and  permits 
one  to  spend  a  large  share  of  his  time  out 
of  doors,  cannot  but  have  a  favorable  effect 
upon  the  system  of  most  human  beings. 
The  percentage  of  deaths  for  the  year 
1882  was  16.57  to  the  thousand  inhab- 
itants, and  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
this  ratio  was  largely  increased  by  the 
decease  of  transient  boarders;  the  births 
registered  for  that  period  of  time  were  in 
nearly  the  same  proportion. 

The  amount  of  business  transacted  in  the 
post-office  is  a  good  criterion  by  which  to 
estimate  the  importance  of  a  town.  A 
glance  at  the  figures  of  this  office  for  two  or 
three  years  past  reveals  a  sturdy  and  prom- 
ising growth.  For  the  quarter  ending  March 
30,  1 88 1,  the  net  profit  to  the  government 
was  $5,595.97;  for  the  same  period  of  time 
in  the  following  year  it  was  $7,051.14;  and 
for  that  of  this  year  it  was  $8,447.27,  the 
total  receipts  for  three  months  being  $10,- 

636-57- 

As  in  most  towns  on  the  Pacific  coast, 
there  is  a  lack  of  manufactories  in  Los 
Angeles,  and  much  urgency  toward  their 
establishment  on  the  part  of  the  local  jour- 
nals. There  is  said  to  be  an  inexhaustible 
supply  of  petroleum,  covering  two  hundred 
thousand  acres  of  land,  in  Los  Angeles 
County  and  the  adjoining  county  of  Ven- 
tura, which  would  furnish  the  requisite  fuel 
for  manufacturing  purposes;  and  it  is  esti- 
mated that  there  are  fifty  important  industries 
not  yet  represented  in  this  section.  The  gas 
with  which  the  city  has  been  lighted  is  gener- 
ated from  asphaltum  obtained  from  beds  a 
few  miles  distant,  but  its  yellow  glimmer  is 
now  cast  into  the  shade  by  the  more  brilliant 
bluish  blaze  of  Edison  incandescent  lights, 
which  first  threw  their  rays  over  the  city  on 
New- Year's  eve,  1883.  Seven  masts,  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  in  height,  are  stationed 
in  conspicuous  positions — five  in  the  main 
town,  one  in  East  Los  Angeles,  and  one  at 
Boyle  Heights,  a  pleasant  suburb  near  the 
County  Hospital.  Two  of  these  masts  are  of 
eight-thousand-candle  power,  and  the  re- 
maining five  are  six-thousand-candle  power. 
The  illumination,  though  an  improvement  on 


64 


La  Ciudad  de  la  Beyna  de  los  Angeles. 


[July, 


gas,  especially  on  cloudy  or  foggy  nights, 
when  it  best  reveals  its  power,  is  not  satis- 
factorily complete,  more  masts  being  needed. 

Eight  miles  from  Los  Angeles,  and  in 
sight  of  the  old  Mission,  where  the  Padres 
planted  the  first  orange-trees  and  vines 
raised  in  Southern  California,  is  Pasadena, 
a  model  village  devoted  to  the  culture  of  all 
varieties  of  semi-tropical  products.  Pasa- 
dena is  a  second  Riverside — a  place  where 
liberal  expenditure  and  thorough  cultivation 
have  been  combined  with  great  natural  at- 
tractions ;  it  will  soon  be  connected  with  the 
city  by  a  narrow-gauge  railway.  Beyond 
Pasadena,  perched  on  a  shelf  of  land  at  the 
very  base  of  the  San  Gabriel  Mountains,  is 
the  Sierra  Madre  Villa — the  most  popular 
resort  in  the  vicinity  of  Los  Angeles,  com- 
manding one  of  the  most  charming  views  in 
the  world.  The  broad  San  Gabriel  valley, 
with  its  wealth  of  orchards  and  vineyards, 
its  grain  fields  and  handsome  villas  (for 
here  are  the  estates  of  many  gentlemen  of 
means),  its  historic  Mission  and  quaint 
adobe  town  of  San  Gabriel,  stretches  for 
twenty  miles  to  the  sea;  and  there  are  few 
fairer  spots  in  the  universe.  Santa  Monica, 
a  little  town  on  the  seacoast,  is  becoming 
a  very  popular  watering-place.  During  the 
heated  term  it  is  crowded  with  pleasure-seek- 
ing Los  Angelenos,  and  every  Sunday  the 
year  round  the  trains  which  run  to  the  place 
are  obliged  to  put  on  extra  cars  to  accom- 
modate those  who  spend  their  one  day  of 
rest  on  the  beach. 

The  "City  of  the  Angels"  is,  indeed,  fast 
assuming  metropolitan  airs.  It  aspires  to  be- 
come the  capital  of  a  new  State  that  shall  be 
parted  from  the  parent  body  by  the  natural 
division  of  the  Tehachapi  Mountains,  and 
comprise  all  of  semi-tropic  California — a  re- 
gion differing  in  many  respects  from  that  to 
the  north  of  the  barrier  of  hills.  It  be- 
hooves us  to  inquire  whether  there  is  any- 
thing in  the  surroundings  of  the  ambitious 
little  city  to  justify  its  expectations.  Before 
Los  Angeles  can  develop  any  advantageous 
commerce  or  coast  trade,  she  must  control  a 
railway  to  her  port  of  San  Pedro,  and  be  in- 
dependent of  the  monopoly  hitherto  exer- 


cised by  the  Southern  Pacific  Railway 
Company.  The  rates  on  freight  for  the 
short  distance  between  the  port  and  the  town 
are  one-half  those  charged  from  San  Francis- 
co to  San  Pedro.  But  the  country  con- 
tiguous to  Los  Angeles,  though  given  over 
in  early  days  to  immense  herds  of  cattle  and 
horses,  is  eminently  adapted  to  agricultural 
purposes,  and  is  rapidly  becoming  settled 
by  farmers.  Unless  the  land  is  irrigated  or 
naturally  moist,  the  state  of  the  crops  de- 
pends upon  the  annual  rainfall.  This,  a 
dozen  years  ago,  averaged  eighteen  inches, 
but  the  amount  is  now  less.  Last  year, 
which  was  termed  a  "dry"  one,  the  fall  was 
something  over  ten  inches,  and  about  "half 
crops"  were  produced.  This  year  the  fall 
was  greater,  but  it  came  too  late  to  properly 
nourish  the  early-planted  grain ;  and  the 
later-sown,  which  gave  promise  of  an  abun- 
dant yield,  has  been  greatly  damaged  by  a 
succession  of  drying  northwesterly  winds,  so 
that  another  failure  is  anticipated,  contrary 
to  the  usual  order  of  things;  for  it  is  seldom 
that  an  unfavorable  year  is  not  followed  by 
a  bountifully  blessed  one.  Discouraging  as 
these  conditions  are  to  farmers,  the  state  of 
the  county  is  better  than  might  be  supposed. 
The  blighted  grain  will  make  an  abundance 
of  hay;  the  orchards  and  vineyards,  being 
universally  irrigated,  are  not  affected  by  the 
dispensations  of  the  heavens;  and  every 
year  the  acreage  planted  to  trees  and  vines 
is  greater.  Unquestionably,  the  culture  of 
fruit  is  destined  to  become  the  chief  indus- 
try of  Southern  California,  and  will  bring 
this  favored  section  into  marked  prominence. 
Already  there  are  raised  a  wide  range  of 
products  of  both  the  temperate  and  semi- 
tropical  zones,  attaining  a  superior  degree  of 
excellence.  Side  by  side,  one  finds  the 
orange,  lemon,  lime,  apple,  peach,  pear, 
pomegranate,  nectarine,  apricot,  fig,  plum, 
prune,  olive,  walnut,  almond,  and  other 
choice  varieties  of  fruit ;  while  the  raisins  are 
attracting  favorable  notice  in  the  Eastern 
States,  and  the  native  wine  is  sent  to  Europe 
in  large  quantities,  and  returned  labeled  as 
the  choicest  of  exports  from  the  Mediterra- 
nean shore.  While  one  must  wait  eight  or 


1883.] 


King  Cophetuas  Wife. 


65 


ten  years  for  the  profits  of  an  orange  orchard, 
a  vineyard  begins  to  yield  returns  in  three 
years.  The  number  of  vines  planted  last 
year  is  largely  in  excess  of  the  number  of 
fruit  trees.  It  is  believed  that  there  is  no 
danger  of  flooding  the  market  with  either 
raisins  or  wine,  since  the  regions  where 
these  can  be  produced  are  so  limited  in  ex- 
tent. There  were  reported  to  be  in  bearing 
in  the  county,  in  1882,  fruit  trees  as  fol- 
lows: Orange,  450,125;  lemon,  48,350; 
peach,  38,175;  apple,  64,380;  olive,  4,000; 
quince,  3,100;  pear,  23,640;  walnut,  33,000; 
plum,  8,335;  almond,  3,000;  fig,  10,225. 
The  number  of  acres  bearing  grapes  was 
11,440.  The  value  of  the  fruit  crop  of  1881 
was  $950,000,  and  the  aggregate  for  1882 
must  have  been  considerably  larger.  There 
were  produced  in  the  same  year  11,700,000 
bushels  of  wheat,  1,267,500  bushels  of  corn 
(Los  Angeles  is  the  third  corn-growing  coun- 
ty in  the  State),  28,250  tons  of  hay,  7,000 
tons  of  potatoes,  220,000  pounds  of  butter, 
855,450  pounds  of  cheese,  3,550,670  pounds 
of  wool,  and  275,000  'pounds  of  honey; 
3, 1 00,000  gallons  of  wine,  145,000  gallons  of 
brandy,  and  7,000  barrels  of  beer  were  made. 
The  production  for  1882  was  probably  in- 
creased by  thirty  per  cent.  I  regret  that  I 
am  unable  to  obtain  statistics  for  the  last 
year.  There  are  six  wineries  in  the  county, 
one  of  which  is  the  largest  in  the  world. 
4,800,000  new  vines  were  planted  in  1882, 
and  large  tracts  of  land  have  been  plowed 
this  spring  for  additional  vineyards. 


Further  details  are  not  needful  to  show 
that  the  country  is  one  of  exceeding  promise; 
and  that  Los  Angeles,  as  the  commercial 
center  of  so  productive  a  region,  has  before 
it  a  bright  future.  Tributary  villages  are 
fast  springing  up  at  intervals  of  a  few  miles, 
which  enhance  the  business  prosperity  of  the 
city.  Land  is  held  at  high  figures,  yet  the 
rates  do  not  prevent  a  great  number  of  real 
estate  transfers.  Doubtless  there  would  be 
more  settlers  of  limited  means  if  prices  were 
brought  within  their  reach;  but  land  agents 
are  as  thick  as  "bees  in  clover,"  and,  like 
the  bees,  appear  to  be  having  a  good  time 
of  it.  The  County  Recorder  reports  the 
number  of  deeds  filed  for  record  in  the 
month  of  April  as  581;  consideration,  $i,- 
098,833.56.  The  number  of  mortgages 
was  127,  amounting  to  $178,822.58,  and 
the  amount  of  fees  received  during  the 
month  was  $1,909.25.  Parties  who  pur- 
chased land  a  few  years  ago,  when  such 
investment  seemed  unprofitable,  are  reap- 
ing a  harvest  now.  For  instance,  a  tract  of 
one  hundred  and  forty-one  lots,  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  the  normal  school,  was  sold  for 
$1,500  to  a  gentleman  who  has  since  real- 
ized $43,000  from  less  than  the  amount  of 
land  purchased.  In  another  portion  of  the 
city,  sixteen  lots  were  bought,  in  1867,  f°r 
$55.  Their  fortunate  owner  has  sold  ten  of 
the  number  for  $8,000,  having  six  yet  re- 
maining. The  old  days  of  dolce  far  niente, 
non-progressive  existence,  have  vanished, 
never  to  return. 

Clara  Spalding  Brown. 


KING   COPHETUA'S   WIFE. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"What  had  I  been,  lost  love,  if  you  had  loved  me? 

A  woman,  smiling  as  the  smiling  May, 
As  gay  of  heart  as  birds  that  carol  gayly 
Their  sweet  young  songs  to  usher  in  the  day. 

"  Like  the  soft  dusk  I  would  have  veiled  your  harsh- 
ness 

With  tendernesses  that  were  not  your  due — 
Your  very  faults  had  blossomed  into  virtues 
Had  you  known  how  to  love  me  and  be  true," 
VOL.  II.— 5. 


SLOWLY  the  spring  went  by,  the  changeful 
weather  of  March  gave  place  to  the  warmer 
days  and  mild  showers  of  April,  and  these, 
in  turn,  gradually  yielded  to  the  settled  sun- 
shine, the  pale,  sweet  flowers,  and  the  jubi- 
lant bird-songs  that  proclaimed  the  arrival 
of  May.  It  was  on  an  afternoon  of  delight- 
ful beauty  that,  returning  from  a  brisk  walk 
out  towards  Cambridge,  I  found  a  brief 
note  awaiting  me.  The  small  square  of 


66 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[July, 


stained  paper  lies  before  me  now,  for  I  have 
never  found  courage  to  destroy  it.  And 
these  are  the  words  it  contains,  evidently 
written  by  a  trembling  hand,  and  most 
hastily : 

FRANK:  Will  you  come  to  me  at  once,  please  ?  I 
am  forced  to  call  some  one  to  counsel  me,  and  you 
are  the  only  friend  to  whom  I  dare  turn,  or  upon  whose 
friendship  I  can  make  this  demand.  To  tell  you 
that  I  need  you,  and  instantly,  will;  I  am  sure,  bring 
you  here  without  delay. 

MADGE  BARRAS. 

Then  I  felt  that  the  end  had  come,  and 
stood  looking  blankly  at  the  note  in  my 
hand,  with  a  train  of  emotions  passing  like 
a  whirlwind  through  my  frame.  Regret, 
fear,  hope — which  stood  forth  most  promi- 
nently? which  possessed  me  most  strongly 
as  I  hurried  over  to  the  house  that  had  held 
so  much  pleasure  for  me  in  days  now  gone 
by?  Ah!  I  know  not;  but  as  I  went  up 
the  steps,  it  was  fear  that  grasped  my  heart 
with  a  firm  hand,  and  sent  trembling  thrills 
of  distressful  anxiety  over  me.  After  a 
minute  I  rang  the  bell,  and  Madge  herself 
came  to  the  door.  She  did  not  smile,  her 
face  was  calm  and  cold — cold  as  the  hand 
she  placed  in  mine.  We  passed  into  the 
small  parlor  and  sat  down. 

"I  wrote  for  you  to  come,  Frank,  because 
I  am  about  to  leave  this  house,  and  you  can 
tell  me  what  I  must  do  concerning  some 
business  matters  in  connection  with  my 
going." 

"To  leave  the  house  ?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes" — still  with  that  frigid  air  of  com- 
posure. "Neil  has  gone  away  from  me. 
We  had  an  outspoken  talk  last  night,  and  I 
told  him  truthfully  that  I  could  not,  would 
not,  endure  longer  the  worriment  his  actions 
caused  me;  that  this  thing  could  not  go  on 
further.  He  has  been  wholly  unlike  his  old 
self  for  a  good  while,  and  I  have  honestly 
tried  as  hard  as  I  could  to  stand  his  willful 
and  erratic  movements,  but  my  strength  in 
that  direction  has  given  out.  I  will  not" — 
her  voice  shook  a  trifle — "I  cannot,  enter 
into  the  details  of  the  conversation;  but 
when  I  came  down  this  morning  I  found 
that  he  had  packed  his  trunks  and  gone, 


leaving  a  letter  for  me,  in  which  he  said  that 
the  house  was  at  my  disposal ;  that  all  the 
money  I  could  need  would  be  supplied  me 
by  his  agent ;  and  that,  as  the  cause  of  my 
unhappiness  would  be  removed  by  his  ab- 
sence, he  hoped  I  might  be  very  happy. 
And  he  added,  that,  for  himself,  he  did  not 
ever  expect  to  come  back  to  distress  me.  I 
shall  leave  here  at  once,  go  to  New  York, 
and  prepare  to  return  to  the  concert-stage 
in  the  fall.  At  least  I  can  support  myself, 
as  I  used  to  do  before  he  came  to  me." 
She  broke  down. 

"Oh,  how  could  he  have  wound  himself 
about  my  life  and  love  so  firmly  and  forsake 
me  now?  I  do  not  care  for  men  and 
women,  and  what  they  think;  my  only 
thought  is  to  get  away  from  here  as  speedily 
as  possible.  I  shall  close  the  house,  give 
the  keys  to  Mr.  Savary,  who  is  my  husband's 
business  man — and  yours,  too,  I  believe. 
Whatever  valuable  ornaments  Neil  gave  me 
I  shall  also  leave  with  him.  Nothing 
that  is  of  any  intrinsic  worth  goes  out  of 
this  house  with  me.  It  would  break  my 
heart  to  speak  of  this  to  you,  and  to  do 
these  things,  if  Neil  had  not  broken  it 
already  by  taking  his  love  from  me.  • 

"I  shall  ask  you  to  advise  me  in  regard 
to  some  minor  affairs  that  must  be  looked 
after,  and  I  have  written  Mrs.  Jaquith  (who 
told  me  to  come  there  if  ever  I  needed  a 
place  of  refuge)  that  I  am  so  situated  now 
I  must  take  her  at  her  word  and  go  to  her. 
She  has  a  kind  and  loving  heart,  and  will, 
I  know,  help  me  in  my  strange  and  pain- 
ful posjtion.  Somehow  I  seem  to  be  talking 
of  another  person  from  myself;  I  cannot 
realize  that  it  is  I  who  am  thrown  off  like  a 
cast-off  garment.  Why  did  he  come  to  me? 
Why  could  I  not  have  been  left  to  work  and 
struggle  on  in  my  profession?  I  was  at 
least  independent  of  any  one's  love,  and  of 
late  years  I  have  leaned  entirely  upon  Neil's 
affection — it  was  my  all;  and  now  that  it 
is  taken  from  me,  I  am  fallen  indeed." 

Just  then,  and  before  I  could  venture  any 
words  of  cold  comfort,  little  May  Barras 
came  running  in  with  a  glad  cry  of,  "Auntie, 
auntie,  see,  I  have  brought  some  violets  tc 


1888.] 


King  Cophetud's  Wife. 


67 


you."  And  Madge,  with  a  low,  sobbing 
moan,  took  the  child  in  her  arms  and  held 
her  close  against  her  breast,  while  she  still 
kept  up  the  mournful  wailing  sound  that 
was  more  sad  than  weeping  would  have 
been.  May  was  frightened  at  last,  and 
struggled  to  get  down ;  Madge  put  her  away 
on  the  instant,  and  turned  to  me  with  pas- 
sionate despair. 

"You  see,  I  have  not  the  power  to  hold 
the  love  even  of  a  child :  this  baby,  whom  I 
have  petted  and  caressed  from  day  to  day, 
cured  of  her  lisp  and  loved — this  pretty, 
pampered  child  turns  from  me.  Perhaps, 
O,  perhaps,  if  God  had  given  a  child  to  me 
it  might  have  held  Neil's  love  for  me.  But 
no,  no :  I  should  not  have  prized  a  love  like 
that;  I  wanted  it  all  for  myself.  It  would 
have  been  worthless  to  me  unless  won  and 
kept  for  me  by  my  own  self." 

The  violets  that  May  had  brought  in  were 
lying  scattered  over  the  floor,  and  the  child 
busied  herself  in  picking  them  up,  and,  all 
unheeded  by  Madge  and  myself,  ran  from 
the  room. 

I  did  my  best  to  calm  Madge,  talked 
over  with  her  the  details  of  her  next  move- 
ment. It  was  all  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  per- 
suade her  to  not  leave  Neil's  house.  She 
cared  nothing  for  what  the  gossipers  around 
might  say,  and  showed  herself  resolute  and 
determined  in  the  arrangements  she  had 
planned  for  herself. 

It  was  dusk  before  I  started  to  go,  and  as 
I  stood  drawing  on  my  gloves  in  the  vesti- 
bule, Neil's  brother  Maurice  came  in  so 
quickly  that  he  ran  violently  against  me. 
Majdge  went  back  into  the  reception-room, 
and  Maurice  put  both  his  hands  upon  my 
arms  and  asked: 

"What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  is 
going  on  here?  Mabel  came  hurrying  home 
with  a  sorry  story  about  Madge  that  we 
could  understand  nothing  of,  except  that 
'Auntie  was  crying,'  and  squeezed  her  so  that 
she  hurt  her  ;  and  when  I  was  coming  out  a 
letter  from  Neil  was  brought  to  me  that  was 
more  perplexing  even  than  the  child's  re- 
port. What  is  it  J" 

I  sent  him  in  to  Madge;  and,  feeling  that. 


it  was  not  for  me  to  witness  their  meeting, 
was  about  to  go  down  the  steps  when  Mau- 
rice came  back  and  said  earnestly : 

"Remember,  Frank,  that  I  shall  stand  by 
Madge  whatever  the  trouble  is.  I  love  my 
brother,  but  Madge  shall  not  be  left  alone; 
and  the  world  must  be  shown  that  whatever 
fault  there  is  does  not  rest  with  her." 

"Then,"  I  said — "  then  you  will  advise  her 
about  and  act  for  her  in  the  two  or  three 
small  matters  that  I  was  to  have  attended  to, 
will  you?" 

"Yes,  in  everything.  She  must  leave 
everything  to  me.  But  there  will  be  nothing 
to  do  if  Neil  is  really  going  abroad,  as  he 
writes  me.  Madge  is  to  stay  on  here,  and — 
But  good  by,  I  must  go  in  and  try  to  under- 
stand it  all." 

The  next  evening  Maurice  came  to  see 
me. 

"Madge  is  with  us  for  the  present,"  he 
said,  "although  I  had  a  hard  fight  to  get 
her  consent  to  such  an  arrangement.  But 
'it  is  better  so  for  her  and  for  us.  She  will 
have  a  chance  to  rest,  and  to  make  further 
plans  for  herself.  We  want  her  to  stay 
there  until  Neil  regains  his  reason,  but  she 
is  bent  upon  going  to  New  York,  and  pre- 
paring for  singing  in  public  next  season. 
There  is  no  use  in  arguing  with  her  now, 
but  we  shall  do  all  that  we  can  by  and  by  to 
persuade  her  to  give  up  the  notion." 

"Let  her  go,"  I  answered  him — "let  her 
go.  Don't  you  see  that  the  woman  must 
have  some  outlet  for  her  pent-up,  wounded 
love,  pride,  and  passion  ?  And  what  will  help 
her  so  much  as  singing  and  working?  Em- 
ploying all  of  her  time  in  study  and  practice, 
she  will  not  have  to  sit  and  brood  over  what 
has  taken  place.  Let  her  go,  and  she  will 
come  out  of  this  thing  a  thousand  times 
stronger  and  better  in  every  way.  But  you 
told  me  Neil  was  to  go  abroad;  Madge  did 
not  speak  of  it:  is  it  true?" 

"True?  Yes."  Oh,  if  Neil  could  have 
heard  the  unspeakable  scorn  in  his  brother's 
voice!  "He  did  not  say  anything  of  where 
he  was  going  in  the  letter  he  left  for  his 
wife;  but  he  wrote  me  that  he  should  sail 
for  England  at  once,  and  that  he  had  been 


68 


King  Cophetucfs  Wife. 


making  his  preparations  for  two  or  three 
days." 

"For  England? — because  Mrs.  Beldon  is 
there,  I  suppose,"  I  broke  in  harshly.  "The 
fool!  I  thank  God  that  Harry  is  with  his 
sister,  for  his  influence  will  do  something 
towards  keeping  these  two  foolish  creatures 
apart." 

I  saw  that  this  thought  of  Neil  and  Mrs. 
Beldon  both  being  in  England  at  the  same 
time  had  not  occurred  to  Maurice,  for  he 
turned  a  trifle  red  in  the  face,  and  moved 
uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"But  about  Madge,"  he  said,  at  length. 
"I  think  that  both  the  children  are  a  com- 
fort to  her,  yet  she  clings  most  tenderly  to 
my  boy  Neil,  and  I  fancy  it  is  because  he 
is  named  for  his  uncle.  What  clinging, 
faithful  creatures  women  are — some  of 
them !  I  believe  now  that  if  her  husband 
were  to  come  back  and  treat  her  with  the 
least  show  of  love,  she  would  pour  out  all 
the  devotion  of  her  heart  upon  him  again, 
after  the  manner  of  the  alabaster  box  of 
ointment  that  the  woman  poured  upon  the 
head  of  Jesus.  My  wife  says  that  she  can- 
not understand  this  loving  fidelity  Madge 
shows  under  the  insult  of  Neil's  leaving  her, 
and  I  doubt  if  many  women  could.  What 
do  you  think,  Frank,  about  Neil's  returning? 
Will  he  come  back  to  his  wife  repentant  at 
the  last,  or  not?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
have  given  the  matter  much  thought,  and 
perhaps  it  does  not  concern  me  anyway. 
He  has  placed  himself  under  a  ban  socially, 
and  I  should  think  that  pride,  if  he  has  any 
left,  would  militate  against  his  returning  to 
his  old  home  and  associates.  But  I  give 
him  up  now  entirely  as  a  problem  that  I 
cannot  solve,  and  am  quite  ready  to  be  told 
of  any  sort  of  freak  on  his  part.  Besides, 
Maurice,  I  do  not  allow  my  thoughts  to 
dwell  on  the  subject ;  I  have  my  own  bur- 
dens to  carry,  and  they  are  wofully  heavy 
ones.  So  I  shut  my  heart  as  much  against 
the  troubles  of  other  persons  as  possible. 
Selfishness,  my  friend,  is  the  only  sure  en- 
trance to  the  roadway  of  ease." 

"Then  my  brother  must  have  found  his 


way  into  that  pleasant  path,  and  no  doubt 
will  keep  steadfast  therein.  I  must  be  go- 
ing. Will  you  come  over  to  the  house  with 
me,  and  see  my  wife  and  Madge?  They  will 
be  glad  to  see  you,  I  know;  and  you  have 
neglected  us  a  good  deal  of  late.  Come, 
it  is  a  fine  night  for  the  walk." 

"Thank  you,  not  to-night;  but  I  will  call 
to-morrow  morning  instead,  if  you  please." 

So  Maurice  went  away,  and  the  next 
morning  I  found  myself  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  leading  up  to  his  front  door.  I  en- 
tered the  pleasant  house,  and  was  shown 
straight  into  the  morning-room,  where  Mrs. 
Barras  and  Madge  were  sitting  with  the  two 
children  playing  near  them.  The  little 
Mabel  found  her  way  speedily  into  my  lap, 
and  looked  anxiously  through  my  pockets 
in  quest  of  the  chocolate  drops  that  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  keep  on  hand  during 
our  stay  in  the  country  the  summer  before. 

"Why,  Uncle  Frank,  you  haven't  any 
candy  now!  Didn't  you  bring  any  at  all?" 

"No,  pet,  I  forgot  the  candy  this  time; 
but  I  will  send  it  up  in  the  afternoon  for 
you  and  Neil  both." 

"But  that  isn't  now,  Uncle  Frank.  I 
like  my  good  things  right  off,  but  we  always 
have  to  wait  for  those;  it's  only  the  bad 
things  that  come  all  at  once,  and  lots  of 
them,  too." 

"Don't  you  mind  her,  Uncle  Frank," 
little  Neil  interrupted;  "don't  mind  her, 
she's  always  grumbling.  Uncle  Neil  use 
to  give  her  a  dollar  every  week  just  fc 
chocolate-creams,  and  she  wasn't  satisfiec 
then.  What  made  Uncle  Neil  go  away, 
Auntie  Madge?" 

"He  went  because  he  wanted  to,  Neil 
You  ought  not  to  find  fault  with  Mabel,  fo 
she  always  shares  her  candy  with  you;  am 
you  know  how  fond  you  are  of  chocolate 
creams,  dear."  Madge  gave  no  vocal  evi- 
dence of  the  strain  that  was  upon  her 
"Yes,  Mabel,  we  do  have  to  wait  for  the 
good  things  sometimes — we  grown  persor 
as  well  as  you  children.  But  we  are  all  the 
better  for  waiting,  I  have  no  doubt,  am 
think  how  much  more  we  enjoy  the  pleasant 
nesses  when  they  come.  Besides,  are  yoi 


1883.J 


King  Cophetuas  Wife. 


69 


not  a  little  ungrateful  to  Uncle  Frank  since 
he  has  promised  that  you  shall  have  the 
sweets  by  and  by?" 

The  child  put  her  arms  about  my  neck 
and  whispered  the  inquiry:  "Am  I,  Uncle 
Frank?  I  didn't  mean  to  be,  if  you'll  really 
and  truly  send  Peter  up  with  them  this  af- 
ternoon." And  then  she  left  me  to  go  to 
her  aunt,  upon  whose  lap  she  crept,  cud- 
dling against  her  breast,  while  the  boy  Neil 
stood  beside  the  chair  smoothing  Mrs.  Bar- 
ras's  cheek,  and  now  and  then  stooping  to 
whisper  some  loving  words  into  her  ear. 

I  staid  only  a  little  longer,  and  Madge, 
as  she  bade  me  good  by,  said:  "I  shall 
leave  for  New  York  in  a  few  days  now, 
Frank,  but  will  let  you  know  as  soon  as  I 
have  decided  on  the  day.  Maurice  has 
kindly  offered  to  go  on  with  me  and  leave 
me  at  Mrs.  Jaquith's  house.  And,  by  the 
way,  Mrs.  Jaquith  has  telegraphed  me  to 
come  there  at  once,  and  that  letters  from 
both  her  and  Adam  are  on  the  way.  So  I 
am  quite  free  to  go  to  her,  you  see." 

When  I  reached  home,  I  found  a  letter 
from  Harry.  There  were  descriptions  of 
persons  and  things,  of  English  society  and 
general  outside  gossip.  Then  he  went  on  to 
say: 

"  I  played  here  in  London  last  night,  and  with 
good  success.  Everything  passed  off  delightfully, 
my  nerves  were  well  under  control,  and  the  audi- 
ence (which  was  an  exceptionally  cultivated  and  fa- 
mous one)  was  good  enough  to  be  pleased — enough 
even  to  satisfy  me.  Beulah  seems  well  and  happy, 
although  she  is  leading  a  somewhat  quiet  and  re- 
tired life.  She  worries  unnecessarily  over  my  lack 
of  health,  and  devotes  much  more  lime  to  careful  at- 
tention to  my  real  or  imaginary  wants  than  she  does 
to  her  own  enjoyment.  She  says  that  she  does  not 
like  English  society,  and  makes  Hugh's  rather  recent 
death  an  excuse  for  refusing  invitations,  of  which  we 
have  an  absurd  amount. 

"  Write  to  me  at  once,  and  tell  me  all  about  Neil 
Barras  and  his  wife.  Remember  that  you  cannot 
tell  me  too  much  :  every  little  movement  on  his 
part  or  hers  will  be  of  interest  to  me.  Do  not  con- 
ceal anything,  out  of  fear  that  I  shall  be  pained. 
Tell  me  all. 

"I  have  just  picked  up  a  book  with  the  autograph 
of  rare  Ben  Jonson  on  the  title-page,  and  you  shall 
have  the  small,  antique  volume  if  you  will  come  af- 
ter it,  or  if  you  will  be  very  good  and  send  me  the 
first  copy  of  your  new  book.  I  inclose  a  pen  that 


Dickens  is  said  to  have  used,  which,  with  your  pen- 
chant for  such  things,  will,  I  know,  be  of  value  to 
you. 

"Adieu.  We  go  next  week  into  the  English  coun- 
try. I  play  twice  more  before  we  leave  London. 
Write  to  me,  and  concerning  everything." 

I  sat  down  at  once  and  wrote  a  long  let- 
ter full  of  detail,  and  with  a  careful  account 
of  all  that  had  happened  since  he  went 
away,  and  added: 

"As  Neil  Barras  when  he  left  his  wife  sailed  for 
England,  you  will  doubtless  have  seen  him  long 
before  this  reaches  you,  and  I  know  that  all  will  be 
well  while  you  are  there  to  face  him  with  your  dis- 
approval of  his  action.  It  seems  strange  for  me,  as 
an  outsider,  to  be  so  much  mixed  up  with  the  affair, 
and  I  should  be  glad  to  be  well  out  of  it.  But  Neil 
was  once  my  dearest  friend,  and  my  feeble  heart 
leans  pathetically  towards  him  even  now.  Madge  I 
pity,  and  would  help  if  I  could;  but  there  my  hands 
are  bound.  You,  my  dear  boy,  have  a  large  share  in 
the  stock  of  my  affections,  and  your  sister  and  her 
connection  with  this  upheaval  in  the  Barras  family  I 
am  naturally  interested  in  because  of  you,  of  them, 
and  of  Mrs.  Beldon.  So  how  can  I  withdraw  my- 
self from  the  party  trouble  ? 

' '  I  cannot,  as  things  are  now,  go  to  Europe, 
although  I  want  the  book  you  promised  me.  But 
perhaps  I  can  earn  it  by  my  long  letter,  and  an  early 
copy  of  the  novel  of  mine  you  asked  for,  and  which 
will  be  issued  very  soon." 

I  was  still  sitting  over  my  dinner-table 
when  Madge  came  in,  and  throwing  off  her 
silken  wrap,  sat  down  opposite  me. 

"I  could  not  talk  freely  and  openly  with 
you  this  morning,  so  came  over  for  a  bit 
of  conversation  this  evening,  Frank;  and 
now  that  I  am  here,  I  do  not  know  what  to 
say.  The  two  letters  Mrs.  Jaquith  promised 
me  came  directly  after  you  left,  and  they 
were  very  warm-hearted  and  loving.  Mr. 
Jaquith  offers  to  come  on  for  me — isn't  it 
thoughtful  in  him  ? — but  I  think  that  Maurice 
might  perhaps  feel  hurt,  after  he  has  ten- 
dered his  own  company  as  my  escort;  and 
he  has  been  so  kind  and  attentive — both  he 
and  his  wife — in  every  way,  that,  aside  from 
my  personal  preference  to  having  him  take 
me  on,  I  should  not  like  to  decline  the  very 
brotherly  offer  in  order  to  accept  this  from 
Mr.  Jaquith. 

"Do  you  know,  I  seem  to  be  burning  up 
with  an  excited  desire  to  get  back  to  my 


70 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[July, 


old  public  life,  and,  as  I  have  always  prac- 
ticed conscientiously  and  regularly,  I  think 
it  will  not  be  hard  to  regain  my  old  vocal 
standard.  See  how  frivolous  I  am!  I 
seem  to  have  put  everything  away  from  me 
but  my  work.  I  have  never  sung  in  public 
.  in  this  country,  and,  as  a  natural  sequence, 
want  to  succeed  here.  I  held  a  very  good 
place  as  a  singer  in  Europe,  but  was  held 
back  somewhat  then  by  my  invalid  mother; 
and  now  that  I  am  quite  free  and  have  only 
my  own  health  and  study  to  look  after,  am 
full  of  hope  for  my  future  as  a  concert- 
singer." 

"You  will  succeed,  of  course,  Madge,"  I 
answered  her.  "How  could  you  fail  with 
your  ability  and  all  you  have  to  spur  you  on 
to  achievement?  I  want  to  be  at  the  first 
concert  you  give,  and  you  must  let  me  sup- 
ply your  roses  for  that  occasion.  En  passant, 
you  may  be  cramped  for  money — I  speak 
plainly,  as  an  old  and  privileged  friend; 
You  would  not  hesitate  to  ask  me  for  money, 
would  you?  I  should  be  happy  to  be  your 
banker,  or  to  do  anything  that  would  make 
your  road  easier.  Tell  me  truly,  will  you 
honestly  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  the 
least  use  to  you?  Will  you  promise  to  treat 
me  as  a  brother,  and  let  me  do  for  you  just 
those  things  that  a  brother  would  and  could 
do?  Answer  me  honestly" 

"Yes,  Frank,  I  promise  you  this  readily 
enough.  It  will  be  a  great  deal  to  me  to 
know  that  I  can  depend  upon  you,  and  turn 
to  you  always.  Maurice  kindly  (a  cold 
word  to  use  for  such  affectionate  thoughtful- 
ness)  offered  me  the  use  of  his  purse,  and 
I  found  that  in  order  to  avoid  touching  my 
husband's  money  I  must  borrow  from  some 
one,  so  I  took  Maurice  at  his  word,  after 
he  and  his  dear  wife  had  urged  the  ac- 
ceptance of  the  offer  upon  me,  and  made 
me  feel  as  if  it  would  be  a  favor  to  them. 
"But  I  only  borrowed,  mind  you,  and 
would  not  have  taken  the  check  if  they  had 
not  finally  consented  to  my  repaying  it.  I 
want  to  be  as  independent  as  my  unhappy 
situation  will  permit.  But  I  am  more  than 
grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness;  and,  al- 
though my  heart  will  not  let  me  tell  you 


how  deeply  grateful  I  am,  you  will  believe 
and  understand,  I  am  sure,  that  I  am  none 
the  less  appreciative." 

"I  understand.  When  will  you  start  for 
New  York?"  Madge  had  risen  to  go,  and 
was  drawing  her  circular  about  her.  "What 
day  and  at  what  hour?  I  may  at  least  go 
down  to  see  you  off." 

"I  shall  go  to-morrow;  but,  forgive  me, 
you  had  better  not  come  to  the  train.  Just 
now  while  my  heart  is  sore  it  pains  me  to 
have  you  near  when  I  am  doing  that  which 
Neil's  going  away  forces  me  to  do ;  and  leav- 
ing Boston,  notwithstanding  I  am  anxious — 
most  nervously  anxious — to  begin  my  work, 
is  a  trial  to  me.  I  will  write  to  you  from 
New  York,  and  you  shall  hear  all  that  I  ac- 
complish or  think  of  attempting."  She  laid 
her  hand  on  mine.  "  You  will  forgive  this  in 
me,  will  you  not?  I  have  lost  a  little  of 
my  old  self,  and  am  very  selfish  and  bitter 
at  times.  Again,  forgive  me,  and  be  the 
same  true  friend  and  helper  always  that  you 
have  been  in  the  past  to  Neil  and  me. 

"Good  by;  and  if  you  think  of  me  at 
all,  let  it  be  leniently  and  with  a  gracious 
overlooking  of  my  faults.  Once  more,  good 
by." 

She  went  out  and  got  into  Maurice's  car- 
riage, which  was  waiting  at  the  door,  and 
drove  off;  while  I — I  went  back  to  my  lone- 
ly study,  and  if  a  tear  or  two  rolled  down  my 
cheeks,  was  it  from  childishness  or  some- 
thing more  blamable? 

CHAPTER  X. 

"  In  thy  long,  lonely  times,  poor  aching  heart, 
When  days  are  slow,  and  silent  nights  are  sad, 
Take  cheer,  weak  heart,  remember  and  be  glad, 
For  some  one  loved  thee. 

"  God  knows  thy  days  are  desolate,  poor  heart  ! 
As  thou  dost  sit  alone,  and  dumbly  wait 
For  what  comes  not,  or  comes,  alas  !  too  late  ; 
But  some  one  loved  thee." 

"You  will  like  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Barras  is  study- 
ing diligently  and  practicing  With  a  good  deal 
verve  and  interest.  I  only  fear  that  she  will  do  too 
much,  and  break  down  during  the  slimmer.  Pro- 
fessor Batise  pronounces  himself  delighted  with  her 
voice,  and  promises  her  all  sorts  of  pleasant  successes. 


1883.] 


King  Cophetuas  Wife. 


71 


She  signed  a  contract  yesterday  that  will  carry  her 
through  the  season  without  any  great  care  to  herself, 
and  we,  as  you  will  be,  are  very  glad  for  her.  We 
are  enjoying  her  visit  exceedingly,  and  it  makes  my 
mother's  daily  life,  with  such  a  charming  companion, 
extremely  pleasant ;  she  never  tires  of  hearing  Mrs. 
Barras  sing,  and  we  form  a  very  happy  family. 

"  I  have  taken  it  into  my  head  to  sail  for  Europe 
next  week,  and  am  sorry  not  to  see  you  before  I  go. 
But  I  cannot  get  to  Boston,  -and  scarcely  dare  ask 
you  to  come  on  here,  for  you  must  be  busy  over  that 
new  book,  which  I  should  like  to  read  on  my  voyage 
across.  If  you  have  any  message  to  send  to  Harry, 
let  me  have  it,  as  I  shall  in  all  probability  see  him 
soon  after  landing." 

This  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  that  I  re- 
ceived from  Adam  Jaquith  one  June  morn- 
ing, and  I  had  a  quiet  smile  to  myself  in 
thinking  that  he  and  Neil  would  be  likely  to 
meet  in  Mrs.  Beldon's  parlor. 

I  sent  a  uniquely  bound  copy  of  my  book 
to  Harry;  and,  though  I  could  have  very 
well  gone  to  New  York  to  see  Adam  before 
he  sailed,  restrained  the  impulse,  remember- 
ing the  words  with  which  Madge  had  parted 
from  me. 

Maurice  and  his  wife  had  left  for  their 
summer  home  in  Ellenwood,  and  although 
they  brought  their  heaviest  batteries  of  per- 
suasion to  bear  upon  me  in  the  way  of 
accompanying  them,  I  had  stood  out  against 
the  varied  and  attractive  inducements,  and 
had  decided  to  remain  in  Boston  through 
the  summer.  For,  after  all,  the  dear  old 
city  wears  its  most  gracious  smiles  and 
puts  on  its  most  becoming  robes  during  the 
warm  weather.  To  be  sure,  one's  friends — 
or  the  larger  part  of  them — go  away  and 
leave  him  desolate  socially.  But,  if  he 
chooses,  there  are  many  things  he  can 
accomplish  with  less  effort  than  in  the  win- 
ter. For  the  merry  birds  chirp  outside  the 
study  windows,  and  the  sudden  showers  of 
rain  are  sweet  and  eloquent  in  a  city.  Then 
the  street  bands  come  and  quarter  thern- 
selves  beneath  the  window,  and  the  lively 
strains  of  operatic  airs,  or  the  melodious 
and  well-timed  air  of  a  waltz,  pours  into  the 
room,  bearing  its  own  welcome  on  its  throb- 
bing chords. 

Surely  some  of  these  things  give  a  delight 
almost  equal  to  that  we  find  in  the  country 


or  at  the  seaside;  and  all  the  while  we  can 
pursue  an  uninterrupted  routine  of  study,  for 
the  libraries  are  open  and  have  fewer  visit- 
ors, and  therefore  give  us  what  we  are  apt 
to  sometimes  lose  in  the  crowded  social 
season. 

Besides,  at  that  time  I  needed  work — 
active,  toilsome,  mental  occupation — that 
would  fill  my  mind  and  drive  other  and  ab- 
sorbing thoughts  out  of  it,  and,  too,  quiet 
my  fitful  nerves. 

And  the  summer  passed  by — the  brilliant, 
blue-eyed  summer,  breathing  as  she  went 
warm,  perfumed  breaths  overall  humanity; 
while  her  languorous  grace  left  traces  of  its 
sensuous  beauty  everywhere ;  color,  fra- 
grance, and  melody  combined  to  fill  the 
senses  with  all  they  could  desire  in  their 
separate  ways. 

Letters  came  regularly  from  Harry,  and 
finally  one  that  was  a  surprise  to  me. 

"We  are  at  Etretat,  as  you  see  by  the  dating  of 
this  letter;  and  it  is  gay  enough  here,  but  tiresome. 
For  women  have  nothing  to  do  but  dress  and  flirt 
and* promenade,  and  both  my  sister  and  myself  find 
it  very  wearying.  Beulah  mingles  so  little  with 
society  people  now  that  the  sight  of  this  constant 
gayety  annoys  her.  But  she  is  not  in  good  health, 
and  the  physicians  ordered  her  here  to  stay  until  she 
regains  her  strength. 

"  We  were  at  Monte  Carlo  last  week,  and  whom 
do  you  think  came  to  call  upon  us  ?  Adam  Jaquith  ! 
He  has  followed  us  sedulously  ever  since,  and  is  a 
constant  attendant  upon  my  sister.  I  find  him  fine 
and  gentlemanly;  he  is  as  good  to  me  as  though  I 
were  a  child  whom  he  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to 
pet  because  of  the  infant's  physical  frailty,  although 
I  am  really  stronger  than  when  we  left  London. 
Mr.  Barras,  after  three  decided  snubs,  took  the  hint 
and  left  us  at  Paris.  I  did  not  see  him  to  speak 
with  until  the  day  he  went  away,  then  he  called  and 
sent  up  his  card  to  me  with  a  penciled  request  that 
I  would  consent  to  see  him.  We  had  a  spirited  con- 
test; he  was  obstinate  and  I  was  obdurate,  and  we 
told  each  other  an  unlimited  and  unqualified  amount 
of  truth.  At  length  he  got  very  angry  and  de- 
parted. 

"The  best  thing  about  our  small  battle  was  that 
we  were  in  my  sister's  parlor,  and  she — being  in  the 
next  room — had  an  uninterrupted  hearing  of  the 
whole,  much  to  her  enjoyment. 

"  You — I  am  very  open  with  you — would  hardly 
recognize  my  sister  by  her  manner  since  we  left 
America.  There  is  a  great  change  in  her  somehow, 
and  she  has  acquired  an  astonishing  amount  of  dig- 


72 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[July, 


nity  and  reserve  that  I  cannot  in  honesty  attribute 
entirely  to  Hugh's  death. 

"  I  shall  play  here  once  in  the  parlors  of  the 
hotel,  and  we  are  to  leave  in  two  or  three  weeks  for 
Vienna  and  Berlin.  I  wrote  you  fully  of  my  con- 
certs at  Paris,  did  I  not  ?  The  audience  were  de- 
lightful, and  have  raised  much  hope  in  me  for  good 
fortune  at  Berlin  and  elsewhere.  I  do  not  know 
whether  we  shall  get  into  Hungary  or  not ;  it  will 
depend  largely  upon  Beulah.  She  is  not  fond  of 
life  in  Germany  or  Hungary,  although  I  would  not 
have  you  think  that  she  is  morose  and  uncompanion- 
able. She  is  devoted  to  me,  and  seems  to  care  for 
nothing  outside  of  my  physical  wants  and  progress 
in  music.  Here  comes  Jaquith  again,  and  I  must 
close,  as  I  promised  my  sister  to  appear  on  the  scene 
always  when  he  comes  to  call." 

Singularly  enough,  with  the  next  Europe- 
an mail  came  a  brief  note  from  Neil. 

"  I  do  not  dat£  my  letter  nor  give  you  an  address, 
as  I  have  no  wish  to  hear  from  Boston.  I  see  by 
American  papers  that  my  wife  is  to  sing  upon  the 
stage  next  season,  and  under  her  married  name. 
What  business  has  she  to  do  this  ?  I  provided  am- 
ple means  for  her  support,  and  it  is  an  insult  to  my 
honor  and  husbandly  courtesy  that  she  does  such  a 
thing.  What  will  those  who  know  me  think  ?  Natu- 
rally, that  I  have  left  her  with  no  tangible  way  of 
living  except  by  her  labors.  You  ^nay  tell  her  what 
I  think  of  this,  and  also  that  if  she  will  take  another 
name,  or  drop  mine  and  use  the  one  she  bore  when  I 
married  her,  I  will  make  no  trouble  for  her  in  the 
matter." 

I  was  amused,  notwithstanding  my  indig- 
nation, noticing  that  he  said  he  did  not  want 
to  hear  from  Boston,  and  I  wondered  how 
he  would  like  to  hear  from  New  York. 

Saying  to  myself,  "  I  carry  no  more  mes- 
sages from  man  to  wife,  and  never  again  in- 
terfere in  this  matter,"  I  thrust  the  sheet  of 
thin,  foreign  paper  into  the  blaze  of  the  alco- 
hol lamp  on  my  cigar-stand,  and  watched 
the  letter  burst  into  flame  and  drop  in  ash- 
es, that  the  breeze,  coming  through  an  open 
window,  scattered  lightly  on  the  floor.  And 
then  I  began  work  again:  and  the  days — 
some  bright  and  sunny,  fragrant  with  flowers 
and  cheered  by  pleasant  companionship; 
others  dark  with  rain  and  trembling  with 
thunder-bursts — passed  by  so  quickly  I  could 
not  realize  that  they  were  flying  from  me  to 
never  come  back ;  and  so  lightly  departing 
they  left  hardly  a  trace  of  their  presence  on 
my  life. 


In  the  early  autumn  (that  was  almost  like 
summer)  a  letter  from  Madge  brought  me 
tickets  to  the  first  concert  she  was  to  give, 
and  I  went  on  at  once.  I  reached  New 
York  the  day  before  that  of  the  concert,  and 
made  a  call  upon  Mrs.  Jaquith  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  did  not  know  whether  I  should  see 
Mrs.  Barras  or  not,  but  after  Mrs.  Jaquith 
had  been  alone  with  me  for  a  half-hour  (dur- 
ing which  I  resolutely  refrained  from  asking 
anything  whatever  concerning  her  guest),  the 
door  opened,  and  Madge  came  into  the 
room.  She  had  changed  somewhat,  her  face 
was  thinner  than  usual,  and  even  the  Jacque- 
minot roses  on  her  corsage  gave  no  color  to 
her  cheeks.  But  the  cold,  repellant  manner 
that  came  to  her  when  Neil  first  went  away 
had  given  place  to  the  old  cordial  grace, 
coupled,  it  may  be,  with  a  bit  more  of  re- 
serve than  I  had  observed  when  I  first  met 
her.  She  was  elated  with  the  prospect  of 
her  concert,  and  we  three  talked  much  of 
her  music. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Jaquith,  "it  has  been  a 
great  comfort  to  have  Mrs.  Barras  here  with 
me,  for  I  have  had  the  benefit  and  pleasure 
of  her  rehearsing,  and  I  arn  so  carried  away 
by  music  that  very  often  I  have  forgotten  to 
worry  and  distress  myself  over  Adam  (for  I 
generally  am  in  a  nervous  state  of  excitabil- 
ity until  I  hear  that  he  has  landed  on  the 
other  side).  We  mothers  are  foolish  women, 
Mr.  Eldridge,  and  that  is  why  it  is  a  conso- 
lation to  have  Mrs.  Barras  here  as  a  sort  of 
daughter." 

"I  could  not  have  been  much  of  a  conso- 
lation, Mrs.  Jaquith,"  said  Madge,  as  she 
trifled  with  the  lace  and  bows  of  ribbon  on 
her  morning  dress;  "for  I  have  been  a  very 
selfish  guest,  and  have  confined  myself 
almost  wholly  to  practicing  the  scales  in 
the  morning  for  a  couple  of  hours  or  so, 
and  occupying  the  same  length  of  time  in 
the  afternoon  with  concert-pieces.  But  I 
have  been  faithful  to  my  duty,  have  I  not, 
god-mother?"  and  she  turned  towards  Mrs. 
Jaquith. 

"You  certainly  have,  my  child,  and  it  has 
done  you  good  in  many  ways;  that  I  am 
sure  of." 


1383.] 
Mads 


Sunshine  Found. 


73 


Madge  got  up  from  her  chair  and  crossed 
the  room,  the  pale  cashmere  and  white  lace 
of  her  dress  rubbing  my  boots  as  she  passed. 
I  left  my  chair  and  followed  her. 

"What  kind  of  roses  shall  I  have  sent  up 
to  you,  please,  for  the  concert,  Madge? — 
shall  they  be  red  or  white  or  yellow?" 

"Souvenirs,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,  Frank, 
love  their  delicate  color  and  perfume,  and 
perhaps  the  word  'souvenir'  may  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  my  fondness  for  them, 
although  my  remembrances  are  not  all  as 
sweet  as  the  roses  are.  And  I  wanted  to 
ask  if  you  knew  anything  of  Neil's  where- 
abouts. Is  he  in  -Europe?  and  is  Mrs. 
'Beldon  there?" 

"  I  had  a  note  from  Neil  a  while  ago — an 
ungracious  sort  of  note,  that  was  neither 
dated  nor  headed  in  any  way.  He  is  still  in 
Europe,  but  not  with  Mrs.  Beldon,  for  she 
has  snubbed  him  and  sent  him  off." 

"Impossible!" 


"Not  only  possible,  but  true.  Mrs.  Bel- 
don will  not  let  him  approach  her  again. 
You  may  feel  satisfied  concerning  that. 
She  is  a  widow  now,  and  does  not  look  at 
things  as  she  did  when  Hugh  Beldon  was 
alive.  She  has  had  much  real  goodness  be- 
neath the  frivolity  and  careless  air  she  has 
borne,  I  do  not  doubt." 

"Oh,  but  she  took  Neil  away  from  me — 
my  husband,  my  all ;  I  can  never  forget  that 
in  her." 

"My  dear" — Mrs.  Jaquith  put  her  arms 
around  the  waist  of  the  younger  woman — 
"you  have  exerted  yourself  too  much;  be- 
sides, it  is  time  you  began  practice.  Mr. 
Eldridge  will  excuse  you,  I  know." 

So  I  returned  the  old-timed  courtesy  that 
Mrs.  Jaquith  made,  and'  pressed  the  hand 
Madge  held  out;  then  I  passed  from  the 
house,  not  to  see  Mrs.  Barras  again  until 
the  night  of  her  appearance  as  a  public 
singer. 

fames  Berry  BenseL 
[CONTINUED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


SUNSHINE   FOUND. 

THE  wind  with  keen  intention  hies 
From  whitening  sea  to  darkening  land; 

A  whispering  crest  of  brown  spray  flies 
From  every  somber  dune  of  sand. 

I  leave  the  fog-enveloped  shore, 
To  look  for  land  where  sunlight  beams; 

The  rolling  cloud  divides  before, 
And  lets  the  sunshine  through  in  streams 

That  gild  the  dusty  road  ahead; 
And  lo!  like  charm  and  change  in  dreams, 

The  gloom  behind  is  rosy  red; 
The  very  mist  that  chilled  me  so 
Reflects  the  cheery  afterglow. 


74  Pioneer  Sketches. 


PIONEER   SKETCHES.— I.     THE   OLD   LASSEN   TRAIL. 


[July, 


WITH  what  vividness  the  imagination 
dwells  on  the  terrible  pictures  that  have 
been  drawn  of  the  sufferings  of  the  Donner 
party,  as  the  eye  rests  on  a  few  rude  cabins 
near  the  shores  of  Donner  Lake,  in  a  narrow 
valley  low  down  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
Sierras !  We  can  only  form  a  very  inade- 
quate conception,  however,  of  the  difficul- 
ties of  that  route  over  the  icy  mountain 
barriers  when,  to-day,  seated  in  the  comfort- 
able cars  of  the  Central  Pacific,  we  are 
whirled  in  a  few  hours  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Donner  tragedy  to  luxurious 
cities  and  a  land  of  summer  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain's  western  declivity.  A  truer 
estimate  of  these  difficulties  may  be  ob- 
tained by  a  horseback  ride  over  another  of 
the  routes  of  pioneer  immigration,  which 
traverses  a  region  of  the  Sierras  that  has 
since  remained  in  its  almost  primitive  track- 
lessness — the  old  Lassen  trail. 

The  old  pioneer  guide  and  explorer,  Peter 
Lassen — by  birth  a  Dane,  by  occupation  a 
blacksmith — came  to  our  country  in  his 
twenty-ninth  year,  and  after  staying  a  few 
months  in  eastern  cities,  moved  West  and 
settled  in  Missouri.  In  the  spring  of  1839, 
when  he  had  lived  there  about  ten  years,  he 
started  to  cross  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and 
after  the  usual  vicissitudes,  arrived  in  Octo- 
ber of  the  same  year  at  the  Dalles.  He  win- 
tered in  Oregon,  and  then  came  thence  by 
water  to  California,  where  in  1842  we  find 
him  possessor  of  a  band  of  mules,  and  ranch- 
ing his  stock  near  by,  while  he  worked  at 
his  trade  for  Captain  Sutler. 

In  the  summer  of  1843,  while  still  em- 
ployed thus,  Lassen,  with  General  John  Bid- 
well  and  James  Bruheim,  pursued  a  party  of 
emigrants  on  their  way  to  Oregon,  to  recover 
some  stolen  animals.  They  overtook  them 
near  Red  Bluff,  after  a  journey  along  the  Sac- 
ramento, which  gave  them  an  opportunity  to 
see  the  rich  alluvial  character  of  the  country. 
Pleased  with  the  region,  Lassen  applied,  on 


his  return,  to  Governor  Micheltorena  for  a 
grant  of  land  near  the  mouth  of  Deer  Creek ; 
this  he  obtained,  and  early  the  following 
spring  built  thereon  a  fort,  the  first  white 
settlement  in  California  north  of  Marysville. 
This  grant,  now  the  possession  of  ex-Gov- 
ernor Stanford,  soon  became  the  best  known 
and  most  important  point  in  northern  Cal- 
ifornia. It  was  here  Fremont  recruited  his 
party  for  several  months  in  the  spring  of 
1846,  before  starting  for  Oregon.  It  was  to 
this  place,  too,  that  Lieutenant  Gillespie 
came  a  few  days  later,  with  the  letter  of  se- 
cret instructions  from  our  Government  to 
Fremont;  and  he  was  hence  conducted  by 
Lassen  to  the  camp  of  the  "Pathfinder," 
which  they  reached  on  the  night  of  an  at- 
tack by  the  Modocs.  In  obedience  to  this 
message,  Fremont  returned  to  California ; 
and  so  was  begun  that  course  of  events 
which  gave  the  State  to  our  Government. 

In  1848,  after  the  discovery  of  gold,  wish- 
ing probably  to  divert  a  portion  of  the  immi- 
gration to  his  place  from  the  usual  route  by 
the  way  of  the  Humboldt  and  Truckee 
rivers,  Lassen  with  one  companion  started 
to  lay"  out  a  new  road  into  the  upper  end  of 
the  Sacramento  Valley.  They  reached  the 
Humboldt,  and  induced  a  party  with  twelve 
wagons  to  try  the  new  route.  But  instead 
of  turning  off  near  Rabbit  Hole  Springs  and 
going  through  Honey  Lake  Valley,  as  they 
should  have  done,  the*  party  followed  an 
earlier  road  that  went  to  Oregon,  as  far  as 
the  head  waters  of  Pitt  River,  and  thence 
down  a  divide  in  the  mountains  until  they 
struck  their  proper  course  near  the  Big 
Meadows  in  Plumas  County,  where,  unable 
to  proceed  farther,  they  stopped  to  recruit 
their  stock  and  supplies.  Here  they  were 
overtaken  by  a  party  of  Oregonians  on  their 
way  to  the  gold-fields,  and  with  their  aid  all 
reached  Lassen's  ranch  late  in  the  autumn 
in  safety.  In  1849-50  a  large  part  of  the 
immigration  took  this  route,  and  many  who 


[883.] 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


75 


une  late  in  the  fall  had  a  sad  experience 
the  snow  which  blocked  the  mountain 
passes.  One  party  was  snowed  in  without 
provisions,  and  a  government  relief  party 
was  hurriedly  sent  to  its  assistance  when 
word  of  its  precarious  condition  reached  the 
valley.  They  found  the  emigrants  in  the 
snow  on  Pitt  River,  out  of  food  and  suffer- 
ing with  the  scurvy;  and  on  the  ist  of 
December  fifty  families  were  brought  into 
Lassen's  ranch,  much  of  the  latter  part  of 
their  journey  having  been  through  a  blind- 
ing snow-storm.  With  the  generosity  of  the 
true  frontiersman,  Lassen  invited  them  to 
slay  and  eat  of  his  flocks,  and  recruit  their 
exhausted  animals  in  his  pastures,  and  as- 
sisted them  in  every  way  in  his  power,  know- 
ing well  they  could  make  no  reparation.  His 
conduct  contrasted  pleasantly  with  that  of 
some  others,  who  unscrupulously  fleeced  the 
travel-worn  new-comers  by  almost  every  de- 
vice in  their  power  short  of  a  more  honor- 
able, open  highway  robbery. 

Says  the  late  History  of  Plumas,  Lassen, 
and  Sierra  Counties:  "The  experience  of 
those  who  had  departed  from  the  regular  trail 
in  1849 t°  tr7  Lassen's  road  became  generally 
known  in  the  Stare;  and  two  or  three  years 
later,  when  many  Californians  were  returning 
again  to  this  State,  having  gone  home  for 
their  families,  it  was  almost  as  much  as  a 
man's  life  was  worth  to  endeavor  to  seduce 
emigrants  from  the  old  route  and  attempt 
any  of  the  new  passes  and  cut-offs." 

The  writer  has  often  traveled  Lassen's  old 
trail.  Leaving  the  Sacramento  Valley  on  the 
south  side  of  Mill  Creek,  it  leads  up  the 
crest  of  a  long,  ascending  ridge  or  spur  of 
volcanic  formation.  During  the  tertiary 
period,  these  mountains  poured  forth  from 
volcano  and  fissure  a  deluge  of  molten  lava 
and  volcanic  mud.  In  flood  after  flood, 
filling  every  depression,  it  poured  through 
gorge  and  defile,  and  spreading  over  the 
western  slope,  formed  one  vast  inclined 
plane,  extending  from  north  of  Battle  Creek 
to  Feather  River.  Torrent  and  glacier  have 
since  scored  this  throughout  with  a  venation 
of  dark,  deep  canons  and  ravines,  so  that 
to-day  it  presents  a  succession  of  brown, 


bare,  rugged  ridges,  shallow  of  soil,  strewn 
with  irregular  lava  fragments,  and  bearing  a 
scanty  growth  of  gnarled  and  twisted  digger- 
pines,  oaks,  and  chaparral,  that  have  a  lichen- 
like  appearance  and  seem  in  perfect  harmony 
with  their  surroundings.  Consistent  through- 
out, nature  has  toned  all  in  dull,  monotonous 
colors.  The  crimson  is  like  iron  rust,  and 
the  green  is  as  though  clouded  with  dust. 
There  are,  however,  certain  elements  of 
picturesqueness.  Along  the  water-courses 
grow  lighter,  brighter  cotton-woods  and  balm- 
of-Gileads  corded  with  convolvulus,  and  we 
often  see  crag,  tree,  and  vine  beautifully  twist- 
ed together.  Dusty  and  destitute  of  water  in 
summer,  and  miry  and  storm-swept  during 
the  rainy  season,  these  hills  are  yet,  in  the 
awakening  spring,  the  dreamer's  paradise. 
Then  the  sky  is  of  the  divinest  blue,  the 
weather  is  warm  and  pleasant,  and  the  air 
is  soft,  with  a  peculiar  and  subtle  influence 
toward  languor.  The  trees  are  all  in  leaf, 
every  bush  is  covered  with  flowers,  and 
every  plant  is  in  bloom.  This,  however,  is 
the  winter  pasture  of  thousands  of  sheep, 
and  the  weather-stained  hovels  of  the  herd- 
ers are  the  only  human  habitations  seen 
along  the  route. 

Some  twenty  years  ago,  several  citizens  of 
Tehama  made  an  attempt  at  constructing  a 
wagon  road  here.  They  were  unsuccessful 
in  opening  the  way  to  travel,  and  nothing 
has  since  been  done  in  that  direction. 
Except  for  the  work  then  done,  however, 
this  lower  portion  of  the  trail  would  be  for 
wheeled  vehicles  absolutely  impassable.  As 
it  is,  only  hunting  parties  ever  travel  it  with 
wagons,  and  they  never  attempt  going  thus 
farther  than  to  Steep  Hollow  —  a  rough, 
rocky  place,  where  one  feels  a  thrill  of  dan- 
ger as  he  rides  along  on  a  sure-footed  horse. 
The  ridge  is,  notwithstanding,  well  adapted 
for  constructing,  at  a  small  expense,  a  good 
road  of  easy,  uninterrupted  ascent.  Water, 
however,  would  be  scarce  through  the  sum- 
mer season,  for  there  are  only  three  or  four 
small  brackish  springs  available  between  the 
valley  and  pine  timber. 

Scattered  along  the  way,  one  sees  first  a 
strap  or  band  of  iron,  next  a  wagon-axle  or 


76 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


[July, 


tire,  and  finally  the  remains  of  entire  wagons 
— mute  reminders  that  the  journey  here  was, 
for  those  travel-wearied  land-mariners,  no 
holiday  excursion.  Not  so  sad  these,  how- 
ever, as  the  small  circle  of  stones  at  Ten- 
mile  Hollow  that  marks  the  last  resting 
place  of  one  whom  death  overtook  just,  it 
must  have  seemed,  as  he  was  on  the  brink 
of  the  realization  of  his  golden  hopes. 

A  few  years  since,  this  whole  region  was 
the  hunting-ground  of  the  Mill  Creek  or 
Nosea  tribe  of  Indians.  They  built  their 
wickiups  by  every  spring  and  stream,  and 
their  evening  fires  glared  within  every  hab- 
itable cavern.  Doubtless,  the  warriors  fan- 
cied their  tribe  the  most  numerous,  thieving, 
blood-thirsty,  and  redoubtable  on  earth,  and 
the  Mohalies  hushed  their  papooses  with 
thrilling  strains  on  this  inspiring  theme. 
But  a  strange  race  trailed  down  this  ridge, 
and  settled  in  the  valley  below. 

"Between  the  white  man  and  the  red 
There  lies  no  neutral,  half-way  ground." 

Wrong  begets  wrong,  and  vengeance  calls 
down  vengeance;  steel  is  not  less  hard  when 
tempered,  polished,  and  sharpened;  nor  was 
the  white  men's  conduct  in  their  dealings  to- 
gether ever  more  lenient  than  their  red  broth- 
ers. Of  course  the  pale  faces'  herds  would 
wander  into  these  fastnesses,  and  nothing 
more  likely  than  that  the  red  man  should  kill 
and  eat  of  them.  Such  depredations  passed 
not  unpunished.  The  mustering,  the  sur- 
prise, the  fray,  and  the  triumph  but  give  zest 
to  the  stirring  life  of  the  border,  and  the  rifle 
ever  meted  to  these  savages  swift  retaliation. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise  than  that  the  inno- 
cent suffered  with  the  guilty.  In  return, 
the  Mill  Creeks,  instigated  partly  by  the 
worst  Indians  of  other  tribes,  and  at  times 
no  doubt  by  renegade  whites,  made  raids 
along  the  borders  of  the  valley,  burning 
houses  and  ravishing,  murdering,  and  muti- 
lating women  and  children.  After  such 
inroads,  Hi.  Good,  Sandy  Young,  and  a  few 
kindred  spirits  would  track  them  to  these 
wilds,  often  sleeping  hid  amid  crags  and 
bushes  by  day,  and  looking  for  their  fires  at 
night,  until,  with  the  morning  light,  the 


rifle's  report  and  the  leaden  bullet  gave  first 
intimation  of  danger  to  the  Indians.  At 
one  time  Good  destroyed  sixty  scalps  which 
he  had  taken  in  these  various  expeditions. 
It  was  long  unsafe  for  any  but  armed  parties 
to  travel  through  their  country,  and  occasion- 
ally some  solitary  traveler  who  attempted  to 
pass  over  this  trail  would  never  be  heard  of 
again. 

The  once  numerous  tribe  is  now  almost 
extinct.  For  years  past,  only  at  intervals 
have  hunters  and  stock-men  caught  glimpses 
of  some  unkempt,  half-naked,  beast-like 
creatures  hiding  like  wild  animals  from  their 
approach.  About  a  year  ago,  on  several 
different  occasions,  two  or  three  of  these 
Indians  at  a  time  came  to  the  home  of  Mr. 
Turner,  on  a  tributary  branch  of  the  Ante- 
lope. Two  young  squaws  first  came,  who 
seemed  to  explain  by  signs  that  they  had  left 
the  Indians  because  one  had  killed  a  babe 
of  the  eldest  girl  lest  its  cries  should  dis- 
cover them  to  the  whites.  Many  kindly 
disposed  persons  sent  these  girls  clothing 
and  provisions.  Others  afterwards  came  in. 
They  showed  their  camp  in  a  rough,  unfre- 
quented part  of  the  canon,  and  it  seemed 
they  desired  peaceable  intercourse  with  the 
whites.  Some  reckless  fellows  who  lived  in 
these  hills,  learning  all  this,  armed  them- 
selves and  attempted  to  surprise  them  in 
their  home.  Failing  in  this,  they  set  fire  to 
their  really  comfortable  quarters,  and  these, 
with  their  utensils,  bedding,  and  winter 
store  of  wild  oats,  acorns,  etc.,  were  all  con- 
sumed. Seeing  no  Indians,  the  bravoes 
fired  a  fusillade  at  surrounding  rocks  and 
bushes,  and  retired,  says  one,  "all  covered 
with  glory." 

The  two  squaws  at  Mr.  Turner's,  on  at- 
tempting to  rejoin  their  people  shortly  af- 
terwards, were  tracked  by  some  of  the  same 
men  to  a  cave  and  captured;  after  being 
held  captive  some  time  they  were  taken  to 
Red  Bluff.  The  authorities  there  provided 
them  with  a  prison  cell  over  one  night,  and 
in  the  morning  turned  them  loose  to  "shift" 
for  themselves.  The  younger,  a  mere  girl, 
died  a  few  months  after.  The  other,  we  be- 
lieve, is  now  on  a  government  reservation. 


1883.] 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


77 


A  few  months  since,  a  ragged,  dirty,  half- 
clad,  very  old  man  and  woman,  scarred  and 
crippled  and  bent  with  age,  their  heads  cov- 
ered with  sunburnt  clay  and  their  faces 
smeared  with  tar,  along  with  two  other 
younger  men  of  somewhat  similar  appear- 
ance, came  to  Buck's  Flat,  and  after  uneasily 
staying  a  few  hours,  stole  away.  These  are 
the  last  of  the  Mill  Creeks.  They  had  with 
them  no  weapons,  and  they  understood  no 
English.  They  gave  a  small  sum  of  naoney 
to  the  proprietor  of  the  place,  and  although 
apparently  regarding  the  whites  with  suspi- 
cion, seemed  friendly  in  all  their  intentions. 

A  retributive  fate  scarcely  less  complete 
than  this  tribe's  has  been  that  of  their  old- 
time  foes,  nearly  all  of  whom  have  met 
deaths  by  violence. 

It  was  at  one  time  a  popular  belief  that 
this  tribe  had  a  large  treasure  somewhere 
secreted  in  these  hills.  As  it  was  their  cus- 
tom, however,  to  burn  or  bury  everything 
of  value  owned  by  the  deceased  along  the 
with  the  body,  this  could  never  have  been 
true.  Indeed,  Good  and  a  comrade  once 
found  three  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  in  the 
ashes  of  one  of  their  funeral  pyres. 

Several  of  the  old  smoke-stained  caverns 
once  inhabited  by  the  Indians  are  within 
sight  of  our  course.  Lying  in  one  of  these — 
the  dark,  overhanging  rock  coated  above  with 
smoke,  a  bed  of  bone-strewn  dirt  and  ashes 
for  the  floor,  a  screen  of  trees  and  bushes  in 
front,  and  Nature  lowering  dark,  wild,  un- 
tilled  around — one  lets,  fancy  fly  to  the 
heart  of  Asia,  and  picture  there,  away  back 
in  time,  a  simian  group  similarly  surrounded, 
clustering,  half-pleased,  half-terrified,  around 
the  warmth  of  a  blazing  pile  of  fagots 
which  they  had  in  some  way  succeeded  for 
the  first  time  in  kindling;  and  there,  we  sur- 
mise, began  to  differentiate  the  ape  and  man. 

Eighteen  miles  of  dreary  foot-hill  travel, 
and  the  soil  deepens,  the  stunted  trees  give 
place  to  a  larger  and  more  attractive  growth, 
and  the  spirit  gives  a  bound  of  exhilaration 
which  seems  shared  even  by  the  brutes  as 
we  shortly  enter  the  belt  of  coniferous  trees 
which  cover  these  mountains  in  one  great 
continuous  wood.  One  who  has  never  vis- 


ited these  forests  gathers  from  description 
but  a  vague  conception  of  their  beauty, 
strength,  and  grandeur.  Magnificent  shafts 
six  and  eight  feet  thick,  towering  often  two  or 
three  hundred  feet  in  perfect  symmetry,  and 
decked  with  delicate,  dark-hued  drapery,  in- 
terspersed with  tall  oaks,  form  a  cool,  deep, 
and  silent  grove.  Just  within  the  skirts  of 
the  pine  timber  is  the  humble  abode  of  an 
old  hunter,  one  of  the  companions  of  Hi. 
Good.  The  view  from  the  cabin  is  inspir- 
ing. One  looks  over  wrinkled  ridges  and 
craggy  g°rges,  the  valley  with  its  belts  of 
timber  and  breadth  of  plain,  and  the  long 
line  of  the  round-topped  Coast  Range,  from 
snow-mantled  Shasta  in  the  north  to  far 
beyond  the  jagged  peaks  of  the  Marysville 
buttes  in  the  south — the  whole  landscape 
outspread  like  an  enormous  chart. 

Let  a  man  come  from  the  ways  of  settled 
life  and  the  sight  of  "man's  inhumanity  to 
man,"  of  the  poor  losing  all  independent 
thought  or  higher  feeling,  and  of  the  rich 
craving  for  more  gain  until  "only  the  ledger 
lives,"  and  then  breathe  this  pure  air  fragrant 
with  the  breath  of  the  pines,  and  drink  of 
these  cool  and  shaded  springs  that  seem  the 
realization  of  that  fount  in  search  of  which 
Ponce  de  Leon  threaded  the  miasmatic 
canebrakes  of  Florida  in  vain;  let  him  listen 
to  the  birds  and  running  waters,  the  rifle 
ringing  through  the  cliff-hung  forest  glades, 
and  the  wind  in  the  pines;  let  him  watch  the 
heaps  of  cloud  that  mold  themselves  to  the 
shape  of  the  mountains  they  rest  on,  or  float 
like  ships  on  a  deep  sea  of  sky,  the  vapor 
curtains  that  trail  refreshing  showers,  and 
the  storm-dragons  that  creep  up  the  canons ; 
let  him  see  the  sun  set  and  evening  creep 
weirdly  up  out  of  the  abysses  until  night  and 
darkness  reign,  and  only  the  black  silhouette 
of  a  sleeping  world  is  faintly  outlined  on  a 
tintless  sky,  until  at  length  the  moon  rises 
above  snow-marbled  mountain  ranks,  and 
streams  through  leafy  arches,  pine  colon- 
nades, and  rocky  galleries  down  upon  silvery 
reaches  of  water — a  wild,  transmuting  luster ; 
— and  he  will  cease  to  wonder  that  man  is  a 
born  hunter  and  gravitates  to  this  careless 
life  of  nature  and  freedom. 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


A  mile  beyond  the  cabin,  in  a  hollow  near 
Burnt  Corral,  are  two  old  boat-gunwales  that 
Lassen  had  hewn  out,  and  close  by,  the  re- 
mains of  an  old  emigrant  wagon.  The  rap- 
ping of  the  woodpecker,  the  sharp  cry  of 
the  jay,  and  the  mournful  note  of  the  dove 
are  now  the  only  sounds  to  break  the  still- 
ness of  the  woods.  Along  the  ridge  above 
here  are  often  jutting  ledges  of  shelly  rock 
(phonolite),  looking  somewhat  like  slate  but 
without  the  fine  lamination ;  these  are  ap- 
parently of  an  earlier  formation  than  most  of 
the  hills  below.  The  rims,  or  edges,  mark- 
ing the  successive  stages  of  the  later  lava 
floods  now  form  long  lines  of  castellated 
ledges  along  the  sides  of  the  canons,  corre- 
sponding in  height  and  inclination  along  op- 
posite walls,  and  broken  and  cut  entirely 
through  by  the  side  ravines. 

Here  truly  is  "Nature's  volcanic  amphi- 
theater." Piled  in  close  juxtaposition  are 
many  varieties  of  igneous  rock,  in  one  place 
appearing  firm  and  like  granite,  in  another 
porous  and  like  slag  from  a  furnace;  here  a 
slightly  cemented  bed  of  ashes,  mud,  and 
scoria,  and  there  a  hard  conglomeration  of 
lava-imbedded  fragments  of  older  rocks. 
Now  crystalline  and  columnar,  and  again 
viscid  or  wax-like,  often  metamorphic,  grad- 
uating by  insensible  degrees  into  one  an- 
other, and  varying  endlessly  in  color  and 
superposition,  they  present  here  a  fine  field 
for  the  study  of  this  branch  of  geology,  and 
for  much  careful  scientific  examination. 

Throughout  this  section,  north  of  Butte 
Creek  and  its  tributaries,  no  gold  mines  that 
pay  for  the  working  appear  to  have  yet  been 
discovered.  The  bottoms  of  the  canons  in 
most  places  are  not  yet  worn  through  the 
layer  of  lava,  and  where  they  are,  generally 
only  sandstone  has  been  reached.  Now,  it 
is  well  known  to  geologists  that  the  quartz 
veins  of  California  never  come  up  through 
either  sandstone  or  lava.  It  is  further  known 
that  placer  mines  are  only  found  over  those 
surfaces  where  there  are  quartz  outcroppings, 
except  in  locations  to  which  gold  has  been 
washed  by  river  channels  sometimes  now 
extinct.  Thus,  while  the  canon  of  Butte 
Creek  next  to  the  Sacramento  Valley  is  only 


through  the  volcanic  rocks  down  to  an  un- 
derlying stratum  of  sandstone,  higher  up  it 
is  through  slate  and  other  rocks  of  the  pe- 
riod of  quartz  veins,  the  outcroppings  of 
which  thereabouts  abound.  From  this  high- 
er and  earlier  formation  the  gold  has  been 
carried  over  the  sandstone  by  the  rivers  of 
the  present  period  and  of  a  period  preceding 
the  lava,  and  deposited  by  the  sorting  power 
of  water  in  their  channels.  I  am  somewhat 
extensively  acquainted  with  the  water  basins 
of  Deer  Creek,  Mill  Creek,  and  Battle  Creek, 
and  where  the  lava  blanket  of  the  country 
has  been  cut  through,  the  top  of  ancient 
hills  destitute  of  any  old  river-beds  usually 
appears  to  have  been  reached.  Towards 
the  sources  of  these  streams  I  have  never 
seen  any  quartz  outcroppings  bearing  gold, 
and  not  one  well-defined  lead  has  ever  been 
thereabout  discovered.  Gold  collects  so 
that  in  all  new  mining  districts  almost  fabu- 
lous sums  are  at  first  obtained.  And  surely, 
in  a  country  like  this,  so  cut  up  by  ravines, 
if  gold  were  present  there  would  at  least  be 
some  in  the  channels;  yet  here  localities  are 
scarce  where  any  "prospects"  can  be  found, 
not  to  speak  of  extensive  diggings  worth  the 
working;  and  the  wonder  is,  that  if  they  ex- 
ist here  in  a  district  so  accessible,  those 
"dragons  of  the  prime,"  the  old  miners, 
should  have  left  them  so  long  undiscovered. 
Still,  parties  are  frequently  endeavoring  to 
create  mining  excitements  in  these  localities, 
since  it  is  one  of  the  respectable  pursuits  of 
citizens  of  our  country  to  involve  eastern  or 
other  capital  in  schemes  for  the  opening  of 
worthless  mines — all  for  the  purpose,  no 
doubt,  that  the  successful  schemers  may 
ennoble  their  characters  by  resisting  every 
temptation  thereby  presented  to  fatten  and 
enrich  themselves  on  the  spoil.  This  is  one 
of  the  modes  of  mining  on  which  our  courts 
have  never  placed  an  injunction,  and  there 
is  no  efficient  moral  tone  to  censure  it.  We 
forget  that  our  State  everywhere  offers  open- 
ings for  the  profitable  employment  of  labor 
and  capital,  and  that  such  proceedings  will 
eventually  discourage  investment  in  honest 
enterprise.  The  public  often  knowingly 
countenances  and  furthers  these  operations, 


1883.] 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


79 


usually  from  some  such  consideration  as 
that  it  is  only  outside  capital  that  will  thus 
become  distributed  in  their  neighborhood, 
and  that  it  is  better  that  ninety-nine  of  these 
victimizing  schemes  should  be  successful 
than  that  one  legitimate  industry  should 
suffer.  It  is  trite  to  speak  of  the  excitement 
of  mining;  that  it  possesses  the  fascination 
without  the  evil  of  gambling;  that  it  is  a  spe- 
cies of  lottery  in  which  tickets  are  bought  to 
draw  on  the  earth's  hidden  treasures,  and 
the  like.  We  will  presume,  too,  every  per- 
son's money  is  his  own  to  invest  as  he  pleas- 
es; but  our  eastern  brothers  and  English 
cousins  may  rest  assured  that  in  stock-job- 
bing operations  the  dice  are  always  loaded. 

The  Deer  Creek  mines  in  the  canon  of 
that  name  are  two  or  three  miles  from  Burnt 
Corral.  Here  an  ancient  ridge,  or  perhaps 
rather  a  succession  of  ridges,  of  slate,  run- 
ning about  parallel  with  the  general  course 
of  the  present  mountain  chain,  has  been 
crossed  by  the  trough  of  the  canon.  Quartz 
seams  and  decomposed  quartz  are  found  to 
some  extent  here,  and  several  beds  of  gravel 
project  from  beneath  the  volcanic  rock.  In 
one  mining  excavation  here  the  lava  plate 
has  been  undermined  and  its  edge  broken 
off  in  blocks  as  large  as  a  cabin.  Below  the 
slate  ridges,  the  creek  flows  a  short  distance 
over  a  bed  of  sandstone,  and  then  continues 
again  over  the  lava  until  it  reaches  the  val- 
ley. Above,  it  is  uninterruptedly  over  lava 
to  the  very  source.  Here  a  Boston  com- 
pany has  constructed  ten  or  twelve  miles  of 
road  to  connect  with  the  Humboldt  road. 
They  have  built  a  water-power  sawmill,  and 
sawed  lumber  and  constructed  nearly  four 
miles  of  flume  to  bring  the  waters  of  Deer 
Creek  on  to  the  mines.  The  flume  is  six 
feet  wide  by  four  high,  and  winds  through 
one  of  the  roughest  portions  of  the  canon. 
Now  it  runs  in  the  cool  shadow  of  rocks  and 
trees,  and  now  is  carried  above  their  tops. 
In  one  place  it  crosses  a  ravine  one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  above  its  bed.  In  another  it 
rounds  a  crag  overhanging  the  torrent  boil 
ing  two  hundred  feet  below ;  while  above,  a 
precipitous  ascent  of  bare  cliffs  and  talus  of 
nearly  a  thousand  feet  is  crowned  by  a  long, 


black,  perpendicular  ledge  of  columnar  ba- 
salt two  or  three  hundred  feet  high.  At  the 
head  of  the  flume,  between  two  lava  ledges, 
not  more  than  forty  feet  apart,  a  very  sub- 
stantial dam,  perhaps  twenty  feet  high,  has 
been  constructed  across  the  stream.  Above 
this  dam,  in  a  dark  setting  of  rocks,  is  a  little 
clear,  placid,  gem-like  mirror  of  water.  The 
work  all  seems  done  in  good  faith,  and  much 
method  is  shown  throughout.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion whether  the  mines  warrant  being  opened 
in  this  manner.  But  were  the  canon  located 
in  the  lavaless  East,  it  would  as  a  tourists'  re- 
sort outrival  Niagara  or  the  White  Mountains. 

Very  beautiful  are  the  mountain  waters. 
Conifers,  mountain -maple,  balm-of-Gilead, 
wild  nutmeg,  bayou,  black  and  live  oak, 
commingle,  and  with  huge  crags  form  a 
lordly  avenue  for  the  wildly  winding  stream 
'below.  This,  cold,  clear,  and  capricious, 
with  a  thousand  lights  and  shadows,  now 
moves  dreamily  along  beneath  mossy  ledges 
and  green  gloom  of  wood,  with  circling  pool 
and  eddy,  and  now  dashes  off  among  rocks 
and  bowlders — a  fierce,  white,  tumultuous 
torrent.  Everywhere,  too,  rills  hid  by  ferns 
and  rushes  come  stealing  in  like  baby  Un- 
dines. 

Along  the  trail  above  Burnt  Corral,  the 
forests  grow  denser,  and  our  horses'  foot- 
steps are  muffled  by  mountain  carpet  and  a 
cushion  of  pine  leaves.  There  is  at  times 
something  peculiarly  mournful  in  wandering 
alone  in  these  silent  woods.  I  know  not 
whether  it  is  the  stillness  broken  only  by  the 
calls  of  the  wild  creatures,  or  the  vastness 
and  unchangeableness  of  nature  in  contrast 
with  the  ephemeral  littleness  of  man,  or 
the  associations  of  the  past;  perhaps  it  is 
only  the  pain  that  always  tinges  our  most  in- 
tense pleasures — the  ominous  misgiving  that 
the  happy  moments  are  going  fast  and  never 
will  return. 

The  ridge  is  for  the  most  part  narrower 
than  some  others  that  have  already  been 
nearly  stripped  of  timber.  There  are  here, 
however,  no  bald,  chemisal  summits  rising 
above  the  forest  zone,  as  elsewhere,  but  all  is 
wooded  to  the  very  peak  with  the  finest 
of  timber.  Many  excellent  sawmill  sites 


80 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


[July, 


abound,  but  I  have  been  told  the  Sierra 
Flume  and  Lumber  Company  have  secured 
titles  to  the  most  desirable.  We  pass  suc- 
cessively Bluff  Camp,  The  Narrows,  and 
Lost  Camp,  about  a  mile  between  each,  and 
count  the  remains  of  four  entire  wagons 
beside  the  way,  within  a  distance  of  as  many 
miles.  At  Lost  Camp,  in  1849,  a  Mr.  Bur- 
rows and  wife,  and  one  other  man,  doubtful 
of  their  way,  left  their  outfit  in  camp  while 
they  went  ahead  to  find  the  route.  Return- 
ing, they  found  the  Indians  had  visited  the 
camp  and  robbed  them  of  their  little  all. 
Taking  their  tracks  in  the  snow,  they  followed 
them  into  Deer  Creek  canon  and  killed  two, 
not  only  recovering  their  own  provisions,  but 
capturing  more.  How  the  savages  probably 
looked  on  this  may  be  inferred  from  an  ob- 
servation once  made  to  me  by  a  Big  M«adow 
Indian.  He  said  that,  while  the  members  of 
a  train  that  in  an  early  day  were  encamped 
near  the  big  springs  in  that  valley  were  all 
out  fishing,  a  kinsman  of  his,  passing  the 
wagons,  saw  a  plate  of  biscuits  and  took  a 
few.  Some  of  the  members  of  the  train, 
shortly  after  returning  and  missing  them, 
followed  and  shot  the  Indian;  and  he  pa- 
thetically concluded,  "It  was  a  pretty  small 
thing  to  kill  a  man  for — just  for  taking  a  lit- 
tle bread."  Yet,  although  the  Indians  could 
not  know  it,  in  both  instances  doubtless  that 
little  was  well-nigh  their 'all. 

Apropos  of  the  appellation  "Lost" — it  has 
been  bestowed  upon  more  than  one  locality 
along  the  route,  as  Lost  Corral,  Lost  Creek, 
and  so  on,  each  recurringly  suggestive  of 
that  hideous  terror  that  shadowed  the  way. 
To  immigrants  delayed  by  the  circuitous 
course  until  after  the  winter  storms  had 
commenced,  the  mountain  passes  were  at 
times  a  veiled  wilderness  of  wooded  ridges. 
Sun,  moon,  and  surrounding  landmarks  were 
shut  out  by  a  mottled  screen  that  dropped 
a  white  folding  over  brush,  rocks,  fallen  tim- 
ber, and  all  the  markings  of  their  then  miry 
course;  and  the  snow-cumbered  forest  be- 
came an  intricate  maze,  overspreading  oozy 
marshes,  rough  ridges,  and  wild  ravines  that 
lay  between  them  and  the  El  Dorado  of  their 
hopes — the  valley  of  the  Sacramento.  I  was 


myself  once  so  bewildered  here  in  a  winter 
storm,  that  after  wandering  in  a  circle  until 
I  came  upon  my  own  tracks,  I  took  them 
for  those  of  some  other  traveler  until  long 
and  careful  scrutiny  showed,  my  mistake. 

Lassen  once  narrowly  escaped  being  hung 
by  emigrants  for  leading  them  astray.  Many 
versions  are  given  of  this  story.  It  appears 
that  when  he  went  out  to  meet  the  emi- 
grants, he  passed  through  Big  Meadows,  but 
did  not  see  the  valley  of  Mountain  Meadows. 
On  his  return,  he  discovered  this  valley, 
mistook  it  for  Big  Meadows,  and  turned  west, 
which  would  have  been  the  proper  course 
from  Big  Meadows;  and  thus  he  became 
utterly  lost  in  the  region  of  the  Black  Buttes. 
Suspecting  him  of  treachery,  the  emigrants 
placed  him  under  guard.  They  had  even 
run  two  wagons  together  so  that  their 
tongues  were  raised,  like  the  letter  A  with- 
out its  cross,  thus  forming  a  rude  gallows; 
but  fortunately  proceedings  were  here  stayed 
by  the  return  of  two  of  the  party  who  had 
been  exploring  the  country,  and  who  re- 
ported having  seen  the  Big  Meadows  from 
a  neighboring  elevation. 

In  some  five  miles'  travel  from  Lost 
Camp,  at  an  elevation  of  about  six  thousand 
feet,  we  reach  the  summit.  The  ascent 
is  so  gradual  that  a  stranger  might  be  un- 
able to  tell  where  the  crest  was  passed. 
The  trail  winds  at  times  along  the  verge  of 
Mill  Creek  Canon,  and  again  is  deep  hid- 
den in  timbered  flats  and  hollows.  Some 
old  blazes,  sticks  set  occasionally  against  the 
trunks  of  trees,  a  few  small  piles  of  rocks, 
and  the  broken  parts  of  old  emigrant  wagons 
placed  so  as  to  attract  attention,  are  the 
only  markings  of  the  path.  For  the  first 
time  along  the  trail,  we  have  from  the  sum- 
mit a  magnificent  view  of  the  dark  form  of 
Mt.  Lassen,  that,  flecked  with  great  patches 
of  eternal  snow,  towers  above  a  billowy  sea 
of  surrounding  mountains  in  cold  and  silent 
sublimity. 

Most  savages  avoid  wintry  peaks,  and 
look  upon  them  with  a  kind  of  mystery  and 
dread.  In  a  sort  of  vague  way  they,  like 
the  Greeks,  relegate  to  the  cloud-capped 
pinnacles  the  habitation  of  their  god.  And 


1883.] 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


81 


do  not  mountain  wilds  and  barrens  retain  a 
sway  over  enlightened  man  also?  The  Ti- 
tanic forces,  here  more  than  elsewhere  dis- 
played, inspire  a  terror  and  a  sense  of 
nature's  peculiar  indifference  here  to  human 
welfare  or  suffering.  Yet  it  is  not  merely 
terror,  but  a  sublimer  awe,  that  the  moun- 
tains inspire  in  him;  on  the  silent  summits 
still  linger  the  footprints  of  Deity — not  in 
rock  or  snow,  but  in  the  beauty,  grandeur, 
and  eternity  there  enthroned.  There  with 
his  poets  he  stands,  "enrapt,  transfused," 
until  the  mighty  vision  outrolled,  though 
still  visible,  vanishes,  and  he  bows  to  the 
invisible  alone.  The  mountains  and  the 
unmeasurable  enter  the  soul  and  abide 
there.  Intuition  may  be  simply  an  inability 
to  understand  but  the  one  view;  our  best 
knowledge  of  the  existence  of  a  God  may  be 
our  utter  powerlessness  to  conceive  how  all 
beauty  and  order  and  our  conscious  selves 
sprang  into  being  except  through  his  agen- 
cy. Yet,  reflecting  on  the  terrible  convul- 
sions through  which  these  glorious  mountains 
have  been  ultimately  wrought  out,  it  seems 
easier  to  discern  something  like  a  parallel 
toward  a  higher  destiny  of  our  race;  and 
often  amid  the  sentinel  peaks  a  more  subtle 
influence  "whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 
in  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well." 

About  the  summit  a  great  variety  of  trap- 
pean  rocks  are  noticed,  phonolite,  perhaps, 
being  predominant;  but  this  gives  place, 
some  six  miles  farther  along,  to  a  ridge  of 
volcanic  ash  and  cinders.  The  eastern  slope 
is  no  more  precipitous  than  that  on  the  west. 
The  trail  leads  along  a  terrace  of  the  ridge 
dividing  Mill  Creek  and  Deer  Creek,  on  the 
side  next  the  latter.  It  crosses  a  succession 
of  flat  ridges  and  ravines  with  sparkling 
streams.  Many  excellent  sawmill  sites 
abound.  The  time  cannot  be  far  distant 
when  long  "V"  flumes  will  carry  lumber 
through  the  mountain  gorges  from  here  to 
the  valley,  and  the  noise  of  the  lumber 
manufactories  will  resound  throughout  these 
woods.  We  pass  several  little  grassy  spots, 
and  twelve  miles  from  the  summit  reach 
Deer  Creek  Meadows,  the  property  of  the 
Sierra  Flume  and  Lumber  Company. 
VOL.  II.— 6. 


Here  a  really  romantic  valley,  with  fresh 
grassy  meads  pleasantly  diversified  with 
clumps  of  tamarack,  balm-of-Gilead,  and 
quaking  aspen,  and  encircled  by  deep  ever- 
green forests,  nestles  in  the  embrace  of  the 
snowy  mountains.  Deer  Creek  forks  in  the 
lower  part,  and  the  branches  wind  through 
the  valley,  their  banks  fringed  with  sedge 
and  willows,  and  their  waters  alive  with 
trout.  The  early  emigrants  here  encamped 
and  mowed  hay  to  feed  their  stock  on  their 
journey  across  the  summit.  Their  old  wag- 
on-tracks over  the  sward  are  still  plainly 
visible.  An  old  log  cabin  is  the  only  hab- 
itation of  the  place. 

It  is  customary  with  stock-men  to  range 
their  flocks  and  herds  in  the  Sacramento 
Valley  and  along  the  foothills  during  the 
winter,  and  to  drive  them  into  the  mountains 
for  summer  pasturage.  In  some  little  valley 
they  build  a  cabin,  stable,  and  corral,  and 
fence  a  small  pasture  for  their  work-horses ; 
and  here,  with  rifle  and  fishing-tackle,  and  a 
few  magazines,  sensational  journals,  and 
some  local  paper  for  reading  matter,  they 
lounge  the  summer  away,  occasionally  mois- 
tening their  crust  of  existence  by  "getting 
on  a  tear"  at  some  country  groggery. 

A  passable  wagon  road  leads  from  here  to 
the  Big  Meadows,  fourteen  miles  distant. 
This  follows  the  old  Lassen  trail  only  part 
of  the  way,  but  both  cross  a  volcanic  table 
made  up  of  a  series  of  flat,  heavily  timbered 
ridges,  and  lead  into  that  valley. 

The  Big  Meadows  form  one  of  the  most 
delightful  valleys  throughout  the  Sierra 
Nevada  range  of  mountains.  It  is  situated 
along  the  west  branch  of  the  north  fork  of 
Feather  River,  has  an  elevation  of  four 
thousand  five  hundred  feet,  and  is  about 
twenty  miles  in  length  by  four  or  five  in 
breadth.  The  chief  industry  is  dairying, 
and  here  are  some  of  the  best  dairy  farms  in 
California.  It  is  also  one  of  the  favorite 
pleasure  resorts  of  our  State,  and  is  visited 
every  summer  by  large  numbers  of  people 
who  come  for  health  and  for  the  many  ad- 
vantages the  neighborhood  affords  for  recre- 
ation. A  local  climate  has  here  vouchsafed 
throughout  the  long,  hot,  hazy,  and  sickly 


82 


Pioneer  Sketches. 


summer  of  the  lower  valleys  a  season  soft, 
balmy,  and  healthy,  like  the  pleasantest 
part  of  spring;  and  a  richer  largess  of 
colors  is  given  to  the  fields  and  foliage. 
Monotones  are  an  excellent  foil  in  music, 
but  they  soon  tire.  Yet  we  must  account 
in  part  for  the  lively  charm  of  these  moun- 
tain valleys,  with  their  pied  meadows  and 
deciduous  vegetation,  by  concluding  that 
the  evergreens  are  the  monotones  in  this 
grand  refrain  of  nature.  The  conifers  have 
nevertheless  a  vast  range,  many  varieties, 
and  manifold  adaptations:  growing  now 
about  the  temperate  middle  zone  in  noble 
polystyles  stately  and  beautiful;  then,  in 
sheltered  higher  localities,  crowding  straight, 
tall,  slender  shafts  into  dense,  damp  cane- 
brakes;  again,  at  still  greater  altitudes,  cling- 
ing scattered  over  the  bleak  mountain  sides, 
with  rock-grasping  roots  and  uncouth,  blast- 
wrenched  trunks  and  branches ;  and  at  last, 
on  the  edge  of  vegetation,  in  little,  dwarfed, 
running  shrubs  of  centuries'  growth,  they 
hide  amid  moss  and  lichens. 

The  way  the  mountain  valleys  were  formed 
is  apparent.  They  are  always  along  some 
stream,  so  situated  as  to  arrest  part  of  the 
material  brought  from  the  highlands  above. 
The  lake  beneath  impending  cliffs,  the  lake- 
let with  surrounding  interval  of  marsh  and 
meadow,  and  the  meadow-marsh  represent 
three  different  stages  in  their  growth. 

Several  wagon  roads  enter  the  Big  Mead- 
ows from  different  parts  of  the  Sacramento 
Valley,  and  as  many  more  leave  it  for  vari- 
ous points  in  the  mountains  beyond.  One 
of  these  very  nearly  follows  Lassen's  old 
route  from  Pitt  River;  but  as  my  intention 
was  only  to  view  the  abandoned  portion  of 
this  trail,  I  will  stop  here. 

I  may  glance,  however,  at  the  differences 
the  trail  might  have  made  in  the  early  devel- 
opment of  the  State.  To  do  so  the  more 
readily,  I  shall  again  refer  to  the  history  be- 
fore mentioned.  In  1852  Cyrus  Noble  laid 
out  a  new  route  connecting  with  this  near 
the  Big  Meadows,  thence  leading  through 
the  pass  called  after  him,  crossing  Honey 
Lake  Valley,  and  connecting  again  with  the 
Old  Lassen  or  Oregon  trail  at  Black  Rock. 
He  induced  a  small  party  of  emigrants  to 


try  this  route,  and  clearly  demonstrated  that 
it  possessed  superior  advantages  in  the  mat- 
ter of  feed  and  water,  as  well  as  being  short- 
er than  any  other.  For  a  number  of  years 
thereafter,  the  road  was  traveled  quite  exten- 
sively. Had  Lassen  followed  this  route 
instead  of  the  circuitous  one  by  Pitt  River, 
and  thus  its  advantages  been  shown  at  that 
time  instead  of  the  disadvantages  of  the 
long,  difficult  trail  he  selected,  the  great  bulk 
of  overland  travel  to  California  would  have 
passed  this  way  instead  of  following  the 
Truckee  and  Carson  trails;  and  a  consider- 
able town  must  have  sprung  up  somewhere 
near  where  Vina  now  stands.  "As  it  was, 
however,  the  experience  of  those  who 
trusted  themselves  to  the  Lassen  road  in 
1849  nad  the  effect  of  throwing  all  so-called 
cut-offs  into  disfavor,  and  the  great  tide  of 
immigration  still  surged  along  the  old  trails." 
In  1853,  the  War  Department  sent  out  sev- 
eral exploring  expeditions  to  examine  the 
various  routes  across  the  continent,  for  the 
purpose  of  ascertaining  which  was  the  most 
feasible  for  a  transcontinental  railroad. 
One  of  these,  under  Lieutenant  E.  G.  Beck- 
with,  in  1854,  passed  down  the  Lassen  trail, 
and  his  report,  embodying  his  observations 
and  conclusions,  was  submitted  to  Congress 
by  the  Secretary  of  War,  and  is  to  be  found 
in  the  "Pacific  Railroad  Reports,  Volume 
2."  When  the  railroad  was  built  the  inter- 
ests of  invested  capital  dictated  that  it 
should  be  another  route  than  this ;  and 
through  the  building  by  like  interests  of  oth- 
er wagon  roads,  this  soon  came  into  disuse. 
But  has  the  route  a  future  ?  The  great 
expense  of  keeping  in  repair  the  snow-sheds 
along  the  Central  Pacific,  which  would  to 
a  great  extent  be  obviated  by  a  railroad 
through  this  pass,  would  seem  to  imply  that 
such  a  road  may  eventually  be  built;  while 
the  comparatively  small  expense  with  which 
the  old  wagon  road  might  be  reopened  and 
kept  up,  the  great  timber  interests  along  the 
route  that  would  be  thus  served,  the  advan- 
tages such  a  road  would  be  to  stock-men, 
and  the  far  greater  availability  of  this  route 
than  any  other  for  winter  communication 
across  the  mountains,  all  seem  to  reply  in 
the  affirmative. 

Oscar  F.  Martin 


1883.] 


Why? 


83 


WHY? 


"PLEASE,  lady,  would  you  let  us  pick 
some  of  them  figs?" 

"What  figs?" 

"Thenr'what  grows  up  on  the  hill  long 
side  of  the  creek." 

"Figs?"  Ethel  Sherwood  repeated  inter- 
rogatively. "I  did  not  know  that  there  was 
an  orchard  on  the  creek." 

"No,  lady,  'tisn't  a  orchard  what  I  mean, 
only  but  two  fig-trees  as  grows  in  the 
manzanita  copse." 

"Wait  a  moment."  And  Ethel  disap- 
peared into  the  adjoining  room,  reappearing, 
however,  almost  instantly  with  the  requested 
permission.  "Yes,  child,"  she  said,  "you 
are  welcome  to  what  fruit  is  there;  but  how 
did  you  happen  to  find  these  trees?" 

"We  has  seen  them  this  long  while,  on 
our  way  to  the  village,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Have  you  never  picked  any  of  this  fruit?" 
.  "No,  lady." 

"Why  not?" 

"'Cause  they  wasn't  ripe  yet." 

Ethel  could  not  but  laugh  at  this  naive 
confession — though  at  the  same  time  she 
was  impressed  by  the  genuine  honesty  which 
the  girl  had  manifested  in  asking  for  that 
which  she  might  have  had  for  the  taking, 
and  no  one  be  the  wiser. 

"Do  you  always  pass  by  this  house  on 
your  way  to  the  village?"  she  asked. 

"No,  lady;  I  follow  long  side  of  the  creek 
most  times." 

"Then  why  did  you  come  so  far  out  of 
your  way  to-day?" 

"'Cause  I  wanted  to  ask  about  them  figs. 
They  was  rmost  ripe  now." 

Miss  Sherwood  studied  the  girl's  face  curi- 
ously for  a  moment,  then  asked  her  name. 

"  Annette,"  she  answered  simply. 

"Annette  what?" 

"Annette  Klein." 

"Are  you  German?" 

"Yes,  lady.  Leastways,  the  father  is  Ger- 
man, but  the  mother  is  French.  But  us 


doesn't  speak  neither  language,  'cept  some- 
times." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  us?"  Ethel  asked, 
smilingly. 

"The  childrens,"  was  the  answer.  "There 
is  eight." 

"What  do  you  speak?" 

"The  English." 

This  was  said  with  such  an  air  of  con- 
scious pride  as  to  completely  upset  Ethel's 
gravity.  In  spite  of  herself,  she  laughed 
outright — suppressing  her  merriment  almost 
instantly,  however,  lest  it  might  be  miscon- 
strued by  the  object  of  it,  who  perchance 
was  sensitive.  A  cursory  glance  into  An- 
nette's face  relieved  her  apprehensions  on 
this  score ;  for  evidently  her  whole  attention 
was  elsewhere  absorbed,  judging  from  her 
eyes,  which  were  riveted  upon  the  piano. 
Unconsciously  Ethel  had  been  fingering  the 
keys  whilst  talking,  and  now  mechanically 
played  a  few  bars  of  a  familiar  air,  casu- 
ally watching  the  girl's  face  the  while: 
which  afforded  a  curious  study  certainly, 
but  one  which  baffled  Miss  Sherwood's  skill 
in  reading  the  human  face  divine.  Surprise, 
bewilderment,  delight,  were  collectively  and 
individually  manifested  in  the  girl's  counte- 
nance; but  what  had  called  forth  these  sev- 
eral expressions?  Evidently  her  hand  was 
the  magnet.  Was  it  the  diamond  on  her 
finger  which  had  attracted  Annette's  atten- 
tion, possibly  her  cupidity?  This  supposi- 
tion was  confirmed  by  her  next  remark. 

"Please,  lady" — this  in  a  tone  of  entreaty 
— "may  I  touch  it,  just  once?" 

Ethel  was  disappointed.  But  what  could 
be  the  child's  motive  in  wanting  to  touch 
the  stone?  She  assuredly  was  not  so  simple 
as  to  suppose  that  she  could  abstract  it  thus. 
She  would  see.  So  watching  her  narrowly, 
she  extended  her  hand,  resting  it  on  the 
edge  of  the  piano,  and  answered : 

"Yes." 

What,  then,  was  her  surprise  when  An- 


84 


Why? 


[July, 


nette  came  forward,  and  with  stiff  precision 
arranged  her  brown,  toil-stained  fingers  on 
the  snowy  keys. 

A  moment's  pause,  followed  by  a  wailing 
discord,  and  the  look  of  eager  expectancy 
changed  to  one  of  ludicrous  terror. 

"Have  I  broke  it?  It  didn't  sound  not 
like  that  when  you  touched  it." 

Never  had  Ethel  been  more  amused,  but 
the  child's  distress  was  so  unfeigned  that  in- 
stead of  yielding  to  the  inclination  to  laugh, 
she  hastened  to  reassure  her  by  playing  a 
simple  melody,  which  had  the  effect  of  sat- 
isfying her  that  she  had  done  no  damage. 
While  the  music  continued,' she  stood  as 
though  spellbound;  but  when  the  strain  died 
away,  she  exclaimed,  with  a  look  of  piteous 
entreaty : 

"  How  does  you  do  it,  lady  ?  Why  can't 
I  do  it?" 

Why,  indeed?  The  question  involved  too 
long  an  explanation;  Ethel  preferred  to 
answer  it  by  asking  another. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  piano  before,  An- 
nette?" 

"  Is  that  a  piano  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  The  same  thing  what  makes  music  in  the 
Faterland?" 

"The  same  thing." 

"No,  lady,  I  never  has  seen  one  'fore. 
Sometimes  I  has  heard  music  in  the  village, 
but  I  was  outside  and  they  was  in,  and  the 
music  didn't  sound  not  the  same  like  that  at 
all." 

"Ethel,  sing  for  her,"  Mrs.  Sherwood 
called  from  the  adjoining  room,  where  sitting 
at  the  sewing-machine  she  had  overheard 
the  conversation  between  her  daughter  and 
the  strange  little  visitor. 

"What  shall  I  sing,  mother?" 

"Something  bright,"  replied  her  mother. 
Ethel  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  music- 
book  that  lay  on  the  stand  by  her  side;  but 
never  had  she  found  it  so  difficult  to  make  a 
selection.  One  song  was  too  sentimental, 
another  too  sad,  a  third  too  classical — all 
alike  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the  un- 
tutored listener,  who  was  regarding  her  in 
grave  silence. 


At  last  she  found  one  that  suited  her. 
"  The  very  thing  !"  she  decided.  A  joyous 
prelude,  followed  by  a  burst  of  sunshine, 
which  seemed  to  Annette  to  fill  the  whole 
room  with  its  radiance.  She  knew  not  what 
was  this  "  Merry  Zingara  "  about  which  the 
lady  was  singing,  but  she  knew  that  it  was 
something  or  somebody  who  spent  all  the 
long  day  in  the  greenwood  with  the  birds 
and  flowers ;  and  as  she  listened,  somehow 
she  too  felt  glad,  as  though  a  sunbeam  had 
crept  out  of  the  Zingara's  life  into  her  own, 
and  the  gladness  showed  itself  in  the  blue 
eyes,  which  grew  large  with  wonderment. 

"  Thank  you,  lady,"  she  said,  as  the  last 
note  melted  away  as  a  bubble  bursting  in  the 
air;  "you  sing  more  prettier  nor  the  birds." 
Such  a  tribute  might  ardent  worshiper  have 
offered  at  the  shrine  of  the  "  Swedish  Night- 
ingale." It  brought  a  flush  of  pleasure  into 
Ethel's  face;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
was  at  a  loss  for  an  answer. 

Annette  could  have  staid  there  all  day, 
feasting  her  eyes  on  the  lady,  she  was  so 
pretty — prettier  even  than  Christina,  prettier 
than  any  one  she  had  ever  seen;  for  all  the 
people  she  knew,  excepting  Christina,  had 
such  a  faded-out  look,  like  the  ugly  calico 
dresses  they  wore.  Whether  this  beauty 
lay  in  form  or  feature  or  dress,  Annette  did 
not  know;  but  her  gaze  dwelt  longest  upon 
the  last,  seeing  which,  Ethel  smilingly 
asked: 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  now,  Annette?" 

The  girl  heaved  a  great  sigh  as  she  an- 
swered : 

"  Please,  lady,  I  was  looking  at  your  dress. 
I  was  thinking — " 

"Well,"  said  her  hostess  kindly,  "of 
what  were  you  thinking?  " 

"  I  was  thinking,"-  continued  Annette, 
"  that  you  must  have  another  one  more 
prettier  still,  'cause  you  wouldn't  wear  your 
Sunday  dress  on  a  work-day,  and  at  home 
too,  'tisn't  likely." 

Here  was  genuine  pathos.  Such  logic 
could  only  have  been  acquired  from  actual 
experience.  But  of  this  the  little  reasoner  was 
as  utterly  unconscious  as  of  the  fact  that  in 
her  simple  words  she  had  betrayed  how  ut- 


1883.] 


Why? 


85 


rly  barren  of  the  beautiful  was   her   own 

ork-a-day  world. 

"  Does  this  dress  seem  so  very  beautiful 

you,  child?"  Ethel  asked,  glancing  at  the 
buff  muslin,  which  with  its  simple   adorn- 
ment— a  bunch  of  scarlet  geraniums  worn  at 
the  belt — had  elicited  such  a  burst  of  un- 
equivocal  admiration   as   had   never    been 
ouchsafed  her  most  exquisite  toilet  by  ac- 
omplished  courtier. 

"Yes,    lady,"  the   child   answered.     "It 

akes  me  think  of  a  corn  field  where  pop- 
ics  is  growing." 

"  By  Jove  !     That  is  not  a  bad  simile ! " 

With  a  smiling  gesture  Ethel  waved 
aside  the  speaker,  who  had  incautiously  ad- 
vanced upon  the  scene  from  behind  the  cur- 
tain where  he  had  been  ensconced,  an 
amused  and  interested  auditor.  It  was  too 
late.  With  the  discovery  of  the  gentleman's 
presence,  Annette  lost  all  volubility.  In- 
stantly she  subsided  into  an  awkward  peas- 
ant, whose  entire  attention  was  directed  to 
the  most  intricate  and  least  graceful  arrang- 
ment  possible  of  her  hands  and  feet. 

Spite  of  all  Ethel's  efforts,  she  could  not 
make  her  talk.  The  girl  evidently  wished 
to  effect  her  escape,  but  did  not  know  how; 
and  her  interlocutor  did  not  feel  disposed  to 
help  her  just  yet. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  her. 

"Annette,  would  you  like  a  pretty  dress?" 

"  No,  lady,"  was  the  unexpected  reply, 
spoken  in  a  tone  of  stolid  indifference. 

"Why  not?" 

"  'Cause  the  mother  would  give  it  to  Chris- 
tina." 

"•  Who  is  Christina  ?  And  why  should  the 
mother  give  to  her  what  belongs  to  you?" 

"  Christina  is  the  sister  what's  next  to  me. 
And  when  she  came,  the  mother  gave  her 
my  cradle,  what  the  grandfather  made  with 
his  own  hands  for  me;  and  since  then  every- 
thing is  no  more  mine,  but  Christina's." 

"But  how  was  it  when  six  other  babies 
came  ? "  asked  Ethel. 

"  It  didn't  make  no  difference  to  Chris- 
tina," Annette  answered,  "  'cause  she  was  al- 
ways the  most  prettiest  of  all."  Here  she 
interrupted  herself,  saying :  "  I  must  go, 


lady,  'cause  there's  the  cows  to  be  milked 
and  lots  of  more  things  to  do  'fore  dark;  and 
the  days  is  never  just  long  enough  to  do 
every  bit  what's  to  be  done." 

"Very  well,  Annette.  Stop  in  and  see 
me  the  next  time  you  come  in  to  town. 
Meantime,  take  as  many  figs  as  you  want." 

"  I  thank  you  kindly,  lady."  And  not  un- 
gracefully the  girl  bowed  herself  out. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Ralph 
Minturn  said  to  his  betrothed: 

"  In  the  name  of  wonder,  where  did  you 
pick  that  rara  avis?" 

"  You  know  as  much  about  her  as  I  do," 
was  the  reply,-  "neither  of  us  ever  having  laid 
eyes  upon  her  until  a  few  moments  ago." 

"  Is  she  a  neighbor  of  yours  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so;  but  really  I  forgot  to  ask 
her  where  she  lives." 

"That  is  unfortunate,"  said  Minturn;  "for 
if  the  remaining  seven  prove  as  original  as 
she,  it  would  he  a  good  scheme  to  call  on 
'the  mother.'" 

"On  what  pretext,  may  I  ask?" 

"O,  anything,"  laughingly  answered  he. 
"Sociability  or  charitability,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  to  use  the  expression." 

Whereupon  Ethel  laughed  in  turn.  "It 
is  perfectly  obvious,  Ralph,"  said  she,  "that 
you  have  never  lived  in  Napa  Valley,  or 
you  would  not  have  offered  either  of  the 
above  suggestions.  You  may  call  on  your 
butcher's  wife  with  impunity,  provided  he 
be  a  subject  of  Uncle  Sam,  born  like  your- 
self under  the  stars  and  stripes;  but  these 
Americanized  foreigners  resent,  as  imperti- 
nent condescension,  a  call  from  one  between 
whom  and  themselves  there  exists  no 
social  equality.  The  same  rule  holds  good 
with  charitability,  as  you  call  it.  The  Fruit 
and  Flower  Mission  would  ^die  here  of 
inertia  in  less  than  a  week.  I  will  never 
forget  my  first  experience  with  this  class. 
During  my  Cousin  Eva's  last  illness  she 
spoke  very  frequently  of  a  motherless  child 
who  lived  in  the  village.  Her  father  was  a 
day-laborer,  whose  irregular  earnings  scarce 
sufficed  to  keep  his  own  body  and  soul  to- 
gether, much  less  support  a  family  of  six 
babies,  of  whom  Mina,  who  was  just  eleven, 


Why? 


[July, 


was  the  eldest.  Being  the  only  girl,  the  en- 
tire charge  of  the  household  devolved  upon 
her,  which  means  that  she  was  cook,  house- 
keeper, nurse,  seamstress,  etc.  —  the  etc. 
constituting  no  inconsiderable  part  of  her 
duties.  After  Eva's  death  I  carried  a  num- 
ber of  her  dresses,  as  unostentatiously  as 
possible,  to  Mina's  father,  telling  him  whose 
they  were  and  why  I  had  brought  them. 
The  man  not  only  refused  them,  but  in- 
solently requested  that  henceforth  I  would 
keep  my  old  clothes  for  beggars." 

"Was  your  first  experience  your  last  as 
well?"  Minturn  asked,  with  some  curiosity. 

"  Yes  and  no,"  was  the  ambiguous  reply. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  said. 

"  That  I  changed  my  tactics,  leaving  the 
highways  and  byways  to  those  who  were 
possessed  of  more  animal  magnetism  than 
has  fallen  to  my  share." 

Her  lover,  looking  into  the  soft  brown 
eyes  upraised  to  him,  thought  that  whatever 
else  might  be  lacking  in  her  organization,  it 
certainly  was  not  animal  magnetism.  But 
he  did  not  argue  the  point,  returning  instead 
to  the  original  discussion. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "since  neither  a  card- 
case  nor  credentials  from  the  Fruit  and 
Flower  Mission  will  gain  us  access  into  the 
bosom  of  Annette's  family,  we  will  have  re- 
course to  stratagem.  I  am  au  fait  at  expe- 
dients." 

"Yes?"  said  Ethel,  questioningly. 

Whereupon  he  proceeded  to  unfold  his 
scheme. 

"In  the  course  of  a  morning  ramble  we'll 
follow  'long  side  of  the  creek,'  ma  belle, 
keeping  a  lookout  on  the  mountain  tops, 
where  I  shrewdly  suspect  is  perched  the 
eyrie  which  has  turned  out  this  strange 
bird." 

"And  then?"  quoth  Ethel. 

"And  then,"  reiterated  Minturn,  "as 
weary  travelers,  we  will  ask  for  a  glass  of 
water,  after  the  approved  fashion." 

"It  having  been  impossible  to  have 
quenched  our  thirst  when  'long  side  of  the 
creek'!  Fine  expedient,  Ralph!  A  few 
more  such  masterly  strokes  will  make  of 
you  an  accomplished  diplomat." 


"Don't  be  sarcastic,  Ethel.  Sarcasm  is 
unbecoming  to  the  gentler  sex." 

"How  unfortunate!"  Ethel  gravely  an- 
swered; "since  in  their  hands  only  this 
valuable  weapon  can  be  preserved  from 
rust  and  decay.  Any  more  suggestions, 
Ralph?" 

"Yes  :  we'll  substitute  milk  for  water,  un- 
less in  accordance  with  the  eternal  fitness 
of  things  your  ladyship  may  deem  it  expe- 
dient to  milk  the  cows  on  the  wayside." 

A  few  days  later  the  pair,  duly  equipped 
with  gun  and  sketching  materials,  sauntered 
leisurely  through  the  vineyard,  stopping 
here  and  there  to  gather  the  tempting  fruit; 
in  substituting  one  delicious  variety  for 
another,  they  strewed  their  pathway  with 
refuse  which  would  have  graced  a  royal 
banquet,  or  better  yet,  have  fed  a  handful 
of  the  countless  thousands  to  whom  a  sin- 
gle grape  would  have  been  a  drop  of  nectar. 
But  there  was  not  a  shadow  in  the  pathway 
of  these  two,  so  richly  endowed  on  this 
glorious  autumn  morning,  to  suggest  to 
them  that  this  bright  world  through  which 
they  were  so  joyously  passing  contained 
aught  of  sorrow  or  suffering.  Everything, 
everywhere,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
bespoke  peace  and  plenty.  The  golden 
stubble  told  of  the  garnered  grain,  as  the 
emerald  vineyard  of  the  coming  vintage. 
What  wonder,  then,  that  the  gladness  re- 
flected from  hill  and  dale  left  its  radiant 
impress  on  the  faces  of  those  whose  lives, 
too,  were  rounding  into  completeness !  And 
it  was  better  so:  yes,  far  better;  for  these 
moments  of  blissful  ecstasy  are  rare,  at  best. 
Into  some  lives  they  come  not  at  all. 
Why?  God  knows. 

With  one  accord  they  paused  upon  a 
thickly  wooded  knoll  at  the  head  of  the 
canon  to  look  down  upon  the  valley  nestling 
lovingly  in  the  arms  of  the  Coast  Range. 
Neither  spoke  the  thoughts  which  came 
upon  each  "like  a  deep  flood":  of  what  use? 
When  heart  speaks  to  heart,  lips  may  well 
be  silent.  But  as  they  turned  their  faces 
toward  the  cretek,  which  lay  at  the  foot  of 
the  knoll  on  the  other  side,  Minturn  put  his 
arm  around  the  beautiful  girl,  who  in  rapt 


1883.] 


Why? 


87 


silence  stood  beside  him,  and  imprinted 
upon  her  brow  a  kiss  so  solemn,  so  tender, 
as  to  bring  into  her  eyes  the  tears  that  for 
pure  joy  had  some  moments  since  welled 
into  her  heart,  and  she  turned  her  face  from 
him  that  he  might  not  see  them  fall. 

A  few  steps  farther  brought  them  upon 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  when  instantly  the 
spell  was  broken  which  had  held  them  in 
thrall.  The  dancing  waters  laughed  at  sen- 
timent, and  so  now  did  Ethel. 

"  '  Men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever' 

" — ever,  I  go  on  forever — ever,  I  go  on 
forever,"  burst  from  her  lips  with  merry  glee, 
and  she  repeated  the  refrain  until  in  laugh- 
ing protest  Ralph  said : 

"Well,  don't,  I  implore  you,  unless  you 
want  me  to  represent  the  men  who  go." 

"Ralph,"  said  she,  suddenly  breaking  off 
in  the  middle  of  her  song;  "what  do  you 
say  to  following  up  the  stream  to-day  to  its 
head?  I  want  you  to  see  what  an  incom- 
parably beautiful  spot  it  is  up  there,  with  its 
natural  grotto  festooned  with  mosses  and 
lichens.  The  banks  on  either  side  are  over- 
grown with  immense  brakes;  while  in  the 
center  of  the  stream,  a  few  feet  removed 
from  the  grotto,  is  a  bush  of  creamy  and 
rose-tinted  azalias.  But  come,  what's  the 
use  of  describing  to  you  what  you  can  see 
for  yourself?" 

"Come,"  she  repeated,  with  pretty  impe- 
riousness,  as  Minturn,  by  way  of  answer, 
threw  himself  nonchalantly  on  the  leaf- 
strewn  bank. 

"With  pleasure,  sweetheart,  but  not  to- 
day." And  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to 
draw  her  down  by  his  side,  an  invitation 
which  she  completely  ignored. 

"Why  not  to-day?"  she  said. 

"Come  sit  down  by  me  and  I  will  tell 
you.  It  isn't  comfortable  for  a  man  to  have 
to  look  up  to  the  woman  to  whom  he  is 
talking." 

"O,  isn't  it?  What  an  uncomfortable  life 
you  will  lead  with  me!" 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it;  but  swear  off  in 
hot  weather,  won't  you?  Take  my  advice: 
don't  mount  your  pedestal  to-day,  for  it  is 


confoundedly  hard  to  get  down  when  once 
one  is  up." 

As  his  lady-love  secretly  concurred  in  this 
opinion,  she  yielded  the  point  while  she 
could  do  it  gracefully,  and  then,  woman-like, 
covered  her  defeat  by  ignoring  her  conces- 
sion. 

"Why  not  to-day?"  she  repeated. 

Minturn  took  a  cigar  out  of  his  pocket, 
lighted  it,  puffed  a  few  wreaths  of  smoke 
into  the  air,  and  then  answered: 

"Because — " 

"You  are  infringing  on  a  copyright,"  she 
protested.  "Woman  has  secured  the  patent 
on  that  reason." 

"Permit  me  to  finish  the  sentence,  my 
dear.  I  was  about  to  say,  because  we  came 
out  in  quest  of  the  eyrie,  and  with  your  gra- 
cious permission,  I  propose  to  find  it." 

A  cloud  passed  over  Ethel's  face. 

"Ralph,"  she  said,  "what  is  your  object 
in  seeking  these  people?  What  are  they  to 
you,  or  you  to  them,  that  you  should  intrude 
upon  their  privacy?" 

"To  them,"  he  replied,  "I  am  nothing, 
not  even  a  name.  To  me,  they  are  material 
out  of  which  I  may  chance  to  carve  some- 
thing worthy  of  your  acceptance." 

Seeing  Ethel's  puzzled  expression,  he  said : 

"You  do  not  understand  me  apparently?" 

"No." 

"Listen,  then,"  and  he  fondly  clasped  in 
his  the  hand  that  wore  his  ring.  "Though 
I  have  won  in  California  the  highest  prize 
within  man's  reach,  I  won  it  incidentally,  for 
it  was  another  object  which  brought  me  over 
the  Sierra.  I  am  a  collector  of  curios,  not 
antiques  and  fossils,  to  be  labeled  and  locked 
away  in  a  cabinet;  nor  yet  of  costly  faience, 
too  valuable  to  be  handled.  But  of  living, 
breathing  specimens— clippings,  as  it  were, 
from  human  nature.  Of  these  I  have 
already  gathered  a  most  miscellaneous  col- 
lection— jewels  in  the  rough.  Some  day — 
not  distant,  I  trust — I  shall  sort  and  classify 
my  treasures.  Many  of  them  will  doubtless 
be  consigned  to  the  waste-basket,  but  others 
I  will  polish  with  infinite  care,  and  set  them 
with  all  the  skill  I  may." 

Seeing    that   she   understood    him   now, 


88 


Why? 


[July, 


he  continued,  in  a  somewhat  less  fanciful 
vein:  "The  rarest  of  these  gems  have  come 
from  your  own  Golden  State,  Ethel.  This 
land  is  teeming  with  literary  lore.  This  one 
little  valley  alone  would  produce  countless 
treasure  if  one  knew  exactly  how  to  reach  it. 
Such  a  strange  blending  of  nationalities, 
elsewhere  opposed,  of  characters  naturally 
diverse — of  rich  and  poor,  high  and  low — and 
such  contrarieties  withal,  I  have  never  else- 
where seen,  and  I  have  traveled  through  most 
of  the  civilized  countries  indicated  on  the 
map.  Where  else  than  in  California  could  one 
stumble  across  a  maiden,  verging  upon  wo- 
manhood, I  should  judge,  who,  living  within 
a  few  miles  of  a  fashionable  summer  resort, 
had  yet  never  seen  a  piano?  One  who  could 
rival  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school  in  pretty 
speeches,  though  murdering  the  Queen's 
English  in  the  shaping  of  them?" 

"  But  did  you  observe,"  Ethel  interrupted, 
"  how  exceedingly  quaint  was  her  manner  of 
expressing  herself?  Her  pronunciation  was 
singularly  pure.  The  foreign  accent  relieved 
the  barbarous  construction  from  a  suspicion 
of  coarseness." 

"  True,"  assented  Ralph  ;  "  which  incon- 
gruity only  goes  to  substantiate  my  former 
assertion." 

"  If  you  desire  a  picture  of  incongruities," 
Ethel  presently  remarked,  "  I  will  furnish 
you  with  one  shortly,  which  will  provide  you 
with  more  material  than  you  can  utilize  in  a 
lifetime.  One  day,  the  latter  part  of  this 
month,  the  Vine-growers'  Association  pur- 
pose giving  a  picnic,  and  father,  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Association,  has  offered  them  for 
the  occasion  our  grove,  also  the  upper  floor 
of  the  wine-cellar,  which  last  will  make  a  fine 
ball-room.  The  affair  will  undoubtedly  bring 
together  such  a  strange  concourse  of  people 
as  one  does  not  often  chance  to  see." 

And  so  they  talked  on,  gradually  branch- 
ing off  into  generalities,  topics  foreign  to 
themselves  or  their  surroundings,  though 
interwoven  with  such  sweet  personalities  as 
would  forever  sanctify  to  those  engaged 
therein  the  hour  and  place  wherein  the  con- 
versation occurred. 

Hours  later  they  reached  their  destination 


— the  little  vine-covered,  white-washed  cot- 
tage, implanted,  as  Minturn  had  surmised, 
on  the  mountain  side,  though  rather  nearer 
the  summit  than  he  had  either  anticipated  or 
desired.  But  for  these  additional  steps  he, 
at  least,  felt  duly  compensated  when  his 
companion  innocently  said: 

"  I  would  give  anything  for  a  glass  of 
water!" 

"Why  did  you  not  quench  your  thirst 
when  'long  side  of  the  creek'?"  he  asked 
with  affected  concern,  a  sally  which  provoked 
from  his  lady-love  a  merry  laugh,  that  said 
more  plainly  than  words,  "Checkmated." 
They  had  left  the  creek  so  long  since  that 
it  looked  to  them  now  like  a  thread  of  silver. 

"  I'll  wager  that's  the  most  prettiest  Chris- 
tina. Nor  is  she  ugly,  either,  by  George !" 
He  pointed  to  a  window  overhung  with  a 
wild  grape-vine,  within  which  scarlet  and 
gold  framework  stood  at  an  ironing-table, 
with  uprolled  sleeves,  a  young  girl  of  four- 
teen years  or  thereabouts,  whose  rosy  cheeks, 
bright  blue  eyes,  and  long,  flaxen  braids 
bore  unmistakable  evidence  of  her  German 
origin. 

"She  is  pretty,"  Ethel  assented,  "but  en- 
tirely commonplace — no  material  worth  col- 
lecting there,  Ralph."  Further  comment  was 
interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a  woman  of 
most  pronounced  aspect,  whose  every  feature 
seemed  to  have  been  created  merely  as  a 
foil  to  another;  strong  lines  bringing  into 
greater  prominence  the  weaker  parts.  Her 
manner  presented  such  an  odd  mixture  of 
French  vivacity  and  German  stolidity  as  to 
baffle  conjecture  concerning  her  nationality 
— a  matter  not  to  be  determined,  either, 
by  her  speech.  She  accosted  the  strangers 
in  a  patois  almost  unintelligible  to  them — 
or  to  any  one,  in  fact,  who  had  not  hailed 
from  her  own  border-land;  to  any  one 
else  alike  untranslatable  and  unpronounce- 
able. But  if  she  could  not  speak  English, 
she  at  least  understood  it ;  for  she  conducted 
her  guests  to  the  living-room,  which  seemed 
to  be  at  once  parlor,  kitchen,  and  nursery, 
and  ministered  to  their  needs  with  such 
cordial  alacrity  as  would  have  done  honor 
to  a  Southern  planter. 


11883.]  Why? 

Ethel  evinced  a  little  embarrassment  un- 
der the  staring  scrutiny  of  what  seemed  to 
her  an  infinite  number  of  eyes,  for  from 
every  door  and  window  and  out  of  every 
corner  started  up  as  if  by  magic  tow-haired 
children.  But  Ralph,  nothing  daunted — 
with  the  well-bred  ease  that  never  under 
any  possible  circumstance  deserted  him — 
talked  to  "  the  mother,"  who  answered  him 
for  the  most  part  by  signs,  which,  however, 
went  far  towards  interpreting  a  language 
that  was  neither  French  nor  German  nor 
yet  English,  but  which  had  in  it  enough  of 
each  to  become  gradually  intelligible  to  her 
visitors. 

He  told  her  of  her  own  dear  native  land, 
through  which  he  had  recently  passed,  and 
for  which  she  still  pined  even  as  on  that 
day,  now  sixteen  years  gone  by,  when  she,  a 
bride,  had  helped  her  husband  to  plant  the 
first  stake  in  these  western  mountains,  which 
had  ever  since  been  their  home.  And  as 
he  talked,  the  tears  streamed  down  the 
weather-stained  face,  and  the  faded,  toil- 
dimmed  eye  grew  bright  again  with  a  luster 
so  new  and  strange  that  the  children  crept 
nearer  and  yet  nearer  to  gaze  with  open- 
mouthed  astonishment  at  the  unwonted 
spectacle. 

And  still  the  stranger  talked  on,  now  and 
then  interrupting  himself  to  ask  the  name 
of  one  or  another  of  the  little  girls  who, 
clustering  around  the  mother,  eyed  him 
askance.  The  sudden  cessation  of  ham- 
mering, which  in  an  adjoining  shed  had 
until  now  kept  time  to  his  voice,  caused 
Minturn  to  look  in  the  direction  from 
whence  the  sound  had  proceeded.  In  the 
open  doorway  stood  Annette — the  same,  and 
yet  transformed.  The  little  pinched  face, 
tanned  a  dull,  ugly  brown,  was  the  identical 
one  which  he  had  watched  so  curiously  from 
behind  the  curtain,  only  it  looked  darker 
yet  by  contrast  with  Christina's  fresh  com- 
plexion. But  the  hair !  Whence  came  all 
that  wealth  of  beautiful  hair?  He  remem- 
bered now  she  had  worn  a  sun-bonnet,  and 
so  had  hidden  it.  What  a  glorious  color  it 
was — unmistakably  red,  but  of  a  shade  to 
have  plunged  even  Titian  in  despair,  because 


89 


of  the  utter  impossibility  of  catching  just 
that  indefinable  tint.  The  pins  which  had 
fastened  it  had,  unperceived,  slipped  out  as 
she  bent  over  her  work,  and  the  waving 
masses  now  fell  over  her  like  a  mantle, 
almost  covering  the  tiny  form  that  seemed 
years  younger  than  the  face  to  which  it  be- 
longed. 

He  looked  at  Ethel.  She  caught  the 
glance  and  answered  it  by  another.  Then 
involuntarily  they  both  turned  their  eyes 
again  upon  the  figure  in  the  doorway.  And 
it  was  because  of  this  red  hair  that  "every- 
thing is  no  more  mine,  but  Christina's,"  in 
contrast  with  whose  flaxen  locks  Annette  was 
virtually  the  "ugly  duckling";  though  not 
so  to  the  little  ones  to  whom  she  was — well, 
she  was  Annette,  and  that  meant  everything, 
as  was  apparent  to  the  visitors  already;  for 
the  instant  her  presence  among  them  was 
observed,  they  flocked  around  her  like  bees 
about  a  flowering  madrona,  asking  eagerly 
in  stage  whispers,  "Is't  the  bu'ful  lady, 
Annette?  Is  the  prince  come?"  The  low- 
spoken  reply  was  lost,  as  also  the  whispered 
though  animated  discussion  which  followed. 
But  of  the  latter  the  subject,  at  least,  was 
not  hard  to  conjecture,  for  with  a  nod  of 
assent  to  the  importunate  children  Annette 
noiselessly  approached  Ethel — bare  feet  fall 
as  lightly  on  carpetless  boards  as  sandaled 
ones  on  velvet — saying  shyly : 

"Will  you  sing,  lady,  for  the  mother  and 
the  childrens?" 

Ethel  could  not  refuse  such  a  request, 
but  she  wished  that  Annette  had  not  made 
it.  For  some  unaccountable  reason  she  felt 
ridiculously  nervous  at  the  mere  thought  of 
singing  before  this  uncultured  audience, 
whose  only  standard  of  comparison  was  the 
birds. 

She  turned  to  Ralph. 

"What  shall  I  sing?"  she  said,  in  a  low, 
tremulous  voice. 

He  smiled  at  her  visible  nervousness,  but 
otherwise  did  not  notice  it.  Then,  after  a 
moment's  consideration,  he  suggested : 

"La  Marseillaise." 

She  sang  it,  and  with  such  effect  as  nei- 
ther of  them  had  anticipated. 


90 


Why? 


[July, 


The  first  lines  awakened  in  the  French 
woman's  memory  but  an  indistinct  impres- 
sion— a   vague   reminiscence  of  something 
pertaining   to   a   past  which  time  and   the 
stern  realities  of  the  present  had  faded  into  a 
dream.     But  when  the  rich,  melodious  voice 
of  the  singer  swelled  into  the  grand  chorus — 
"  Aux  armes,  citoyens 
Formez  vos  bataillons !  " — 

the  mist  cleared.  No  German  stolidity  now. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  with  wildest  en- 
thusiasm piped  in  with  her  shrill,  unmusical 
voice : 

"  Marchons,  marchons "  —  beating  time 
the  while  with  hands  and  feet.  And  then  the 
children  began  to  clap  too,  not  because,  like 
"  the  mother,"  they  were  fired  by  patriotism, 
but  simply  because  the  mother  clapped;  and 
the  applause  was  taken  up  with  unabated 
zeal  with  each  chorus,  though  the  children 
more  than  once,  in  their  frantic  delight,  in- 
troduced it  into  the  middle  of  the  verses, 
under  the  impression  that  the  right  moment 
had  come — an  interruption  which  did  not 
disconcert  Ethel,  however;  on  the  contrary, 
it  afforded  her  such  inspiration  as  she  had 
never  drawn  from  the  complimentary  hush 
of  delighted  connoisseurs.  In  this  noisy 
glee  all  in  the  room  participated  save  two : 
Annette,  who  stood  with  hands  clasped  and 
eyes  uplifted  to  the  face  of  the  beautiful 
lady — an  involuntary  attitude  of  unconscious 
adoration;  and  Minturn,  whose  gaze  was 
steadfastly  fixed  upon  Annette. 

The  evening  shadows  were  fast  enveloping 
the  valley  when  they  had  made  the  descent 
of  the  mountain;  but  what  a  pleasant  day  it 
had  been ! 

After  this  there  were  frequent  visits  to  the 
eyrie.  It  was  not  so  very  far,  after  all,  when 
they  did  not  tarry  too  long  on  the  creek. 
And  even  if  it  were,  they  were  amply  repaid 
for  the  exertion  by  the  unfeigned  delight 
which  these  visits  afforded — delight  mani- 
fested by  each  individual  member  of  the 
humble  household.  And  no  wonder:  for 
mam'selle  sang  such  beautiful  songs,  and 
m'sieur  told  them  wondrous  tales — "  dream- 
stories,"  Annette  called  them,  because  she  said 
she  could  dream  them  over  again  in  the  day- 


time, when  she  was  making  the  grape-boxes. 
So  she  explained  to  him  the  meaning  of  the 
term  which  the  children  had  adopted  in  con- 
tradistinction to  those  other  stories  which 
he  told  the  mother. 

"Were  you  making  grape-boxes  the  first 
time  we  came  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  m'sieur."  And  she  led  him  into  the 
shedand  showed  him  how  she  bound  together 
with  strips  of  hide  the  rough  boards.  Strange 
work  this  for  a  girl,  he  mused;  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  realize  it,  so  he  said  nothing.  And 
after  a  time  he  became  used  to  seeing  a  girl 
doing  a  man's  work,  for  in  this  household 
there  were  only  girls.  The  father  was  a 
miner  in  an  adjoining  county,  and  only  came 
home  on  Saturday  nights.  So  the  hoeing 
and  plowing  and  pruning  of  the  little  vine- 
yard was  done  by  those  of  the  eight  sisters 
who  were  old  enough  to  gird  on  the  heavy 
and  unnatural  harness;  while  the  mother's 
hands  were  more  than  full  of  the  household 
and  nursery  cares  incidental  to  such  a  large 
family.  Nor  was  this  all :  the  grapes  had 
to  be  gathered  and  delivered  down  in  the 
valley,  whither  Annette  conveyed  them  in  a 
rude  sled  of  very  insufficient  capacity.  And 
the  vegetables  and  butter  must  be  carried 
into  the  village,  and  the  groceries  received 
in  exchange  be  transported  up  the  moun- 
tain. Then,  moreover,  there  were  the  cows 
to  be  looked  after,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
horse,  which,  though  an  ugly,  ungainly  ani- 
mal, was  their  most  valuable  possession,  be- 
cause the  most  indispensable. 

Ah  !  ye  women  who  clamor  for  the  right 
to  do  man's  work,  try  it  in  the  open  field, 
under  the  blazing  sun  or  the  biting  frost  of  a 
Napa  sky.  And  then,  when  your  whole 
physical  nature  succumbs  to  the  trial,  seek 
the  refuge  of  your  womanhood,  trusting  that 
in  incapacitating  you  from  doing  man's  labor, 
your  Creator  had  other  work  for  you,  the 
plan  of  which  may  be  revealed  by  the  very 
civilization  which  has  as  yet  but  developed 
your  mighty  needs.  But  these  mountaineers 
had  never  heard  of  "woman  suffrage,"  and 
so  worked  on,  alike  indifferent  to  the  tri- 
umph of  having  so  far  overcome  female  inca- 
pacity or  the  degradation  of  having  been 


1883.] 


Why? 


91 


:brced  into  a  sphere  for  which  nature  had 
lot  designed  them ;  and  besides,  they  were 
German  peasants,  therefore,  without  distinc- 
:ion  of  sex,  "hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water." 

Most  of  the  outdoor  work  fell  upon  An- 
nette, for  Christina  helped  the  mother  in 
:he  house.  She  preferred  to  work  under 
shelter,  because  it  didn't  spoil  her  white  skin, 
which  would  have  been  a  pity,  since  it  was 
>o  pretty.  And  really  there  was  no  need 
of  her  looking  outside  for  work ;  for  what 
with  the  cooking  and  washing  and  tending 
babies,  there  was  plenty  to  keep  her  busy 
all  the  time,  and  the  mother  too.  Truth  to 
tell,  she  had  not  much  time  for  idleness; 
seeing  which  the  mother  commended  her, 
and  wondered  why  Annette  never  found 
time  to  help  in  the  house. 

M'sieur  could  have  enlightened  her  on 
this  subject;  but  he  did  not,  for  he  had 
fallen  into  a  habit  lately  of  studying  An- 
nette in  silence,  reserving  his  impressions  for 
his  own  uses.  And  Annette  herself?  Well, 
she  had  never  talked  much,  and  now  was 
only  a  little  more  silent  and  dreamy:  that 
was  all — a  difference  that  passed  unnoticed 
in  a  Babel  of  tongues. 

The  day  of  the  Viticultural  picnic  ar- 
rived. The  grove,  that  yesterday  one 
might  have  fancied  the  realm  of  satyr  and 
wood-nymph,  so  mystical  was  the  soughing 
of  the  pines  in  the  surrounding  silence,  to- 
day presents  a  curious  and  fantastic  specta- 
cle. Master  and  man,  mistress  and  maid, 
Gentile  and  Jew — representatives  not  only 
from  county  and  town,  but  indirectly  from 
everywhere — all  here  met  together  in  nature's 
grand  amphitheater,  in  glad  accord,  united 
for  the  nonce  by  one  common  bond.  To- 
morrow matters  will  adjust  themselves,  when 
old  and  established  relations  must  be  re- 
sumed; but  what  of  that?  For  to-day,  at 
least,  distinction  betwixt  the  tiller  of  the 
soil  and  the  owner  thereof  is  swept  away. 
Fragments  of  humanity,  man  and  his  fellow- 
man — all  linked  together  by  the  delicate  ten- 
drils of  the  vine  into  one  common  brother- 
hood. Too  frail  a  thread  this  to  bind  together 


such  incongruous  materials;  but  it  will  hold 
for  to-day,  and  for  a*  longer  time  one  would 
not  desire  it. 

Leaning  against  a  magnificent  madrona, 
Minturn  took  in  the  details  of  this  picture. 
Inadvertently  his  eye  singled  out  Ethel,  the 
suavity  of  whose  manner  did  much  toward 
reconciling  elements  naturally  at  variance. 
"How  gracefully  she  adapts  herself  to  the 
exigencies  of  any  society  into  which  she 
happens  to  be  thrown !"  he  thought.  At  that 
moment  she  beckoned  to  him,  and  together 
they  went  into  the  wine-cellar,  the  upper 
floor  of  which  had  been  arranged  for  danc- 
ing. The  huge  tanks  and  casks  had  been 
removed  to  another  floor,  to  await  there  the 
supplies  so  soon  to  be  poured  into  them, 
leaving  a  clear  space,  broken  only  by  the 
pillars,  consisting  of  pine  trunks,  which  sup- 
ported the  arched  roof  of  the  vast  building, 
the  stone  walls  of  which  shut  out  the  heated 
atmosphere,  and  made  dancing  as  pleasant  on 
this  suffocating  day  as  in  December.  The  sun- 
shine crept  in  through  the  narrow  windows, 
but  it  was  tempered  by  the  evergreens  which 
hung  in  graceful  festoons  from  every  avail- 
able space,  further  decoration  consisting  of 
a  truly  magnificent  display  of  bunting.  Over 
foreign  and  native  born  waved  alike  the 
American  flag. 

As  Ethel  was  in  demand,  and  he  did  not 
care  to  take  part  himself  in  the  first  dance 
now  forming,  Minturn  took  refuge  in  a  win- 
dow-seat, whence  he  could  obtain  an  excel- 
lent view  of  a  scene  whose  every  feature  was 
interesting.  He  experienced  as  unfeigned 
delight  in  the  conglomeration  of  color  and 
costume  as  in  the  bits  of  glass  which,  when 
a  boy,  he  had  seen  through  a  kaleidoscope. 
Had  there  been  nothing  else  to  have  enjoyed, 
the  costumes  of  the  dancers  would  alone 
have  afforded  him  infinite  entertainment, 
presenting  as  they  did  such  diversity  of  ma- 
terialand  style  as  would  set  at  rest  forever 
any  question  which  might  by  chance  aris'e 
as  to  American  independence — in  point  of 
dress. 

Here  was  Madame  Le  Monde  from  the 
White  Sulphur,  who,  in  daintiest  Paris- 
ienne  toilet,  was  discussing  with  Mr.  X , 


92 


Why? 


[July, 


a  prominent  county  gentleman,  the  prod- 
uct of  the  vine,  as  the  subject  best  adapted 
to  the  occasion  if  not  to  her  capacity. 
And  there,  in  a  robe  of  many  colors,  was 
the  village  belle,  doling  out  her  favors  with 
the  caprice  of  a  favored  princess.  Having 
finally  made  her  selection  of  the  gallant 
swains  who  beset  her,  she  spread  a  hand- 
kerchief upon  each  of  her  own  shoulders, 
whereupon  her  partner  placed  his  hands, 
and  vice  versa,  only  in  his  case  the  handker- 
chiefs were  omitted;  and  so  they  whirled 
out  of  Minturn's  sight,  the  world  forgetting, 
though  scarce  by  the  world  forgot. 

Their  departure  brought  compensation, 
however,  for  within  the  range  of  his  present 
vision  was  a  young  girl  standing  obviously 
alone,  though  in  the  midst  of  the  gay  throng. 
He  left  the  window  niche. 

"Are  you  enjoying  yourself,  Annette?" 
he  said,  as  he  gained  her  side. 

The  girl  started  confusedly,  hearing  her 
name  so  unexpectedly  spoken ;  but  recover- 
ing herself  almost  immediately,  she  answered 
simply : 

"Yes,  m'sieur."  But  it  was  an  enjoy- 
ment which  few  girls  would  have  recognized 
as  such. 

"Why  aren't  you  dancing?"  he  asked. 
"'Cause  nobody  did  never  ask  me." 
The  unconscious  emphasis  on  the  pro- 
noun appealed  irresistibly  to  m'sieur;  but 
he  hesitated  a  moment.  Would  his  dancing 
with  her  expose  the  girl  to  remark.  How 
absurd ! — of  course  not.  Anyhow,  he  could 
dance  afterwards  with  Christina,  and  may  be, 
some  of  the  village  girls.  That  would  make 
matters  all  right.  So  he  said  courteously : 
"Will  you  dance  with  me,  Annette?'"' 
And  without  waiting  for  the  reply,  which 
he  read  in  the  half- frightened,  half-longing 
look  in  her  eyes,  he  put  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  before  she  had  time  to  speak,  was 
guiding  her  in  and  out  among  the  dancers. 
Annette  had  never  danced  a  step  before  in 
her  life;  but  from  her  French  mother  she  had 
inherited  graceful  agility,  and  her  ear  was 
strangely  attuned  to  music — may  be  that 
was  because  she  had  learned  to  count  the 
beats  in  every  pulse  of  nature.  But  be  that 


as  it  may,  long  before  the  waltz  ended,  her 
step  was  in  accord  with  her  partner's;  and 
he,  looking  down  into  her  face,  now  tinged 
with  a  faint  color,  was  surprised  to  find  her 
growing  pretty.  Was  it  due  to  the  pale 
green  muslin  she  wore?  (Ethel's  gift,  who,  by 
the  bye,  had  fortified  Annette's  claim  to  it  by 
giving  one  to  Christina  at  the  same  time.) 
Possibly.  But  to  whatever  the  change  was 
attributable,  it  was  manifest  to  more  than 
one.  To  Annette's  surprise  and  bewilder- 
ment, she  suddenly  found  herself  a  belle.  A 
girl  with  whom  the  tall,  handsome  stranger 
had  danced  must  be  worth  dancing  with.  So 
argued  the  village  youths,  and  thereupon 
each  begged  to  be  allowed  the  same  pleasure. 
Annette  danced  with  one  after  another,  but 
from  first  to  last  her  face  never  lost  its 
serious  gravity,  unless  her  eye  chanced,  as 
happened  now  and  then,  to  meet  Minturn's, 
when  the  color  deepened  in  her  dark  cheek 
and  an  unconscious  smile  wreathed  the 
mouth. 

He  saw  this,  and  so  did  Ethel,  who  had 
also  seen  the  dreamy  expression  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  and  knew  with  woman's  unerring  per- 
ception that  the  increasing  prettiness  was 
from  within,  not  from  without.  And  so 
when  she  could  speak  to  her  betrothed  un- 
observed, she  said  to  him: 

"Beware  how  you  study  that  girl,  Ralph, 
or  you  may  find  a  broken  heart  among  your 
curios." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  said: 

"Do  you  doubt  my  love  for  you,  Ethel?  " 

"  No ;  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  but 
of  Annette." 

"Then  do  you  doubt  my  honor  as  a  gen- 
tleman?" 

"No,"  she  again  replied;  "but  I  do 
doubt  your  knowledge  of  woman  nature." 

He  smiled  reassuringly,  and  said,  "You 
are  a  little  goose  to  suppose  that  every  wo- 
man will  succumb  to  the  same  charm  that 
attracted  you,  whatever  that  may  be";  then 
in  a  more  serious  tone  added,  "  I  was  not 
jesting,  dear,  when  I  told  you  that  I  was  col- 
lecting curios.  One  day  I  hope  to  produce 
a  sketch  of  Annette,  which  will  be  valuable 
as  a  character-study." 


1883.] 


Why? 


93 


Ethel  was  not  half  satisfied ;  but  this  was 
not  the  hour  nor  the  place  to  discuss  the 
question.  So  she  merely  answered,  "I  do 
not  approve  of  such  a  study";  and  she  left 
him  to  his  own  cogitations. 

He  did  not  ask  Annette  for  another 
dance;  but  Annette  had  danced  with  him 
every  time — by  proxy. 

Ethel  did  not  recur  to  the  subject,  either 
that  day  or  afterwards.  Neither  did  she  ask 
where  he  spent  those  hours  when  he  was 
not  with  her;  for  she  could  not  spare  as 
much  time  now  for  their  long  walks  as  for- 
merly. There  were  numberless  matters  're- 
quiring her  personal  supervision;  she  must 
leave  nothing  undone,  for  when  she  became 
Ralph  Minturn's  wife  she  would  enter  upon 
a  new  world,  between  which  and  her  present 
home  stretched  thousands  of  miles;  and  that 
hour  was  drawing  very  near  at  hand. 

And  so  again  and  again  Ralph's  horse 
turned  into  the  bridle-path  leading  from  the 
White  Sulphur,  where  he  was  staying,  up  the 
mountain  side,  where  there  was  fine  hunting 
he  was  told.  And  Annette  dreamed  over 
by  day  and  by  night  the  stories  which  he 
told  her  while  she  was  at  her  work,  which 
she  never  discontinued  on  his  account. 
They  were  not  such  stories  as  he  invented 
for  the  amusement  of  the  children;  those 
he  told  her  were  of  real  human  beings,  who 
had  truly  lived  their  lives.  Sometimes  he 
read  to  her  from  such  authors  as  appealed 
most  forcibly  to  her  passionate  love  of 
the  beautiful.  One  day  he  mechanically 
read  aloud  a  passage  which  he  thought  en- 
tirely beyond  her  comprehension,  and  was 
astonished  at  her  comment  upon  it,  which 
though  simple  and  quaint,  yet  betrayed  a 
keen  appreciation  of  the  subject.  He  laid 
aside  the  book,  and  said  half  laughingly : 

"You  ought  to  write  a  book  yourself, 
Annette." 

She  looked  up  from  the  box  into  which 
she  was  picking  grapes,  and  answered : 

"I  couldn't  write  a  book,  'cause  I  don't 
know  just  enough  of  the  English;  and  then 
besides,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  just  right." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"  Because,"  she  said,  in  her  strange  sim- 


plicity, "the  birds  and  the  flowers  and  the 
clouds  talk  to  me,  not  like  they  talk  to 
other  peoples,  and  I  guess  it's  for  the  reason 
why  that  they  know  I  won't  tell  what  they 
tells  me." 

"How  do  you  know  that  they  do  not  tell 
other  people  the  same  thing?"  he  asked 

'"Cause  others  don't  love  them  not  half 
so  well  as  me,"  she  answered. 

"But,  Annette,"  he  said,  wonderingly — 
this  self-imposed  bond  of  silence  between 
nature  and  herself  was  such  a  very  peculiar 
idea — "how  do  you  know  that  nature" — but 
he  had  to  explain  this  more  fully ; .  she  could 
not  understand  the  abstract  term — "the  birds 
and  flowers,  I  mean — do  not  want  you  to  tell 
what  they  say?" 

She  hesitated  a  little,  then  said: 

"If  you  was  to  tell  me  something  you 
loved" — she  meant  a  cherished  thought — 
"  and  I  was  to  tell  it  to  Christina,  and  her 
laughed,  would  you  want  me  to  tell  her  an- 
other time?  Anyhow  " — she  interrupted  her- 
self with  a  long-drawn  sigh — "I  wouldn't 
want  to." 

Clearly  Annette  has  been  "casting  pearls 
before  swine,"  and,  wiser  than  most  people, 
has  profited  by  experience,  mused  her  inter- 
rogator. After  a  while  he  said  : 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  all  these  things 
say  to  you.  I  do  not  think  they  will  mind, 
for  I  love  them,  too,  and  so  would  not  think 
of  laughing." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  after  a  slight  pause, 
during  which  she  looked  into  his  face  with 
a  fixed  intensity  that  disturbed  him  in  spite 
of  himself;  "I  will  tell  you." 

Ethel's  warning  rung  in  his  ears:  "Be- 
ware how  you  study  that  girl,  Ralph,  or  you 
may  find  a  broken  heart  among  your  curios." 

"Pshaw!"  he  muttered  to  himself;  "she 
is  a  mere  child — too  young  to  dream  of  such 
things."  Thus  he  stilled  the  wee  small 
voice,  while  he  fathomed  yet  deeper  into  this 
strange  nature.  He  lifted  the  veil  which 
divided  the  dual  life  of  the  girl  before  him, 
and  penetrated  into  that  mysterious  other 
half — the  inner  consciousness  which  never 
before  had  been  unlocked  to  human  gaze. 
By  means  of  the  magical  divining-rod,  of 


94 


Why? 


[July, 


which  he  had  in  some  way  become  pos- 
sessed, he  brought  to  light  the  manifold 
treasure  with  which,  by  way  of  compensa- 
tion, nature  had  sought  to  indemnify  the 
maiden  for  the  exceeding  paucity  of  other 
f  gifts.  She  unsuspectingly  revealed  to  him 
the  tender  confidences  of  the  birds  and 
flowers  and  clouds,  which,  by  the  light  of 
poetry,  she  transformed  into  music,  art,  and 
heaven — and  he  betrayed  her  trust;  for  he 
stole  the  "something  she  loved" — not  to 
laugh  at  it  himself,  but  to  scatter  it  broad- 
cast over  a  cold,  realistic  world. 

He  wondered,  as  he  rode  away,  why  an 
All-wise  Creator  should  have  sown  such 
precious  seed  in  a  soil  which  could  produce 
no  fruit.  Why  he  should  have  placed  a 
creature  in  such  close  communion  with 
nature,  and  yet  deny  to  her  the  gift,  or  rath- 
er the  enlightenment,  necessary  for  the  elu- 
cidation of  her  mysterious  voice.  For  the 
same  reason,  probably,  that  he  plants  rare 
flowers  in  hidden  nooks,  allowing  them  to 
bud  and  blossom  and  die  unperceived  by 
man,  whose  sordid  nature  might  perchance 
be  ennobled  by  their  purifying  influence. 
And  why  this? 

"She  is  as  sweet  and  undefiled,"  he 
mused,  "as  the  wild  rose  that  she  loves  so 
well."  But  who  would  pluck  for  his  own  the 
wild  rose,  however  sweet,  when  he  might 
have  the  glorious  Jacqueminot?  Not  Ralph 
Minturn,  certainly. 

It  was  well,  for  even  had  he  preferred  the 
wild  rose,  he  had  already  made  his  choice, 
and  must  abide  by  it — not  that  he  would  have 
had  it  otherwise  if  he  could;  and  yet — 

With  a  fascination  inexplicable  to  him- 
self, he  continued  his  subtle  analysis,  regard- 
less of  the  fact  that  in  so  doing  he  was 
tearing  away,  one  by  one,  the  petals  of  the 
poor  little  flower,  which  was  not  and  never 
could  be  his,  that  he  might  fathom  the  mys- 
tery of  its  secret  depths.  But,  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  not  a  word,  not  a  whisper,  had 
been  uttered  which  might  not  have  been 
spoken  in  the  presence  of  his  betrothed 
1  wife;  for  he  was  a  gentleman,  as  he  said  to 
himself  with  conscious  pride. 

Why,  then,  since  his  conscience  so  freely 


exonerated  him,  did  he  approach  the  cot- 
tage with  such  visible  hesitation,  when,  on 
his  wedding  eve,  he  came  to  say  farewell? 
As  he  entered  the  main  room,  a  casual 
glance  discovered  them  all  there  assembled. 
For  this  he  was  glad.  Of  course  he  had 
but  a  moment  to  spare,  so  hurriedly  taking 
leave  of  the  mother  and  the  little  ones,  he 
turned  to  say  good  by  to  Annette.  She 
had  vanished.  It  was  better  so.  No  one 
observed  her  absence,  so  he  made  no  com- 
ment upon  it.  "You  will  all  be  at  the  wed- 
ding?" he  said.  The  next  moment  he  was 
gone. 

As  Minturn  led  his  bride  from  the  altar 
on  the  following  morning,  he  felt  the  arm 
laid  within  his  own  tremble  convulsively. 
With  tender  glance,  he  questioningly  sought 
her  eyes,  but  they  were  fixed  upon  a  child- 
ish figure  standing  within  the  shadow  of 
the  vestibule,  whose  heaving  chest  alone 
bore  evidence  that  it  was  a  creature  of  flesh 
and  blood,  and  not  the  motionless  statue 
she  seemed.  The  face  was  as  rigid  and 
gray  as  though  carven  in  stone. 

A  cursory  glance — there  was  no  time  for 
more — had  revealed  to  both  husband  and 
wife  that  which  could  not  be  obliterated  by 
the  forthcoming  years. 

And  Annette?  Well,  she  simply  went  on 
with  the  old  life,  which,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  had  suffered  no  change.  The 
only  ostensible  difference  was  that  the  child 
had  suddenly  developed  into  a  woman. 
Further  than  this,  the  world  could  not  pene- 
trate. For  the  woman  closed  and  fastened 
securely  with  bolts  and  bars  the  door  of 
that  inner  sanctuary,  from  whence  the  child 
had  drawn  the  supplies  wherewith  her  bar- 
ren life  had  been  enriched.  The  birds 
sought  refuge  from  the  cold  by  moving 
down  into  the  warm  valley;  the  flowers 
went  to  sleep,  and  the  clouds  were  for  the 
most  part  black  these  days.  But  it  mat- 
tered not,  for  she  did  not  care  to  talk  to 
them  now.  Why? — because  they  had  with- 
drawn their  confidence  in  revenge  for  her 
betrayal  of  them?  Annette  laughed — a 
harsh,  discordant  laugh  it  was — at  thought 
of  her  silly  superstition.  Alas!  they  were 


1883.] 


Felice  Notte. 


95 


birds  and  flowers  and  clouds  now — nothing 
more. 

A  year  after  this,  Ralph  Minturn,  radi- 
ant with  success,  placed  in  his  wife's  hands 
the  book  which  had  crowned  him  with  lau- 
rels. 

She  read  it  through,  uttering  never  a 
word  of  praise  or  blame,  until  the  last  leaf 
was  turned,  then  said: 

"The  picture  is  true  to  life,  and  exquisite- 
ly framed,  but  it  is  too  much  after  the  style 
of  Parrhasius  to  suit  my  taste." 

His  voice  trembled  with  anger,  as  he  said 
scornfully: 

"Does  that  thorn  still  rankle?" 

For  a  moment  intense  silence  rilled  the 
room,  then  in  a  low,  self-contained  voice, 
his  wife  answered  him: 

"Yes;  the  thorn  does  rankle,  but  not  in 
the  sense  which  you  have  chosen  to  imply. 
The  light  of  your  triumph  is  born  of  the 
shadow  that  fell  across  our  path  on  our 
wedding  morn.  The  stony  despair  which 


you  and  I  both  saw  indelibly  stamped  on 
that  young  face,  and  which  we  ui  derstood 
better  even  than  did  she  herself,  is  the 
thorn  implanted  in  my  heart." 

He  left  the  room  without  a  word;  but 
when  they  met  again,  later  in  the  day,  there 
was  exchanged  between  them  a  silent  kiss — 
the  kiss  of  peace. 

Thus  for  the  third  and  last  time  the  sub- 
ject was  put  away.  She  would  not  judge 
him;  for  God  alone  knows  why  one  life 
must  needs  be  cast  into  shadow  that 
another  might  thereby  be  brought  into  bold 
relief.  Only  this  do  we  know:  that  light 
and  shade  are  alike  essential  to  the  comple- 
tion of  that  grand  picture,  "The  Resurrec- 
tion Morn";  when  every  tiny  mosaic  will 
be  fitted  by  the  Master's  hand  into  the 
especial  place  for  which  he  designed  it. 
Then,  if  not  till  then,  we  will  know  why 
some  of  the  stones  were  made  dark  and 
others  light;  some  with  jagged  edge  and 
others  smooth. 

S.  £.  Heath, 


FELICE   NOTTE. 

"A  HAPPY  night!"  I  heard  you  say 
In  the  old,  sweet  Italian  way; 
But  as  your  foot  went  up  the  stair 
The  north  wind  swept  the  branches  bare. 

You  did  not  think  that  careless  word 
So  many  memories  would  have  stirred ; 
You  could  not  know  what  storms  had  passed 
Above  me  since  I  heard  it  last. 

In  vain  might  snow-winds  rage  and  rave, 
I  felt  no  chill  that  midnight  gave; 
But  in  the  lovely  Tuscan  land 
Of  song  and  bloom  I  seemed  to  stand. 

Again  I  saw  the  sunset  burn 
Upon  Carrara's  peaks,  and  turn 
The  mist  to  golden  dust,  that  lay 
Along  the  Arno's  winding  way. 


Felice  Notte.  [July, 

Each  palace-front  flashed  back  the  glow, 
The  bells  of  Florence  sounded  low ; 
And  the  last  beam  of  parting  day 
Long  lingered  on  Fiesole. 

Then  how,  from  Bellosguardo's  hill, 
The  nightingales  the  dusk  would  thrill; 
While  from  the  garden's  darkening  close 
Came  scents  of  lily  and  of  rose. 

What  starlight  from  the  haunted  tower ! 
What  moonrise  from  the  olive-bower ! 
And  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
"Felice  Notte,"  softly  said 

O,  happy  nights  of  joyous  days, 

In  sunny  lands  by  pleasant  ways! 

I  wake  to  find  the  hearth  grown  cold, 

My  life  grown  bare,  my  heart  grown  old. 

Yet  still,  sweet  friend,  your  words  may  be 
A  blessed  prophecy  to  me, 
That  at  the  end  of  all  my  pain, 
A  happy  night  may  come  again. 

O,  then,  when  life  is  burning  low, 

And  death-winds  call  my  soul  to  go, 

May  some  kind  voice,  from  earth's  dim  shore, 

"Felice  nottel"  breathe  once  more. 

E.  D.  R  Bianciardi. 


1883.] 


Current  Comment. 


97 


CURRENT  COMMENT. 


AT  the  annual  meeting  of  the  alumni  of  the  State 
University,  held  at  Berkeley  on  the  29th  of  May,  a 
series  of  statistics  was  read  that  throws  some  very 
curious  light  on  the  choice  of  occupations  among  the 
graduates  of  the  institution.  The  two  most  signifi- 
cant points  were  that  the  only  course  of  study  which 
is  directly  used  in  after  life  by  any  large  proportion 
of  its  graduates  is  the  "classical" — that  is,  the  tradi- 
tional A.  B.  course;  and  that  the  majority  of  all  the 
graduates — "scientific,"  "literary,"  and  "classi- 
cal " — turn  to  the  study  and  profession  of  law. 

The  first  of  these  generalizations  is  somewhat  con- 
ventional, being  founded  on  the  tradition  that  the 
occupations  directly  looked  toward  by  the  classical 
training  are  the  three  professions,  law,  medicine, 
and  theology.  In  point  of  fact,  the  classical  train- 
ing can  hardly  be  said  to  prepare  "directly"  for 
any  occupation,  in  the  same  sense  in  which  our 
engineering  course  prepares  directly  for  surveying. 
The  fair  distinction  to  make  is  probably  that  the 
classical  training,  as  far  as  it  prepares  "directly" 
for  anything,  may  be  said  to  do  so  for  any  profes- 
sion which  makes  larger  demands  for  a  wide  range 
of  general  knowledge  and  for  flexible  mental  facility 
than  for  exhaustive  mastery  of  a  single  subject,  or 
for  technical  skill.  Any  such  distinction  as  that  it 
looks  naturally  to  those  callings  which  make  some 
technical  use*  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages  is 
foolish  and  obsolete.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  no 
occupation  (outside  of  scholarship,  such  as  historical 
or  linguistic  research)  that  makes  technical  use  of 
any  but  the  merest  smattering  of  these  languages — 
less  grammar  than  a  year  in  a  high  school  would 
teach,  and  a  certain  amount  of  vocabulary.  And  in 
the  second  place,  the  best  modern  A.  B.  courses  do 
not  make  any  specialty  of  these  two  languages,  nor 
do  their  graduates  possess  any  more  profound  ac- 
quaintance with  Latin  and  Greek  than  with  science, 
literature,  history,  or^philosophy;  their  only  specialty 
is  that  they  have  no  specialty;  it  would  be  as  rational 
to  consider  a  Bachelor  of  Arts  specially  trained  or 
commerce  on  account  of  the  arithmetic  that  underlay 
his  mathematics  as  for  the  law  on  account  of  the 
knowledge  of  Latin  terminology  that  underlay  his 
Latin  reading.  But  judged  either  according  to  the 
amount  of  Latin  used  or  according  to  the  general 
t  character  of  the  training  required,  it  is  evident  that 
the  callings  of  teaching,  journalism,  literature,  or 
politics  are  more  directly  dependent  upon  the  classi- 
cal training  than  that  of  medicine.  Even  the  great- 
er part  of  what  is  known  as  "business"  would 
appear  to  be  more  directly  dependent  on  general 
training  than  on  chemical,  mechanical,  or  so  forth. 
However,  conventional  though  the  discrimination  is 
by  which  is  determined  the  proportion  of  Bachelors 
VOL.  II.— I. 


of  Arts  engaged  in  professions  for  which  they  were 
directly  fitted,  to  remake  it  according  to  the  lines 
we  have  suggested  would  only  increase  the  pre- 
ponderance in  the  same  direction;  for  the  num- 
ber of  teachers  alone  among  Californian  graduates 
is  far  greater  than  the  number  of  doctors,  and  there 
are  several  in  journalism,  politics,  and  literature. 

IT  is  to  be  noted  that  the  ones  among  our  students 
who  have  followed  out  most  closely  the  intention  of 
their  college  study  are  the  ones  whose  intention  in- 
cluded additional  professional  study;  for  the  natural 
demand  of  the  general  training  is  that  it  shall  be  fol- 
lowed by  special.  In  a  community  of  short  cuts, 
possessed  with  desire  for  rapid  achievement  at  any 
cost,  one  would  expect  the  converse  to  be  true;  one 
would  expect  to  see  numbers  entering  upon  the  seven 
years'  road  and  quitting  it  disheartened,  instead  of 
seeing  many  who  had  started  to  reach  a  profession  by 
a  four  years'  road  shifting  over  into  the  longer  path. 
The  fact  seems  to  be  that,  even  at  seventeen  years  old  or 
thereabouts,  few  start  in  for  seven  years'  work  without 
counting  the  cost;  and  that  many  start  in  to  prepare 
themselves  for  a  technical  occupation  by  a  four  years' 
course  with  too  sanguine  an  idea  of  what  can  be  ac- 
quired in  four  years.  Every  college  student  expe- 
liences  much  defining  and  modifying  of  his  ideas  as 
to  the  amount  of  learning  four  years  can  give;  and 
,the  chances  are  that  the  one  who  maps  out  for  him- 
self the  longer  work  has  the  more  correct  prevision, 
and  is  therefore  less  liable  to  change  of  plan.  Again: 
the  student  of  the  traditional  course  is  entering  a 
path  far  better  trodden  by  fathers,  uncles,  teachers, 
than  he  of  the  technical  courses,  and  has  every  facil- 
ity for  a  clearer  foresight  and  more  accurate  planning. 

WE  must  not,  however,  attach  too  much  signifi- 
cance to  these  indications  of  the  statistical  point  we 
have  been  considering.  The  second  one  that  we 
quoted  has  a  very  important  bearing  on  the  first. 
The  fact  that  our  graduates  have  so  generally  rushed 
into  law — law  to  the  neglect  of  all  other  occupations 
— has  been  the  chief  factor  in  keeping  classical  grad- 
uates to  their  intention,  and  making  scientific 
graduates  desert  theirs.  The  Californian  bar  has 
evidently  found  room  for  a  large  number  of  young 
lawyers,  and  the  possibility  of  great  prizes,  both  in 
money  and  reputation,  in  that  profession  have  been 
exceedingly  tempting  to  our  young  men.  The  exist- 
ence of  the  law  school — a  more  pleasant  and  conven- 
ient resource  for  the  unoccupied  than  any  other  of  the 
professional  schools — has  had  much  to  do  with  the 
tendency  of  our  graduates  to  the  law.  There  re- 
mains, however,  much  in  it  not  quite  accounted  for 
by  these  obvious  considerations,  and  it  is  a  rather 
curious  social  fact,  worth  some  further  observation. 


98 


Music  and  Drama. 


MUSIC   AND    DRAMA. 


Madam  Modjeska. 

CRITICISM  stammers  before  this  peerless  actress, 
and  if  we  take  pen  and  paper  with  the  object  of 
making  some  record  of  her  appearance,  it  is  with  the 
full  consciousness  that  the  only  true  enshrinement  of 
her  genius  must  be  in  the  memories  of  those  who  had 
eyes  to  behold  and  intellect  to  apprehend  what  she 
revealed.  She  is  as  far  beyond  record  as  genius 
is  above  rule.  Her  interpretations  of  drama,  like 
those  of  music  at  the  hands  of  Liszt  or  Rubinstein, 
thrill  one  with  the  sense  of  a  power  scarcely  inferior 
to  that  which  created  the  works  themselves.  We 
must  therefore  be  content  with  chronicling  a  few 
impressions  which  will  be  as  far  from  depicting  the 
true  Modjeska  as  the  pale  and  meager  words  of  de- 
scription are  from  the  visible  warmth  arid  abundance 
of  life. 

During  the  four  weeks  of  her  engagement  she 
appeared  in  seven  characters,  and  we  saw  her  in 
them  all :  Adrienne  Ltcouvrtur,  Rosalind,  Frou- 
Frou,  Viola,  Camillt,  Marie  Stuart,  and  Juliet. 
The  dominant  quality  in  her  interpretation  of  every 
one  of  these  varied  roles  was  her  intense  spirituality. 
In  quantity  of  intellect  she  surpasses  every  actress  but 
Ristori  that  has  ever  visited  California,  and  there  are 
but  two  or  three  in  the  world  that  can  be  named  be- 
side her.  Let  us  hasten  to  add  that  by  intellect  we 
mean  something  very  much  higher  than  mere  under- 
standing. In  the  leading  actor  at  another  theater  we 
have  lately  had  a  very  good  example  of  the  powers 
of  mere  understanding  when  applied  to  drama. 
Mr.  Barrett  is  an  artist  of  exceptional  ability,  thor- 
oughly versed  in  the  routine  of  his  craft,  and  able  to 
count  upon  the  certain  effect  of  his  knowledge  of  ar- 
tistic rules.  But  his  is  scarcely  the  art  that  conceals 
art,  nor  are  his  interpretations  the  offsprings  of  that 
sympathetic  imagination  which  gives  to  an  assumed 
character  the  accent,  glance,  and  gesture  of  life 
ifself.  Mr.  Barrett  is  hopelessly  stagey;  but  Madam 
Modjeska,  ample,  lavish,  inexhaustible,  full  of  the 
sweet  surprises  and  perplexities  of  real  life,  suggests 
in  every  role  a  character  greater  than  the  phases  she 
reveals.  A  woman  that  responds  with  the  spon- 
taneity of  a  highly  sensitive  organism  to  every  shade 
of  emotion,  she  yet  never  ceases  to  make  us  feel 
the  subjection  of  her  feelings  to  a  high  intellectual 
purpose.  It  is  this  fusion  of  intellect  and  emo- 
tion, one  of  the  surest  marks  of  genius,  which 
spiritualizes  everything  she  does.  Who,  before 
Modjeska,  ever  made  love  like  Adrienne  when  she 
welcomes  the  Count  de  Saxe  upon  his  return  from 
Russia  ?  It  is  love  like  this  that  most  men  dream 
of;  with  such  a  woman  they  would  cheerfully  stand 
up  against  the  world.  And  what  a  charm  did  this 


same  thorough-bred  air  of  the  true  gentlewoman 
lend  to  her  Rosalind!  There  is  much  in  the  dic- 
tion of  "  As  You  Like  It"  which  makes  it  difficult  for 
a  modern  audience  to  follow  the  play;  and  when  to 
this  was  added  a  slightly  foreign  accent,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  the  conceits,  the  quick  repartees,  the 
quaint  diction,  became  even  more  elusive  than  usual, 
causing  people  unfamiliar  with  Shakspere  to  go  away 
without  understanding  upon  what  the  plot  turned. 
For  us,  however,  especially  on  a  second  hearing, 
these  drawbacks  had  little  meaning;  and  the  tender 
pathos  of  the  early  scenes,  as  well  as  the  charming 
banter  with  Orlando,  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 
Perhaps  in  no  role  was  the  elevating  power  of  Mad- 
am Modjeska's  imagination  so  noticeable  as  in 
Camille,  It  is  the  essential  quality  of  that  character, 
which  few  of  its  numerous  interpreters  have  ever  per- 
ceived, that  it  combines  in  one  and  the  same  person 
fate  and  its  victim.  Camille  is  her  own  destroyer, 
and  Modjeska's  many  subtle  ways  of  emphasizing 
this  point  were  marked  by  the  highest  genius.  The 
interview  with  Armanis  father,  when  in  spite  of 
her  despair  she  resolves  to  sacrifice  herself,  was  per- 
meated with  a  sense  of  impending  doom  that  had 
about  it  a  touch  of  Greek  tragedy.  How  quickly 
it  was  laughed  away  in  the  face  of  the  lover  she  is 
leaving  forever ! 

As  we  have  alluded  to  Madam  Modjeska's  accent, 
it  behooves  us  to  say  how  small  a  thing  it  is  in  her 
dramatic  equipment.  It  is  marvelous  that,  learning 
English  only  seven  years  ago,  she  should  find  so  few 
stumbling-blocks  in  our  irregular  speech.  She  rarely 
mispronounces  a  word;  her  unfamiliarity  shows  itself 
rather  in  occasional  strange  inflections,  and  in  a  sin- 
gular inability  at  unexpected  moments  to  speak  some 
simple  sentence  in  the  manner  of  one  to  whom 
the  words  are  native.  But  these  are  matters  hardly 
worth  chronicling,  when  we  remember  that  in  every- 
thing pertaining  to  elocutionary  art  Madam  Mod- 
jeska towers  into  the  clouds  above  every  one  of  her 
English-speaking  company.  As  companies  go,  it 
is  not  a  poor  one.  It  is  better  than  the  support 
Booth  is  accustomed  to,  quite  as  good  as  Irving's 
company  in  London  was  three  years  ago,  and  it  has 
played  long  enough  with  Modjeska  to  make  a  better 
showing  than  the  local  talent  of  California  would 
have  done  in  its  place.  The  fact  remains,  that,  with 
the  exception  perhaps  of  Mr.  Owen  and  Miss  Drew, 
the  members  of  the  company  do  not  include  among 
their  talents  the  most  rudimentary  knowledge  of  elo- 
cution. The  leading  actor,  Mr.  Barrymore,  mouths 
insufferably.  For  the  most  commonplace  sentiments, 
he  draws  upon  his  tragic  music-box,  and  apparently 
looks  upon  the  seat  of  all  emotion  as  no  deeper  than 


1883.] 


Music  and  Drama. 


99 


the  throat.  He  will  make  a  better  actor  when  he 
ceases  to  attempt  to  make  his  larynx  do  the  work  of 
his  brain.  It  was  therefore  always  a  welcome  relief 
to  hear  Modjeska's  voice  again.  At  all  supreme 
moments,  whether  of  tenderness  or  of  anger,  of  dig- 
nity or  of  weakness,  she  never  failed  of  her  aim. 
Notably  in  the  declamatory  role  of  Marie  Stuart, 
her  denunciation  of  the  House  of  Lords  and  her 
scathing  interview  with  Elizabeth  were  splendid  ex- 
amples of  elocutionary  power. 

For  the  rest,  no  account,  however  meager,  of 
Madam  Modjeska's  appearance  can  omit  to  men- 
tion how  charmingly  the  spiritual  qualities  of  her 
interpretations  were  seconded  by  plastic  elements  of 
pose  and  gesture,  as  well  as  by  true  picturesqueness 
of  costume.  We  shall  not  soon  forget  the  buoyancy 
of  her  entrance,  all  in  white,  in  Afarie  Stuart,  when 
her  first  taste  of  liberty  in  the  forest  fills  her  with 
new  life,  and  at  every  step  the  gossamer  drapery  on 
her  shoulders  dilates  with  the  air,  until  her  whole 
person  seems  tremulously  expansive  with  the  glad 
spirit  within.  Nothing  could  have  been  finer  than 
her  bearing  throughout  this  play;  it  was  queenly 
without  pomposity,  dignified  without  constraint. 
We  shall  remember,  too,  many  a  charming  picture 
of  which  Modjeska's  Rosalind  is  the  center;  her  at- 
titude when  the  wrestling-match  is  over  and  she  goes 
away  love-smitten;  her  seat  on  the  tree-trunk  in 
Arden.  Indeed,  we  should  have  to  return  to  every 
scene  of  every  play  before  we  could  exhaust  the  pic- 
tures she  has  left  us.  In  the  quiet  elegance  of  her 
costumes  she  showed  the  same  high  breeding  as  in 
everything  else.  It  is  to  be  hoped  her  audiences 
took  to  heart  the  lesson  that  a  lady  who  dresses 
richly  need  not  necessarily  appear  like  a  walking  ad- 
vertisement of  her  pocket-book  and  her  dressmaker. 

For  the  last  night  of  her  engagement  in  San 
Francisco,  Madam  Modjeska  chose  to  appear  as 
Juliet.  Though  she  will  always  be  young  in  the 
memories  of  those  who  hare  had  the  good  fortune  to 
see  her,  it  was  a  happy  thought  to  bid  us  farewell 
in  the  person  of  this  youngest  heroine.  With  golden 
hair,  in  a  simple,  girlish,  rose-colored  gown,  she 
looked  not  a  day  over  eighteen.  When  we  beheld 
the  girlish  outbursts,  the  sweet  ingenuousness,  the 
thousand  charming  ways  of  maidenhood  by  which  she 
vivified  her  role,  we  could  not  but  wish  she  might 
be  young  forever,  in  order  to  set  before  men  her  high 
types  of  womanhood  from  generation  to  generation. 

Mr.  Barrett's  Plays. 

MR.  BARRETT  deserves  the  thanks  of  all  play- 
goers. He  has  rendered  them  two  exceptional  ser- 
vices. He  has  proved,  in  the  first  place,  that  it  is 
possible  for  plays  to  come  from  an  American  source 
and  still  have  something  of  the  coherence  and  dig- 
nity of  true  drama.  He  has  shown,  in  the  second 
place,  that  in  spite  of  the  temptations  of  the  "  star" 
system,  an  actor  nowadays  may  still  have  artistic 
conscience  enough  to  drill  his  company  into  some- 


thing like  harmonious  unity.  No  two  plays  seen 
here  for  years  have  aroused  more  discussion  than 
"  Yorick's  Love"  and  "  Francesca  da  Rimini." 
Each  owes  something  to  a  foreign  source.  The 
first,  indeed,  lays  no  claim  to  being  anything  but  an 
adaptation  from  the  Spanish;  and  the  second  deals 
with  a  subject  which  has  tempted  so  many  hands  since 
Dante's  day  that  one  hesitates,  before  comparing  it 
with  the  work  of  others,  to  say  how  much  of  its  ex- 
cellence belongs  to  Mr.  Boker.  For  compactness  of 
construction,  rapidity  of  movement,  and  sustained  in- 
tensity of  interest,  few  modern  plays  can  be  compared 
with  "  Yorick's  Love."  We  are  not  of  those  who 
think  the  play  gains  anything  by  its  more  or  less  suc- 
cessful imitation  of  the  quaintness  of  Elizabethan 
diction.  The  realism  that  gives  us  the  costumes  of 
the  past  is  sufficient;  beyond  that,  we  would  have  as 
little  as  possible  stand  between  the  human  interest  of 
the  drama  and  the  audience's  apprehension.  But 
this  touch  of  antiquarianism  could  not  impair  the 
vigor  and  occasional  touches  of  pure  poetry  which 
should  give  "Yorick's  Love"  a  long  lease  of  life. 
"Francesca"  is  a  drama  of  another  order  of  con- 
struction. It  lacks  compactness,  and  is  rather  a 
succession  of  episodes  than  a  coherent  organism. 
The  action  of  the  characters  upon  one  another,  also, 
does  not  always  follow  from  motives  that  will  bear 
the  test  of  probability.  The  fool,  Pepe,  is  a  great 
convenience  to  the  dramatist  in  the  elaboration  of 
his  plot.  But  what  could  be  more  unnatural  than 
that  such  a  man  should  be  permitted  to  make  a  butt 
of  Lanciottd's  deformity  ?  Among  gentlemen  or 
among  peasants,  we  have  never  heard  that  an  inev- 
itable physical  defect  was  an  accepted  theme  of  rid- 
icule. Still  less  would  it  be  permitted  to  be  so  in  the 
case  of  a  man  like  Lanciotto,  who,  as  a  general  at 
the  head  of  an  army,  had  proved  his  manhood  by 
showing  himself  the  only  true  fighter  and  bulwark 
of  his  native  city.  But  of  course,  unless  Pepe  were 
permitted  to  insult  Lanciotto.  and  receive  a  blow  in 
return,  there  would  be  no  plausible  way  of  account- 
ing for  the  fool's  subsequent  diabolical  interest  in  the 
ruin  of  his  master's  happiness;  and  we  must  there- 
fore put  up  with  an  improbability  for  the  sake  of  the 
convenience  of  the  playwright.  But  we  almost  for- 
get these  blemishes  in  the  presence  of  the  many  fine 
touches  that  heighten  the  character  of  Lanciotto;  and 
Mr.  Barrett  never  appeared  to  better  advantage  than 
in  his  rendering  of  them.  His  burst  of  happiness 
on  hearing  Francesca  declare  she  will  be  his  wife  in 
spite  of  what  he  is  had  the  accent  of  true  feeling, 
and  contrasted  strangely  with  the  more  artificial 
tones  of  the  earlier  scene  in  which  he  denounces  the 
rival  house  of  Rimini.  Much  of  the  pleasure  of  the 
piece  resulted,  as  we  have  said,  from  the  unusual 
level  of  excellence  attained  by  the  company  as  a 
whole.  They  have  been  well  trained  to  make  the 
most  of  themselves,  and  they  give  one  a  high 
opinion  of  the  sincerity  of  Mr.  Barrett's  artistic  pur- 
poses. 


100 


Music  and  Drama. 


[July, 


The  Thomas  Concerts. 

SAN  FRANCISCO  has  always  been  a  liberal  patron  of 
music,  and  the  mere  announcement  that  a  conductor 
of  the  national  and  international  reputation  of  Mr. 
Theodore  Thomas  was  about  to  come  here  with  his 
orchestra  called  forth  subscriptions  that  secured 
beforehand  a  large  financial  profit  to  his  enterprise. 
This  was  all  the  more  creditable  from  the  fact  that  the 
expense  incurred  was  heavy  beyond  precedent.  No- 
body had  ever  before  attempted  to  transport  a  band 
of  fifty  musicians,  together  with  half  a  dozen  expens- 
ive singers  and  a  noted  pianist,  across  the  continent 
in  the  expectation  that  the  receipts  from  seven  con- 
certs within  six  days  would  justify  the  attempt. 
But  Mr.  Thomas  has  met  with  a  success  that  is 
likely  to  induce  him  to  repeat  his  visit.  Five  of  the 
seven  concerts  have  taken  place  at  this  writing. 
The  attendance  has  probably  been  very  little  short 
of  three  thousand  at  each  concert;  and  the  newspa- 
pers, if  they  have  not  shown  much  critical  under- 
standing, have  yet  lacked  nothing  in  the  zeal  with 
which  they  have  stimulated  public  interest. 

The  programmes  were  not  particularly  novel  or  se- 
vere. With  the  exception  of  more  than  half  the  music 
of  the  Wagner  night,  there  were  only  two  or  three 
numbers  in  the  whole  "festival  "  that  had  not  been 
repeatedly  attempted  here  before.  As  for  severity, 
Mr.  Thomas  has  never  committed  the  imprudence  of 
being  too  far  in  advance  of  the  tastes  of  a  large 
audience;  and  while  his  programmes  have  been  filled 
with  the  names  of  composers  of  the  first  rank,  the 
selections  have  been  confined  for  the  most  part  to 
the  simpler  expressions  of  their  authors'  power.  To 
this  remark  there  were,  of  course,  many  notable  ex- 
ceptions; but  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  in 
point  of  severity  the  Thomas  programmes  were  ex- 
ceeded by  those  of  the  Homeier  concerts  two  years 
ago.  We  are  not,  however,  of  those  who  imagine 
that  the  excellence  of  a  concert  depends  upon  either 
its  novelty  or  its  severity;  and  it  goes  without  saying 
that  in  the  essential  matter  of  performance  Mr. 
Thomas  surpassed  in  accuracy,  precision,  and  attack, 
in  delicacy  of  pianissimo  effects,  in  the  wave-like 
march  of  his  long-gathering  crescendos,  in  the  singing 
quality  of  tone  he  exacts  from  his  instruments,  in  the 
simultaneous  combination  of  effects  as  different 
as  staccato  and  legato,  everything  heretofore  at- 
tempted by  orchestras  in  California.  Schubert's 
Unfinished  Symphony,  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony, 
Mendelssohn's  Overture  to  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  and  Wagner's  Prelude  to  Lohengrin,  were 
delightful  examples  of  an  absolutely  faithful  rendition 
of  the  effect  intended;  and  in  the  more  complex  pieces 
of  instrumentation,  such  as  Liszt's  Preludes  and  Ber- 
lioz's Invocation  from  the  Damnation  of  Faust,  the 
ease  with  which  every  sound-tint  in  these  rich 
mosaics  of  tone-colors  was  set  in  place  was  fairly  as- 
tonishing. 

Having  said  this  much  in  praise  of  the  concerts, 
candor  compels  us  to  add  that,  by  reason  of  three 


serious  drawbacks,  they  fell  far  short  of  being  a 
complete  artistic  success.  The  small  number  of  per- 
formers, the  enormous  size  of  the  hall,, and  the  entire 
want  of  proportion  between  the  orchestra  and  the 
huge  chorus  were  disadvantages  which  the  technical 
merits  of  accurate  interpretation  could  not  counter- 
balance. It  was,  in  the  first  place,  not  Thomas's 
orchestra  that  we  heard,  but  less  than  one-half  of  his 
orchestra.  There  were  but  fifty  men  all  told — thirty- 
one  strings,  including  the  harp,  and  nineteen  instru- 
ments divided  between  wood,  brass,  and  kettle-drum. 
When  the  services  of  additional  instruments,  such  as 
the  tuba,  bass-drum,  cymbals,  or  xylophone,  were  re- 
quired, men  were  taken  from  the  strings  for  this  pur- 
pose. Now  an  orchestra  in  which  the  strings  bear  this 
proportion  to  the  wood  and  brass  may  give  a  very 
satisfactory  rendering  of  any  music  in  the  world  ex- 
cept that  which  is  the  product  of  the  last  fifty  years. 
But  the  last  fifty  years  have  witnessed  this  important 
advance  in  instrumentation:  that,  whereas  in  music 
up  till  Beethoven's  death  the  wood  and  brass  were 
principally  used  to  fill  out  the  harmonies,  while  the 
melody  was  given  to  the  strings,  in  modern  works  the 
melody  itself  is  constantly  given  either  to  the  wood 
or  the  brass,  while  the  strings  supply  appropriate  fig- 
uration. Therefore,  as  the  quantity  of  sound  pro- 
duced by  wood  or  brass  is  vastly  in  excess  of  that  of 
the  strings,  there  must  be  such  a  proportion  between 
the  number  of  strings  and  that  of  all  other  instru- 
ments that  when  a  theme  is  sounded,  for  example, 
OH  a  blaring  trombone  the  accompanying  figure  of 
the  strings  shall  not  be  drowned.  Nobody  under- 
stands this  better  than  Mr.  Thomas;  and  his  orches- 
tra at  the  Philharmonic  concerts  in  New  York, 
arranged  with  special  reference  to  the  adequate 
rendering  of  modern  works,  bears  the  enormous 
(but  not  excessive)  proportion  of  eighty  strings  to 
twenty-five  of  all  other  instruments.  The  absence 
of  any  similar  proportion  in  the  orchestra  at  these 
concerts  resulted  in  a  misplaced  emphasis,  which 
simply  distorted  many  important  works.  If  people 
imagine,  for  example,  they  heard  the  works  of  Wag- 
ner interpreted  in  the  manner  of  the  composer,  we 
can  assure  them  they  were  very  much  mistaken. 
In  the  selections  from  The  Nibelung's  Ring,  parts 
for  the  wood  and  brass  stood  out  like  grotesque  ex- 
crescences, and  but  for  previous  hearings  of  the 
same  work  at  Bayreuth,  Munich,  and  Vienna,  the 
simultaneous  passages  for  the  strings  could  have 
been  but  dimly  suspected. 

This  same  want  of  proportion  was  frequently 
noticeable  between  the  orchestra  and  the  chorus.  We 
Americans  are  such  great  admirers  of  mere  size,  that 
it  is  commonly  regarded  as  sufficient  to  say  that  the 
chorus  consisted  of  so  many  hundred.  Thanks  to  the 
training  of  Mr.  Loring  and  a  certain  diffusion  of  vocal 
culture  among  us,  this  chorus  had  other  merits  than 
that  of  size.  Its  size,  indeed,  was  its  greatest  draw- 
back. So  long  as  the  function  of  the  orchestra  is  con- 
fined to  repeating  the  harmonies  that  are  sung  by  the 


1883.J 


Book  Heviews. 


101 


chorus,  we  can  perhaps  put  up  with  the  orchestra  be- 
ing completely  drowned  in  a  greater  volume  of  voices. 
But  it  frequently  happens  in  modern  works  that  the 
composer  divides  his  melody,  and  in  order  to  dimin- 
ish the  difficulties  of  singing,  gives  only  a  portion  of 
it  to  the  singers  and  the  balance  to  the  instruments. 
This,  it  will  be  remembered,  is  the  case  in  the  hunt- 
ing chorus  of  Der  Freischiitz,  where  the  effect  is 
the  same  as  though  the  entire  melody  were  sung.  A 
similar  division  occurs  in  the  chorus  of  the  second 
act  of  Tannhauser ;  but  the  fact  that  the  heavy 
chorus  entirely  silenced  the  orchestral  part  marred 
the  effect,  and  prevented  the  work  in  its  complete- 
ness from  being  heard. 

If  the  concerts  suffered  from  lack  of  proportion  in 
the  orchestra  and  want  of  balance  between  orchestra 
and  chorus,  a  no  less  hurtful  drawback  was  the  im- 
mense space  in  which  the  sound  of  the  fifty  instru- 
ments was  ingulfed.  For  want  of  a  hall  large 
enough  to  be  remunerative,  it  was  necessary  to  hold 
the  concerts  in  the  Mechanics'  Pavilion;  and  although 
the  manager  showed  great  ingenuity  in  adapting  that 
barn-like  structure  to  the  needs  of  music,  it  was  im- 
possible, either  by  partitions  separating  the  main 
hall  from  the  wings,  or  by  the  gigantic  sounding- 
board  extending  from  side  to  side  above  the  stage, 
to  accomplish  more  than  a  feeble  result.  The  little 
orchestra  was  dwarfed  by  the  immensity  of  the 
place.  In  the  third  of  the  hall  nearest  the  stage,  or 
in  the  balcony  above,  it  was  possible  to  get  some 
sense  of  volume,  though  even  there  one  felt  a  lack 
of  focus.  But  in  all  other  parts  of  the  building  the 
music  was  painfully  diluted.  It  was  like  listening  to 
an  orchestra  on  an  open  prairie.  Instead  of  filling 
one  with  its  strength  and  richness,  the  soujnd  came 
pale  with  the  fatigue  of  travel.  Now,  volume  is  as 
distinct  an  element  in  musical  pleasure  as  is  quality. 
Without  it,  indeed,  the  full  emotional  effect  of  music 


cannot  be  produced.  It  is  not  enough  that  sound 
should  reach  the  ear  and  be  audible:  the  hearer  must 
be  possessed  by  it  without  the  need  of  pricking  his 
ears  into  perpetual  alertness.  At  these  concerts, 
however,  the  dissipation  of  sound  was  so  great,  that 
even  works  which  the  orchestra,  in  spite  of  its  size, 
could  have  rendered  most  impressively  in  a  smaller 
hall  failed  to  produce  their  full  effect.  The  singers 
suffered  from  the  same  cause.  Only  two  of  them — 
Mrs.  Cole  and  Mr.  Remmertz — had  strength  of  voice 
enough  to  cope  with  the  space.  It  was  a  pity  that 
Mr.  Remmertz  had  not  also  a  corresponding  -fresh- 
ness and  pleasing  quality  of  voice.  Mrs.  Cole  has  a 
contralto  voice  of  uncommon  strength,  richness,  and 
compass,  and  her  manner  of  using  it  displayed  a 
power  of  sustaining  the  even  quality  of  tones  which 
awoke  a  pleasure  like  that  of  notes  melting  into 
each  other  without  loss  of  tone  on  the  violoncello 
and  gave  us  the  most  distinct  vocal  enjoyment  of  the 
festival.  It  is  the  absence  of  this  same  power  of 
sustaining  the  evenness  of  tone,  and  the  substitution 
for  it  of  a  disagreeable  vibrato,  which  is  the  most 
serious  drawback  to  the  sweetness  and  dexterity  of 
Miss  Thursby's  light  soprano. 

It  would  be  idle,  in  the  face  of  all  these  disadvan- 
tages, to  suppose  that  the  Thomas  Concerts  have  done 
much  to  increase  the  love  of  music  among  us. 
Though  the  audiences  were  models  of  attention,  it 
was  plain  that  their  attitude  was  one  of  respect 
rather  than  love  towards  what  they  heard.  There 
was  little  enthusiasm;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  the 
effect  upon  all  but  a  small  number  was  to  confirm 
the  popular  superstition  that  there  is  something  cold 
and  repellant  in  classical  music.  Not  till  Mr. 
Thomas  returns  to  us  with  an  orchestra  proportionate 
to  the  space  it  has  to  fill  will  the  full  effect  of  his 
great  qualities  as  a  conductor  be  revealed. 

Alfred  A.  Wheeler. 


BOOK    REVIEWS. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.1 

THOSE  who  have  longest  been  familiar  with  the 
name  and  works  of  the  subject  of  this  volume  will  be 
they  who  will  take  it  up  with  the  most  eager  antici- 
pations. As  a  poet  of  brilliant  humor  and  elegant 
pathos,  as  the  Autocrat,  Professor,  and  Poet  of  the 
Breakfast  Table,  as  the  writer  of  two  novels,  as  the 
scientist  who  has  taught  more  than  one  generation  in 
the  Harvard  Medical  School,  and  as  a  writer  of 
many  brilliant  essays  upon  various  scientific  subjects, 

l  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes:  Poet,  Litterateur,  Scien- 
tist. By  William  Sloane  Kennedy.  Boston:  S.  E. 
Casino  &  Company.  For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  & 
Co. 


Dr.  Holmes  has  a  name  and  acceptance  surpassed 
by  no  literary  man  of  the  time.  Whatever  subject 
he  has  touched  he  has  adorned,  and  if  he  has  not 
shown  himself  to  be  great  in  any  department  in 
which  he  has  appeared,  his  work  has  always  made 
him  conspicuous  by  its  excellence,  and  he  has  left 
richer  every  phase  of  literature  or  science  to  which 
he  has  made  any  contribution.  It  is  almost  fifty 
years  since  his  name  first  attracted  public  attention; 
and  continuously  since  then,  and  more  and  more, 
his  unceasing  activity  in  various  departments  of 
thought  has  reminded  the  world  of  the  many  re- 
sources of  his  wit  and  his  cultivated  intelligence.  Of 
such  a  man,  the  most  important  and  interesting  per- 


102 


Book  Heviews. 


sonal  facts  become  matter  of  common  knowledge. 
While  the  effusions  of  his  intelligence  give  no  indica- 
tion of  declining  powers,  the  world  accepts  with 
gratitude  the  gifts  of  his  speech  and  pen,  and  some- 
how comes  to  know  the  most  that  there  is  of  special 
interest  concerning  him,  without  the  aid  of  any  pro- 
fessional biographer.  This  will  all  come  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  those  most  and  longest  the  readers  of 
the  writings  of  Dr.  Holmes,  when  they  turn  the 
leaves  of  this  book  and  seek  with  friendly  eagerness 
for  something  concerning  its  subject,  which  will  make 
them  more  familiar  with  his  person  and  mind  and 
heart.  The  most  that  this  volume  tells  can  as  well 
be  gathered  by  the  reader  of  Dr.  Holmes's  works 
from  the  works  themselves.  The  author  anticipates 
the  reader's  possible  disappointment  by  telling  him 
in  a  prefatory  note  that  the  book  does  not  profess  to 
be  a  biography,  but  that  "it  is  designed  to  serve  as 
a  treasury  of  information  concerning  the  ancestry, 
childhood,  college  life,  professional  and  literary  ca- 
reer, and  social  surroundings  of  him  of  whom  it 
treats,  as  well  as  to  furnish  a  careful,  critical  study  of 
his  works." 

From  the  exceedingly  meager  exposition  of  facts 
of  every  kind  touching  the  subject  and  all  his  envi- 
ronment outside  of  his  published  works — what  they 
contain  or  indicate — it  would  seem  as  if  Mr.  Kenne- 
dy had  been  left  mostly  to  the  resources  of  his  own 
genius,  and  that  whatever  other  data  he  had  to  make 
use  of,  he  had  not  at  his  command  the  memory  of 
his  subject,  which  must  be  crammed  with  multitudes 
of  incidents,  and  which,  when  he  shall  himself 
choose  to  tell  them,  will  lead  the  stranger  and  seeker 
after  wisdom  into  better  knowledge  of  the  growth 
and  development  of  his  character  and  genius,  and 
show  them  more  completely  all  the  knowable  sides 
of  the  man  himself.  If  there  is  any  exception  to  this 
lack  of  aid  from  him,  whom  some  may  consider  the 
victim  of  the  sketcher's  pen,  it  is  apparently  in  the 
matter  of  family  derivation.  In  this  matter,  gener- 
ally, however,  the  interest  seems  to  be  the  reverse  of 
that  in  the  equine  family.  The  foal  gets  his  value 
from  the  noble  strain  of  his  pedigree,  and  that  is 
asked  about  before  the  test  of  the  animal  is  made. 
In  human  kind  we  put  man  first  to  the  test,  and 
when  he  himself  has  proven  his  value,  only  a  second- 
ary interest  arises  as  to  his  ancestry.  There  are  but 
few  exceptions  to  the  more  than  usual  complaisance, 
if  not  real  contempt,  with  which  ordinary  mortals 
look  upon  descendants  of  famed  people,  when  those 
descendants  are  themselves  but  people  of  ordinary 
abilities.  At  the  same  time,  when  one  has  shown 
himself  of  better  parts  and  more  varied  and  greater 
talents  than  we,  we  are  a  bit  pleased  to  believe  that 
great  abilities  apparently  can  descend  to  a  later  gen- 
eration. For  although  there  are  a  few  cases  of  this 
sort  which  may  be  cited  as  exceptions,  the  rule  seems 
to  be,  from  our  every-day  experience,  exactly  the 
reverse.  The  son  of  what  great  man  was  ever  as 
great  as  himself?  And  how  many  great  men  have 


there  been  whose  immediate  derivation  was  not  from 
persons  of  not  apparently  great  abilities  ?  Experience 
seems  to  give  so  much  disappointment  to  all  our 
hopes  concerning  the  children  of  persons  of  genius, 
that  it  would  seem  as  if  we  were  justified  in  conclud- 
ing that,  when  in  the  line  of  descent  from  men  and 
women  of  unusual  minds  there  come  forth  in  the 
course  of  several  generations  offspring  of  extraordi- 
nary intellect,  these  new-born  persons  of  genius  are 
indebted  therefor,  not  to  their  greatly  famed  ances- 
tors, but  to  the  new  blood  that  has  come  into  their 
ancestry  from  those  whose  names  in  the  preceding 
generations  have  somehow  found  no  places  upon  the 
family  tree — the  unknown  and  the  inglorious  to 
whom  there  came  no  fame,  possibly  because  there 
came  in  their  careers  no  opportunities  nor  exigencies 
which  demanded  the  use  or  display  of  their  possible 
talents. 

As  if  to  show  himself  justified  in  writing  a  volume 
concerning  a  living  man,  which,  whatever  of  mild 
and  becoming  censure  he  might  appear  to  indulge  in, 
would  probably  contain  some  eulogy — otherwise  the 
book  would  have  no  reason  for  being — the  writer 
prefaces  his  prefatory  note  with  the  printed  expres- 
sion of  Dr.  Holmes,  that  "it  is  an  ungenerous  si- 
lence which  leaves  all  the  fair  words  of  honestly 
earned  praise  to  the  writer  of  obituary  notices  and 
the  marble- worker."  Is  it  fair  to  believe  that  Mr. 
Kennedy  has  interpreted  this  phrase  in  a  way  friend- 
ly to  the  Doctor's  vanity,  and  so  has  accepted  it  as  a 
pleasant  invitation  extended  to  whatever  admiring 
and  appreciative  friend  might  have  the  leisure  and 
the  kindness  to  write  of  him  a  book  of  praise? 
Whether  it  is  so  or  not,  the  author  has  in  the  begin- 
ning complied  with  what  seemed  to  him  the  satisfac- 
tions of  the  Doctor's  fractional  family  pride — frac- 
tional, because  not  impartial  and  universal.  He 
says,  in  describing  the  characteristics  of  his  subject, 
that  Dr.  Holmes  has  a  large  egotism  ;  and  of  "one 
feature"  of  his  writings  he  says  that  "the  vanity  of 
it  is  so  deliciously  apparent  that  one  would  simply 
allude  to  it  and  pass  over  it  in  silence  did  it  not 
occupy  so  very  conspicuous  a  place. "  Therefore,  it 
would  seem,  he  has  devoted  the  first  chapter  to  run- 
ning up  the  trunk  of  the  family  tree  and  out  along 
those  lines  of  ancestry  which  he  makes  terminate 
with  a  name  of  some  reputation,  and  moral  and  in- 
tellectual worth.  We  learn  that  Dr.  Holmes's  moth- 
er's great-grandmother  wrote  a  volume  of  verses, 
which  seem  not  to  have  preserved  her  name  as  a 
poet.  This  great-great-grandmother's  father  was  a 
governor,  and  her  husband's  father  was  a  like  digni- 
tary. When  we  get  back  to  these  colonial  govern- 
ors, we  are  six  steps  removed  from  the  subject  of  this 
volume.  On  that  plane,  there  are  at  least  sixty-four 
ancestors — since  our  ancestors  double  at  each  remove 
— to  each  of  whom  he  may  fairly  be  said  to  be  indebted 
for  one  undivided  sixty-fourth  part  of  his  deriration. 
Such  an  arithmetical  view  of  one's  derivation  may 
greatly  tend  to  show  the  thinning  of  the  richest  blood 


1883.J 


Book  Renews. 


103 


that  flows  in  aristocratic  veins,  but  does  it  not  have  a 
tendency  to  make  us  stand  upon  our  own  virtues  rather 
than  lean  upon  what  is  but  a  name  or  an  epitaph? 
It  seems  to  us  that  human  worth  is  individual,  and 
is  largely  the  result  of  individual  expression  of  mind 
and  character.  Family  pride,  in  all  its  absurd  pro- 
portions, was  within  the  conclusion  of  Solomon 
that  "all  is  vanity."  It  is  certain  that  illustrious 
ancestors  are  not  necessary  to  the  achievement  or 
greatness  of  any  one,  for  most  of  those  who  attain 
eminence  are  the  first  of  their  name  who  have  at- 
tained it.  We  therefore  think  that  any  considerable 
space  in  this  book  need  not  have  been  given  to  the 
recitation  of  ancestral  names,  for  Dr.  Holmes  needs 
no  display  of  illustrious  ancestors  to  compel  our 
honor.  In  the  light  of  his  own  genius,  family  pride 
seems  ridiculous,  for  not  one  of  those  ancestors  was 
his  peer  in  intellect  or  acquirements. 

Most  of  the  rest  of  the  volume  is  familiar  to  all 
readers  of  Dr.  Holmes's  works,  for  they  have  read 
it  there.  The  author  does  not  claim  credit  for  hav- 
ing written  a  biography,  but  he  has  put  into  the 
book,  evidently,  all  the  facts  of  which  he  had  knowl- 
edge. He  has  described  Cambridge,  the  place  of 
his  birth  and  the  home  of  his  childhood  and  youth; 
he  has  given  an  interesting  account  of  bits  of  his  life 
and  companionship  while  a  student  at  Harvard,  and 
has  touched  meagerly  enough  upon  his  career  as 
physician  and  as  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiol- 
ogy in  the  Harvard  Medical  School,  for  a  period  of 
thirty-five  years.  All  the  rest  is  of  what  Dr.  Holmes 
has  done  as  poet,  litterateur,  and  scientist,  and  Mr. 
Kennedy's  judgment  upon  the  value  of  what  he  has 
done.  The  value  of  the  judgment  will  differ  in  every 
reader's  mind  with  the  maturity  of  his  own  judgment, 
and  his  familiarity  with  the  works  of  the  author  who 
is  the  subject  of  the  criticism.  For  those  who  are 
familiar  with  the  works,  the  book,  as  it  calls  for 
agreement  or  disagreement  in  matters  of  opinion,  is 
of  very  doubtful  worth;  for  those  to  whom  the  name 
and  works  of  Dr.  Holmes  are  still  wholly  or  mostly 
unknown,  if  there  are  any  such  among  intelligent 
readers,  it  will  be  useful  as  a  guide,  and  may  incite 
them  to  know  works  that  one  cannot  in  these  days 
very  well  afford  to  be  unfamiliar  with. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  somewhat  free  way  in 
which  the  author  has  expressed  himself  concerning 
some  of  Dr.  Holmes's  works,  and  some  of  his  per- 
sonal characteristics,  will  be  received  with  any  con- 
siderable intellectual  hospitality  by  Dr.  Holmes  him- 
self; and  whether  the  Doctor  will  not  turn  to  the 
quotation  which  Mr.  Kennedy  has  made  use  of  as  his 
justification,  and  with  a  twinkling  eye  ask  if  this 
book  is  a  compliance  with  the  infolded  wish.  Will 
he  not  prefer  the  "ungenerous  silence  which  leaves 
all  the  fair  words  of  honestly  earned  praise  to  the 
writer  of  obituary  notices,"  to  that  utterance  of  them 
so  mingled  with  condemnation  that  all  his  character 
will  seem  .out  of  harmony  and  all  his  life  seem  out 
of  tune?  For  Mr.  Kennedy  mingles  the  bitter  of 


disapproval  with  the  sweet  of  approval  so  fully,  that 
a  conclusion  of  great  admiration  for  this  subject 
would  not  seem  to  follow.  "  As  a  treasury  of  prac- 
tical philosophy  and  observation,  the  'Professor'  [of 
the  Breakfast  Table]  is  a  valuable  and  readable 
book;  but  as  a  story  or  narrative,  it  is  a  failure." 
Did  any  one  ever  before  look  upon  that  series  of 
papers  as  intended  primarily  to  be  considered  a  story  ? 
"The  everlasting  boarders  appear  on  the  stage 
again,  as  lifeless  and  characterless  as  ever.  The 
style  is  turgid  and  frothy  and  wearisome."  A 
treasury  of  practical  philosophy  and  observation 
turgid  and  frothy  and  wearisome!  "Simplicity 
and  the  calmness  of  a  great  nature  is  what  the 
reader  comes  to  long  for" ! 

Of  his  two  novels,  "Elsie  Venner"  and  "The 
Guardian  Angel,"  this  condemnatory  eulogist  says: 
"  Of  the  technical  qualifications  of  the  professional 
novel-wright,  Holmes  has  not  wherewith  to  furnish 
forth  even  a  third-rate  genius;  there  are  twenty  and 
one  novelists  now  living  who  would  laugh  to  scorn 
the  threadbare  conventionalism  of  his  plots,  not- 
withstanding their  few  thrilling  dramatic  incidents." 
And  if  Mr.  Kennedy  should  name  his  score  of  gentle- 
men who  write  novels  by  line  and  rule,  in  the  "pro- 
fessional "  method,  mathematically  true  to  the  theory 
of  novel-writing,  we  should  have  the  names  of 
authors  whose  novels  have  not  a  tithe  of  the  immor- 
tality which  has  brought  these  already  safely  over 
more  than  two  decades,  to  the  eager  and  happy  eyes 
of  the  children  of  those  who  first  took  delight  in  those 
unprofessional  novels.  But  the  sweet  counteracts 
the  bitter  thus:  "But  in  spite  of  their  deficiencies, 
the  stories  hold  us  fascinated  to  the  end. "  Fascinated 
by  a  novelist  without  the  "technical  qualifications 
of  the  professional  novel-wright1'!  Then,  let  the 
professional  novel-wright  kneel  at  the  feet  of  this 
one,  the  strength  of  whose  novels  is  said  to  lie  in 
"their  shrewd,  psychological  analysis  of  character, 
and  in  their  wealth  of  practical  philosophy." 

Yet,  the  tone  of  reproof  and  criticism  will  mod- 
ify the  otherwise  rather  fulsome  tone  of  the  mono- 
graph, and  it  may  be  will  be  of  service  in  obtaining 
for  Mr.  Kennedy  himself  a  reputation  for  independ- 
ence and  honest  criticism,  which  possibly  were  in- 
cluded in  the  object  which  he  had  in  view,  in  writ- 
ing a  volume  about  the  person  and  works  of  another 
man. 

If  this  work  was  a  voluntary  tribute,  a  labor  of 
love  and  admiration  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  it 
seems  to  us  that  we  may  safely  predict  that  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy is  waiting  and  watching  the  sands  in  Dr. 
Holmes's  glass,  anxious  and  certain  to  supplement 
the  work  which  he  has  issued  by  a  real  biography, 
which  he  expressly  says  this  is  not.  We  do  not  read 
this  book  or  Dr.  Holmes  or  human  nature  aright,  if 
Dr.  Holmes  does  not  feel — as  Lord  Brougham,  know- 
ing that  his  Life  would  be  added  by  Lord  Campbell 
to  those  of  the  Lord  Chancellors — that  this  anticipa- 
tion adds,  indeed,  another  pang  to  death. 


104 


Book  Reviews. 


[July, 


Mrs.  Carlyle's  Letters.  1 

"LET  the  wise  beware  of  too  great  readiness  at 
explanation:  it  multiplies  the  sources  of  mistake," 
says  George  Eliot;  and  Mr.  Carlyle  has  afforded  a 
melancholy  proof  of  her  wisdom.  For  these  books 
( the  present  one  of  his.  wife's  letters  and  the  Rem- 
iniscences), partly  given  to  the  world  no  doubt  from 
a  savage  impulse  of  truthfulness — since  biographies 
the  world  would  undoubtedly  have,  let  them  be  true 
ones,  distressingly  true  ones — were  also,  no  doubt, 
in  part  prompted  by  the  craving  of  a  solitary  nature 
to  break  through  that  solitude  both  in  his  own  be- 
half and  his  wife's,  and  be  understood  and  sympa- 
thized with  by  posterity  at  least.  Some  such  impulse 
probably  inspires  most  autobiography.  And  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Reminiscences,  so  it  is  with  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle's letters:  by  this  unreserved  taking  of  the  world 
into  the  confidence  .of  her  secret  soul,  he  has  only 
insured  that,  instead  of  being  understood  by  few  or 
none,  she  shall  be  misunderstood  by  many.  So  far 
out  of  the  ordinary  was  Jane  Welsh's  nature,  that  a 
decorous  showing  of  select  portions  of  her  traits  and 
sayings  and  doings  to  the  majority  of  people  would 
have  saved  her  much  misjudgment.  For  one  thing, 
simple  as  is  the  act  of  imagination  required  to  realize 
that  these  expressions  of  opinion,  feeling,  character, 
were  not  written  to  be  placed  between  covers  and  in 
print,  but  in  all  the  freedom  of  correspondence  with 
friends  who  could  be  counted  on  to  understand  every 
shade  of  burlesque,  there  are  few  whose  imagination 
will  prove  equal  to  that  justice.  In  point  of  fact,  it 
is  doubtful  if  the  private — the  most  private — corre- 
spondence of  any  brilliant,  willful,  proud  woman 
could  be  found  more  free  from  what  is  really  ungentle 
than  Mrs.  Carlyle's.  Yet  many  women  who  write 
sharper  criticism  of  their  neighbors  and  acquaint- 
ance every  week  than  Mrs.  Carlyle  did,  will  be  preju- 
diced against  her  ihcisiveness,  as  shown  in  these 
letters;  just  as  many  a  husband  who  speaks  his  mind 
daily  to  his  wife  with  as  much  energy  of  intention  as 
Mr.  Carlyle,  though  less  vigor  of  language,  has  no 
scruple  in  denouncing  Carlyle  as  a  brute  to  his  wife. 
It  may,  however,  be  taken  for  granted  that  any  of  us 
who  visit  any  husband  and  wife  that  have  in  common 
a  keen  insight  and  a  pleasure  in  observing  human 
nature  will  be  talked  over  ruthlessly  in  private,  made 
to  contribute  to  their  fund  of  anecdotes,  allusions, 
and  by-words — in  general,  regarded  as  part  of  the 
world's  provision  for  their  entertainment.  Nothing 
is  more  unreasonable  than  to  be  surprised,  when  their 
letters  get  into  print,  at  discovering  this.  Indeed, 
there  has  been  something  childish  in  the  surprise  the 
public  has  shown  at  learning  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle had,  between  themselves,  these  unceremonious 
views  of  their  acquaintance. 

The  good  reader  objects,  too,  to  the  occasional 
touches  of  vigor  in  language,  beyond  what  is  generally 

1  Letters  and  Memorials  of  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle. 
Prepared  for  publication  by  Thomas  Carlyle.  Edited 
byj.  A.  Froude.  New  York:  Harper  &  Brothers.  1883. 


allowed  to  the  feminine  pen.  But  to  fancy  that  an 
unceremonious  reference  to  the  devil,  or  the  like, 
could  seem  very  strong  to  a  woman  whose  daily 
exemplar  was  Mr.  Carlyle  is  under-rating  the  force 
of  association.  In  fact,  we  incline  to  think  it  quite 
the  right  thing  that  the  companion  of  that  wielder  of 
thunder  should  have  been  able  to  talk  in  what  was 
near  enough  his  own  dialect  to  be  companionable, 
and  far  enough  from  it  to  be  original. 

In  the  quibbling  over  these  minor  things,  the  more 
valuable  point — the  character  of  the  woman  displayed 
in  these  letters — will  be  in  danger  of  being  neglected. 
No  appreciative  person  can  fail  to  see,  if  he  dwells 
upon  it,  the  picture  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of 
women.  Nothing  could  be  neater  than  W.  E.  Fors- 
ter's  exclamation  on  hearing  some  points  of  her  an- 
cestry, that  now  he  understood:  across  between  John 
Knox  and  a  gypsy  accounted  for  her  perfectly.  To 
us  also  the  woman  revealed  by  these  letters  seems  very 
fairly  described  as  a  cross  between  John  Knox  and  a 
gypsy.  The  passionately  willful,  fervid,  defiant 
Jeannie  Welsh,  whose  uncompromising  sincerity 
must  have  been  always  the  strong  point  of  sympathy 
between  her  and  Carlyle;  the  impulsive,  reckless 
creature  who  was  known  in  her  faded  middle  age  as 
Jeannie  Welsh  come  back  to  visit  her  childhood's 
home,  because  no  other  woman  would  have  climbed 
the  seven-foot  graveyard  fence  that  way,  and  who, 
at  the  age  of  fifty-two,  excited  by  the  grandeur  of  a 
wild  spot,  started  enthusiastically  to  climb  a  danger- 
ous precipice;  the  ardently  loving,  soft-hearted 
woman,  so  easily  moved  to  tears  and  sympathy,  so 
constantly  a  refuge  for  people  in  trouble,  so  tena- 
ciously affectionate  to  those  whose  kindness  and 
worth  touched  her,  and  yet  constantly  correcting  her 
own  soft-heartedness  by  her  keen,  sarcastic  Scotch 
sense;  the  resolute  soldier  in  the  sordid  warfare  that 
her  life  shriveled  mainly  into,  showing  herself — for 
all  her  wildness  and  willfulness  and  her  perfectly  dis- 
tinct comprehension  of  what  was  due  to  her  and  what 
would  be  agreeable  to  her — nevertheless  able  to  bear 
herself  creditably  and  to  the  very  utmost  of  her 
great  ability  in  the  vocation  that  had  turned  out 
vastly  harder  than  she  bargained  for; — what  could 
epitomize  her  better  than  the  "cross  between  John, 
Knox  and  a  gypsy  "  ? 

The  external  trials  of  her  life  will  probably  seem 
much  sorer  to  English  women  than  to  American 
— the  one  maid-servant,  the  frequent  work  with  her 
own  hands,  the  economies.  Counting  out  these 
and  the  influence  of  physical  pain  and  feebleness, 
especially  the  frightful  sleeplessness,'  it  is  probable 
the  stout  of  nerve  will  find  no  compromise  between 
believing  that  she  had  really  no  cause  for  unhappiness, 
and  believing  that  her  relations  with  her  husband 
were  unhappy.  Indeed,  one  must  needs  know  some- 
thing of  physical  sensibility  to  be  able  to  appreciate 
the  one  long  misery  of  nervous  irritability  and 
excessive  sensitiveness,  that  seem  to  almost  make 
up  the  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlyle.  As  to 


1883.] 


Book   Keriews. 


10f> 


the  further  point  of  her  relations  with  her  husband, 
it  is  one  that  will  be  dwelt  upon  by  the  curious  and 
unappreciative  so  much,  that  will  draw  frivolous  cu- 
riosity and   receive   commonplace   constructions   so 
especially,  that  one  dislikes  to  touch  upon  it.     For 
the  first  half  and  more  of  her  married  life,  it  is  only 
a  deficient  sense  of  humor  that  will  find  anything 
but  a  playful  and  affectionate — though   at  the  same 
time   keen-sighted — rallying   in    her   complaints   of 
her  "man  of  genius";   the   hardships  of  her  own 
lot   she   accepts    with   spirit,    and    the   affectionate 
clinging   to  him   in   her   letters  is  no   less  evident 
than  the  fullness  of  understanding   between   them 
in  things  large  and  small,  which   filled  their  inter- 
course with   little   common  jokes  and   stories,  and 
warranted  her  in  relating  every  household  incident. 
That    for   some   years   her   letters   to   him   become 
colder,  and  her  tone  about  his  failings  bitter,  is  un- 
questionable :  and  the  reasons  thereof  are,  it  seems 
to  us,  too  easy  for  the  sympathetic  to  trace  to  need 
our   dwelling   on ;    while   for  the  unsympathetic  to 
meddle  with  these  intensely  personal  elements  in  the 
lives  of  two  other  human  beings  cannot  but  seem — 
though  it  is  Carlyle's  own  act  to  make  all  this  public 
— an  impropriety  and   impertinence.     Except    that 
every  feeling  in  the  deep  waters  of  the  temperament 
of  both  husband  and  wife  was  transmuted  into  its 
most  tragically  intense  form,  their  life  was  exactly 
that  of  hundreds  of  couples  who  will  criticise  them, 
forgetting,  or  never  having  conceived,  how  intensified 
every  flaw  in  their  own  harmony  would  look  under 
such  a  lime-light  as  these  most  terribly  truthful  letters. 
Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  the  book 
is   Carlyle's   unequaled   frankness  or   obtuseness  in 
preparing  it  for  publication  without  the  withholding 
of  a  sentence  of  the  many  that  had  so  keen  a  lash  for 
himself.     It  is  an  intensely  sad  book— saddest  of  all 
because  of  the  hardening  and  growing  cold  that  is 
evident  in  her ;  not  merely  because  the  troubles  of 
her  own  life  embittered  her — her  unchanging  aflec- 
tion  for  her  nearest  friends  counteracted  that  in  the 
long  run— but  because  she  all  along  implicitly  adopt- 
ed her  husband's  views,  and  the  growing  hardness  in 
these  evidently  did  her  no  good.     It  is  certain  that 
Carlyle  was  the  cause  of  much  of  the  unhappiness  of 
his  wife's  life ;  yet  he  was  not  to  so  great  an  extent 
as  the  hasty  are  apt  to  think  the  responsible  cause. 
His  life  was  likewise  unhappy  ;  and  though  he  sacri- 
ficed his  wife  as  well  as  himself  to  his  work,  the  de- 
crying of  that  work  that  has  been  set  in  fashion  by 
the  reaction  against  him  personally  is  unreasonable. 
The  work  was  really  great,  if  not  in  all  the  ways  that 
he  and  his  admirers  once  believed.     And  as  long  as 
the  world  is  full  of  wives  who  have  to  live  much  such 
a  life  as  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  without  the  justification 
of  genius  in  their  husbands,  it  seems  only  rational  in 
us  to  look  on  these  two  great,  fervent,  and  tragic 
lives  with  both  admiration  and  sympathy,  and  not 
to  try  to  measure  them  too  closely  by  our  foot-rules 
of  behavior. 


Wealth-Creation.1 

THE  essays  on  economic  subjects  that  have 
from  time  to  time  appeared  from  the  pen  of 
Augustus  Mongredien  are  now  followed  up  by  a 
book,  which  he  calls  Wealth- Creation.  The  author 
is  one  of  the  few  men  practically  engaged  in  com- 
mercial matters  who  have  ever  taken  up  the  study  of 
economic  questions  in  a  comprehensive  spirit.  As  is 
wisely  remarked  in  the  introduction,  actual  experi- 
ence in  commerce  is  often  a  hindrance  to  impartial 
economic  views,  as — even  apart  from  the  bias  of  indi- 
vidual interest,  which  may  conflict  with  the  public 
good — it  accustoms  one  to  looking  at  a  limited  range 
of  results.  When  a  man  of  this  class,  however,  does 
arrive  at  far-reaching  observation  and  impartial  rea- 
soning, his  familiarity  with  the  actual  phenomena 
of  barter  gives  him  an  advantage  over  more  scholarly 
men  in  the  matter  of  simplicity  and  practical  sug- 
gestions. Political  economy  is  becoming  more 
and  more  a  concrete  and  applied  science,  as  the 
present  volume  illustrates  in  a  marked  degree.  The 
school  of  economists  who  insisted  so  strenuously 
upon  political  economy  as  a  pure  science,  limited  to 
the  observation  of  social  forces  whose  operation 
could  not  be  altered,  was  itself  a  reaction  and  an 
invaluable  protest  against  the  crude  and  meddle- 
some policy  of  a  still  earlier  time;  but  it  went  too  far 
in  the  doctrine  of  unalterable  laws  of  trade — or 
rather,  in  the  practical  deductions  from  this  doctrine 
— and  justified  some  of  the  distrust  with  which  it 
has  been  regarded,  by  confusing  simple  facts  with 
words,  and  by  too  abstract  generalizations.  The 
newer  and  more  sensible  economy  regards  the  ame- 
liorating of  evils  and  bettering  of  society  as  a  legiti- 
mate and  leading  purpose,  and  investigates  laws  of 
trade  as  a  means  to  this,  not  as  the  end  of  the  science. 
Thus  it  becomes  an  ally,  or  even  department,  of 
what  is  called  "Social  Science,"  but  regarded  rather  as 
a  practical  inquiry  into  the  rational  improvement  of 
the  race  than  as  a  pure  science.  Mr.  Mongredien's 
political  economy  is  eminently  in  this  modern  spirit, 
and  does  not  hesitate  to  take  into  account  the  fac- 
tors of  sentiment,  of  public  spirit,  of  benevolence, 
in  calculating  his  causes  and  effects.  He  even 
writes  with  ardor  and  in  the  missionary  spirit;  from 
which  one  is  not  to  infer  that  he  is  not  sound  and 
hard-headed  in  his  conclusions.  They  are  in  all 
main  points  in  accord  with  the  best  judgment  of 
all  sound  economists,  and  are  clearly  put  and  well 
sustained— though  there  is  no  special  originality 
in  them. 

The  Freedom  of  Faith.8 
WITHOUT  being  in   the   least  an  epoch-making 
book,    the    collection    of   sermons    printed    under 

1  Wealth-Creation.        By     Augustus      Mongredien. 
New  York,  London,  and  Paris:  Cassell,  Petter  &  Gal- 
pin.     1883.     For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 

2  The  Freedom  of  Faith.     By  Theodore  F.  Munger. 
Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1883.     For  sale  by 
Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 


106 


Book  lieciews. 


the  title  of  The  Freedom  of  Faith  is  an  impor- 
tant one,  which  we  should  like  to  do  our  part  toward 
making  widely  read.  It  represents  more  fairly  than 
anything  we  have  seen  the  most  intelligent,  healthy, 
and  rational  thought  of  the  evangelical  church  in 
this  country.  It  does  not  seem  to  us  altogether 
correct  to  call  a  "New  Theology"  the  increase  in 
freedom  of  interpretation  and  in  distaste  for  mysti- 
cism and  dogma,  showing  itself  among  the  most  intel- 
ligent men  in  an  educated  profession.  A  temperate 
spirit  and  rationalizing  habit  of  mind  in  theology  is 
becoming  the  property,  not  merely  of  leaders  of 
thought,  like  Robertson  and  Bushnell,  but  of  follow- 
ers and  interpreters  like  Mr.  Munger:  that  is  really 
the  substance  of  the  so-called  "movement."  The 
sermons  in  question,  without  being  copies  of  any  one, 
still  contain  nothing  especially  new;  they  present  the 
theology  of  the  best  school  of  liberal  orthodoxy  intel- 
ligently and  clearly  to  the  average  listener.  They 
deal  much  with  the  scientific  side  of  religious  ques- 
tions: not  in  the  Joseph  Cook  fashion,  by  attempts  to 
demolish  the  masters  of  science  with  their  own  weap- 
ons, but  by  the  far  more  rational  method  of  carrying 
back  the  arena  of  argument  into  the  region  of  mystery 
where  there  is  no  possible  clashing  between  liberal 
religion  and  liberal  science.  In  order  to  fall  back  to 
this  safe  ground,  certain  minor  points  have  to  be  con- 
ceded, and  these  Mr.  Munger  cheerfully  concedes — or 
rather,  waives.  They  are,  it  is  true,  points  over  which 
theology  has  fought  sharply — verbal  inspiration;  the 
mystical  construction  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity; 
the  commercial  view  of  the  Atonement:  but  they 
are  all  points  that  can  be  yielded  without  losing  rank 
on  the  extreme  edge  of  orthodoxy.  For  the  rest, 
the  sermons  are  consistently  sensible,  manly,  ear- 
nest, yet  unsentimental — except,  perhaps,  for  a  slight 
sentimentality  of  diction  difficult  to  avoid  in  pulpit- 
speech. 

Briefer  Notice. 

IT  is  seldom  that  a  book  comes  to  the  reviewer's 
table  of  which  he  can  speak  with  so  unqualified 
commendation  as  of  the  "manual  of  suggestions  for 
beginners  in  literature,"  Atithors  and  Publishers,^ 
recently  issued  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  Nothing 
could  be  clearer  or  more  to  the  purpose  than  the  ex- 
planation of  the  arrangements  and  relations  between 
authors  and  publishers,  of  the  practical  processes  of 
manufacturing,  advertising,  and  distributing  books, 
and  like  matters.  We  recommend  every  literary 
aspirant  who  reads  this  notice  to  secure  to  himself 
either  a  copy  or  at  least  a  careful  reading  of  Authors 
and  Publishers.  It  is  full  of  quotable  things — too 
many  for  us  to  find  it  possible  to  select  one  or  two. 
The  information  in  it  is  what  the  very  persons 
who  have  most  need  of  it  are  habitually  and  con- 
spicuously without. One  always  expects  something 

at  least  graceful  and  pleasant  from  Mr.  Aldrich,  but 

1  Authors  and  Publishers.  A  Manual  of  Suggestions 
for  Beginners  in  Literature.  New  York:  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons.  1883. 


the  volume  of  travel  sketches  just  published,  From 
Ponkapog  to  Pesth*  is  even  more  perfect  in  its  sort 
than  one  takes  for  granted  beforehand.  It  is  better 
as  sketch-writing  than  his  novels  as  fiction,  and  only 
less  good  than  his  verse.  A  very  pleasant  element 
in  it  is  that,  more  than  any  other  European  traveler 
we  remember  to  have  met  in  print,  he  unites  a  full 
a  ppreciation  of  foreign  countries  and  a  capacity  of 
candid  comparison,  with  a  perfectly  cheerful  and 
loyal  Americanism.  He  is  a  traveler  neither  of  the 
American -eagle  nor  of  the  Europeanized  sort,  and  the 
intelligence,  liberality,  insight,  and  reasonableness 
that  lie  at  the  root  of  these  sketches,  light  though 
t  hey  are,  make  them  something  more  than  merely  en- 
tertaining.  The  autobiography  of 'James  Nasmyth* 

ought  certainly  to  be  inspiring  to  young  men  of 
mechanical  aspirations,  so  completely  pervaded  with 
happy  activity  is  the  whole  record.  It  is  curious 
enough  to  turn  from  the  history  of  lives  like  Car- 
lyle's,  passed  in  the  higher  regions  of  mental  activity, 
to  such  histories  as  this,  with  their  illustration  of  the 
cheerful  influence  upon  mind  and  nerve  of  intelli- 
gent activity,  applied  to  the  purely  material  world. 
"Very  busy  and  happy,"  is  in  effect  the  writer's 
constant  description  of  his  condition.  His  smooth 
and  successful  career  as  inventor  and  artificer  flowed 
in  the  most  instructively  natural  manner  from  his 
Scotch  "  gumption,"  and  his  habit  of  faithful  work, 
joined  to  the  peculiar  combination  of  intellectual 
curiosity,  artistic  faculty,  and  manual  dexterity 
that  an  ancestry  of  artists  and  architects  produced. 
One  of  the  most  instructive  things  in  his  life  is 
the  argument  it  supplies  against  the  popular  concep- 
tion that  the  men  who  succeed  in  practical  callings 
are  the  ones  who  are  obtuse  toward  all  knowledge 
except  their  special  lines.  It  is  another  illustration 
that  the  qualities  which  produce  success  are  in  the 
main  the  same,  whether  decided — by  circumstance 
•or  temperament— in  the  direction  of  scholarship  or 

of  machinery. The   Housekeepers'1   Year-Book*  is 

not  a  book  of  recipes,  but  a  combination — compact 
and  handy,  too — of  housekeeping  account  book  and 
suggestions  about  marketing  and  taking  care  of  a 
house;  not  to  speak  of  the  verse  and  prose  "senti- 
ments" that  adorn  each  page.  It  is  really  admirably 
well  arranged  for  the  account  keeping,  and  the  collec- 
tion of  suggestions  contains  much  that  a  housewife 

will  find  useful.- The  Golden  Chersonese'1  continues 

the  account  already  given  to  the  public  of  the  au- 
thor's travels,  beginning  where  "Unbeaten  Tracks 
in  Japan "  ended,  and  carrying  her  through  her 

3  From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth.  By  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883. 
For  sale  by  Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 

3  James    Nasmyth,    Engineer.     An  Autobiography. 
Edited    by   Samuel   Smiles.      New   York:    Harper   & 
Brothers.     1883.     For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 

4  The  Housekeepers'  Year-Book.     By  Helen  Camp- 
bell.    New  York  :  Fords.  Howard  &  Hulbert.     1883. 

*  The  Golden  Chersonese,  and  the  Way  Thither. 
By  Isabella  L.  Bird  (Mrs.  Bishop).  New  York:  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons.  1883. 


1883.] 


Book  Hevicws. 


107 


journeyings  in  China  and  the  Malay  peninsula.  In 
China  she  visited  only  Hongkong  and  Canton,  In- 
dulging her  fancy  for  the  unexplored  no  further  than 
by  visits  to  Chinese  jails  and  court-rooms.  In  the 
Malay  peninsula,  on  the  contrary,  she  pushed  as  far 
as  European  could  go;  was  on  one  occasion  for  days 
the  only  European  in  the  district  to  which  she  had 
penetrated,  on  another  occasion  took  an  all-day 
journey  on  elephant-back  with  only  native  escort, 
and  still  again  an  all-night  journey  up  a  jungle  stream 
probably  never  before  rowed  up  by  Europeans — an 
experience  which  she  enjoyed  immensely.  Accord- 
ingly, it  is  the  Malaysian  travels  that  give  the  book 
its  name;  the  Chinese  part  is  dismissed  in  smaller 
type  as  "  The  Way  Thither."  Miss  Bird — or  rath- 
er, as  she  now  is,  Mrs.  Bishop — has  no  great  literary 
gift;  but  her  enthusiasm  and  her  appreciation  of  all 

her  experiences  go   far  to  make  up  the  lack. 

Books,  and  How  to  Use  Them1  is  intended  as  a 
manual  of  advice  for  the  young,  but  it  is  not  at  all 
well  adapted  to  that  purpose.  Although  it  has 
pages  of  the  soundest  advice,  most  effectively  stated, 
there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  book  that  young  people 
would  not  take  in  the  right  sense,  and  would  be 
more  hurt  than  helped  by.  The  author  appears  to 
be  a  librarian:  had  he  been  a  teacher  he  would  have 
written  differently.  We  do  not  mean  that  he  gives 
any  wrong  advice;  but  he  assumes  a  comprehension 
of  the  subject  on  the  part  of  his  readers  such  as 
they  could  only  have  after  they  had  already  learned 
what  he  undertakes  to  teach  them.  For  instance, 
the  average  young  person  who  reads  this  book  will 
draw  from  it  the  idea  that  he  may  read  dime  novels 
as  much  as  he  chooses,  while  he  waits  for  his  taste 
for  Emerson  to  develop.  The  judicious  older  reader 
will  see  that  such  is  not  at  all  the  intention  of  the 
author.  We  should  be  very  slow  to  put  the  manual 
into  the  hands  of  any  young  person  of  our  acquaint- 
ance: we  should  be  very  glad  to  put  it  into  the 
hands  of  any  wise  teacher,  who  would  read  extracts 
from  it,  and  urge  them  upon  his  pupils  with  great 
advantage.  The  chapter  on  the  use  of  libraries  is 
unmixedly  good  and  practical. The  second  num- 
ber of  the  pamphlet  edition  of  French  comedies, 
under  the  series  title  of  Theatre  Contemporain?  in- 
cludes two  very  brief  ones,  Vent  (T  Quest,  and  La 
Soupitre,  both  by  Ernest  d'  Hervilly.  The  third  is 

La  Grammaire,  by  Eugene  Labiche. The  third 

annual  issue  of  the  Illustrated  Supplementary  Cata- 
logue8 to  the  exhibition  of  the  National  Academy 
of  Design  contains  ninety  illustrations;  most  of 

1  Books,  and  How  to   Use  Them.     By  J.   C.    Van 
Dyke.     New  York:  Fords,   Howard  &  Hulbert.     1883. 

2  Th6ilter   Contemporain.     No.   2:    Vent  d'   Quest; 
La   SoupiSre.     Par   M.    Ernest    d'    Hervilly.     No.    3: 
La  Grammaire.     Par   Eugene  Labiche.      William  R. 
Jenkins,  Editeur.     New  York:  F.  W.  Christern.     Bos- 
ton: Carl  Schoenhof. 

Illustrated  Art  Notes.  1883.  Fifty-eighth  Spring 
Exhibition  National  Academy  of  Design,  New  York. 
By  Charles  M.  Kurtz.  New  York,  London,  and  Paris: 
Cassell,  Petter  &  Galpin. 


them  fac-simile  photo-engravings  from  sketches 
drawn  from  the  pictures  by  the  artists  themselves. 
Aided  by  preliminary  knowledge  of  the  style  and 
coloring  of  the  artist,  these  pictorial  jottings  help  the 
absentee  to  a  very  fair  conception  of  the  exhibition; 
regarded  as  pictures  themselves,  they  are  nothing. 

A  much  more  elaborate  affair  is  the  illustrated 

catalogue 4  of  the  French  Salon,  republished  in 
New  York  from  the  original  edition.  It  contains 
about  three  hundred  reproductions  from  original 
designs  of  the  artists,  accompanied  by  no  letter- 
press. There  is  evident  a  very  great  superiority  in 
reproduction  in  this  catalogue,  as  compared  with 
the  American  one.  The  illustrations  vary  in  merit, 
but,  on  the  whole,  are  not  merely  a  fair  indication 
to  the  habitue"  of  the  Salon,  unable  to  be  present  there, 
of  what  is  to  be  seen  this  year,  but  are  of  a  good  deal 
of  pictorial  value  in  themselves.  Both  catalogues 
are  interesting  as  indicating  the  range  of  subjects 
chosen  by  the  artists.  In  the  New  York  School  of 
Design  landscape  has  a  more  decided  preponderance 
than  in  the  Salon;  and — in  the  choice  of  subjects 
merely,  speaking  without  reference  to  handling — 
there  is  far  more  ideality  and  sentiment  in  the  French 
work.  It  is  gratifying — remembering  what  the  cat- 
alogues of  French  exhibitions  have  often  been — to 
find  a  very  small  minority  of  ghastly,  bloody,  volup- 
tuous, or  otherwise  sensational  subjects  in  this  cata- 
logue, and  a  great  prevalence  of  elevated  feeling  and 

pure  taste. It  is  noticeable  that  within  a  few  years 

there  has  been  a  marked  increase  in  the  number  of 
books  treating  of  general  political  and  social  economi- 
cal topics.  It  is  discovered  that  politics  is  more  than 
a  matter  of  polemics:  that  it  means  a  knowledge  of 
the  growth  and  structure  of  governments — thus  in- 
volving the  scientific  study  of  history;  and  also,  what 
is  perhaps  of  more  practical  moment,  a  careful  study 
of  the  functions  of  government,  and  hence  of  its 
limitations  and  duties.  The  appearance  of  works 
of  the  kind  of  the  American  Citizens'  Manual 5  is  a 
sign  that  there  is  a  demand  for  sound  instruction  in 
those  elementary  things  about  our  national  and  state 
systems  which  so  many  ought  to  know,  but  which 
comparatively  so  few  do  know.  Mr.  Ford  treats  in  a 
very  clear,  untec  hnical  way  of  the  provisions  in  the 
two  systems  for  the  protection  of  personal  and  prop- 
erty rights;  also  of  the  powers  vested  in  the  Federal 
Government  touching  war,  foreign  relations,  com- 
merce, naturalizations,  the  post-office,  Indians,  pub- 
lic lands,  and  patent  and  copyright  laws.  Under 
the  head  of  the  functions  of  the  State  govern- 
ments, he  furnishes  interesting  discussions  replete 
with  all  the  latest  information  about  corporations, 
education,  charitable  institutions,  and  immigra- 
tion; and  the  concluding  chapter,  on  State  Finances, 

4  Catalogue  Illustr6  du  Salon.  Publit'-  sous  la  Direc- 
tion de  F.  G.  Dumas.  New  York:  J.  W.  Bouton. 

6  The  American  Citizens'  Manual.  Part  II.  The 
Functions  of  Governments,  State  and  Federal.  By 
Washington  C.  Ford.  New  York:  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons.  For  sale  by  Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 


108 


Wagner  at  Home. 


is  equally  full  and  valuable.  The  object  of  the  book 
is  not  to  furnish  original  discussion,  but  rather  to  put 
before  the  average  reader,  in  a  plain,  succinct  style, 
the  outlines  of  the  different  subjects;  and  as  far  as  it 
goes,  the  work  is  well  done.  It  is  a  work  which  can 
be  cordially  commended  to  all  who  desire  in  a  brief 
compass  a  clear  statement  of  governmental  functions. 

The  Cruise  of  the  Canoe  Club 1  is  a  bright  and 

well-written  little  story  for  boys,  of  the  adventures 
of  four  lads  who  try  their  first  cruise,  after  the  hap- 


hazard manner  of  lads,  on  the  most  difficult  waters 
of  their  region.  They  succeed  in  following  through 
many  difficulties  the  route  nearly  as  they  had  map  ped 
it  out,  and  at  last  reach  home  with  the  loss  of  one 
canoe  and  with  one  of  their  members  disabled,  and 
of  course  vote  that  they  have  had  a  splendid  time  and 
will  go  again  the  next  year.  The  book  is  prettily 
illustrated — as  was  to  be  expected,  since  it  is  re- 
printed from  ' '  Harper's  Young  People.  " 


WAGNER   AT    HOME. 


[The  following  letter  was  sent  last  summer  from 
Bayreuth  to  a  member  of  the  writer's  family  in  San 
Francisco.  Written  without  thought  of  publication, 
it  records  the  impressions  of  the  writer  with  a  frank- 
ness which  gives  them  a  peculiar  value ;  and  in  view 
of  the  lamented  death  of  the  great  master,  it  is  be- 
lieved that  this  vivid  personal  account  of  him  may 
now  be  printed  without  indecorum.] 

BAYREUTH,  August  25,  1882. 

I  have  seen  and  shaken  hands  with  the  great 
Wagner.  I  will  give  you  the  whole  story.  Yester- 
day afternoon  I  left  the  hotel  about  three  o'clock, 
and  after  a  ten  minutes'  walk,  arrived  at  "Wahn- 
fried,"  Wagner's  villa.  I  sent  in  my  card  and 
Wheeler's  letter  by  the  servant,  and  after  waiting  a 
few  minutes  Wagner's  little  boy,  Siegfried,  appeared, 
and  said  that  his  father  asked  if  I  would  be  kind 
enough  to  call  in  the  evening  at  half-past  eight. 
Little  Siegfried  is  an  intelligent  boy  with  a  high,  pale 
forehead  and  large  blue  eyes,  by  no  means  strong- 
looking,  as  precocious  children  never  are.  I  shook 
the  little  fellow  by  the  hand,  saying  I  should  be  de- 
lighted to  return. 

It  was  a  long  time  to  wait,  but  of  course  the  ap- 
pointed hour  came  at  last,  and  I  set  out  again  for 
"  Wahnfried."  This  time  there  was  no  occasion  to 
ring  for  admittance — the  door  was  wide  open,  and 
through  the  half-closed  curtains  I  saw  a  gay  assem- 
blage of  men  and  women,  brightly  dressed  and  talk- 
ing merrily.  I  made  my  entrance  into  the  gorgeous 
reception-room,  which  serves  also  as  a  library  when 
social  duties  cease.  Siegfried  notified  his  mother  of 
my  presence,  and  immediately  she  came  forward  to 
receive  me  with  all  the  grace  and  dignified  cordiality 
of  a  queen.  Madam  Wagner  is  a  tall,  extremely 
handsome  woman,  with  abundant  gray  hair  thrown 
flowingly  back  from  her  forehead  and  caught  in  the 
usual  knot  behind.  She  is  slender,  or,  I  should  say, 
svelte,  and  has  something  in  common  with  Sarah 
Bernhardt  in  her  appearance,  only  with  a  much  more 
imposing  presence.  She  greeted  me  fluently  in 

i  The  Cruise  of  the  Canoe  Club.  By  W.  L.  Alden. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Brothers.  1883.  For  sale  by  A. 
L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 


English,  and  then  introduced  me  to  one  of  her 
daughters.  She  came  again  to  me  in  order  to  pre- 
sent me  to  her  father.  For  the  moment  my  senses 
were  too  much  scattered  to  realize  who  and  what 
her  father  was,  and  it  was  only  when  I  approached 
him  that  all  hesitation  as  to  his  greatness  fled;  for  I 
found  myself,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  face  to  face 
with  Liszt !  As  you  can  well  imagine,  my  profound- 
est  bow  accompanied  Madam  Wagner's  introductory 
words — "Mr.  Parrott  of  San  Francisco."  Liszt  made 
a  low  utterance  of  agreeable  surprise,  and  began 
to  speak  of  the  many  artists  who  had  visited  San 
Francisco,  and  we  had  a  short  conversation  on  the 
subject  as  well  as  my  French  would  permit.  I  could 
not  realize  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  one  whose 
name  had  been  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  musical  men 
of  genius  for  so  many  years;  whose  music  had  so  en- 
tranced us  all;  whose  Second  Rhapsody  had  so 
taxed  the  rusty  technique  of  our  little  orchestra  at 
home;  whose  proficiency  at  the  piano  still  stands  un- 
rivaled after  long  years  of  triumph;  and  I  gazed, 
overpowered  by  the  greatness  before  me. 

Liszt  is  not  a  tall  man— a  man,  rather,  of  medium 
height.  The  one  conspicuous  part  of  him  is  his  head; 
it  is  really  all  one  sees  of  his  person.  His  counte- 
nance is  very  large  and  heavy — in  fact,  it  struck  me 
as  being  extremely  so.  His  face  is  certainly  not 
handsome,  but  expressive  and  genial.  Three  very 
prominent  and  obtrusive  warts  tend  still  less  to 
render  it  comely.  His  eyes  are  so  set  in  as  to  be 
hardly  visible.  His  nose  is  a  very  noticeable  feature, 
as  is  shown  in  his  familiar  picture  we  all  have  seen 
for  years.  His  mouth  is  large,  but  the  lips  are  thin 
and  well  spread.  Over  this  strange  countenance 
falls  on  either  side,  from  a  part  in  the  middle,  the 
straight,  sleek  hair,  now  almost  white,  but  very 
plentiful.  It  is  cut  off  at  right  angles  a  few  inches 
above  the  shoulders,  just  as  his  picture  represents. 
His  dress  is  decidedly  clerical,  and  his  air  is  so  much 
that  of  a  priest  that  I  felt  impelled  at  times  to  call 
him  "Mon  P&re."  His  appearance  is  not  partic- 
ularly neat,  and  over  his  whole  person,  face,  and 
form  there  is  that  dusty,  musty  indistinctness  com- 


1883.] 


Wagner  at  Home. 


109 


mon  both  to  old  leather  volumes  and  inveterate 
snuff-takers.  So  much  for  Liszt's  person.  As  to 
his  voice  and  manner  of  speaking,  I  can  simply  say 
they  are  charming;  perhaps  a  little  distrait  in  talking, 
but  of  course  I  was  not  the  one  to  rivet  his  whole 
attention,  nor  was  I  so  egotistic  as  to  expect  it. 
In  fact,  the  acceuil  he  gave  me  was  far  more  genial 
than  I  should  have  looked  forward  to. 

On  the  presentation  of  others  to  this  great  maestro 
I  withdrew  and  remained  some  time  apart,  gazing 
upon  the  scene,  watching  the  enraptured  women, 
and  examining  the  bric-a-brac,  draperies,  and  an- 
tiquities about  the  room,  not  unapprehensive  the 
while  over  the  tardy  appearance  of  him  whom  I 
most  longed  to  see — Richard  Wagner.  With  that 
charming  solicitude  for  her  guests  which  I  little  ex- 
pected to  find  in  so  marked  a  degree  in  my  admired 
hostess,  Madam  Wagner  again  introduced  me  to  an 
Englishmen  and  his  daughter — I  forget  the  name — 
and  with  them  I  conversed  rapturously  on,  of,  and 
about  Wagner  and  his  art-principles.  The  old  gen- 
tleman was  one  of  those  confiding  characters  so 
often  met  with,  and  he  confessed  to  me,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  that  he  had  heard  "  The  Mastersingers  of 
Nuremberg "  seventeen  times,  and  that  his  friends 
began  to  think  him  crazy;  that,  in  fact,  he  was  au- 
dacious enough  to  admire  "Rienzi,"  "  Tannhauser, " 
and  "Lohengrin."  His  daughter  was  one  of  the 
more  advanced  Wagnerians.  She  founded  her  ad- 
miration upon  "Tristan  and  Isolde,"  the  most  Wag- 
nerian  perhaps  of  Wagner's  operas,  and  I  may  say, 
one  of  incomparable  beauty.  Next  came  the  Nibe- 
lung  Trilogy,  and  now  "Parsifal." 

My  old  English  friend  became  of  some  use  to  me 
after  all,  for  Hans  Richter,  the  great  Wagnerian 
leader,  and  one  of  Germany's  best  conductors,  had 
during  our  conversation  entered  the  room.  Often 

had  M and  I  enjoyed  his  operas  and  concerts  in 

London,  and  basked  in  the  rich  tone  and  color  of 
his  orchestra.  My  old  Englishman  introduced  me 
to  Richter.  Richter  speaks  but  little  English.  We 
talked  a  few  seconds  about  the  music  in  London.  I 
then  asked  him  for  some  information  about  orchestras 
in  general,  and  his  London  one  in  particular.  Why, 
for  instance,  he  had  placed  his  horns  with  his  bas- 
soons, instead  of  with  the  rest  of  the  brass,  which  is 
commonly  done.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "  my  orchestra 
was  so  small,  I  thought  they  would  be  heard  to  best 
advantage  where  I  placed  them— that  was  all."  "  So 
small,"  thought  I — his  orchestra  must  have  num- 
bered over  a  hundred  men;  and  our  little  orchestra 
of  barely  fifty  at  home !  Ah,  me !  ah,  me !  Through 
Hans  Richter  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  chorus- 
master  of  "Parsifal."  I  shall  pass  him  by,  as  he 
was  not  particularly  remarkable. 

Where  is  Wagner  all  this  time?  I  think  I  hear 
you  ask.  That  is  just  the  question  I  asked  Hans 
Richter,  as  the  great  master  had  not  yet  put  in  an 
appearance.  Richter  pointed  to  an  adjoining  apart- 
ment, adorned  with  marble  statues  of  Wagner's 


heroes  and  heroines,  and  said  he  saw  him  there  as 
he  passed  through.  I  immediately  started  in  the  di- 
rection named,  and  at  the  very  threshold  my  eyes 
fell  on  Richard  Wagner.  I  say,  purposely,  fell  on 
Richard  Wagner;  for  oh,  how  our  ideals  tumble 
with  a  crash  before  the  stern  reality !  How  prone 
we  are  to  invest  the  person  of  a  genius  with  a  pres- 
ence befitting  the  immensity  and  power  of  his  mind  ! 
Must  he  not  possess  the  high  stature  of  dignity  and 
command,  with  countenance  calm  and  mobile,  with 
eye  flashing  the  bright,  creative  light  within  the  un- 
furrowed  brow,  which  we  know  exists  there?  In  the 
natural  order  of  things,  given  a  great  genius  whose 
face  alone  is  familiar,  in  ,jts  calmest  aspect  and  en- 
hanced in  power  by  overanxious  artists,  and  is  it  not 
to  be  expected  that  the  fired  imagination  will  supply 
the  deficit  of  person  and  form  on  a  scale  in  keeping 
with  the  revealed  countenance?  So  our  minds  are 
cruelly  led  to  build  their  ideals,  which  invariably 
fall,  "  never  to  rise  again." 

Therefore  it  was  that  I  drew  your  attention  to  the 
expression,  "fell  on,"  for  so  my  eyes  literally  did 
when  they  beheld  Richard  Wagner's  small,  diminu- 
tive form.  I  could  have  wished  it  anyone's  presence 
but  his.  But  no,  the  familiar  face,  so  well  known, 
which  had  hung  in  our  concert-hall  giant-like  in  its 
proportions,  was  set  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  master 
reduced — ah !  sadly  reduced  in  its  dimensions — to  suit 
the  small  form  which  nature — unhappily  not  my  im- 
agination— had  wrought  to  support  it.  When  my 
eyes  "fell  on"  him,  he  was  dancing  about  and  talk- 
ing excitedly,  much  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  group  of 
young  girls  who  clustered  around  him.  He  seemed 
to  have  given  himself  completely  up  to  frivolity  and 
enjoyment  (after  his  own  fashion)  of  kissing  all  and 
everybody  who  came  in  his  way,  young  and  pretty 
women  especially.  His  little,  full  stomach,  Punch- 
like  in  shape,  was  clothed  in  a  white  waistcoat,  and 
was  borne  about  by  two  very  short  and  excessively 
bow-shaped  legs.  On  his  feet  he  wore  two  alpaca 
shoes.  You  cannot  imagine  how  this  affected  me. 
The  consoling  thought,  however,  remained,  never 
to  be  impaired:  henceforth  let  us  judge  of  Wagner 
by  his  works,  by  the  powerful  and  immense  genius 
he  there  displays,  not  from  what  he  appears  in  real 
life. 

Once  or  twice  his  quick  but  not  very  visible  eye 
caught  sight  of  me,  and  seemed  to  stamp  me  as  one 
unknown  to  him.  I  took  up  a  position  where  I  could 
best  be  introduced  to  him,  and  next,  by  chance,  to 
the  old  Englishman  and  his  daughter  on  one  side  and 
the  celebrated  Frau  Materna,  the  Wagnerian  singer, 
on  the  other.  Madam  Wagner  presented  me  to  him. 
"Ah  !  San  Francisco,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  me  by 
the  hand.  Then  quickly,  "  Ich  kannnicht  Englisch." 
But  I  knew  he  spoke  French,  so  said  something,  I 
know  not  what,  in  that  language.  One  cannot  say 
much  under  such  circumstances.  The  daughter  of 
the  old  Englishman  beside  me  assured  him  of  the 
success  of  his  operas  in  London  last  season.  Wagner 


110 


Outcroppings. 


responded,  not  without  a  little  shade  of  sarcasm  in 
his  reply,  "Qu"  est-ce  que  fa  me  fait?"  His  operas 
there,  you  must  know,  were  a  financial  failure,  not 
owing  to  a  want  of  appreciation  and  patronage,  but 
to  bad  management  and  dishonesty.  A  very  young 
American  girl  was  next  presented,  who  blushingly 
offered  her  hand.  On  being  told  she  had  come  all 
the  way  from  America  to  see  him,  he  answered  more 
originally  than  elegantly  or  considerately  for  the  girl's 
feelings:  "Vous  auriez  pu  tomber  dans  1'eau."  And 
repeating  again,  "  Ich  kann  nicht  Englisch,"  he 
grasped  Materna  by  the  hand,  kissed  her  fervently 
on  the  mouth,  and  suddenly  jerked  her  arm  in  his 
and  walked  off  to  show  her  something.  Frau  Mater- 
na is  a  huge  woman,  so  little  Wagner  was  lost  tosight. 
I  staid  but  a  few  moments  more,  then  left 
"  Wahnfried  "  to  return  to  M and  impart  my  im- 
pressions. I  soon  became  reconciled  to  the  remem- 


brance of  Wagner's  diminutive  size;  and  the  thought 
of  having  spoken  to  so  great  and  so  admired  a 
genius,  to  have  exchanged  a  few  words  with  Liszt, 
and  to  have  beheld  the  sweet  smile  of  Madam 
Wagner,  will  remain  with  me  all  my  life,  a  subject 
often  to  be  dwelt  upon  with  pleasure.  As  for  "Par- 
sifal," that  is  a  prolific  -subject  for  another  letter.  I 
have  seen  it  once,  and  intend  witnessing  it  again 
twice.  The  last  occasion  of  its  presentation  will,  I 
have  no  doubt,  be  memorable.  I  am  very  lucky  in 
being  able  to  be  present  at  it  next  Tuesday.  I  have 
no  room  for  incidental  news.  Bayreuth  is  very  full, 
but  we  were  fortunate  in  securing  a  large  apartment. 
The  hotel  proprietor  thought  that  after  seeing  "Par- 
sifal "  once  we  ought  to  go — a  strange  proceeding  on 
his  part,  but  which  came  to  nothing,  thanks  to  my 
servant,  Grymer,  who  set  things  aright.  "Nousy 
sommes,  nous  y  restons !  " 

John  Parrott,  Jiiri ' r. 


OUTCROPPINGS. 


A  Summer  Longing. 

FAR  from  the  hurrying  strife, 

Swift  let  me  flee. 
Under  the  willow  wands, 

Peace  meet  with  me  ! 
Fan  me,  O  sycamore  ! 
Soothe  me,  thou  river  shore  ! 
Bear  me  on — out  and  o'er — 

O'er  the  blue  sea; 
Where  the  white  mists  extend 

Welcome  to  me; 
Where  the  pure  mountain  air 
Solves  all  hurrying  care — 

There  would  I  flee. 
O,  'neath  the  willow  wands, 

Peace  meet  with  me. 

Margaret  A.  Brooks. 

How  I  saw  the  Comet. 

MY  household  consists  of  three  members,  Jennett, 
Cute,  and  myself.  To  the  small  world  who  know 
us,  I  am  the  mistress,  Jennett  the  maid,  and  Cute  is 
only  a  dog.  But  this  is  only  another  instance  where 
things  are  not  what  they  seem;  for  I  long  since 
learned  the  fact  that  no  matter  how  thoroughly  I 
propose,  it  is  Jennett  who  disposes;  and  to  those 
who  call  Cute  only  a  dog,  I  could  prove  that  she  is 
brave,  strong,  generous,  and  true;  that  she  remem- 
bers, reflects,  and  reasons;  has  a  sense  of  humor,  is 
susceptible  to  flattery,  and  has  a  conscience  that 
tells  her  when  she  does  wrong;  and,  in  short,  has 
all  the  virtues  of  the  human  race  without  its  vices. 
If  that  is  to  be  only  a  dog,  then  let  us  choose  dogs 
for  our  friends. 

When  Jennett  came  to  me  several  years  ago,  she 
was  a  tall,  quiet,  meek-faced  Scotch  woman,  with  a 


bashful,  almost  deprecating  manner;  so  deferential 
that  she  rarely  made  a  remark.  Her  replies  to 
questions  were  of  a  tentative  character,  as  though 
she  would  endeavor  to  find  out  what  answer  would 
best  please.  Her  remarks  were  and  are  gener- 
ally in  character  like  those  of  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  in 
"Little  Dorritt,"  but  wholly  devoid  of  the  explosive 
venom  with  which  that  lady  flavored  hers.  Jennett 
is  just  as  reverential  in  manner  to-day,  has  just  as 
little  appearance  of  possessing  that  most  womanly 
of  all  qualities,  a  will,  as  ever.  She  transports  her 
tall  person  from  one  place  to  another  with  short, 
nipping  steps.  If  she  sits  down,  it  is  in  an  apolo- 
getic manner,  as  though  she  would  ask  the  chair  to 
pardon  the  liberty.  If  she  eat?,  it  is  a  constant 
source  of  wonder  that  anything  larger  than  a  pea 
can  get  into  the  small  aperture  she  permits  her  lips 
to  form.  Dr.  Holmes  himself,  even  if  he  permitted 
himself  "to  be  as  funny  as  he  can,"  would  utterly 
fail  in  relaxing  those  lips.  The  nearest  approach  to 
anything  like  levity  is  a  peculiar  clucking  sound  in 
her  throat  and  an  extra  pucker  of  her  mouth,  as 
though  she  would  protest  against  taking  the  liberty 
of  smiling.  After  this  comes  one  of  her  remarks; 
as,  for  instance,  "Eggs  is  riz."  Having  launched 
this  remark,  she  will  fade  from  the  room  with  an 
expression  on  her  face  that  would  lead  one  to 
believe  she  had  added  to  the  scientific  knowledge  of 
the  world.  She  is,  I  am  certain,  a  lineal  descendant 
of  Caleb  Balderstone.  Caleb  was  not  more  devoted 
and  loyal  to  Ravenswood  than  is  Jennett  to  me. 
In  her  opinion,  the  sun  rises  that  I  may  have  light,  or 
sets  because  I  would  sleep.  To  her,  all  the  appoint- 
ments of  my  small,  plain  home  are  palatial;  and  she 
would  resent  as  a  personal  insult  the  slightest  ap- 


1883.] 


Outer  op  pings. 


Ill 


proach  to  disobedience  to  my  orders  in  any  one. 
And  yet  this  creature  rules  me  with  an  inexorable 
will.  She  thwarts  my  designs  in  the  most  innocent 
but  effectual  manner.  I  explain  my  wishes,  and  she 
consents  cheerfully  to  their  execution,  and  then  does 
just  as  she  pleases;  and  when  I  reproach  her,  she 
always  contrives  to  make  me  feel  myself  a  monster 
of  ingratitude.  Jennett's  greatest  triumphs  are 
achieved  upon  those  rare  occasions  when  she  listens 
to  my  emphatic  demands  for  literal  obedience.  She 
will  unexpectedly  obey  me  in  a  way  to  put  me  to 
utter  rout;  and  yet  I  never  saw  the  faintest  gleam  of 
triumph  in  her  eyes. 

When  I  asked  Jennett  to  call  me  at  four  A.  M.,  it 
was  not  because  of  any  great  desire  to  see  the  comet; 
but  rather  because  I  was  tired  of  saying  "No"  to 
the  army  of  people  who  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  it, 
wondered  that  I  did  not  see  it,  hinted  that  it  was 
my  duty  to  see  it,  and  looked  as  though  they  had  an 
opinion  of  those  who  did  not  see  it.  To  be  able  to 
say  "Yes"  when  asked  the  inevitable  question,  and 
then  change  the  subject,  I  was  induced  to  give  the 
unhappy  order. 

As  the  comet  itself  was  of  minor  importance,  it 
naturally  faded  from  my  mind;  and  when  I  was 
aroused  from  a  sound  sleep  into  the  blackest  dark- 
ness by  a  knocking  at  my  door,  I  was  greatly 
startled.  It  was  a  particularly  ominous  knocking: 
not  the  cheerful  rat-tat-tat  of  one  who  seeks  to  enter, 
or  would  communicate  some  pleasant  news;  but 
solemn,  slow,  and  constantly  repeated,  like  that 
which  brought  terror  to  the  guilty  hearts  of  Lady 
Macbeth  and  her  lord.  As  soon  as  I  could  collect 
myself  sufficiently  to  do  so,  I  started  for  the  door  to 
learn  what  dire  misfortune  awaited  announcement. 
In  my  search  for  that  door  I  had  a  conflict  with  every 
article  of  furniture  in  the  room.  First  the  bed-post 
had  the  best  of  the  argument;  and  in  endeavoring  to 
escape  from  that,  I  fell  over  a  hassock,  which  mali- 
ciously tripped  me  head  first  into  a  conveniently 
located  foot-bath  filled  with  water.  In  struggling 
to  my  feet,  I  staggered  against  a  table  and  knocked 
it  down.  My  satisfaction  over  that  victory  was  mit- 
igated when  I  reflected  that  the  inkstand  had  been 
filled  a  few  hours  before.  All  this  time  the  same 
dull  knocking.  Pausing  to  collect  myself,  I  said, 
"  Now  this  will  not  do  ";  and  having  ascertained 
my  bearings,  I  again  started  for  the  door.  My  next 
feat  was  only  a  foot  and  one  sharp  needle.  The 
lounge  presented  a  convenient  resting  place,  upon 
which  I  could  repose  while  extracting  the  needle. 
Now  Jennett  has  a  pleasant  habit  of  converting 
adjacent  objects  into  pin-cushions.  Jennett  had  been 
darning  stockings  while  seated  on  that  lounge,  and 
my  stay  was  brief  but  full  of  woe. 

I  once  caught  a  mosquito;  and  that  door-knob 
was  finally  captured.  I  removed  the  patent  burglar- 
proof  cage  that  surrounded  the  key,  and  at  length 
the  door  was  opened.  There  stood  Jennett,  robed 
in  the  "brief  garments  of  the  night,"  a  tall,  peaked 


cap  on  her  head,  but  perched  rakishly  on  one  side, 
candle  in  hand,  and  her  finger  speculatively  tapping 
her  chin,  come  to  say,  in  a  slow,  measured  way: 

"The  comet,  ma'm." 

I  looked  at  her  speechless.     Was  she  mad  ? 

She  repeated  in  the  same  indifferent  manner, 
"The  comet,  ma'm." 

Suddenly  I  remembered,  and  said:  "  O,  yes;  well, 
can  you  see  it  ? 

"No,  ma'm;  it  is  very  foggy." 

Shades  of  Papa  Meagles  and  Tattycoram,  what 
could  five  and  twenty  do  in  such  a  case  ?  Millions 
would  not  suffice.  I  closed  the  door  and  quietly 
crept  into  bed.  This  was  one  of  Jennett's  literally 
obedient  days,  and  this  is  how  I  saw  the  comet. 

L. 

Fourth  of  July,  1848,  at  San  Jose  del  Cabo, 
de  San  Lucas. 

DURING  the  summer  of  1848,  Company  D  of 
Colonel  Stevenson's  regiment  of  New  York  volun- 
teers garrisoned  the  Mexican  town  of  San  Jose,  upon 
the  Gulf  of  California.  The  writer  is  under  the 
impression  that  Lieutenant  George  A.  Pendleton 
was  at  that  date  in  command,  in  consequence  of  the 
arrest  of  Captain  Naglee,  by  order  of  Colonel  R.  B. 
Mason,  commanding  the  department  of  California, 
upon  charges  of  shooting,  without  authority,  prison- 
ers of  war. 

As  the  Fourth  of  July  approached,  the  members 
of  the  command  felt  that  something  must  be  done 
to  celebrate  the  anniversary  appropriately.  The 
men,  the  majority  of  whom  were  under  twenty-one 
years  old,  decided  upon  having  a  fandango.  That 
was  about  the  only  amusement  or  entertainment  pos- 
sible in  that  remote  place,  and  was  one  which  they 
knew  would  meet  the  approval  of  the  senoritas,  of 
whom  the  town  could  boast  a  goodly  number.  The 
place  chosen  for  the  assemblage  was  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  from  the  Quartel,  and  permission  was 
obtained  for  all  hands  and  the  cook  (the  usual  guard 
excepted)  to  remain  outside  the  sentry  line  all  night 
if  so  inclined.  Each  participant  paid  into  the  gen- 
eral fund  "quatro  "rials,"  to  cover  expenses.  Three 
Mexicans  were  engaged  as  musicians,  the  post  baker 
was  induced  to  provide  a  good  supply  of  cake  (a 
luxury  little  known  to  the  Mexican  population), 
cordials  were  provided  for  the  gentler  sex,  and  mes- 
cal for  the  hombrcs. 

At  that  period  of  the  year  the  days  were  extremely 
warm,  consequently  the  "exercises"  were  delayed 
until  an  early  hour  of  the  evening.  With  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun,  our  boys,  in  small  squads,  strolled 
across  the  Arroyo  towards  the  rendezvous,  situated 
about  midway  between  the  town  and  the  Gulf.  In 
due  time  the  senoritas  also  put  in  their  appearance. 
Many  of  the  male  Mexicans  hovered  around  in  the 
gloom,  while  those  more  friendly  disposed  joined 
in  the  festivities.  The  volunteers  were  indifferent  to 
the  feelings  of  the  unfriendly  Mexicans,  being  them- 


112 


Outcroppings. 


[July. 


selves  in  sufficient  number  to  repel  any  assault. 
They  had  brought  their  bayonets  with  them,  sus- 
pended to  their  sides,  while  some  had  also  pistols. 
This  precaution  was  a  necessity,  and  no  doubt  cooled 
the  ardor  of  the  enemy;  at  least,  no  occasion  arose 
for  their  use.  The  boys  enjoyed  the  evening  dance 
to  their  full  satisfaction,  and  often  afterwards,  while 
they  sat  at  their  camp-fires  in  the  gold-diggings, 
the  evening  entertainment  in  the  lower  country  was 
related. 

Over  thirty-four  years  have  passed  since  that 
frolic,  and  the  majority  of  those  present  have  long 
since  gone  to  their  last  rest.  William  S.  Johnson, 
James  A.  Gray,  Joseph  Sims,  Carl  Lipp,  James 
Harron,  Charles  Rosseau,  John  B.  Phillips,  Alpheus 
Young,  and  George  W.  Tombs  are  still  residents  of 
this  State;  while  John  Wolfe,  Alden  W.  James, 
George  A.  Corgan,  John  A.  Chandler,  Francis  D. 
Clark,  and  Jacob  W.  Norris  are  residents  of  the 
Atlantic  States.  Of  the  dead,  we  recall  to  memory 
the  genial  spirits,  Aaron  Lyons,  Harry  Wilson,  Hank 
Judson,  Jack  Warrington,  John  W.  Moore,  and 
Charley  Ogle.  Six  nobler  comrades  it  was  never 
the  lot  of  man  to  associate  with;  and  to  this  day 
their  memory  is  ever  green  to  their  living  comrades 
of  the  early  Californian  days. 

Monterey. 

From  Camp. 

HAVE  you  been  camping  yourself  this  summer? 
If  so,  I  take  this  glimpse  back,  or  you  may  send  it 
back,  rather.  I  don't  flatter  myself  I  can  take  the 
mountains  into  the  city  to  you  if  you  have  lately  seen 
them  in  their  native  wilds.  Neither  do  I  think  I  can 
perfume  your  office  with  this  odorous  air — woodsy, 
half  resinous,  half  aromatic — if  it  is  already  fra- 
grant with  evergreen  boughs,  ferns,  or  laurel  of  your 
own  importation.  But  if  you  have  not  been  out  of 
the  city,  if  you've  been  pinned  to  your  desk,  even  a 
second-hand  glimpse  of  the  wildwood  will  be  worth 
having. 

Was  ever  music  sweeter  than  the  little  brook's  ? 
Music  grander  there  may  be  in  the  roar  of  the 
tempest,  the  thunder  of  the  waterfall;  but  music 
sweeter — none.  It  sounds  in  our  ears  by  night  as 
by  day,  and  gives  tone  and  current  to  our  dreams. 
Strange  that  this  narrow  mountain  stream  should 


have  in  the  center  so  deep  a  channel — over  a  man's 
head.  Just  below  camp  it  grows  suddenly  shallow, 
and  the  waters  ripple  over  the  stony  bottom  like 
miniature  rapids.  That  is  where  our  music  is  fur- 
nished. Just  here,  opposite  the  hammocks  and 
tents,  the  water  is  voiceless  and  smooth.  Never 
was  clearer  water.  It  is  Mirror  Lake  on  a  small 
scale.  In  an  hour  or  two,  when  the  sun  is  still  lower 
behind  that  mountain,  there  will  be  the  loveliest  re- 
flections. Not  the  whole  mountain:  it  is  too  high 
and  the  stream  is  too  narrow.  But  all  the  rocky 
base  will  be  reproduced  so  clearly  that  you  can  hardly 
tell  where  reality  ends  or  the  shadow  begins. 
Nature  in  a  strange  freak  leveled  off  this  little  spot, 
and  gave  us  this  lovely  bank  and  the  trees  overhang- 
ing the  water;  but  on  the  other  side  she  brought 
her  steep  mountain  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
water.  Many  a  struggle  has  she  had  with  the  Titan 
elder  of  this  peaceful  stream.  Every  particle  of 
earth  has  been  worn  from  her  mountain  as  high  as 
the  waters  could  reach.  And  above  the  high-water 
mark  the  rocks  are  all  bare,  as  if  the  rain-clouds  had 
conspired  to  wash  half  the  mountain  side  into  the 
vortex  below.  What  a  wild  place  this  must  be  in 
winter!  Look  directly  above  at  the  drift  in  that  tree. 
One  can  hardly  believe  such  a  volume  of  water 
swept  over  this  spot.  These  alders  must  have  been 
partly  submerged.  If  we  could  swing  a  hammock 
between  this  tree  and  that  twenty  feet  higher,  what 
a  grand  place  to  come  in  the  winter  just  after  a  storm! 
Imagine  the  wild  chaos  around  us.  No  wonder 
those  huge  rocks  over  there  are  deep  seamed  and 
jagged  and  furrowed. 

There  is  the  shadow  slowly  creeping  over  the 
water.  Very  soon  it  will  cover  the  creek  and  bring 
those  rocks  to  our  feet.  There  is  so  little  wind  that 
the  reflection  is  perfect.  It  is  a  study  for  an  artist. 
All  neutral  tints,  and  yet  vivid.  The  least  touch 
of  bright  color  or  foliage  would  spoil  the  effect. 
These  low-branching  boughs  make  a  beautiful  frame 
for  the  picture. 

If  any  one  had  told  me  there  was  so  wild  and 
beautiful  a  spot  near  San  Francisco,  I  could  hardly 
have  believed  it.  One  always  thinks  of  these  pic- 
turesque places  as  away  off  in  the  Cascades  or 
Sierras.  But  this  Coast  Range  has  almost  as  many, 
and  brings  them  almost  to  our  doors. 


THE 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


DEVOTED   TO 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE   COUNTRY. 


VOL.  II.  (SECOND  SERIES.)— AUGUST,  1883.— No.  8. 


GUPPY'S   DAUGHTER. 


"  THAR  comes  Old  Guppy — Butcher  Gup- 
py.  Camps  over  yan  in  the  gulch  with  his 
family.  Live  like  dogs,  the  hull  caboodle. 
Ye  won't  set  eyes  on  a  slouchier  crowd  be- 
tween Redding  Bar  and  Klamath." 

My  host,  who  was  one  of  the  best-known 
pioneers  of  the  pretty  mining  village  of 
northern  California  to  which  a  trip  for  busi- 
ness and  pleasure  had  called  me,  emptied 
his  brier-wood  pipe  on  the  flat  stone  that 
served  as  a  doorstep  to  his  cabin,  and 
walked  slowly  down  the  path  to  the  gate, 
which  sagged  quite  to  the  ground  on  its 
leather  hinges.  I  thrust  a  handful  of  letters 
and  papers  into  my  pocket,  and  hurried  out 
from  the  pleasant  shade  of  the  grape-vine 
arbor  extending  from  the  house  to  the  well. 
The  loungers  in  front  of  the  saloon  opposite 
took  their  hands  out  of  their  pockets,  hitched 
their  tilted  chairs  back  to  a  more  scientific 
angle,  and  turned  fishy  eyes  in  the  same  di- 
rection. The  blacksmith  suspended  his  task 
of  putting  new  steel  points  on  a  worn-out 
pick,  and  stood  massively  in  the  doorway, 
shading  his  face  with  a  red  and  hairy  hand. 
Even  the  boys  picking  apples  in  the  tree- 
tops  in  the  orchard  by  the  gleaming  moun- 
tain river  saw  the  nearing  cloud  of  dust, 
heard  faint  shouts  from  beneath  it,  knocked 
VOL.  II.— 8. 


off  work,  and  began  to  speculate  as  to  who 
or  what  was  approaching,  for  they  could 
hardly  see  through  the  bushes  massed  along 
the  road.  Doubtless  the  children  droning 
over  their  books  in  the  brown  school- house 
standing  on  the  bed-rock  of  an  exhausted 
gravel  mine  looked  furtively  out  of  the  win- 
dows, and  reported  to  their  companions  by 
look  and  sign.  Everybody  at  the  Bar  knew 
that  "Old  Guppy"  was  coming. 

Down  the  sloping  trail  rode  a  man  and  a 
boy,  driving  a  drove  of  twenty-five  or  thirty 
grunting  and  contrary-minded  hogs.  Their 
horses  were  the  shabbiest  of  mustangs.  The 
man  with  his  high  cheek-bones,  Indian  ex- 
pression of  stolidity,  long  grizzled  locks,  cap 
of  fox  skin,  an  old  shot-gun  laid  across  his 
knee,  and  the  boy  with  his  tow-colored  hair 
and  prematurely  old  expression,  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  traditional  backwoods  of  a 
hundred  years  ago.  They  kept  their  unruly 
charges  well  together,  and  rode  through  the 
town  with  averted  faces,  hardly  casting  a 
glance  to  left  or  right. 

"Guppy,  what's  pork  worth?"  shouted  a 
sandy-haired,  bare-legged  urchin  who  sat  by 
the  roadside  dabbling  with  hands  and  feet 
in  the  soft  brick-red  dust. 

The  boy  on  horseback  struck  viciously  at 


114 


Guppy's  Daughter. 


[August, 


went  on,  soon  disappearing  with 
their  attendant  dust-cloud  over  a 
pine-covered  ridge  towards  the 
west. 

"Guppy's  a  queerosity,"  said  the 
chatty  pioneer.  "Buys  his  hogs 
and  cattle  on  the  coast.  Drives  'em 
here  an'  there,  an'  makes  money 
every  trip.  Never  spends  any.  Has 
it  in  bank.  That's  all  right.  No- 
body's down  on  him  for  not  gam- 
blin',  nor  settin'  'em  up  for  the  boys. 
But  look  how  he  lives."  Here  the 
usually  good-natured  pioneer  grew 
excited.  "You  go  a  matter  of  fif- 
teen miles  right  north  of  here,  an' 
you'll  come  on  a  little  canon,  head- 
ing out  kinder  circular.  It's  the 
breshiest  place  you  ever  set  eyes 
on.  Bresh  all  across  the  bottom 
an'  up  the  mountain  side,  so  you 


A   REDDING    BAR    PIONEER. 


him  with  the  long  whip  he  carried,  but  the 
urchin  rolled  down  the  low  bank  and  under 
a  friendly  bush,  just  in  time  to  escape  the 
stinging  rawhide-tipped  lash.  Neither  father 
nor  son  spoke  a  word,  but  they  looked  at  the 
townspeople  with  undisguised  animosity,  and 


can  walk  on  the  top  o'  the  scrub - 
oak  an'  hazel  bushes  an'  manzani- 
ta,  an'  stuff  of  that  sort.  It's  the 
all-fired  wildest,  forsaken  section 
that  lies  outdoors.  The  only  way 
up  thar  is  along  a  trail  by  the  crick, 
an'  it's  so  high  in  winter  that  un- 
less you  know  just  how  ter  take  the 
ford,  whar  to  strike  in,  an'  how  ter 
bear,  an'  whar  ter  come  out,  down 
you  go  thirty  mile  into  the  Klam- 
ath,  like  a  bowlder  in  a  flume.  An' 
that's  whar  Guppy  keeps  his  family. 
Been  thar  five  or  six  years.  Packs 
in  his  grub,  cuts  wild  hay  on  the 
flat,  an'  the  crowd  live  in  a  tent — 
that  boy,  an'  two  or  three  grown- 
up girls,  an'  several  smaller  chil- 
dren, an'  their  mother.  None  of 
them  ever  wear  shoes,  an'  as  little 
else  as  they  can  help;  an'  the  wo- 
men-folks shoot  deer  an' other  game. 
Once  the  dogs  treed  a  California 

lion,  an'  one  of  the  girls — Sal,  they  call  her 

— tuk  a  rifle  an'  walked  up  clost  ter  the  tree 

an'  dropped  him  the  first  shot." 

The  old  pioneer  walked  back  to  his  cabin 

door,  sat  down,  and  began  filling  his  pipe. 
"Redding  Bar  and  the  Guppy  family  do 


1883.] 


Guppy's  Daughter. 


115 


not  seem  to  be  on  very  good  terms,"  I  said, 
remembering  how  different  the  scene  of  a 
few  minutes  before  was  from  the  usual  free- 
hearted, genial  goodjwill  of  mining  camps. 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  was  the  reply.  "There's 
sarcumstances,  sich  as  missin'  calves  an' 
hogs — not  that  we  accuse  nobody.  But  my 
wife's  sorry  for  the 
girls.  The  biggest 
one,  Dosy,  came 
over  to  our  town 
an'  said  she  were 
goin'  ter  school 
last  summer,  an' 
had  found  a  place 
ter  stop  at.  Trus- 
tee Ryan  raised  ob- 
jections, but  Jack 
Mason  and  me 
voted  them  down. 
So  the  girl  came. 
But  land !  there 
couldn't  no  one 
do  a  thing  with 
her.  She  didn't 
know  but  just  how 
to  read  them  Web- 
ster spellin'-book 
stories,  an'  she 
swore  like  a  troop- 
er; an'  at  recess 
one  day  squared 
off  with  her  fists 
to  whip  the  girl 
that  spelled  her 
down.  She  staid 
two  days,  an'  it 
couldn't  be  stood 
nohow.  So  I  saw 
Mason,  an'  we 
both  dropped  in 


GUPPY'S  DAUGHTER. 

on  Ryan,  tellin'  him  we  were  not  strenoos  as    whirled   round    an 
regarded  the  Guppy  question.     An' while  we    want  them  things  any  more?' 


noon  we  went  up  to  school  an'  told  her  not 
to  come  any  more.  All  at  once  she  stood 
up  in  her  seat  ah'  said,  very  slow  like: 

'"I  hate  you  all.  I  hate  your  infernal 
town.  I'll  come  back  some  night  and 
burn  your  old  houses.'  Then  she  caught 
up  her  books,  making  a  big  racket,  and 
flung  out  of  the 
door,  kicking  over 
three  or  four  of  the 
dinner-pails  in  the 
entry.  An'  she 
went  along  the 
hillside  so  as  not 
to  go  through  the 
-r  town,  an'  took  the 
^straight  trail  for 
home,  though  it 
was  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon 
and  fifteen  hard 
miles  to  go.  But 
my  boy  John  he 
comes  across  the 
hill  cattle-hunting 
an  hour  later,  an' 
seen  her  settin' 
on  a  log,  cryin', 
an'  pullin'  out  the 
leaves  of  her  read- 
er an'  throwin' 
them  off  in  the 
bushes.  When  she 
see  him,  she  stood 
up,  an'  dropped 
her  books  on  the 
log,  an'  started  on 
-~  along  the  trail. 
John  called  after 
her  ter  get  the 
books,  but  she 
yelled  out,  'Think  I 
And  nobody 


was  a-talkin'  it  over  in  Billy's  saloon  'cross  the 
way,  school  let  out,  an'  down  the  street 
comes  Dosy,  with  ten  or  a  dozen  boys  hoot- 
in'  after  her.  She  ketches  up  a  five-pound 
rock,  flung  it  right  in  among  them,  grabs 
up  another  and  scatters  the  crowd,  an' 
marches  sassily  out  of  sight.  The  next  after- 


ever  saw  her  over  here  again." 

The  pioneer  drew  a  long  breath,  relapsed 
into  silence,  lit  his  pipe,  carried  a  rawhide- 
bottomed  chair  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
shady  end  of  the  porch,  and  there  resigned 
himself  to  unexpressed  meditations  on  the 
varieties  of  human  life  and  character. 


116 


Gvppy's  Daughter. 


[August, 


It  was  a  curious  story  he  had  told.  The 
mountain  world  about  us  was  forty  miles 
from  a  railroad,  and  primitive  enough  in 
many  of  its  ways;  but  fifteen  miles  deeper 
in  the  wilderness  were  the  true  mountaineers, 
relapsing  into  newspaperless  barbarism.  I 
looked  down  on  the  broad,  dark  river  flow- 
ing past  red  cliffs  that  crumbled  fast  under 
the  attacks  of  hydraulic  miners,  rushing  in 
gleaming  foam  over  the  bar  where  ad- 
venturous Major  Redding  and  his  Indians 
had  washed  out  gold  in  1852,  and  hewing 
for  itself  year  by  year  a  wider  gateway  to 
the  sea  through  the  limestone  barriers  of  the 
mountains  towards  the  west. 

Two  or  three  days  were  passed  in  this 
breezy  summer-land;  but  one  morning  I  was 
riding  along  a  narrow  mountain  trail  five 
miles  or  so  north  of  the  mining  village.  The 
ascent  was  steep  and  long,  and  I  took  an  il- 
lustrated magazine  from  my  saddle-bags  and 
glanced  over  its  contents,  letting  the  reins 
lie  on  my  horse's  neck.  Coming  upon  a 
wayside  spring  under  a  clump  of  junipers, 
I  dismounted,  laid  the  magazine  down  on  a 
flat  rock,  flung  the  bridle-rein  over  a  bough, 
and  knelt  in  boyish  haste  for  a  drink.  The 
tiny  pool  was  a  luxuriance  of  reflected  leaves 
and  bloom,  giving  one  a  joyous  feeling  mere- 
ly to  look  into  its  depths,  and  the  clear, 
cold  water  seemed  to  taste  of  spicy  roots  and 
fragrant  herbs. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  rose,  and  the  scene 
had  changed.  A  little  gust  of  wind  was 
lifting  the  leaves  of  the  magazine,  giving 
rapid  glimpses  of  faces  and  landscapes.  Only 
a  few  feet  distant,  leaning  forward  and  peer- 
ing through  the  evergreen  boughs,  sat  a 
young  girl,  looking  intently  on  the  flutter- 
ing pictures.  She  must  have  been  sitting 
there  in  obscurity  as  I  rode  up.  Only  the 
upper  portion  of  her  body  could  be  seen  as 
her  weight  massed  the  thick  boughs  darkly 
across.  Her  face  was  round,  full,  and  fair, 
not  noticeably  freckled;  the  light-colored 
hair  was  drawn  back  and  fastened  with  a 
ribbon.  She  seemed  about  fifteen  or  sixteen 
years  old,  but  large  and  strong  for  her  age, 
and  the  dress  she  wore  was  of  some  coarse 
red  material,  plainly  made,  with  little  attempt 
at  ornament. 


She  was,  as  I  have  said,  looking  at  the 
magazine  with  an  expression  of  intense 
curiosity,  and  slowly  reached  out  a  hand  as 
if  to  take  it,  crouching  forward  and  pressing 
back  the  boughs  with  her  other  hand;  the 
gesture  and  movement  were  the  perfection 
of  unconscious  grace  and  strength.  The 
thought  came  to  me  that  perhaps  this  moun- 
tain girl  was  one  of  "the  Guppy  family,"  and 
also  the  fear  that  she  might  seize  the  coveted 
treasure  and  escape  without  a  word. 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  it  for  your  own?" 
I  asked  as  quietly  as  possible. 

She  started  and  looked  at  me  with  doubt 
and  surprise,  and  settled  back  a  little  far- 
ther behind  the  branches,  gloomily  knitting 
her  brows,  and  evidently  making  up  her 
mind  on  the  subject. 

"  Mister,  yes,  I  would.  Them's  purty 
picturs." 

Rising,  she  stepped  partly  out  from  her 
concealment,  setting  one  bare  and  soiled 
foot  on  the  trail,  and  taking  the  magazine 
into  a  shapely  hand  disfigured  by  long  and 
totally  neglected  finger-nails. 

"I  don't  see  sech  things,"  she  remarked, 
with  an  explanatory  air.  "  Pap  says  it's  all 
truck.  I  tol'  him  onct  ter  fotch  me  a  book 
with  picturs.  But  he  never  did." 

"Your  father  is  Mr.  Guppy?" 

"They  don't  call  him  that.  It's  'Ol' 
Gupp,'  most  like,  an'  '  Hog-driver  Gupp.' 
They  don't  put  handles  on  names  round 
here." 

"How  far  is  it  to  where  your  parents 
live?" 

"  It's  a  good  ten  mile,  stranger,  an'  a 
mighty  rough  trail." 

"  I  should  think  your  mother  would  feel 
uneasy  about  you  sometimes  if  you  go  so 
far  from  camp." 

She  laughed,  shrugged  her  shapely  shoul- 
ders, set  her  arms  akimbo,  and  stepped  fairly 
out  into  the  path. 

"The  ol'  woman?  She  wouldn't  mind  ef 
she  didn't  see  me  for  a  week  at  a  time,  ef 
she  had  terbacca  ter  smoke,  an'  coffee  ter 
drink,  an'  Bob  to  keep  wood  for  her  fire. 
Mam  says  I  ken  whip  my  weight  in  wild- 
cats, an'-  needn't  be  afraid  of  anything  in  the 
mountains." 


1888.] 


August. 


117 


As  she  turned  in  addressing  me,  I  now 
"noticed  that  she  carried  a  well-worn  army 
revolver  hanging  in  a  buckskin  thong  at  her 
waist.  A  large,  ill-favored  deer-hound  came 
sliding  and  creeping  out  of  the  under- 
brush that  thickly  clothed  the  hillside,  and 
displayed  some  symptoms  of  early  hostil- 
ities. 

"You,  Jake  !"  cried  the  girl,  and  catching 
up  a  fragment  of  rock  speedily  reduced  him 
into  abject  submission,  and  he  crouched  at 
her  feet.  Evidently  this  young  woman  could 
take  care  of  herself. 

Faint  but  clear,  floating  down  from  far 
up  the  brush-covered  mountain,  came  a 
wild  call,  sweet,  deep,  and  strange  beyond 
the  power  of  language  to  describe.  The 
girl  started,  listened,  and  replied  in  the 
same  rich,  weird,  and  far-reaching  strain, 
her  chest  heaving,  her  throat  swelling,  her 
eyes  flashing,  her  figure  poised  and  trembling 
with  a  picturesque  awakening. 

"  That's  my  sister.  She  wants  me.  I'm 
gob'." 

I  hunted  in  my  saddle-bags  and  found 
another  illustrated  magazine  for  her.  She 
nodded  with  a  "Thank  ye,  mister,"  and 
slipped  into  the  chaparral  and  undergrowth 


that  lined  the  roadside.  The  hound  fol- 
lowed, and  I  heard  the  rattle  of  the  slaty 
pebbles  under  their  feet  as  they  climbed, 
but  the  bushes  grew  too  closely  to  allow 
even  a  glimpse  of  her  red  dress.  Occasion- 
ally a  tremulous  quiver  in  the  boughs,  as  she 
caught  hold  of  them  to  assist  her  ascent, 
showed  her  sinuous  course  as  she  threaded 
her  way  onward.  Half-way  up  the  moun- 
tain there  must  have  been  more  open  spaces, 
for,  looking  back  as  I  rode  on,  I  caught 
glimpses  of  her  climbing  over  projecting 
masses  of  rock.  "  Old  Guppy's  daughter  " 
had  returned  to  her  wilderness. 

I  thought  of  the  two  girls,  sitting  beneath 
the  pines  that  clothed  the  summit  of  that 
mountain  barrier  which  overlooked  three 
counties,  and  revealed  a  wide  region  from 
the  peaks  of  Shasta  and  Lassen  to  the  red- 
wood belt  of  Humboldt — sitting  on  that  vast 
and  lonely  height  and  trying  to  understand 
the  strange  new  world  dimly  revealed  in  the 
pictures  and  articles  of  the  magazines  I  had 
given  them.  As  I  rode  on  for  hours  without 
encountering  any  human  being,  the  sense  of 
their  isolation  grew  stronger  and  stronger. 
They  seemed  lost  in  the  firs  and  pines,  like 
children  shipwrecked  in  mid-Atlantic. 

Charles  Howard  Shinn. 


AUGUST. 

BARREN  and  tawny  now  the  hillsides  lie, 

Like  flanks  of  sleeping  lions,  huge  and  lean; 

In  all  the  view  there  hardly  can  be  seen 
A  living  thing  to  rest  the  weary  eye. 
Gone  are  the  April  blooms,  the  brooks  are  dry 

That  chattered  then  in  every  small  ravine, 

And  to  the  slopes  that  wore  a  robe  of  green 
But  phantom  grasses  cling.     Yet,  ere  we  sigh 
That  all  is  mournful,  let  us  well  explore 

The  windings  of  the  canons.     Hiding  here 

We  find  a  wealth  of  beauty,  fairy  dells 
Where  ferns  and  flowers  grow  and  brooklets  pour. 

For,  though  with  summer  drought  the  world  is  drear, 
There  yet  are  nooks  where  happy  spring-time  dwells. 

Charles  S.  Greene. 


118 


The  Drama  in  Dream-land. 


[August, 


THE    DRAMA   IN    DREAM-LAND. 


IT  is  from  the  seaward  window  of  the 
United  States  Legation  in  Honolulu  that  I 
have  of  late  cast  a  pathetic  eye.  The  "tear 
of  sympathy"  may  not  flow  as  freely  in  re- 
cent literature  as  was  its  custom  in  the  age 
of  more  reverent  readers  and  writers;  but 
there  is  something  in  the  forlorn  beauty  of 
the  wilderness  over  against  the  Legation 
that  conjures  the  obsolete  globule  above  re- 
ferred to,  and  I  shed  it  fearlessly  and  not 
without  reason. 

Upon  the  diagonal  corners  of  the  street 
stands  the  new  hall  of  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association,  smelling  of  bricks 
and  mortar;  over  the  way  is  a  tenement 
where  plain  board  and  lodging  entice  the 
stranger  under  a  disguise  of  fresh  paint; 
— these  are  both  innovations  necessary,  no 
doubt,  to  the  requirements  of  a  progressive 
age;  but  the  occasion  of  my  present  solici- 
tude is  a  vacant  corner  lot,  trimly  fenced, 
wherein  two  rows  of  once  stately  palms  now 
struggle  with  decay  and  the  unpruned  para- 
sites that  fatten  on  it. 

It  is  a  weird  garden,  where  Flora  and 
Thespis  once  held  friendly  rivalry.  What  a 
jumble  of  botanical  debris  and  histrionic 
rubbish  now  litters  the  arena  flanked  by  for- 
lorn palms !  Out  of  it  all  I  doubt  if  the  sen- 
timental scavenger  would  be  able  to  pick 
any  relic  more  substantial  than  the  airy  dag- 
ger of  Macbeth;  but  upon  points  so  slight 
as  this  hang  imperishable  memories :  hence 
follow  these  reminiscences  of  the  late  Royal 
Hawaiian  Theater. 

Well  nigh  a  score  of  years  ago  I  was 
lounging  at  Whitney's  bookstore  in  Hono- 
lulu; it  was  at  that  time  a  kind  of  Hawaiian 
Forum,  with  a  post-office  on  one  side  of  the 
room  and  a  semiphore  on  the  roof.  Dull 
work  in  those  days,  waiting  for  the  gaunt  arms 
of  the  semiphore  to  swing  about,  uttering 
cabalistical  prophecies — "No  sail  from  day 
to  day."  No  steamers  then  to  stain  the  bril- 
liant sky  with  trailing  smoke:  the  mail-days 


depended  entirely  upon  the  state  of  the  wind 
and  the  tide. 

I  was  weary  of  fumbling  the  shop-worn 
books,  of  listening  or  trying  not  to  listen  to 
the  roar  of  the  rollers  on  the  reef;  wofully 
weary  of  the  tepid  monotony  that  offered  not 
even  an  excuse  for  irritation. 

Upon  this  mood  entered  a  slender  but 
well-proportioned  gentleman,  clad  in  white 
linen  raiment,  spotless  and  well  starched; 
there  was  something  about  him  which  would 
have  caused  the  most  casual  observer  to 
give  him  a  second  glance — a  mannerism  and 
an  air  that  distinguished  him.  A  profes- 
fessional,  probably,  thought  I;  an  eccentric, 
undoubtedly.  I  was  not  surprised  when, 
upon  the  entrance  of  a  common  friend  a  few 
moments  later,  I  was  made  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Proteus,  proprietor  and  manager  of  the 
Royal  Hawaiian  Theater,  likewise  govern- 
ment botanist  and  professor  of  many 
branches  of  art  both  sacred  and  profane. 
Mr.  Proteus  bowed  somewhat  in  the  man- 
ner of  a  French  dancing-master,  and  shud- 
dered slightly  upon  being  shaken  by  the 
hand;  at  a  latter  date  he  requested  me 
never  to  repeat  a  formality  which  he  could 
not  but  consider  quite  unnecessary  in  gen- 
eral and  in  most  cases  highly  objection- 
able. 

After  having  cautiously  exchanged  a  few 
languid  commonplaces,  Mr.  Proteus  invited 
me  to  visit  his  Temple  of  the  Muses. 
Nothing  could  have  pleased  me  better.  I 
regarded  him  as  a  godsend,  and  we  at  once 
repaired  to  the  theater,  threading  the  blaz- 
ing streets  together  under  a  huge  umbrella 
of  dazzling  whiteness,  held  jauntily  by  my 
new-found  friend. 

I  like  theaters;  I  dote  on  dingy  tinsel 
and  stucco  which  in  a  flash  of  light  is  trans- 
formed into  brilliant  beauty;  and  the  odor, 
the  unmistakable  odor,  of  stale  foot-lights 
and  thick  coats  of  distemper ;  the  suggestive 
confusion  of  flats  and  wings  and  flies;  the 


1883.] 


The  Drama  in  Dream-land. 


119 


picturesque  bric-a-brac  of  "the  property-room; 
the  trap-doors,  the  slides,  the  groves,  the 
stuffy  dressing-rooms,  and  the  stray  play- 
bills pasted  here  and  there  in  memory  of 
gala-nights  in  the  past.  Of*  all  the  theaters 
that  I  have  known,  this  was  the  most  the- 
atrical, because  the  most  unreal ;  it  was  like  a 
make-believe  theater,  wherein  everything  was 
done  for  the  fun  of  it ;  a  kind  of  child's  toy 
theater  grown  up,  and  full  of  grown-up  play- 
ers, who,  by  an  enchantment  which  was  the 
sole  right  of  this  house,  became  like  children 
the  moment  they  set  foot  upon  that  stage; 
and  their  people  and  players  were  as  happy 
and  careless  as  children  so  long  as  one  stone 
of  that  play-house  stood  upon  another. 

We  turned  into  Alakea  Street,  a  pastoral 
lane  in  those  day;  the  grass  was  parted  down 
the  middle  of  it  by  a  trail  of  dust;  strange 
trees  waved  blossoming  branches  over  us. 
I  looked  up :  in  the  midst  of  a  beautiful  gar- 
den stood  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  building ; 
but  for  its  surroundings  I  might  easily  have 
mistaken  it  for  a  primitive,  puritanical,  New 
England  village  meeting-house;  long  win- 
dows, of  the  kind  that  slide  down  into  a 
third  of  their  natural  height,  were  opened  to 
the  breeze;  great  dragon-flies  sailed  in  and 
out  at  leisure. 

The  t'heater  fronted  upon  a  street  more 
traveled  and  more  pretentious  than  the  one 
we  entered,  and  from  that  street  a  flight  of 
steps  led  to  a  door  which  might  have  opened 
into  the  choir-loft  if  this  had  really  been  a 
meeting-house;  but  as  it  was  nothing  of  the 
sort,  the  door  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  admitted 
you  without  a  moment's  notice  to  the  dress- 
circle;  bees  and  butterflies  lounged  about 
it ;  every  winged  thing  had  the  entree  of  this 
establishment. 

With  Proteus  I  approached  the  stage  door; 
tufts  of  long  grass  trailed  over  the  three 
broad  wooden  steps  before  the  mysterious 
portal ;  luxuriant  creepers  festooned  the 
casement;  small  lizards,  shining  with  metallic 
luster,  slid  into  the  crevices  as  we  drew 
near.  A  faint  delicious  fragrance  was 
wafted  from  the  garden,  where  a  native  lad 
with  spouting  hose  in  hand  was  showering  a 
broad-leafed  plant,  upon  which  the  falling 


water  boomed  like  a  drum ;  it  was  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  soothing  silence. 

Proteus  produced  a  key,  and  with  a  flour- 
ish applied  it  to  the  lock ;  the  door  swung 
in  upon  the  stage  (no  dingy  and  irregular 
passage  intervened) — the  cozy  stage  flooded 
with  sunshine,  and  from  which  the  mimic 
scenes  had  been  swept  back  against  the  wall, 
and  the  space  filled  to  the  proscenium  with 
trapeze,  rings,  bars,  and  spring-boards;  in 
brief,  the  theater  had  been  transformed  into 
a  gymnasium  between  two  dramatic  seasons. 

The  body  of  the  house  was  in  its  normal 
condition — the  pit  filled  with  rude  benches ; 
a  piano  under  the  foot-lights  (it  usually  com- 
prised the  orchestra) ;  thin  partitions,  about 
shoulder-high,  separated  the  two  ends  of  the 
dress-circle,  and  the  spaces  were  known  as 
boxes.  A  half-dozen  real  kings  and  queens 
had  witnessed  the  lives  and  deaths  of  player 
kings  and  queens  from  these  queer  little 
cubby-holes. 

Folding  doors  thrown  wide  open  in  the 
rear  of  the  stage  admitted  us  to  the  green- 
room— a  pretty  parlor  well  furnished  with 
bachelor  comforts.  The  large  center-table 
was  covered  with  a  rich  Turkish  tapestry; 
on  it  stood  an  antique  astral  lamp  with  a 
depressed  globe  and  a  tall,  slender  stem; 
handsome  mirrors,  resting  upon  carved  and 
gilded  consoles,  extended  to  the  ceiling ; 
statuettes  and  vases  stood  before  them ; 
lounges,  Chinese  reclining-chairs,  and  otto- 
mans encumbered  the  floor ;  a  valuable  oil- 
painting  which  had  a  look  of  age  hung  over 
the  piano ;  on  the  latter  stood  two  deep, 
bell-shaped  globes  of  glass  that  protected  wax 
tapers  from  the  tropical  drafts ;  a  double  win- 
dow, which  was  ever  open  to  the  trade-wind, 
was  thickly  screened  by  vines.  On  one  side 
of  this  exceptional  green-room  (it  was  in 
reality  the  boudoir  of  the  erratic  Proteus) 
was  a  curtained  arch,  and  within  it  the  sleep- 
ing apartment  of  him  who  had  for  years 
made  the  theater  his  home.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  room  was  a  bath  supplied  with 
a  flowing  stream  of  fresh,  cool  mountain 
water.  Beneath  the  stage  were  all  the 
kitchen  wares  that  heart  or  stomach  could 
desire.  And  thus  was  the  drama  nourished 


120 


The  Drama  in  Dream-land. 


[August, 


in  Dream-land  before  the  antipodes  had  lost 
their  reserve. 

Proteus  was  an  extremist  in  all  things, 
capable  of  likes  and  dislikes  as  violent  as 
they  were  sudden  and  unaccountable;  we 
became  fast  friends  at  once,  and  it  was  my 
custom  to  lounge  under  the  window  in  the 
green-room  hour  after  hour,  while  he  talked 
of  the  vicissitudes  in  his  extraordinary  ca- 
reer, or  related  episodes  in  the  dramatic  his- 
tory of  his  house — a  history  which  dated  back 
to  1848;  some  of  these  were  romantic,  some 
humorous  or  grotesque,  but  all  were  alike 
of  interest  to  me. 

Honolulu  has  long  been  visited  by  musi- 
cal and  dramatic  celebrities,  for  they  are 
a  nomadic  tribe.  As  early  as  1850,  Steve 
Massett — "Jeems  Pipes  of  Pipesville" — was 
concertizing  here,  and  again  in  1878.  In 
1855  Kate  Hayes  gave  concerts  at  three  dol- 
lars per  ticket;  Lola  Montez  and  Madame 
Ristori  have  visited  this  capital,  but  not 
professionally.  In  1852  Edwin  Booth  played 
in  that  very  theater,  and  for  a  time  lived  in 
it,  after  the  manner  of  Proteus ;  among  those 
who  have  followed  him  are  Charles  Mathews, 
Herr  Bandmann,  Walter  Montgomery,  Mad- 
ame Marie  Duret,  Signor  and  Signora  Bianchi, 
Signor  Orlandini,  Madame  Agatha  States, 
Madame  Eliza  Biscaccianti,  Madame  Jose- 
phine d'Ormy,  J.  C.  Williamson  and  Maggie 
Moore,  Professor  Anderson,  "  The  Wizard  of 
the  North,"  Madam  Anna  Bishop  in  1857  and 
1868,  lima  di  Murska,  the  Carrandinis,  the 
Zavistowskis,  Charlie  Backus,  Joe  Murphy, 
Billy  Emerson,  etc.  As  for  panoramas, 
magicians,  glass-blowers,  and  the  like,  their 
number  and  variety  are  confounding. 

The  experiences  of  these  clever  people 
while,  here  must  have  been  delightful  to 
most  of  them ;  though  the  professional  who 
touches  for  a  few  hours  or  a  few  days 
only  at  this  tropical  oasis  in  the  sea- 
desert  on  his  way  to  or  from  Australia  will 
hardly  realize  the  sentimental  sadness  of 
those  who  have  gone  down  into  the  Pacific 
to  astonish  the  natives,  and  have  found  it  no 
easy  task  to  get  over  the  reef  again  at  the 
close  of  a  disastrous  season.  The  hospital- 
ity of  the  hospitable  people  is  not  always 


equal  to  such  an  emergency;  but  there  are 
those  who  have  returned  again  to  Dream- 
land, and  who  have  longed  for  it  ever 
since  they  first  discovered  that  play-acting  is 
not  all  work — in*one  theater,  at  least. 

That  marvelously  young  old  man,  the 
late  Charles  Mathews,  who  certainly  had  a 
right  to  be  world-weary  if  any  one  has,  out  of 
the  fullness  of  his  heart  wrote  the  following 
on  his  famous  tour  of  the  world  in  1873-74  : 

"At  Honolulu,  one  of  the  loveliest  little 
spots  upon  earth  " — he  was  fresh  from  the 
gorgeous  East  when  he  wrote  that — from  the 
Indies,  luminous  in  honor  of  the  visit  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales — "I  acted  one  night  by 
command  and  in  the  presence  of  His 
Majesty  Kamehameha  V.,  King  of  the 
Sandwich  Islands — not  Hoky  Poky  Wanky 
Fun,  as  erroneously  reported ;  and  a  mem- 
orable night  it  was. 

"I  found  the  theater — to  use  a  technical 
expression — crammed  to  suffocation,  which 
merely  means  very  full;  though,  from  the 
state  of  the  thermometer  on  this  occasion, 
suffocation  wasn't  so  incorrect  a  description 
as  usual. 

"A  really  elegant-looking  audience;  tickets 
ten  shillings  each;  evening  dresses,  uniforms 
of  every  cut  and  country ;  chiefesses  and 
ladies  of  every  tinge  in  dresses  of  every  color ; 
flowers  and  jewels  in  profusion,  satin  play- 
bills, fans  going,  windows  and  doors  all  open, 
an  outside  staircase  leading  straight  into  the 
dress-circle,  without  check-taker  or  money- 
taker. 

"Kanaka  women  in  the  garden  below  sell- 
ing bananas  and  peanuts  by  the  glare  of 
flaming  torches  on  a  sultry,  tropical  moon- 
light night. 

"The  whole  thing  was  like  nothing  but  a 
midsummer  night's  dream. 

"And  was  it  nothing  to  see  a  whole  pit 
full  of  Kanakas,  black,  brown,  and  whity- 
brown,  till  lately  cannibals,  showing  their 
teeth,  and  enjoying  'Patter  versus  Clatter' 
as  much  as  a  few  years  ago  they  would  have 
enjoyed  the  roasting  of  a  missionary  or  the 
baking  of  a  baby? 

"It  was  certainly  a  page  in  one's  life  never 
to  be  forgotten." 


1883.] 


The  Drama  in  Dream-land. 


121 


Let  me  add  that  Mr.  Mathews  is  more 
amusing  than  authentic;  cannibalism  is  un- 
known in  the  annals  of  the  Hawaiian  king- 
dom; if  there  has  been  any  human  roasting 
done  in  this  domain,  it  has  been  done  since 
the  arrival  of  the  American  missionaries. 

That  little  play-house  was  in  its  day 
thronged  by  audiences  attracted  by  very  dis- 
similar entertainments ;  anything  from  five 
acts  and  a  prologue  of  melo-drama  to  a 
troupe  of  trained  poodles  was  sure  to  trans- 
form the  grassy  lane  into  a  bazaar  of  fruit- 
sellers,  and  the  box-office  under  the  stairs 
into  a  bedlam  of  chattering  natives.  One 
heard  almost  as  well  outside  as  within  the 
building  ;  the  high  windows  were  down  from 
the  top,  because  air  was  precious  and  scarce; 
banana  leaves  fluttered  like  cambric  curtains 
before  them;  if  a  familiar  air  was  struck 
upon  the  piano  in  the  orchestra,  the  Kanakas 
lying  in  the  grass  under  the  garden  fence 
took  up  the  refrain  and  hummed  it  softly 
and  sweetly;  the  music  ceased,  the  play  be- 
gan, the  listeners  in  the  street,  seeing  no  part 
of  the  stage — little,  in  fact,  save  the  lamp- 
light streaming  through  the  waving  banana 
leaves — busied  themselves  with  talk;  they 
buzzed  like  swarming  bees,  they  laughed 
like  careless  children,  they  echoed  the  ap- 
plause of  the  spectators,  and  amused  them- 
selves mightily.  Meanwhile,  the  royal 
family  was  enjoying  the  play  in  the  most 
natural  and  unpretentious  fashion.  Perhaps 
it  was  an  abbreviated  version  of  a  Shakspe- 
rian  tragedy  primitively  played  by  a  limited 
company ;  or  it  may  have  been  the  garden 
scene  from  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  wherein  Ju- 
liet leaned  from  a  balcony  embowered  with 
palms  and  ferns  transplanted  from  the  gar- 
den for  this  night  only,  and  making  a  picture 
of  surpassing  beauty. 

Everybody  in  that  house  knew  everybody 
else;  a  solitary  stranger  would  have  been 
at  once  discovered  and  scrutinized.  It  was 
like  a  social  gathering,  where,  indeed,  "car- 
riages may  be  ordered  at  10.30";  but  most 
of  the  participants  walked  home.  Who 
would  not  have  walked  home  through  streets 
that  are  like  garden  paths  very  much  exag- 
gerated ;  where  the  melodious  Kanaka  seeks 


in  vain  to  outsing  the  tireless  cricket,  and 
both  of  them  are  overcome  by  the  lugubri- 
ous double-bass  of  the  sea? 

But  to  Proteus  once  more:  when  social 
dinners  ceased  to  attract,  when  the  boarding- 
house  grew  tedious  and  the  Chinese  restau- 
rant became  a  burden,  he  repaired  to  the  cool 
basement  under  the  stage,  a  kind  of  culina- 
ry laboratory,  such  as  amateurs  in  cookery 
delight  in,  and  there  he  prepared  the  dain- 
tiest dishes,  and  we  often  partook  of  them  in 
Crusoe-like  seclusion.  Could  anything  be 
jollier?  Sweetmeats  and  semi-solitude,  and 
the  Kanaka  with  his  sprinkler  to  turn  on  a 
tropical  shower  at  the  shortest  notice.  This 
youth  was  a  shining  example  of  the  ingenu- 
ousness of  his  race;  he  had  orders  to  water 
the  plants  at  certain  hours  daily  ;  and  one 
day  we  found  him  in  the  garden  under  an 
umbrella,  playing  the  hose  in  opposition  to 
a  heavy  rain-storm.  His  fidelity  established 
him  permanently  in  his  master's  favor. 

Many  strange  characters  found  shelter 
under  that  roof:  Thespian  waifs  thrown 
upon  the  mosquito  shore,  who,  perhaps, 
rested  for  a  time,  and  then  set  sail  again ; 
prodigal  circus  boys,  disabled  and  useless, 
deserted  by  their  fellows,  here  bided  their 
time,  basking  in  the  hot  sunshine,  feeding 
on  the  locusts  and  wild  honey  of  idleness, 
and  at  last,  falling  in  with  some  troupe  of 
strolling  athletes,  have  dashed  again  into 
the  glittering  ring  with  new  life,  a  new  name, 
and  a  new  blaze  of  spangles ;  the  sadness  of 
many  a  twilight  in  Honolulu  has  been  in- 
tensified by  the  melancholy  picking  of  the 
banjo  in  the  hands  of  some  dejected  min- 
strel. All  these  conditions  touched  us  simi- 
larly. Reclining  in  the  restful  silence  of  that 
room,  it  was  our  wont  to  philosophize  over 
glasses  of  lemonade — nothing  stronger  than 
this,  for  Proteus  was  of  singularly  temper- 
ate appetites;  and  there  I  learned  much  of 
those  whom  I  knew  not  personally,  and  saw 
much  of  some  whom  I  might  elsewhere 
have  never  met. 

One  day  he  said  to  me :  "You  like  music; 
come  with  me  and  you  shall  hear  such  as  is 
not  often  heard."  We  passed  down  the 
pretty  lane  upon  which  the  stage  door 


122 


The  Drama  in  Dream-land. 


[August, 


opened,  and  approached  the  sea ;  almost 
upon  the  edge  of  it,  and  within  sound  of  the 
ripples  that  lapped  lazily  the  coral  frontage 
of  the  esplanade,  we  turned  into  a  bakery 
and  inquired  for  the  baker's  lady.  She  was 
momentarily  expected.  We  were  shown 
into  an  upper  room  scantily  furnished,  and 
from  a  frail  balcony  that?  looked  unable  to 
support  us  we  watched  the  coming  of  a 
portly  female  in  a  short  frock,  whose  gait 
was  masculine,  and  her  tastes  likewise,  for 
she  was  smoking  a  large  and  handsomely 
colored  meerschaum ;  a  huge  dog,  dripping 
sea  water  at  every  step,  walked  demurely  by 
her  side.  Recognizing  Proteus,  who  stood 
somewhat  in  fear  of  her,  for  she  was  bulky 
and  boisterous,  she  hailed  him  with  a  shout 
of  welcome  that  might  have  been  heard  a 
block  away. 

This  was  Madame  Josephine  d'Ormy, 
whose  operatic  career  began — in  America — 
long  ago  in  Castle  Garden,  and  ended  dis- 
astrously in  San  Francisco.  Her  adven- 
tures by  land  and  sea — she  was  once  ship- 
wrecked—  will  not  be  dwelt  on  here. 
Enough  that  she  laid  aside  her  pipe,  saluted 
Proteus  with  an  emphasis  that  raised  him  a 
full  foot  from  the  floor,  and  learning  that  I 
was  from  San  Francisco,  she  embraced  me 
with  emotion ;  she  could  not  speak  of  that 
city  without  sobbing.  Placing  herself  at  an 
instrument — it  looked  like  an  aboriginal  me- 
lodeon — the  legs  of  which  were  so  feeble 
that  the  body  of  it  was  lashed  with  hempen 
cord  to  rings  screwed  into  the  floor,  she 
sang,  out  of  a  heart  that  seemed  utterly 
broken,  a  song  which  was  like  the  cry  of  a 
lost  soul.  , 

Tears  jetted  from  her  eyes  and  splashed 
upon  her  ample  bosom;  the  instrument 
quaked  under  her  vigorous  pumping  of  the 
pedals ;  it  was  a  question  whether  to  laugh 
or  to  weep — a  hysterical  moment — but  the 
case  she  speedily  settled  by  burying  her 
face  in  her  apron  and  trumpeting  sonorous- 
ly; upon  which,  bursting  into  a  hilarious 
ditty,  she  reiterated  with  hoarse  "ha,  ha's," 
that  ended  in  shrieks  of  merriment,  "We'll 
laugh  the  blues  away ! " — and  we  did. 

This  extraordinary  woman,  whose  voice, 


in  spite  of  years  of  dissipation,  had  even  to 
the  end  a  charm  of  its  own,  came  to  her 
death  in  San  Francisco  at  the  hands  of  a 
brute  who  was  living  upon  the  wages  she 
drew  for  playing  the  piano  in  a  beer-cellar. 

Then  there  was  Madame  Marie  Duret,  who, 
having  outlived  the  popularity  of  her  once 
famous  "Jack  Sheppard,"  would  doubtless 
have  ended  her  days  in  Dream-land  chap- 
eroning the  amateurs,  and  doubtless  braving 
the  foot-lights  herself  at  intervals,  for  she 
was  well  preserved.  But  alas !  there  was  a 
flaw  in  the  amenities,  and  she  fled  to  worse 
luck.  She  went  to  California,  fighting  pov- 
erty and  paralysis  with  an  energy  and  good 
nature  for  which  she  was  scarcely  rewarded. 
A  mere  handful  of  friends,  and  most  of  those 
recent  ones,  saw  her  decently  interred. 

And  mad,  marvelous  Walter  Montgomery, 
with  his  sensational  suicide  in  the  first 
quarter  of  a  honey-moon.  He  used  to  ride 
a  prancing  horse  in  Honolulu,  a  horse  that 
was  a  whole  circus  in  itself,  and  scatter 
handfuls  of  small  coin  to  and  fro  just  for 
the  fun  of  seeing  the  little  natives  scramble 
for  it. 

And  Madame  Biscaccianti — poor  soul !  the 
thorn  was  never  from  the  breast  of  that 
nightingale.  After  the  bitterest  sorrows 
mingled  with  the  brilliantest  triumphs,  does 
she,  I  wonder,  find  comfortable  obscurity 
in  Italy  a  compensation  for  all  her  suffer- 
ings? 

Proteus  himself  had,  perhaps,  the  most 
uncommon  history  of  all.  This  he  related 
one  evening  when  we  were  in  the  happiest 
mood ;  there  was  a  panorama  dragging  its 
slow  length  along  before  an  audience  at- 
tracted, no  doubt,  as  much  by  the  promise 
of  numerous  and  costly  gifts,  of  a  sum 
total  far  outstripping  the  receipts  of  the 
house,  as  by  the  highly  colored  pictorial 
progress  of  Bunyan's  famous  Pilgrim.  We 
had  been  lounging  in  the  royal  box,  and, 
growing  weary  of  the  entertainment,  espe- 
cially weary  of  a  barrel-organ  thatp  layed 
at  the  heels  of  Christian  through  all  his 
tribulation,  we  repaired  to  the  green-room, 
and  somehow  fell  to  talking  of  individ- 
ual progress,  and  of  the  pack  we  each  of 


1883.] 


The  Drama  in  Dream-land. 


123 


us  must  carry  through  storm  and  shine. 
Proteus  evidently  began  his  story  without 
premeditation;  it  was  not  a  flowing  narra- 
tive; there  were  spurts  of  revelation  inter- 
rupted at  "intervals  by  the  strains  of  the 
barrel-organ,  from  which  there  was  no  escape. 
Later,  I  was  able  to  follow  the  thread  of  it, 
joining  it  here  and  there,  for  he  himself  had 
become  interested,  and  he  had  frequent 
recourse  to  a  diary  which  he  had  steno- 
graphed after  his  own  fashion,  and  the  key 
of  which  no  one  but  he  possessed. 

He  was  of  New  England  parentage,  born 
in  1826  ;  as  a  youth,  was  delicate  and  effem- 
inate; was  gifted  with  many  accomplish- 
ments, sketched  well,  sang  well,  played  upon 
several  instruments,  and  was,  withal,  an 
uncommon  linguist.  He  was  a  great  lover 
of  nature.  His  knowledge  was  varied  and 
very  accurate;  he  was  an  authority  upon 
most  subjects  which  interested  him  at  all, 
was  a  botanist  of  repute,  had  a  smattering  of 
many  sciences,  and  was  correct  as  far  as  he 
went  in  them. 

He  lost  his  father  in  infancy,  and  his 
training  was  left  to  tutors;  he  was  a  highly 
imaginative  dreamer,  and  romantic  in  the 
extreme;  for  this  reason,  and  having  never 
known  a  father's  will,  he  left  home  in  his 
youth,  and  was  for  some  years  a  wanderer, 
seeking,  it  was  thought,  an  elder  brother, 
who  had  lopg  since  disappeared.  He  was 
in  California  in  early  days,  in  Hawaii,  Aus- 
tralia, and  Tahiti;  the  love  of  adventure 
grew  upon  him;  he  learned  to  adapt  himself 
to  all  circumstances.  Though  not  handsome, 
he  was  well  proportioned  and  possessed  of 
much  muscular  grace.  He  traveled  for  a 
time  with  a  circus,  learned  to  balance  him- 
self on  a  globe,  to  throw  double-summersaults, 
and  to  do  daring  trapeze-flights  in  the  peak 
of  the  tent.  Growing  weary  of  this,  and 
having  already  known  and  become  enam- 
ored of  Hawaii,  he  returned  to  the  islands, 
secured  the  Royal  Hawaiian  Theater,  and 
began  life  anew.  His  collection  of  botani- 
cal plants  surrounding  the  theater  was  excep- 
tionally rich  and  a  source  of  profit  to  him  ; 
but  the  theater  was  his  hobby,  and  he  rode 
it  to  the  last. 


Nothing  seemed  quite  impossible  to  him 
upon  the  stage;  anything  from  light  comedy 
to  eccentric  character  parts  was  in  his  line; 
the  prima  donna  in  burlesque  opera  was  a 
favorite  assumption;  nor  did  he,  out  of  the 
love  of  his  art,  disdain  to  dance  the  wench- 
dance  in  a  minstrel  show;  he  had  even  a 
circus  of  his  own;  but  his  off  hours  were 
employed  in  his  garden  or  with  pupils  whom 
he  instructed  in  music,  dancing,  fencing, 
boxing,  gymnastics,  and  I  know  not  what 
else. 

On  one  occasion  he  took  with  him  to 
California  a  troupe  of  Hawaiian  hula  hula 
dancers,  the  only  ones  who  have  gone  abroad 
professionally,  and  his  experiences  with  these 
people,  whose  language  he  had  made  his 
own,  and  with  whom  he  was  in  full  sym- 
pathy, would  fill  a  volume.  Their  singular 
superstitions;  the  sacrifices  of  pig  and  fowl 
which  he  had  at  times  to  permit  them  to 
make  in  order  to  appease  their  wrathful 
gods  ;  the  gypsy  life  they  led  in  the  interior 
of  the  State,  where,  apart  from  the  settle- 
ments, they  would  camp  by  a  stream  in  some 
canon  and  live  for  a  little  while  the  life  of 
their  beloved  islands;  the  insults  they  re- 
ceived in  the  up-country  towns  from  the  civ- 
ilized whites,  who  like  wild  beasts  fell  upon 
them,  and  finally  succeeded  in  demoralizing 
and  disbanding  the  troupe ; — these  episodes 
he  was  fond  of  enlarging  upon,  and  his  fas- 
cinating narrative  was  enlivened  with  much 
highly  original  and  humorous  detail. 

Through  all  his  vicissitudes  he  preserved 
a  refinement  which  was  remarked  by  all  who 
knew  him.  He  was  the*  intimate  of  the  late 
King  Lunalillo  I.  and  of  many  Hawaiians  of 
rank;  he  had  danced  in  the  royal  set  at 
court-balls;  was  a  member  and  correspond- 
ent of  several  scientific  societies ;  a  man  of 
the  most  eccentric  description;  greatly  loved 
by  a  few,  intensely  disliked  by  many,  and 
perhaps  fully  understood  by  no  one.  He 
had  learned  to  hate  the  world,  and  at  times 
to  irritate  himself  very  much  over  it;  doubt- 
less he  had  cause. 

My  last  night  in  the  little  theater  was  the 
pleasantest  of  all.  The  play  was  over;  dur- 
ing its  action  great  ruby-eyed  moths  with 


124 


The  Drama  in  Dream-land. 


[August, 


scarlet  spots  like  blood-drops  on  their  wings 
flew  through  the  windows  and  dove  headlong 
into  the  foot-lights,  where  they  suffered  mar- 
tyrdom, and  eventually  died  to  slow  music; 
and  then  the  rain  came  and  beat  upon  that 
house,  and  it  leaked;  but  umbrellas  were  not 
prohibited  ;  the  shower  was  soon  over;  we 
shook  our  locks  like  spaniels,  and  laughed 
again;  and  it  was  all  very  tropical. 

Late  in  the  night  Proteus  and  I  were  sup- 
ping in  the  green-room,  when  he  told  me  in 
a  stage  whisper  how  night  after  night,  when 
the  place  was  as  black  as  a  tomb,  he  had 
heard  a  light  footfall,  a  softly  creaking  floor, 
and  a  mysterious  movement  of  the  furniture ; 
how  twice  a  dark  figure  stood  by  his  bedside 
with  fixed  eyes,  like  the  ghost  of  Banquo; 
there  was  enough  moonlight  in  the  room  to 
reveal  the  outline  of  this  figure,  and  to  shine 
dimly  through  it  as  through  folds  of  crape. 
And  often  there  were  voices  whispering  au- 
dibly, and  it  was  as  if  the  disembodied  had 
returned  to  play  their  parts  again  before  a 
spectral  audience  come  from  the  graves  of 
the  past ;  and  he  was  sure  to  hear  at  inter- 
vals, above  the  ghostly  ranting,  the  soft  pat- 
ter of  applause — "Like  that,"  said  Proteus, 
starting  from  his  chair,  as  a  puff  of  wind  ex- 
tinguished the  lamp  and  left  us  in  awful 
darkness.  We  listened.  I  heard  it,  or 
thought  I  heard  it ;  and  though  a  gentle  rain 
was  falling,  I  rushed  out  of  the  place  bris- 
tling like  a  porcupine. 

Once  more  I  look  from  the  seaward  win- 
dow of  the  Legation  upon  the  field  where, 
in  days  long  gone,  s'o  many  histrionic  honone 
were  won.  In  the  midst  of  it  that  itinerant 
phenomenon,  "  the  celebrated  armless  lady," 
has  for  the  moment  pitched  her  tent ;  pres- 
ently, no  doubt,  the  corner  lot  will  be  ab- 
sorbed by  that  ever-increasing  caravansary, 
the  Royal  Hawaiian  Hotel,  and  a  series  of 
semi-detached  villas  for  the  accommodation 
of  its  guests  will  spring  up  under  the  palms. 

Were  the  old  theater  still  standing,  the 
leafy  lattice  of  the  green-room  would  be 
directly  opposite;  I  might,  in  such  a  case, 
by  stretching  forth  my  hands,  part  the  vines 
and  look  once  more  into  the  haunted 


chamber.  Perhaps  he  would  be  sitting 
there  in  pajamas  and  slippers,  his  elbows  rest- 
ing on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands  as  was  his  wont  when  his  mono- 
logue ran  dreamily  into  the  past.  Perhaps 
there  would  come  those  pauses,  so  grateful 
even  in  the  most  interesting  discourse,  when 
we  said  nothing,  and  forgot  that  there  was 
silence  until  it  was  emphasized  by  the  shud- 
der of  leaves  that  twinkled  in  the  fitful  sum- 
mer gale. 

But  no!  The  long  silence,  unbroken 
evermore,  has  come  to  him,  and  there  is 
little  left  to  tell  of  a  tale  that  ended  tragi- 
cally. 

I  often  wondered  what  fate  was  in  reserve 
for  Proteus;  in  the  eternal  fitness  of  things 
a  climax  seemed  inevitable;  yet  the  few  bits 
of  tattered  and  mildewed  scenery  leaning 
against  the  fence,  the  weights  of  the  drop- 
curtain,  like  cannon  balls,  half  buried  in 
the  grass,  and  the  bier  over  which  Hamlet 
and  Laertes  were  wont  to  mouth — now  stand- 
ing in  the  midst  of  an  unrecognizable  heap 
or  rubbish — are  not  less  heeded  than  is  the 
memory  of  one  who  was  a  distinguished 
character  in  his  time. 

He  fell  upon  evil  days,  was  hurried  out  of 
the  kingdom  to  suffer  the  slings  and  arrows 
of  outrageous  fortune;  contumely,  humili- 
ation, abject  poverty — these  were  his  com- 
panions in  an  exile  which  he  endured  with 
heroic  fortitude.  At  last  he  found  asylum 
in  his  native  town,  but  not  the  one  he  would 
have  chosen,  nor  the  one  of  which  he  was 
deserving ;  yet  that  he  was  grateful  for  even 
this  much  is  evident  from  the  tenor  of  a  letter 
which  I  received  from  him  in  his  last  days. 
He  writes: 

"If  you  could  see  and  know  how  re- 
stricted my  present  life  is,  you  would  realize 
how  more  than  welcome  your  letter  was 

"In  your  reference  to  the  past,  my  mind 
went  with  you,  as  it  has  often  done  without 
you,  back  to  the  pleasant  hours  we  have 
spent  together.  Often  in  my  loneliness  I 
recur  to  them,  with  the  same  gratitude  that 
a  traveler  feels  when  he  recalls  to  mental 
view  the  oases  that  softened  the  weariness 
of  the  desert. 


1883.] 


The  Frontier  Prospector. 


125 


"  I  hope  I  am  as  thankful  as  I  should  be 
for  the  power  of  memory;  in  the  present 
darkness  I  have  many  bright  pictures  of  the 
past  to  look  upon:  these  are  my  consolation. 

"  I  have  to  be,  as  the  Hebrews  term  it,  in 
'  a  several  house';  I  am  in  a  large,  well- 
heated,  well-ventilated  upper  room  with  a 
southeasterly  aspect;  I  see  no  one  but  the 
physicians,  the  superintendent,  and  my 
especial  attendant. 

"  In  this  seclusion  from  the  world  in 
which  I  have  seen  so  much  variety,  you  may 
well  believe  I  have  leisure  for  thought  and 
retrospection.  How  many  experiences  I 
would  love  to  live  over  again !  how  many 
I  would  gladly  efface  from  the  records  of 
memory  ! 

"In  the  vacuity  of  my  present  condition 
I  long  for  occupation,  but  my  misfortune 
precludes  the  hope  of  it.  Only  one  thing 
is  certain :  I  must  try  to  be  content,  and  give 
an  example  of  resignation  if  I  can  do  no 
other  good. 

"I  have  gone  through  this  sorrowful  detail 
because  you  requested  it,  and  I  regret  to  give 
you  the  pain  of  reading  it Write 


when  you  will ;  a  letter  from  you  will  bring 
with  it  a  sense  of  the  light  which  I  have 
once  known — now  gone  forever." 

Of  course  I  wrote  again — on  the  instant ; 
but  before  my  letter  had  reached  that  mel- 
ancholy house  the  telegraph  had  flashed  the 
news  of  his  ignoble  death  throughout  the 
continent.  For  Proteus  was  none  other 
than  he  who,  through  the  irony  of  fate,  came 
to  be  known  as  "The  Salem  Leper." 

Whether  he  was  or  was  not  a  leper  is  a 
question  upon  which  the  doctors  disagree; 
but  I  know  that  his  life  for  two  years  before 
he  found  shelter  in  the  almshouse  of  his  na- 
tive town  was  of  the  most  agonizing  de- 
scription. Perfidious  gossip  hunted  him 
down;  vile  slander  drove  him  from  door  to 
door;  his  imagination  peopled  the  air  with 
foes;  and  even  the  few  true  and  tried  friends 
who  stood  by  him  found  it  difficult  at  times 
to  persuade  him  that  they  were  not  spies 
upon  him. 

O  death,  where  is  thy  sting!     So  it  seems 
that  even  in  Dream-land  the  drama  is  not 
all  a  delusion,  and  that  in  one  case,  at  least, 
the  reality  was  more  cruel  than  .the  grave. 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard. 


THE   FRONTIER   PROSPECTOR. 


WHEN  we  consider  that  but  a  generation 
ago  all  the  vast  territory  lying  west  of  the 
Missouri  River  was  essentially  a  sealed  book, 
the  enormous  results  which  have  been 
achieved  by  labor  and  enterprise  in  that  sec- 
tion of  the  United  States  seem  almost  in- 
comprehensible. Towards  1848  and  1849 
California  became  prominent,  but  not  until 
1857  and  1858  was  that  region  brought  into 
notice  which  now  is  comprised  in  the  Cen- 
tennial State.  Isolated  explorations  had 
been  made;  venturesome  hunters,  traders, 
and  prospectors  had  penetrated  into  un- 
known regions;  but  the  Indian  still  remained 
in  undisturbed  possession  of  territory  which 
to-day  yields  golden  returns.  Terrible  suf- 
ferings were  endured  and  hardships  were 
experienced,  the  recital  of  which  might  well 


blanch  the  cheek  of  many  a  stout-hearted 
man.  No  fear  of  bodily  suffering,  no  men- 
ace of  an  agonizing  death  at  the  hands  of 
savage  enemies,  could  daunt  those  men  to 
whom  we  owe  the  rapid  development  of 
our  extreme  western  States  and  Territories. 
They  prepared  the  path  which  others  fol- 
lowed; they  cleared  away  the  obstacles 
which  would  have  paralyzed  less  indomita- 
ble hearts; — and  what  has  been  their  re- 
ward? The  soil  which  they  were  the  first 
to  tread  shelters  their  bones,  and  the  march 
of  progress  has  passed  over  their  graves, 
scarcely  sparing  the  time  to  bestow  a  hand- 
ful of  earth. 

Although  so  large  a  portion  of  the  country 
has  been  explored,  even  now  there  remain 
fresh  fields  for  the  pick  and  shovel  of  the 


126 


The  Frontier  Prospector. 


[August, 


prospector.  His  life,  his  manner  of  working, 
and  his  character  is  so  unique,  that  to  an 
observer  it  must  be  full  of  interest.  Even 
his  language,  graphic  and  forcible,  has  a 
certain  charm.  Indeed,  among  all  people 
where  labor  for  the  daily  bread  is  carried  on 
beyond  the  reach  of  daylight,  a  specific  set 
of  terms  and  expressions  has  developed  it- 
self. It  would  puzzle  a  philological  schol- 
ar to  hold  converse  with  the  Cornish  or 
German  miner;  and  in  like  manner  the  in- 
tercourse with  our  western  prospectors  and 
miners  cannot  but  increase  the  vocabulary  of 
an  English-speaking  stranger. 

As  soon  as  the  snows  begin  to  melt,  the 
prospector  becomes  restless.  Watching  the 
weather  with  much  anxiety,  he  turns  over  in 
his  mind  the  various  attractions  offered  by 
different  localities.  Wherever  the  most  re- 
cent discoveries  of  precious  metals  have 
been  made,  there  he  longs  to  be.  Some  one 
may  have  stumbled  across  a  fragment  of 
rich  or  promising  ore,  and  by  some  myste- 
rious system  of  telegraphy  the  most  vividly 
colored  reports  from  the  latest  "El  Dorado" 
have  spread  among  the  prospecting  fra- 
ternity. 

Who  does  not  remember  the  "San  Juan 
excitement"  in  Colorado  during  1874? 
About  twenty  years  ago  a  man  named  Baker 
led  a  small  party  into  that  country,  then  still 
several  hundred  miles  removed  from  the 
nearest  point  of  settlement.  Their  exami- 
nations seemed  to  promise  untold  wealth. 
The  following  year  Baker,  at  the  head  of 
more  than  sixty  men,  repeated  the  trip. 
Amid  the  greatest  hardships,  suffering  from 
cold  and  hunger,  the  courageous  band, 
though  greatly  reduced  in  numbers,  finally 
reached  the  land  of  promise,  some  to  perish 
miserably  at  the  hand  of  hostile  Indians, 
others  to  die  of  starvation  in  a  region  which 
is  but  a  labyrinthine  maze  of  mountains. 
Only  a  mere  handful  of  men  barely  escaped 
with  their  lives,  and  eventually  reached  in- 
habited places  after  months  of  toilsome 
wandering.  Crazed  by  hunger,  blinded  by 
snow,  and  worn  to  skeletons  by  the  frightful 
sufferings  which  they  had  had  to  endure, 
separated  from  one  another  by  suspicious 


fear,  these  few  survivors  staggered  into  the 
homes  of  settlers  nearly  two  years  after  their 
hopeful  start,  bringing  tidings  of  the  ill-fated 
expedition.  Not  until  1874,  after  the  con- 
clusion of  the  Ute  treaty,  was  the  San  Juan 
country  again  prospected.  To-day,  the  sight 
of  flourishing  towns,  active  smelting  works, 
and  the  presence  of  several  thousand  min  ers 
testify  to  the  foundation  which  Baker  had 
for  his  sanguine  hopes.  And  at  the  present 
time,  while  Apaches  and  their  allies  are 
carrying  stealthy  murder  and  open  warfare 
through  the  southern  Territories,  the  pros- 
pector is  nevertheless  exploring  their  moun- 
tains, his  pick  in  one  hand,  his  rifle  in  the 
other.  Though  he  may  die,  though  the  re- 
sult of  his  labors  may  never  be  known,  there 
are  others  to  take  his  place,  others  who  will 
escape  with  their  lives  and  proclaim  the  ex- 
istence of  metallic  wealth  now  lying  barren. 
When  the  prospector  has  decided  upon 
the  locality  which  shall  be  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion during  the  coming  season,  the  necessary 
preparations  for  the  trip — i.  e.,  "  outfitting" 
— are  taken  in  hand.  The  quiet  assurance 
with  which  a  man  whose  sole  possessions  con- 
sist in  a  pick,  a  pan,  and  a  rifle  will  tell  you 
in  the  Black  Hills  that  he  is  going  to  Ari- 
zona next  week  is  somewhat  staggering;  but 
he  does  it.  If  absolutely  "dead-broke,"  he 
will  get  his  meager  supplies  on  credit,  and 
start  on  his  journey  of  hundreds  of  miles 
with  a  light  heart  and  an  equally  light  pack. 
Flour,  bacon,  blankets,  gold-pan  and  frying- 
pan,  pick,  shovel,  and  a  few  smaller  articles, 
besides  the  necessary  weapons,  complete 
the  outfit  of  this  forerunner  of  civilization. 
Should  "wealth"  be  at  his  command,  he  will 
invest  it  in  a  burro.  Packing  everything 
but  rifle,  pistol,  and  knife  upon  the  back  of 
his  patient  animal,  he  is  ready  to  set  out. 
If  possible,  he  will  have  found  a  "pard,"  that 
the  long  journey  may  be  enlivened  by  the 
interchange  of  opinions,  and  also  that  he 
may  have  assistance  in  case  of  danger  or 
necessity.  So  strong  is  the  ruling  passion, 
that  long  before  the  promised  land  is 
reached  every  rock  and  bowlder  encoun- 
tered on  the  road  is  subjected  to  inspection. 
With  a  critical  eye  the  discoverer  will  exam- 


1883.] 


The  Frontier  Prospector. 


127 


ine  the  specimen  which  he  has  chipped  off, 
and  finally  puts  it  carefully  into  his  pocket, 
only  to  make  room  for  the  next  one  he  finds. 

For  the  purpose  of  fully  appreciating  the 
methods  of  work  and  the  indestructible 
elasticity  of  spirit  which  forms  a  prominent 
feature  of  the  prospector's  character,  we  may 
accompany  him  on  one  of  his  trips.  Our 
friend  Joseph,  popularly  known  as  "Grizzly 
Joe,"  has  found  a  congenial  partner  in 
"  Dutch  Billy,"  and  the  two  have  agreed  to 
"chance  it"  as  "pards"  during  the  summer. 
Joe  owes  his  soubriquet  to  an  interesting  but 
little  profitable  interview  with  a  bear;  while 
Billy,  originally  from  Virginia,  must  thank 
his  yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes  for  his  distin- 
guishing appellation.  Both  are  experienced 
prospectors,  both  have  done  their  share 
towards  developing  the  resources  of  the 
country,  and  both  are  as  poor  now  as  they 
ever  were.  Ebb  and  flood  in  the  condition 
of  their  finances  have  just  taken  one  more 
turn,  and  we  find  them  high  and  dry  at  a 
very  low  ebb-tide.  With  their  burros  ahead 
of  them,  they  cheerfully  trudge  along  the 
road,  full  of  hope,  and  intent  upon  every 
thing  that  bears  the  semblance  of  ore.  A 
professor  of  geological  science  might  learn 
many  new  facts  from  their  conversation  as 
they  pass  over  various  beds  and  strata — facts 
new  not  only  to  him,  but  new  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  word.  Every  prospector  4has 
his  "theory."  He  explains  admirably  not 
only  the  genesis  and  present  position  of 
rocks  and  of  the  mountain  ranges  which  he 
crosses,  but  he  knows  where  the  gold  and 
silver  must  originally  have  come  from.  From 
his  experience,  gained  by  laborious  observa- 
tion, and  liberally  aided  by  an  inventive  im- 
agination, he  has  built  up  a  little  earth  of  his 
own,  and  it  is  wonderful  to  see  the  tenacity 
with  which  he  adheres  to  its  structure. 

Certain  rocks  he  recognizes,  and  he  knows 
whether  there  is  any  probability  of  their  con- 
taining metalliferous  deposits.  His  classifi- 
cation is  somewhat  comprehensive,  but  it 
answers  his  purpose.  When  he  arrives  at 
the  end  of  his  knowledge,  he  makes  up  his 
mind  that  the  mysterious  specimen  in  ques- 
tion must  be  porphyry.  Por.phyry  is  to 


him  what  the  soul  is  to  the  physiologist. 
Whatever  cannot  be  demonstrated  by  scalpel 
and  hammer  is  referred  to  soul  and  porphyry. 
No  true  prospector  will  ever  admit  that  any 
occurrence  within  his  domain  should  be 
beyond  his  powers  of  explanation.  His 
earth  is  constructed  on  a  certain  definite 
plan,  and  if  anything  should  happen  to  dis- 
agree therewith,  it  can  only  be  a  local  dis- 
turbance of  no  importance.  He  knows  that 
during  the  period  of  original  chaos  and  gen- 
eral mixture  of  all  matter,  the  heaviest 
metals  must  have  sunk  to  the  bottom, 
while  the  lighter  ones  remained  nearer  the 
top.  When  he  finds  silver  on  high  moun- 
tains, his  theory  is  proved,  and  gold  is  sure  to 
be  lower  down.  Should  the  case  be  re- 
versed, then  nothing  is  more  plausible  than 
that  some  convenient  "  volcanic  eruption  " 
has  interfered  with  the  natural  order  of  things. 
A  professional  geologist,  harassed  by  doubts 
and  uncertainties,  must  regard  with  envy  the 
precision  and  p'ositiveness  of  a  prospector's 
explanations. 

As  our  friends  approach  the  newly  discov- 
ered district,  the  object  of  their  present 
ambition,  they  frequently  branch  off  from 
the  beaten  path.  The  area  of  the  favored 
region  may  be  greater  than  is  expected,  and 
it  behooves  them  to  allow  no  chance  for 
exploration  to  escape.  Joe  plunges  into  the 
heavy  timber,  while  Dutch  climbs  a  neighbor- 
ing peak  to  prospect  its  rocky  slopes.  Every 
creek  which  Joe  encounters  is  carefully  ex- 
amined; sand  and  gravel  are  "panned" 
and  searched  for  "  colors."  Forcing  his  way 
through  dense  underbrush  and  over  fallen 
timber,  Joe  has  much  trouble  to  keep  his 
laden  burro  in  a  good  humor.  Animals  of 
this  kind  have  a  certain  firmness  of  character 
suspiciously  bordering  on  obstinacy.  One 
peculiarity  of  a  burro  is  his  frequently  mis- 
placed thirst  for  knowledge.  Should  any 
moral  or  other  suasion  be  used  to  urge  him 
forward,  it  immediately  occurs  to  his  saga- 
cious mind  that  there  must  be  some  reason 
for  such  undue  haste.  Whatever  this  reason 
may  be,  it  must  certainly  affect  the  interests 
of  the  burro  as  well  as  those  of  the  master. 
It  is  eminently  proper,  therefore,  that  he 


128 


The  Frontier  Prospector. 


should  stop  and  attempt  a  solution  of  the 
motives  that  prompt  such  ill-advised  exertion. 
This  trait  of  reflective  tendencies  is  especially 
noticeable  when  a  creek  is  to  be  crossed.  Joe, 
in  consequence  of  long  experience,  is  equal 
to  the  emergency.  It  is  a  matter  of  but  little 
exertion  for  him  deliberately  to  pick  up  his 
four-legged  companion,  pack  and  all,  and 
throw  him  across  the  creek.  A  measure  so 
peremptory  cuts  short  the  train  of  thought, 
and  the  burro  meanders  on  with  complacent 
mien,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  the  next 
obstacle  which  might  furnish  food  for  pen- 
sive contemplation.  » 

Down  in  the  valley  the  two  partners  meet 
at  nightfall.  A  fire  is  started,  biscuits 
are  baked  in  the  frying-pan,  bacon  is  toasted 
on  forked  sticks,  and  after  the  frugal  repast, 
when  the  pipes  are  lighted,  they  compare 
notes  on  the  observations  made  during  the 
day. 

"  I  say,  pard,"  remarks  Joe,  "  these  dig- 
gings have  a  kind  of  a  favorable  look. 
The  country  is  nothing  but  porphyry,  to  be 
sure,  but  I  got  four  colors  to  the  pan  several 
times  to-day." 

"  Good  for  you,"  answers  Dutch.  "But 
I  can't  see  where  in  thunder  the  stuff  comes 
from,  for  I  haven't  seen  a  ledge  all  day  big 
enough  to  let  a  frog  jump  over." 

"  Well,  pard,  I  guess  we'll  try  the  gulches 
a  trifle  to-morrow ;  perhaps  we  can  make 
some  kind  of  a  strike.  Maybe  we  can  stake 
a  few  gulch  claims  and  keep  'em,  if  the  dees- 
trict  don't  pan  out." 

Before  long  a  narrow  ravine  is  found, 
where  a  small  stream  is  seen  rushing  over 
bowlders  and  rocks.  Upon  examination,  the 
gravel  which  has  accumulated  lower  down 
proves  to  contain  gold,  and  our  discoverers 
immediately  set  to  work.  After  panning  for 
some  time,  small  "cradles"  are  rudely  con- 
structed with  the  aid  of  hatchet,  knife,  and 
fresh  deer-skin,  and  the  process  of  gold- 
washing  begins.  As  the  sun  sets  behind  the 
most  distant  mountain,  they  "  clear  up," 
and  find  that  each  one  has  a  knife-point  full 
of  the  glittering  yellow  scales.  In  value  it 
amounts  to  about  two  dollars  apiece.  Strange 
as  it  may  appear,  these  men  will  labor  hard 


from  sunrise  until  darkness  compels  them 
to  cease,  they  will  undergo  the  greatest 
hardships  and  live  upon  the  poorest  fare, 
rather  than  work  for  others,  where  as  miners 
they  could  readily  earn  four  dollars  a  day. 
Independence  of  action  and  movement  is 
worth  more  to  them  than  greater  financial 
prosperity  and  bodily  comforts.  A  brief 
period  of  work,  however,  convinces  them 
that  the  gulch  has  not  "panned  out"  suffi- 
ciently well,  and  once  more  they  start  upon 
their  tour.  Though  it  is  claimed  that  the 
new  district  far  surpasses  all  heretofore 
discovered  in  richness  and  in  accessibility  of 
the  precious  metals,  they  meet  with  more 
than  one  prospector  returning  from  it,  on 
whose  face  "  disgust "  is  written  with  unmis- 
takable letters. 

"Hello,  stranger  !"  Joe  hails  a  dilapidated- 
looking  specimen,  whose  back  is  turned  to 
the  "deestrict,"  and  who  is  trying  to  get 
away  from  it  with  all  possible  speed;  "hello, 
stranger,  I  say;  been  up  to  the  new  mines?" 

"You  bet,"  is  the  laconic  but  expressive 
reply,  while  the  stranger  glances  sorrowfully 
at  the  holes  which  constitute  the  main  por- 
tion of  his  boots. 

"Let's  have  your  candid  opinion  of  the 
chances  a  fellow  has  there,  stranger." 

"Chances?  I  never  seen  none  there. 
There  may  have  been  some,  but  they're 
mighty  well  corralled  by  this  time.  There 
ain't  no  chance  there  to  make  wages.  Any- 
way, I  don't  think  the  whole  deestrict  is 
worth  a  continental.  Got  any  baccy  to 
lend,  Cap'n?"  is  the  decided  and  somewhat 
discouraging  opinion  delivered. 

"You're  kind  o'  down  on  your  luck;  but 
never  mind,  stranger,  you'll  strike  it  yet  if 
you  stick  to  it,"  is  the  balm  coupled  with  a 
supply  of  "baccy"  which  Joe  benevolently 
administers  to  the  crest-fallen  fortune-seeker. 

More  than  once  our  friends  receive  the 
same  information,  but  nothing  can  swerve 
them  from  their  course.  Within  a  couple 
of  days'  journey  of  the  new  camp,  Dutch 
finds  a  remarkable-looking  piece  of  "float." 
It  has  evidently  rolled  down,  together  with 
other  rocks,  from  a  steep  mountain  slope, 
and  he  must  endeavor  to  find  its  original 


1883.J 


The  Frontier  Prospector. 


129 


position.  The  specimen  is  pronounced  by 
Joe  to  be  quartz — good-looking  quartz,  in 
fact — an  indication  of  much  promise.  Some- 
what excited  by  the  prospect,  camp  is  imme- 
diately made  permanent  by  tying  the  burros. 
Search  for  the  ledge  from  which  this  frag- 
ment must  have  broken  is  commenced  with- 
out delay.  At  last  it  is  found,  high  up  on 
the  mountain  side,  on  an  almost  vertical 
rock-face.  There  the  yellowish  streak  is 
prominently  set  off  by  the  dark  gray  color  of 
the  surrounding  rock.  Although  at  first  it 
would  appear  as  if  no  living  creature  unless 
supplied  with  wings  could  ever  succeed  in 
extracting  the  ore,  our  prospectors  are  not 
to  be  daunted  by  trifles  such  as  these.  They 
will  find  some  method  of  getting  there — by 
driving  a  tunnel  into  the  vein,  which  will 
serve  the  double  purpose  of  taking  out  ore, 
and  preparing  for  themselves  an  abiding  place 
entirely  to  their  taste. 

While  examining  the  specimens  which  have 
been  broken  off  the  ledge,  Joe  mysteriously 
remarks : 

"Look  here,  pard,  bless  me  if  I  don't 
think  we've  struck  platinum  at  last.  There's 
nothing  I  know  of  has  this  queer  gray  look 
to  it;  so  it  must  be  platinum." 

Joe's  knowledge  and  wisdom  are  above 
being  questioned,  so  Dutch  has  no  alterna- 
tive, even  had  he  felt  the  desire,  but  to  agree 
with  him.  Platinum,  then,  it  is  decided  to 
be — the  metal  which  above  all  others  excites 
the  imagination  of  prospectors.  In  the  even- 
ing it  is  decided  that  Dutch  shall  take  a 
sample  of  the  ore  to  the  new  camp  and  have 
it  assayed.  Joe  is  too  old  a  prospector  to 
waste  his  time  on  a  lode  before  he  knows 
whether  its  ore  is  of  any  value.  So  far  as 
gulch  mining  is'concerned,  his  own  opinion  is 
entirely  sufficient;  but  with  ore,  it  is  a  differ- 
ent matter.  Early  in  the  morning  Dutch  sets 
out  with  the  sample,  well  guarded  in  a  piece 
of  an  old  stocking,  and  Joe's  emphatic  sug- 
gestion sounding  in  his  ears  : 

"Be  sure,  pard,  and  tell  the  professor  to 
test  it  for  platinum." 

During  his  partner's  absence,  Joe  dutifully 
builds  the  monuments  and  puts  up  the  no- 
tice required  by  law.  He  is  somewhat  puz- 
VOL.  II.— 9. 


zled  about  a  name  to  bestow  upon  the  newly 
found  treasure.  As  he  sits  by  his  lonely  fire 
in  the  evening,  he  sees,  shadowed  in  the 
curling  smoke  of  his  pipe,  visions  of  days 
long  gone  by.  He  sees  a  frail,  fair-haired 
child  trustfully  nestling  in  his  lap,  while  he 
tells  her  stories  of  his  wild,  roving  life,  keep- 
ing back  with  unconscious  care  all  mention 
that  could  trouble  the  innocent  mind.  But 
once  has  he  been  back  to  his  eastern  home 
since  he  left  it  in  '49,  and  it  was  after  that 
brief  period  of  quiet  enjoyment  that  his  re- 
turn to  wilderness  and  danger  seemed  hard. 
His  delicate  niece  had  twined  herself  about 
his  heart,  and  though  now  she  is  gone, 
her  memory  still  lives  with  him.  "  Little 
Annie"  shall  be  the  name. 

Dutch,  upon  his  return,  brings  with  him 
an  assayer's  certificate  and  good  news. 
There  it  is,  sure  enough:  thirty-two  ounces 
of  gold  and  nine  ounces  of  silver  to  the  ton. 
Naturally,  the  joy  over  such  unusual  returns 
causes  Joe  to  forget  his  platinum.  Now  the 
work  is  taken  in  hand  most  vigorously. 
Early  and  late  the  two  men  labor,  and  soon 
they  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they  own  a 
well-defined  vein  containing  untold  wealth. 
Many  are  the  projects  which  the  two  discuss 
during  their  short  rest  in  the  evening.  Iso- 
lated from  all  human  intercourse,  their  at- 
tention is  naturally  directed  towards  making 
premature  disposition  of  the  fortune  now 
evidently  within  their  grasp. 

"Joe,"  inquires  Dutch  one  evening  while 
smoking — "Joe,  how  much  would  you  take 
for  your  chances  in  that  ledge  right  now?" 

"Pard,  I'll  tell  you,"  is  the  reply;  "if  any 
man  was  to  offer  me  fifty  thousand  dollars 
in  new  bank-notes — the  kind  they  make  in 
Washington,  not  the  dirty  stuff  we  get  out 
here  once  in  a  while — pard,  I  tell  you,  I 
wouldn't  take  it  for  my  share  in  that  mine." 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  shouldn't  neither," 
gravely  assents  the  other;  "but  I  must  say, 
if  I  had  fifty  thousand  dollars,  I'd  like  to 
swell  it  round  East  for  a  spell,  driving  a 
four-in-hand  of  white  mules.  Wouldn't  them 
city  folks  learn  something?" 

"  Dutch,  my  pard,  if  you  don't  know  any 
better  than  to  hang  your  heart  on  four  white 


130 


The  Frontier  Prospector. 


[August, 


mules,  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I'd  go  to  Paris 
and  buy  three  or  four  of  their  picter-galleries, 
and  have  a  good  time  looking  'em  over." 

"Well,  Joe,  you  with  your  book-larnin' 
may  be  sooted  with  that  sort  o'  thing,  but  I 
don't  hanker  much  after  picters  and  books. 
Once  in  a  while  I  like  to  look  at  the  Bible, 
'cause  there's  some  mighty  good  points  in 
it;  elsewise,  I  don't  care  much  for  no  reading 
but  a  novel." 

''That's  due  to  a  natural  defect  in  your 
education,  Dutch,"  his  partner  rejoins  with 
much  dignity;  "if  your  mind  was  well  de- 
veloped, you'd  appreciate  art  and  science, 
and  such  like.  However,  let's  turn  in." 

Several  suspicious  circumstances  are  no- 
ticed by  Joe  in  connection  with  the  "  Little 
Annie."  She  (all  ore-veins  are  feminine) 
does  not  open  up  properly,  and  at  some 
places  looks  distressingly  like  pinching  out. 
Both  men  still  work  hard,  but  anxiety  has 
taken  the  place  of  assurance.  Their  fears 
are  well  grounded,  for  one  day  they  find  be- 
yond a  question  that  the  two  walls  inclosing 
the  vein  are  coming  together ;  the  ore  is  at 
an  end.  Dutch  has  been  much  exercised 
for  the  past  few  days,  and  has  found  vent 
for  his  feelings  in  rather  forcible  language. 
Now  he  stands  speechless,  contemplating 
the  closing  walls,  the  shroud  of  their  hopes, 
with  an  expression  of  mingled  astonishment 
and  grief. 

"  Dutch,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question," 
Joe  breaks  in  upon  the  mournful  silence: 
"  I  want  to  know  why  you  blasphemed  like  a 
heathen  a  while  ago,  and  now,  when  matters 
are  still  worse  with  this  gash-vein,  you 
haven't  a  word  to  say  ?" 

"Pard,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  do  the  case 
justice." 

"Well,"  says  Joe,  "all  there  is  to  it  is, 
the  Little  Annie's  gone";  and  adds  to  him- 
self, "Gone,  just  like  the  other  little  Annie." 

A  few  days  suffice  for  the  spirits  bowed 
by  this  misfortune  to  recover,  and  our  pros- 
pectors are  again  ready  to  push  forward. 
Disappointment  to  them  is  rather  a  spur 
than  otherwise.  The  season  is  gradually  ad- 
vancing, and  they  must  find  something  to 
reward  them  for  their  labor.  "Stakes  are 


pulled  up,"  their  camp  is  abandoned,  and 
they  soon  reach  the  new  mining  settlement. 
Here  the  country  is  too  densely  populated 
for  them.  Three  or  four  hundred  people 
scattered  over  the  same  number  of  square 
miles  do  not  leave  sufficient  elbow-room. 
Our  typical  prospector  wants  unlimited  area 
at  his  command.  After  he  has  "made  a 
strike,"  then  may  come  who  will.  Beyond 
the  boundaries  of  the  present  district  there 
may  be  a  chance,  within  it  there  is  none ; 
and  so  they  plod  on,  after  replenishing  their 
modest  store  of  supplies.  Reaching  a  local- 
ity near  the  borders  of  an  Indian  Reserva- 
tion, the  appearance  of  pony  tracks  and  other 
"Indian  signs"  warn  them  to  proceed  no 
farther.  Systematically,  the  gulches  and 
mountain  slopes  are  prospected,  disappoint- 
ment succeeds  hope,  but  with  unwearying 
patience  they  continue  their  work.  For- 
tune at  last  smiles  upon  them.  They  dis- 
cover a  permanent  lode,  not  so  rich  as  the 
first,  but  easy  of  access.  Most  appropriate- 
ly they  name  it  the  "Last  Chance."  Mean- 
while, the  neighboring  camp  has  acquired  a 
reputation,  and  its  incipient  mines  have  be- 
come marketable.  Agents  of  eastern  capi- 
talists are  buying  up  mining  properties,  and 
wealth  abounds  in  the  camp.  Joe  and  his 
"  pard  "  succeed  in  selling  their  claim  for  a 
few  thousand  dollars,  retaining  a  quarter-in- 
terest. For  years  they  have  toiled,  and  the 
total  sum  obtained  would  spread  but  thinly 
over  the  many  days  of  arduous  labor  and 
privation ;  but  at  last  they  are  provided  for, 
and  we  will  leave  them  with  Joe's  parting 
injunction  to  Dutch: 

"Dutch,  old  pard,  take  care  of  your 
money;  make  it  last  out  the  winter,  and  next 
spring  we'll  start  for  another  trip." 

Never  at  rest  so  long  as  rheumatism 
and  other  effects  of  exposure  do  not  chain 
him  to  his  cabin,  the  prospector  can  find  no 
pleasure  in  a  quiet  life.  The  little  money 
he  may  gain  by  the  hardest  kind  of  labor 
and  by  personal  risk  he  freely  parts  with.  Any 
one  in  need,  any  one  calling  upon  his  sym- 
pathy, may  have  whatever  he  can  possibly 
spare.  If  prudent,  he  will  lay  aside  a  sum 
sufficiently  large  to  equip  him  for  the  next 


1883.] 


Just  a  Willful  Girl. 


131 


season;  if  not,  he  will  trust  to  luck  and  his 
credit  for  the  few  necessaries  he  requires. 

Year  after  year  he  is  exposed  to  the  in- 
clemency of  the  weather,  to  dangers  from 
Indian  hostility  or  treachery,  and  to  the  ac- 
cidents of  sickness  incident  to  the  life  he 
leads.  At  last  the  weary  frame  can  no  long- 
er maintain  itself,  the  machine  is  worn  out, 
and  before  his  time  the  prospector  lies  down 
to  die,  "unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung." 
If  he  have  a  partner  his  bones  will  find  a 
resting  place  within  the  soil  he  loved;  if  not, 
the  wolves  and  the  birds  of  the  air  will 
quarrel  over  all  that  is  left  of  an  active, 
hardy  man. 

The  people  of  this  land  owe  a  debt  of 
gratitude  to  the  intrepid  prospector  whose 


hatchet  blazes  the  first  trail  which  eventually 
becomes  the  highway  for  traffic  and  enter- 
prise. Though  as  a  citizen  he  may  have 
but  little  worth  when  confined  within  a  town, 
though  his  bank  account  may  correspond 
with  the  holes  in  his  garments,  yet  he  has  a 
mission  to  fulfill — one  upon  which  depends 
the  rapid  growth  of  national  industries  and 
wealth — and  he  uncomplainingly  fulfills  it. 
Rarely  does  he  reap  the  reward  of  his  priva- 
tions and  sufferings,  but  coming  generations 
will  recognize  the  faithfulness  of  his  services; 
they  will  give  honor  to  whom  honor  is  due, 
and  certainly  none  more  fully  merit  it  than 
these  pioneers  who  sacrifice  comfort,  home — 
aye,  their  lives — in  opening  a  roadway  for 
the  progress  of  culture  and  civilization. 

F.  M.  Endlich. 


JUST   A   WILLFUL  GIRL. 


"  IT  is  really  too  shabby  ;  I  ought  not  to 
wear  it,  had  I?  I  ought  not  to  go." 

"Dear,  you  look  so  pretty  and  so  dainty 
in  it,  what  can  one  say?  I'm  sorry,  but — " 

"O,  well,  if  you  like  it;  perhaps  it's  only 
that  I  have  worn  it  so  many  times ;  the  lace 
is  mended  in  ever  so  many  places;  it's 
really  such  an  old  friend,  Esther,  that  I  am 
tired  of  it,  and  must  get  a  new  one  some- 
where." 

"Tessy,  Tessy,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you 
talk  like  that,  not  even  in  jest."  The  pale, 
sweet  face  of  the  elder  sister  had  grown  paler 
still.  There  was  a  pained  look  in  the  soft 
eyes,  and  her  breath  came  quick.  "If  you 
want  a  new  dress  there  is  some  money,  some 
silver,  laid  away  in  the  box  there — but  we 
can  get  along — and  you  must  use  it." 

She  stopped;  it  seemed  that  the  crowd- 
ing tears  would  not  let  her  go  farther.  Her 
voice  gave  out. 

"Esther" — and  the  pretty  young  girl  took 
that  pale,  quivering  face  in  her  two  slim 
hands  —  "you  thought  I  was  in  earnest? 
You  thought  I  could  take  that  money  ?  You 
could  think  so  badly  as  that  of  me?  No,  I 
will  never  joke  again.  I  will  be  always  in 


dead  earnest.  I  have  noticed  before  now 
that  I  get  into  a  great  deal  of  trouble  be- 
cause of  my  foolish  habit  of  joking.  And 
now — now  kiss  me." 

Was  not  that  sad-faced,  gentle  lady,  with 
the  tears  not  yet  quite  vanished  from  her 
own  eyes,  proud  and  glad  to  touch  with  a 
soft  caress  the  round  cheek  turned  so  pretti- 
ly towards  her  ? 

"You  know  your  pretty  way  of  joking 
makes  one  of  my  greatest  pleasures,"  she 
said;  "and  I  am  a  foolish  old  woman  ;  but 
if  you  want  the  dress — " 

"Willst  du  mir  nicht  einen  kuss  geben?" 
called  a  clear  voice  from  the  open  window. 
Both  women  turned;  a  pleasant  face — blonde, 
with  a  blonde  beard,  and  pleasant  blue  eyes, 
smiling  from  under  thick  waves  of  curling 
fair  hair — was  peering  in  at  them. 

"O,  Joseph,  is  it  you?"  two  voices 
spoke  together.  This  smiling  apparition, 
Mr.  Joseph  Muller,  held  out  a  dewy  knot  of 
flowers ;  all  green  leaves,  white  buds,  and 
tiny  tendrils.  Their  exquisite  fragrance 
filled  the  room. 

"  It  is  my  contribution,"  he  said,  flushing 
behind  the  curtain  that  he  pushed  back  with 


132 


Just  a  Willful  Girl. 


[August, 


one  hand.  "  I  got  them  as  I  came  along,  at 
Floyd's." 

"  Ah,  ah !  how  beautiful !  how  can  we 
thank  you,  Joseph?  O,  why  was  I  not 
born  a  flower,  just  a  white  rose  like  this  ? 
Then  I  should  not  have  to  trouble  about  a 
new  dress.  Now,  Miss  Esther  Payne." 

The  blue  eyes  of  the  young  man  had  been 
from  the  first  fixed  on  this  slim,  fair  flower- 
bud  of  a  girl,  who  was  hovering  over  his  gift 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  The  eyes  flashed 
now  with  pleasure,  as  she  took  a  spray  of 
buds  from  the  bunch  and  turned  to  her  sis- 
ter. 

"  You  may  put  these  right  there,  if  you 
please — there,  in  that  bunch  of  curls  over 
my  forehead — so :  that  improves  the  mat- 
ter." 

"She  has  been  fretting  about  her  dress," 
explained  Miss  Payne  to  the  young  man  in 
the  window. 

"Her  dress?  Why,  what  is  the  matter 
with  it?"  he  asked,  opening  his  eyes  wide. 

"It  is  old,  and  it  is  old  fashioned,  and  it 
is  ugly,"  explained  Tessy,  with  emphasis. 

"Why,  I  was  just  thinking  how  pretty  it 
is,  and  I  wondered  if  you  had  made  it  new 
for  the  occasion,"  remarked  that  stupid 
young  man.  "  All  that  green  color  with  the 
white,  just  like  an  apple  leaf  and  a  bud;  I 
thought  you  must  be  a  flower-bud  yourself 
unfolding." 

Miss  Payne  smiled,  but  Therese  made  a 
dainty  face. 

"The  lace  is  mended  all  over;  but  then, 
it's  real  lace — real  Mechlin,"  she  observed, 
bewildering  her  masculine  admirer  with 
grave  technicalities. 

Happily,  he  only  saw  the  face,  the  brown 
hair  ruffling  on  the  forehead,  the  lovely  eyes 
that  laughed  at  him,  the  low,  sweet  voice 
that  patronized  him. 

"O  Blume,  weisse  Blume!"  he  repeated 
rapturously. 

"  Please  don't  talk  in  that  awkward  Ger- 
man," cried  out  Tessy,  pettishly.  "It  only 
makes  me  think  of  my  school-lessons,  and  I 
can't  understand  it,  either.  How  can  I  tell 
whether  you  are  laughing  at  me  or  paying 
me  a  compliment." 


The  young  man  laughed.  "O  Blume!" 
he  repeated — "O  flower!  I  was  paying  you 
a  compliment;  a  just  tribute." 

"And  the  other — when  you  first  came?" 

Joseph  blushed  and  fidgeted. 

"That — O,  that  was  just  nonsense ;  I 
must  ask  you  to  pardon  it,"  he  stammered. 

The  grave,  soft  eyes  of  Miss  Payne  looked 
at  him  as  if  they  would  say  she  had  no  fear 
he  would  say  there  to  them  aught  that  would 
be  displeasing.  She  glanced  at  his  dress,  and 
then  said  doubtfully: 

"  Were  you  going  to  the  Park — were  you 
on  your  way?" 

Joseph  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiling. 

"  I  shall  go  presently.  But  I  shall  wait 
till  the  brass  band  and  the  speech-making 
are  over.  I  don't  wish  to  be  deafened  and 
disgusted  at  the  same  time." 

Both  of  the  women  laughed  at  his  unmis- 
takable look  of  distaste.  Therese  nodded 
at  him  over  her  shoulder,  her  little  white 
straw  hat  with  its  blue-bells  and  snow-drops 
making  a  shadow  for  her  eyes  to  smile  out 
of  into  his. 

"  O,  querulous  musician !  I  wonder  that  a 
young  man  who  has  such  an  ear  for  discord 
can't  make  better  music  of  his  own,  especially 
when  he  is  the  owner  of,  besides  the  ear,  a 
genuine  Paganini  violin.  There,  I  have  got 
some  of  that  southernwood  on  me,  and  if 
they  smell  me  in  advance  they  will  think 
a  whole  village  Sunday-school  is  coming. 
Good  by,  good  by." 

The  two  young  people  went  away  in  op- 
posite paths,  and  Miss  Payne,  left  alone,  sat 
for  a  long  time  in  the  little  room  in  the  low- 
ering sunshine,  silent,  her  hands  folded  in 
her  lap.  She  was  silent,  but  not  quite  sad ; 
at  least,  her  smile  was  stronger  than  her 
tears,  and  held  its  place  on  her  placid  mouth. 
For  it  was  Tessy  she  was  thinking  of,  the 
pretty,  young,  brown-haired  maiden  between 
whom  and  utter  loneliness  and  helplessness 
in  a  hard  world  only  her  own  frail  life  stood. 
Nay:  her  own  frail  life  and — Joseph.  For 
Joseph  loved  the  charming,  home-sweet 
Tessy:  Esther  was  sure  of  that.  But  Tessy? 
Ah!  she  was  the  "weisse  Blume, "truly — the 
white  flower  about  which  the  swan  might 


1883.] 


Just  a  Willful  Girl. 


133 


circle  forever,  singing  its  plaintive  song  till  it 
should  die. 

"I  wish — O  I  wish" — and  Esther  clasped 
her  hands  together  with  nervous  force — "I 
wish  Tessy  could  love  him.  I  could  die 
happy  then." 

The  large  tears  rose  and  fell. 

"Surely,  a  girl's  heart  is  not  so  hard  to 
win — if  one  knows  the  way." 

And  the  trouble  was,  that  Joseph  did  not 
"know  the  way."  He  was  good,  he  was 
gentle  and  kind;  he  would  flush  and  stam- 
mer when  the  merry  little  maid  asked  him 
but  to  do  something  for  her;  then  he  would 
rush  and  stumble  over  his  own  feet  a  dozen 
times  in  the  effort  to  obey  her — and  Tessy 
would  laugh  at  him. 

"'Willst  du  mir  nicht  einen  kuss  geben?' 
I  think,"  said  Esther  to  herself — "  I  think 
if  Joseph  would  say  that  to  her  some  day 
in  earnest,  and  claim  the  kiss  and  take  it  as 
his  right,  he  might  win  my  little  Therese." 

But  just  here  the  trouble  was.  Joseph 
was  afraid.  His  great  love  for  the  pure 
young  girl,  the  "white  flower"  of  his  song, 
made  him  a  coward;  but  it  was  a  noble 
cowardice,  and  might  go  far  to  help  him 
some  day  to  high,  heroic  deeds. 

It  was  late  when  Tessy  returned.  Miss 
Payne  had  been  sitting  gloomily  alone  in 
the  room  where  shaded  lamplight  and  flood- 
ing moonlight,  pouring  through  open  window 
and  door,  made  the  place  a  bower  of  golden 
dusk. 

Tossing  aside  her  hat  and  little  white 
shawl,  Tessy  flung  herself  on  the  floor  at  her 
sister's  feet.  Esther  placed  a  loving  hand 
on  the  soft,  brown,  curling  love-locks  veiling 
that  bright  head. 

"Did  you  have  a  happy  day,  my  Tessy?" 

"O,  yes,"  was  the  answer,  given  with  mag- 
nificent indifference. 

"And — and  was  Joseph  there?" 

"Josef — you  mean  old  Josef,  the  band- 
master— of  course  he  was  there.  How  could 
there  be  a  brass  band  without  old  Josef  to 
lead  it?"  replied  again  Miss  Tessy. 

Miss  Esther  Payne  touched  with  a  finger 
of  gentle  reproof  the  naughty  lips  of  this 
naughty  speaker. 


"  Did  you  think  I  should  inquire  after  such 
a  person  as  that?" 

"  O,  then  you  meant  our  friend  Joseph — 
the  one  who  makes  quotations  in  German  to 
show  that  he  is  learned.  Yes,  certainly,  he 
was  there;  but  I  did  not  see  very  much  of 
him." 

"  But  why?"  And  now  Miss  Payne's  face 
grew  grave,  her  voice  fell.  "But  why,  my 
Tessy  ?  Surely—" 

"  O,  I  don't  know."  Tessy  stretched  up 
two  slender  white  hands,  clasping  them  in- 
dolently above  her  head.  "You  see,  Esther, 
when  he  first  made  his  appearance  on  the 
scene  we  had  left  the  grounds.  Most  of 
us  girls  were  in  the  big  pavilion  getting  our 
tea  at  the  tables.  And  that  horrid  Nelly 
Marchmont  was  there,  and  Joseph  stopped 
at  her  table,  and  stayed  there  a  long  time." 

"Well,  what  then?"  Tessy  had  paused 
in  her  recital,  and  was  lying  half  kneeling, 
her  soft  flushed  cheek  resting  on  her  sis- 
ter's arm.  She  smiled  a  little  gravely  when 
Esther  spoke. 

"What  then?  O,  nothing  but  this:  first, 
I  suppose  I  should  not  have  minded  it,  but 
I  got  a  hateful  fancy  that  it  was  only  be- 
cause of  her  dress  that  he  lingered  by  her ; 
that  he  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me." 

"Tessy!" 

"O,  I  know  it  was  mean  of  me;  but  she 
was  dressed  beautifully.  She  is  dark,  you 
know — dark;  and  she  was  all  in  black  tissue, 
with  broad  bands  of  gold  on  her  arms  and 
waist  and  in  her  hair.  It  was  very  becom- 
ing to  her,  and  I  suppose  Joseph  paid  her 
compliments  in  German." 

'"Child" — and  Miss  Payne  pinched  with  a 
smile  the  little  pearl-pink  ear. 

"Well,  at  all  events,  he  couldn't  call  her 
his  'weisse  Blume' — his  white  flower — could 
he?"  quoth  Miss  Therese,  triumphantly. 
She  sat  up  and  rested  her  chin  on  her  arm 
to  begin  again. 

"And  so  when  he  at  last  began  to  make 
his  way  across — meaning  to  speak  to  me — I 
was  engaged  to  dance  with  Henry  Wistar. 
I  really  hadn't  time  to  waste  on  Joseph. 
They — the  other  Josef  was  playing  my  favor- 
ite music," 


134 


Just  a  Willful  Girl 


[August, 


The  witch  stopped  and  began  to  hum  one 
of  Gounod's  delicious  airs. 

"And  I  really  didn't  see  him." 

"O,  Tessy!  how  could  you  do  so? — and 
Joseph  is  so  kind."  There  were  tears  ready 
to  break  through  the  tremble  of  Esther's 
pained  voice. 

"  Kind !"  broke  in  Miss  Tessy,  indignantly. 
"I  don't  know  what  your  ideas  are;  but  I 
call  it  far  from  kind  in  him  to  snub  me  so. 
And  after  all,  I  don't  think  he  would  have 
minded  it  so  much — so  very  much — but  a 
slight  shower  came  up  while  we  were  danc- 
ing, and  we  all  rushed  back  to  the  pavilion." 

Here  Miss  Tessy  paused  again.  A  dim- 
pling smile  stole  into  her  round  rose  cheek. 

"  There  was  a  little  spot  of  marshy  ground 
in  the  path,  and  the  rain  had  made  it  worse. 
So  when  we  came  to  that — you  see  I  had  on 
my  light  shoes  —  Henry  threw  down  his 
coat,  and  nothing  to  do  but  I  must  walk 
over  it.  And  when  I  looked  up,  just  as 
we  entered  the  pavilion,  what  an  expression 
there  was  on  Joseph's  face !  I  do  believe  he 
was  swearing  to  himself — in  German." 

Esther  was  silent,  with  a  pained  fear  at 
her  heart.  What  could  she  say?  How  could 
she  chide  this  beautiful  young  creature,  who 
was  so  dear,  so  winsome,  so  worthy  of  love — 
of  a  good  man's  best  love?  How  could  she 
help  and  not  hurt  ? 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Theresa,  authorita- 
tively, growing  tired  of  the  silence. 

"My  dear,"  said  Esther,  timidly,  "don't 
you  think,  with  me,  that  Mr.  Wistar's  atten- 
tion was  a  little  out  of  place;  that  it  was — 
conspicuous?" 

Miss  Tessy  vouchsafed  no  reply  to  this. 

"Don't  you  think,  dear,  you  might  have 
reached  the  pavilion  safely,  as  the  others  did, 
simply  by  walking  on  the  bare  ground?" 

"I  am  tired  and  sleepy;  I  must  go  to 
bed,"  said  Tessy,  suddenly  getting  up. 

Then  she  glanced  at  Esther's  face. 

"Smile!"  she  commanded.  "Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  say  good  night  to  such 
eyes  as  those  ?  Smile — at  once !" 

The  grieved  look  melted  swiftly  into  tears. 
With  loving  arms  twined  around  each  other's 
neck,  the  two  sisters  cried  silently.  But 


their  good-night  kiss  was  the  sweeter  for 
those  tears. 

In  the  quiet  days  that  followed — perhaps 
because  they  were  living  nearer  together, 
more  in  sympathy  with  each  other — these 
two  sisters  noticed,  Esther  that  Tessy  was 
more  than  usually  silent,  that  under  her 
joyous  laugh  shone  the  glimmer  of  crowding 
tears ;  but  Tessy  that  Esther  grew  more 
thin  and  wan,  that  her  strength  seemed  to  be 
consumed  as  by  some  eating  fire. 

One  evening,  Esther,  in  her  chair,  drew 
Tessy  to  her.  The  young  girl  came  and 
knelt  by  her  side  in  the  old  familiar  way, 
the  pretty  bronze-brown  love-locks  ruffling 
over  her  lap,  the  white  arms  softly  upthrown. 

"Dear,"  said  the  elder  sister  in  a  low 
voice,  "you  never  sing  forme  now." 

"No,"  answered  Tessy,  slowly.  "It  must 
be — I  don't  know  why — unless — I  don't 
think  of  it." 

"You  did  not  once  wait  to  think  of  it, 
Tessy.  You  sang  because  you  must." 

"Yes,  that  does  make  a  difference,  to  feel 
the  music  in  one.  When  a  bird  is  being 
cooked  and  eaten  I  suppose  it  does  not  feel 
like  singing." 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  child?" 

"Mean?  Nothing:  I  never  mean  any- 
thing; that  is  why  I  get  into  so  much 
trouble." 

The  girl  spoke  in  a  mocking  way,  but  a 
moment  after  she  began  more  seriously: 

"Do  you  know,  Esther,  I  was  reading  this 
morning  the  old  story  of  the  knightly  lov- 
er who  had  a  beautiful  bird  that  his  lady 
coveted.  He  was  very  poor,  but  he  would 
not  sell  his  bird.  But  one  day  the  princess 
sent  a  message  that  she  was  coming  to  dine 
with  him,  and  as  he  had  nothing  in  his  lar- 
der fit  for  so  dainty  a  lady,  he  bade  his 
cook  kill  the  bird  and  serve  it." 

Here  Tessy  paused  a  moment,  for  a  sound 
as  of  tears  was  in  her  voice.  She  put  her 
hand  over  her  eyes. 

"It  is  such  a  tender  story,  Esther,  I  can't' 
tell  it  as  it  ought  to  be  told ;  but  the  young 
knight  must  have  sat  and  looked  at  her — 
can't  you  fancy  it? — while  she  sat  at  his  table 
and  ate  his  frugal  dinner — and  then — she 


1883.] 


Just  a  Willful  Girl. 


135 


said  she  would  love  him — be  his  own  true 
princess — if  he  would  give  her  his  bird." 

"Well,"  said  Esther,  smiling,  "the  prin- 
cess did  get  the  bird  in  one  way  if  not  in 
another.  And  I  wonder  if  the  young  knight 
quite  loved  her  when  he  saw  her  eating 
it!" 

"O,  you  hard-hearted  woman!"  cried 
Tessy.  "But  I  thought  of  that,  too." 

Then  rising  with  a  quick  change  of  man- 
ner, she  said:  "I  wonder  if  Joseph  would 
contribute  his  beloved  violin  to  make  a  fire 
for  me  if  I  were  freezing." 

Esther  began  to  understand. 

The  next  day  Miss  Payne  was  not  so  well. 
She  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  little  parlor, 
when  Tessy  came  and  knelt  by  her,  and 
took  her  two  hands.  The  girl  had  a  strange, 
sad  feeling,  as  if  she  were  lost  in  a  wood, 
with  no  one  to  show  her  the  way  out. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  for  you,"  she 
sobbed.  "You  are  getting  worse,  Esther; 
what  is  it?  Shall  I  send  for  some  one? 
O,  why  does  not  Joseph —  '  , 

She  stopped  suddenly,  but  Esther  heard, 
and  the  next  day  a  message  found  its  way 
to  that  young  man,  who  answered  in  per- 
son. 

He  walked  straight  up  to  Esther's  chair 
when  he  came  in. 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  ill,"  he  said; 
and  oh,  the  sense  of  comfort,  of  rest,  that  the 
invalid  felt  when  she  heard  his  voice — when 
she  looked  into  his  clear  eyes  !  "Is  it  any- 
thing serious?  I  am  so  sorry." 

Esther  smiled  gently ;  but  he  grew  grave 
with  a  startled  fear  when  he  saw  the  change 
in  her. 

"It  is  not  painful — only  a  little  trouble- 
some; and  I  should  not  mind  it  so  much, 
but  Tessy  frets  over  me." 

Joseph  looked  for  the  first  time  at  Tessy, 
who  was  sitting  apart  by  the  window.  She 
barely  glanced  up  as  he  spoke,  but  there 
was  a  bright  red  flush  in  her  cheek.  And 
her  eyes — how  soft  and  appealing  they  were 
as  they  looked  at  him  so  briefly !  Perhaps 
he  had  been  unnecessarily  harsh  with  her; 
she  was  so  young — just  a  slip  of  a  girl,  a 
white  flower  unfolding. 


Presently  Tessy  slipped  from  the  room. 

"Come  closer,  Joseph,"  began  Miss  Payne, 
nervously  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands; 
"I  have  but  a  moment,  and  I  wished  to  say 
to  you — perhaps  I  am  meddling — I  am  sick 
and  have  many  fancies — but,  Joseph,  if  I  were 
a  young  man,  loving  a  shy,  half-frightened 
girl,  I  should  say  to  myself — I  should  al- 
ways say  to  myself  this  truth:  'A  faint  heart 
never  won  fair  lady.'" 

Joseph  looked  at  her;  his  face  turned  red 
and  then  white,  and  then  he  burst  out  into 
a  curious,  hysterical  laugh. 

"God  bless  you,  Miss  Payne.  I  believe 
you  are  the  best  woman  in  the  world,"  he 
said  earnestly.  He  kissed  her  hand;  how 
cold  it  was !  how  wan  and  sad  and  tired  she 
looked !  but — not  a  meddler :  no. 

When  Joseph  took  his  leave,  as  he  walked 
along  the  hall  he  heard  behind  a  door  half 
open  the  notes  of  a  piano  and  a  low  voice 
singing — Tessy's  voice.  Joseph  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  plucking  up  courage,  re- 
peating to  himself  with  a  queer  little  smile 
the  words,  "faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady," 
he  pushed  the  door  open  and  went  in. 

Tessy  was  there  alone,  playing  and  singing 
softly  to  herself.  She  jumped  up  when  she 
saw  who  her  visitor  was. 

"Stay,"  he  said  quickly;  "I  did  not  come 
to  disturb  you;  I  came  to  listen." 

Tessy  stopped  and  stood  silent,  with  bent 
face. 

"Won't  you  sing  me  one  song?"  he 
pleaded. 

But  Tessy  turned  away,  and  began  to 
gather  up  her  scattered  music-sheets. 

"I  can't  sing  in  German,"  she  answered 
coldly.  "My  songs  are  all  simple  ones. 
They  are  only  English  songs,  not  worth  lis- 
tening to." 

He  looked  at  her,  hesitated  once  more 
for  the  last  time,  then  took  a  step  forward. 

"Why  do  you  treat  me  in  this  cold  way, 
Tessy?"  he  burst  out.  "  Have  I  offended 
you  in  any  way?  What  have  I  done?" 

"You?   No;  it  is  nothing,  only — only — " 

And  then  it  was  all  over,  and  Tessy  was 
sobbing  her  grief  and  joy  and  resentment  all 
out  together  on  Joseph's  shoulder. 


136                                           Vaquero  to  His  Horse.                                 [August, 

He  drew  her  thus  close  for  a  little  space,  we  tell  Esther  now?"     Then  he  looked  at 

and  then  he  held  her  out  at  arm's  length  her  more  closely, 

away  from  him.  "And  you  have  got  on  the  beloved  white 

"Willst  du  mir  nicht  einen  kuss  geben?"  dress.     You  must  always  wear  it,  O  weisse 

he  said,  laughing;  and  then  Tessy  lifted  a  Blume." 

flower-fair  face  and  Joseph  took  his  kiss.  Tessy  laughed.     "  Come  to  Esther  now," 

"Liebchen,"  he  whispered  tenderly;  and  she  said. 

oh,  the  beauty  of  that  old  sweet  German  But  alas !     Esther  was  asleep, 

word  as  Joseph  spoke  it!     "Liebchen,  shall  Asleep,  and  her  darling  was  safe. 

Millie  W.  Carpenter. 


VAQUERO  TO   HIS   HORSE. 

COME,  the  day  is  breaking,  Jim; 

Saffron  fading  green  and  gray; 
From  the  depths  of  canons  dim 

Comes  the  deer-hound's  early  bay. 
Print  the  turf  with  fairy  bound, 

Light  of  foot  and  swift  of  limb; 
Flying  deer  nor  following  hound 

Can  o'ertake  you,  Jim. 

Purple  skies  the  new  day  bind; 

Brooks  creep  low  through  purple  shade; 
Peaks  approach  and  fall  behind; 

Rivers  near  and  splash  and  fade. 
Mountains  know  no  craggy  steep, 

Rivers  hold  no  current  grim, 
Treacherous  sand,  nor  darksome  deep, 

That  can  balk  you,  Jim. 

On  the  hills  the  cattle  wake, 

Sweet  their  low  upon  the  morn; 
Sweet  the  manzanitas  shake 

Faintest  fragrance  to  the  dawn. 
Than  the  warbling  birds  more  sweet, 

Waking  on  each  sun-tipped  limb, 
Is  the  beating  of  your  feet 

On  the  trail-way,  Jim. 

Onward  till  the  night  shall  fall 

Cool  and  tender  o'er  the  land; 
Passion-flowers  drape  her  wall, 

And  the  porch  where  she  will  stand 
Praying  through  night's  flashing  roofs 

For  the  moon's  uprolling  rim, 
For  the  music  of  your  hoofs, 

And  our  coming,  Jim. 

Virginia  Peyton. 


1883.] 


An  Episode  of  Old  Mcndocino. 


137 


PIONEER   SKETCHES.— II.     AN   EPISODE   OF   OLD   MENDOCINO. 


ON  the  margin  of  a  small  stream  in  the 
old  home  of  the  Wylackies  beyond  the  North 
Eel,  some  thirty  miles  from  Camp  Wright  in 
northern  California,  stands  a  little  log  cabin 
nestling  under  the  sheltering  branches  of  a 
grove  of  oak-trees.  It  is  as  difficult  of  ac- 
cess as  it  is  unpretending  in  appearance,  for 
the  tortuous  mountain  trail  leading  to  it  is 
narrow  and  steep.  The  country  even  now 
is  but  little  known  or  traveled,  except  by 
some  stray  sheep-herder  or  hunter  who  ad- 
ventures himself  therein  to  gather  together 
portions  of  a  scattered  flock  or  in  search  of 
game  driven  to  it  as  a  last  resort.  The  sur- 
face is  cut  up  at  all  angles  by  deep,  narrow 
ravines  and  gulches,  or  short  canons,  running 
in  and  out  in  all  directions,  with  sides  ragged 
and  scraggy,  often  almost  perpendicular,  and 
covered  in  parts  with  nearly  impenetrable 
chemisal  and  thick  clumps  of  manzanita, 
verde,  or  grease-wood,  growing  here  and 
there  among  gray  moss-covered  bowlders — 
enfants  perdus  in  the  wake  of-ancient  glaciers 
— with  small  groves  of  scrub-oaks  and  ma- 
drones  among  them. 

The  army  trail  to  Camp  Gaston — a  de- 
ceiving soupfon  of  a  right  track  leading  to 
port  amid  thousands  of  sheep  trails  leading 
to  perdition,  each  and  every  one  better 
beaten  than  it — passes  not  very  far  from  the 
cabin ;  and  it  frequently  happens  that  army 
officers  take  their  way  by  it  across  the  moun- 
tains toward  distant  Hoopa,  sensibly  prefer- 
ring romantic  scenery  from  a  mule's-back 
observatory,  with  nights  a  la  belle  'etoile,  to 
sea-sickness  and  unwilling  round  dances  on 
the  Pelican,  with  the  sad  sea  waves  of  the 
lamb-like  Humboldt  bar  as  accompaniments. 
Should  one  of  these,  weary  and  travel-worn, 
come  upon  the  cabin  in  an  inadvertent  di- 
vergence, his  trouble  in  reaching  it  will  be 
more  than  repaid  in  the  pleasure  his  com- 
ing will  give  to  the  inmates  of  the  little 
mountain  home  and  in  the  true  hospitality 
that  he  will  receive  from  them. 


The  joyous  shouts  of  dusky  little  children 
gamboling  under  the  oaks  or  on  the  banks 
of  the  little  streamlet,  with  the  murmuring 
water-falls  over  moss-covered  rocks  over- 
hung with  drooping  ferns,  will  herald  his 
approach,  and  he  will  be  met  at  the  door — 
framed  in  morning-glories  festooning  with 
an  interlaced  wild  grape-vine — with  glad 
smiles  and  extended  hands,  by  a  tall,  slender 
woman,  in  whose  sweet,  nut-brown  face — de- 
spite its  full  Indian  characteristics — the  traces 
of  great  beauty  still  linger,  though  the  once 
coal-black  hair  is  already  thickly  streaked 
with  gray.  The  longer  the  hungry  subaltern, 
bewildered  in  scouting,  or  his  no  less  lost 
senior  on  his  way  to  investigate  some  mil- 
itary dereliction  on  the  Trinity,  tarries  be- 
neath the  humble  roof,  the  more  the  simple 
hearts  it  shelters  will  be  pleased.  The  chil- 
dren will  gather  without  fear  at  his  knee 
and  look  up  lovingly  in  his  face,  as  if  in  an 
old  friend's ;  for  Um-wa,  the  gentle  mother, 
has  taught  them  to  love  the  blue-clad  soldier 
for  the  sake  of  the  one  who  helped  her  in  her 
need.  For  Um-wa,  the  fast-fading  woman, 
the  daughter  of  one  of  .the  last  head  chiefs 
of  the  ancient  Nome-cults,  who  were  the  ter- 
ror of  Mendocino  County  before  the  whites 
came,  has  a  history;  and  the  homely  shelter 
in  the  little  nook  at  the  foot  of  the  snow- 
capped mountains  is  a  haven  of  rest. 

In  early  days — comparatively  speaking, 
and  viewed  from  a  Californian  standpoint 
— she  had  been  foremost  among  the  maidens 
of  her  people — now  gone  forever — in  the 
beauty  and  grace  of  her  savage  nature :  the 
brown  rose  of  the  Yollo-Bolles,  or  Snow- 
peaks.  But  she  was  not  a  flower  without 
perfume:  the  perfume  of  the  mountain  wild 
flower  was  equaled  by  the  virtue  of  its 
beauty,  blooming  unseen  and  unknown ;  for, 
despite  Nordhoff  s  verdict  on  the  Northern 
California  Indians,  they  had  then,  as  now, 
pure  women  among  them.  Until  her  seven- 
teenth birthday,  tallied  by  each  succeeding 


138 


An  Episode  of  Old  Mendocino. 


[August, 


snow  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Wirt,  the  needle- 
like  king  of  the  West  Yollo-Bolles,  she  had 
never  seen  a  white  man,  although  that  part 
of  northern  California,  from  the  bay  of 
San  Pablo  to  the  head-waters  of  the  Russian 
and  Eel  rivers  and  the  estuaries  of  the  coast, 
was  already  becoming  rapidly  settled  by 
them ;  for  the  Wylackies  were,  unlike  the 
neighboring  Indians,  a  warlike,  predatory 
tribe — whence  their  old  appellation  among 
the  others  from  the  Sacramento  Valley  to 
the  sea,  and  from  the  Bay  to  the  Oregon 
line,  of  "  Nome-cults,"  or  nation  of  warriors 
or  fighting  men ;  and  the  few  white  settlers 
in  Round  Valley — the  Indian  Ome-haut — 
some  thirty  miles  to  the  south,  had  enough  to 
do  to  secure  their  foothold  in  the  territory  of 
the  Yukas  without  adventuring  themselves 
in  the  Wylackie  country. 

"Old  Tom  Henley,"  the  then  superin- 
tendent of  Indian  affairs  for  the  State,  had 
located  an  Indian  farm — the  old  Nome-cult 
— in  the  valley  as  a  dependency  or  branch 
of  the  Nome-Lackee  Indian  Reservation  in 
the  foothills  of  the  Sacramento  Valley,  in 
Tehama  County;  and  an  attempt,  which  had 
partially  succeeded,  was  being  made  to  gath- 
er thereon,  as  a  well-cloaked  land-grab,  all 
the  Indians  in  the  vicinity.  The  Wylackies, 
however,  kept  aloof,  and  so  far,  part  of  the 
Yukas  only,  together  with  a  few  Nevadas 
brought  from  that  territory  by  a  man  named 
Storms  to  act  as  a  nucleus  for  the  new  es- 
tablishment, had  accepted  the  title  of  "  un- 
fortunate wards  of  the  nation,"  with  hard 
work  and  bad  treatment  as  emoluments,  and 
death  by  slow  starvation  or  speedy  bullets 
in  prospective.  A  settlement,  consisting  of 
a  solitary  log  shanty  on  the  margin  of  a 
small  stream,  with  a  ruffian  as  occupant 
and  an  unlimited  supply  of  ammunition  as 
provisions,  had  been  made  in  We-to-com, 
some  twenty  miles  farther  south,  as  an 
accessory  to  the  land-grab  in  Round  Valley, 
which,  under  the  soothing  name  of  Eden, 
was  prospering  rapidly,  as  far  as  killing  the 
Yukas  in  the  neighborhood  was  concerned; 
and  civilization  was  advancing  fast  toward  the 
sunny,  wildcats-covered  slopes  of  the  home 
of  the  Wylackies  beyond  the  North  Eel. 


As  time  went  on,  the  settlers  followed  one 
another  to  their  new-found  home  in  an  al- 
most inaccessible  wilderness,  and  clustered 
their  land  claims  around  and  about  the  Indian 
Reservation,  very  much  to  the  disgust  of  the 
originators  of  the  scheme,  in  whose  calcu- 
lations the  pre-emption  of  other  squatter 
titles  interfering  with  theirs  did  not  enter. 
With  them  came  others,  known,  in  the  expres- 
sive vernacular  of  the  country  and  of  the 
times,  as  "floaters" — men  without  fixed  occu- 
pation or  abodes,  here  to-day  and  somewhere 
else  to-morrow.  They  came  some  as  hunt- 
ers, others  as  stock-herders,  and,  having  no 
interests  at  stake,  the  life  which  they  carried 
in  their  hands  excepted,  were  not  over- 
scrupulous -in  their  intercourse  with  the 
Indians  among  whom  they  were  living  for 
the  time  being. 

An  outrage  here  and  there  by  these  men 
upon  the  so  far  unoffending  aborigines  soon 
fomented  an  animosity  between  the  two 
races,  with  an  aggressive  progression,  culmi- 
nating at  last  in  a  process  of  extermination  on 
the  part  of  the  whites,  with  an  ineffectual 
attempt  at  resistance  and  retaliation  every 
once  in  a  while  on  the  part  of  the  Indian. 
This  soon  necessitated  the  presence  of  United 
States  troops  to  preserve  peace  and  order 
between  the  conflicting  parties  and  to  pro- 
tect the  Indians  from  the  whites  as  much  as 
the  whites  from  the  Indians,  although  the 
urgent  call  for  aid  was  made  by  those  who 
needed  it  least  of  all — the  settlers. 

But  the  protection  conferred  upon  the 
natives  by  the  apparatus  belli  of  the  general 
commonwealth — consisting  in  this  instance 
of  a  small  detachment  from  the  Sixth  Infan- 
try— extended  only  within  the  narrow  bounds 
of  the  Indian,  Reservation ;  and  even  there 
it  was  but  nominal,  owing  to  the  conflicting 
interests,  or  rather  prerogatives,  of  the  civil, 
military,  and  interior  branches  of  the  body 
politic.  Between  the  three,  with  the  settlers 
as  an  auxiliary  force,  something  like  Bliicher 
outflanking  Grouchy  at  Waterloo,  the  poor 
Indians  were  fast  becoming  introduced  to 
civilization  by  what  seemed  then,  if  not  now, 
the  only  avenue  open  to  savages — extermi- 
nation. As  if  to  complicate  matters,  or  rath- 


1883.] 


An  Episode  of  Old  Mendocino. 


139 


er  expedite  the  process,  the  Executive  of 
California,  acting  in  conformity  with  certain 
representations  made  by  part  of  the  settlers 
— who,  it  appears,  thought  that  cold  lead, 
disease,  and  starvation  were  not  sufficient 
without  an  organized  final  effort — had  grant- 
ed authority  to  raise  a  certain  number  of 
volunteers;  and  under  these  joint  auspices 
the  work  was  bravely  approaching  completion 
with  logical  precision. 

Numbered  among  the  whites  at  this  junc- 
ture, and  occupying  a  status  between  the 
"  floater"  and  the  respectable  settler,  was  a 
man  named  Bland,  a  wild  dare-devil  of  that 
class  described  by  a  well-known  writer  as 
belonging  to  the  genus  emigrantes,  species 
remigrantes.  He  was  characterized  in  the 
official  reports  of  the  army  officers  of  the 
State  as  a  lawless  ruffian ;  he  had,  however 
(according  to  a  few  remaining  settlers  who 
knew  him,  and  who  say  that,  like  his  great 
prototype,  he  was  not  as  black  as  he  is 
painted),  many  good  traits,  which  in  less  wild 
surroundings  might  have  altogether  redeemed 
his  character.  Brave  to  temerity,  he  went  in 
and  out,  singly  and  at  pleasure,  among  the 
Indians,  not  only  in  the  valley,  but  also  in 
the  fastnesses  of  the  surrounding  mountains  ; 
although  they  swarmed  in  those  days  with 
wandering  bands  of  natives,  whose  amity 
toward  the  whites  was,  to  say  the  least,  in 
the  absence  of  any  overt  acts,  questionable. 
He  had  more  than  once  ventured  alone  with 
nothing  but  his  trusty  old  rifle  and  per- 
haps a  revolver  or  two  on  each  side  of  his 
buckskin  overalls,  with  a  bowie-knife  for  an 
emergency,  into  the  very  midst  of  the  more 
than  half-hostile  Wylackies.  Among  them, 
as  well  as  among  all  the  others,  he  had  estab- 
lished for  himself  a  reputation  of  reckless 
daring,  if  nbt  merciless  cruelty. 

A  story  is  told  of  him  in  illustration  of  his 
utter  fearlessness  toward  Indians,  as  well  as  of 
the  good  humor  and  reckless  jollity  that  his 
apologists  dwell  on.  One  day  while  hunting 
with  a  younger  companion  in  the  mountains 
— on  the  very  one,  in  fact,  that  now  bears 
his  name  and  embalms  it  in  undeserved  im- 
mortality— they  perceived  some  forty  Yukas 
coming  toward  them  on  a  narrow  trail  wend- 


ing along  a  declivity  on  the  side  of  a  pre- 
cipitous descent.  They  walked  one  behind 
the  other  in  single  file,  from  habit,  as  well  as 
from  the  nature  of  the  ground.  They  were 
out  hunting  also,  or  on  some  other  expedition 
of  greater  or  lesser  import.  Bland  thought  the 
occasion  good  to  demonstrate  for  his  young 
friend's  admiration  how  easily  he  could 
manage  Indians,  and  how  utterly  sans  peur 
if  not  sans  reproche  he  was  besides.  Uriper- 
ceived  by  them,  the  white  men  placed  them- 
selves in  hiding  behind  a  thick,  obligingly 
convenient  evergreen,  and  as  the  foremost 
of  the  unsuspicious  Indians  came  on  his 
way  toward  them  and  neared  the  green 
screen,  the  sharp  click  of  the  hammers,  as 
the  whites  cocked  their  rifles  and  brought 
them  to  bear,  struck  upon  his  ear,  and  look- 
ing up,  the  startled  red-skin  found  himself 
covered  at  point-blank  range,  without  the 
slightest  prospect  of  a  favorable  trajectory, 
and  unable  to  move  for  fear  of  being  stopped 
by  an  unerring  bullet. 

Bland,  with  a  demoniacal  scowl  upon  his 
by  no  means  handsome  face,  ordered  him  to 
advance  singly,  throw  his  bow  and  arrows 
down  on  the  ground  near  the  trail,  and  to 
go  and  squat  down  at  some  distance,  with 
eyes  to  the  front  and  at  attention;  the  next 
was  peremptorily  ordered  to  go  through  the 
same  manual  without  unnecessary  delay,  and 
so  on  to  the  last  of  the  file,  until  all  the  bows 
and  arrows  were  piled  up  high  in  one  spot, 
and  all  the  Indians  sitting  down  in  a  row  in 
another,  with  their  mouths  wide  open  in  great 
astonishment,  and  in  fear,  too,  for  they  knew 
the  man  they  had  to  deal  with. 

Leaning  upon  his  rifle,  Bland  gravely  took 
off  his  faded  old  beaver,  saluted  them  col- 
lectively with  great  impartiality,  and  after  a 
few  preliminary  "hems"  to  clear  his  throat, 
began  to  expatiate  at  length  upon  the  prowess 
of  the  whites,  their  desire  to  get  along  well 
with  the  Indians  and  to  kill  as  few  of  them 
as  possible,  and  upon  the  beauties  and  bless- 
ings of  friendship  and  good-fellowship  in 
general  as  well  as  in  particular.  It  is  pre- 
sumable, as  coming  within  the  scope  of 
probabilities,  that  his  sermon  was  seasoned 
pretty  often  with  expressions  and  sentiments 


140 


An  Episode  of  Old  Mendocino. 


[August, 


not  quite  orthodox,  and  perhaps  irrelevant 
to  the  subject-matter;  but  be  that  fact  as  it 
may,  it  is  certain  that  never  did  expounder, 
sacred   or   profane,  have  a   more  attentive 
or  submissive  audience — the   Indians  were 
afraid  to  wink.    More  than  this,  his  compan- 
ion, from  whose  Blandial  reminiscences  we 
have  garnered  this  episode  of  the  Missourian 
wolf  in  lamb's  wool,  is  of  opinion  that  had 
the  congregation  been  well  enough  supplied 
with  money,  and  had  the  faded  old  beaver  of 
the  pro  tempore  preacher  been  passed  around 
for  missionary  purposes,  he  would  have  ac- 
quired a  competence  for  life;  for  his  audi- 
ence, by  this  time  half  cramped  to  death, 
would  have  then  and  there  robbed  Peter  to 
pay  Paul.     For  two  long  hours,  from  firstly 
to  sixteenthly,  they  stared  at  him,  listening 
with  unwilling  ears  but   wide-open  eyes  to 
his  well-rounded,  high-sounding  periods  ex- 
pressed half  in  upper-Missouri  English  and 
half  in  one  or  two  Indian  and  nondescript 
dialects  that  none  but  a  Missourian  from  Pike 
could  have  wholly  understood;  until,  when 
his  throat  became  so  dry  that  he  could  keep 
on  no  longer,  he  condensed  the  essence  of 
his  peroration  in  a  burst  of  eloquence  and 
grandiloquent   flourish,  which    might   have 
been  in  modern  Latin  or  sacred  Sanscrit  for 
all  they  knew  to  the  contrary.     Then,  with 
a  partonizing  wave  of  the  hand,  he  dismissed 
the  compulsory  congregation  with  an  attempt 
at  a  mock  blessing.    The  first  proselyte  was 
ordered   to  rise — which   he   did  something 
after  the  fashion  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  after 
his  twenty  years'  sleep — take  his  bow  and 
arrows  from  the  pile,  and  go  on  his  way  re- 
joicing in  the  good  words  he  had  heard,  with 
a  parting  admonition  not  to  forget  them  in  a 
hurry,  for  the  precepts  would  fructify.    Then 
another  and  another  were  bidden  to  do  like- 
wise, until  the  two  white  men  only  remained 
in  the  so  quickly  improvised  open-air  lec- 
ture-room. 

Bland  remained  standing,  watching  silent- 
ly until  the  last  one  had  disappeared  beyond 
the  brow  of  the  nearest  acclivity — which 
they  lost  no  time  in  doing — and  then  threw 
himself  at  full  length  upon  the  ground  with 
a  long,  joyous  laugh,  so  full  of  fun  and  so 


irresistibly  catching  in  its  nature,  that  his 
friend  forgot  for  the  time  being  his  anxiety 
as  to  what  ultimate  designs  the  Indians  may 
have  had  on  the  ground  of  so  one-sided  a 
practical  joke,  and  could  not  but  join  in. 
When  Bland  rose  from  the  ground,  however, 
his  face  assumed  a  grave  expression,  and 
turning  to  his  still  laughing  friend,  he  said 
slowly  and  earnestly : 

"Well,  Charley,  it  is  all  very  well  to  laugh, 
but  I  doubt  very  much  if  those  red-skins 
ever  got  such  good  advice  before,  and  for 
nothing ;  and  I  begin  to  think  that  I  have 
mistaken  my  vocation,  for  nature  never  in- 
tended me  for  a  scalawag." 

He  was  hunting  one  early  summer  day  in  > 
the  vicinity  of  the  haunted  Lah-met  of  the 
Nome-cults,  now  the  Rocky  Canon  of  the 
whites,  one  of  the  most  interesting  natural 
features  of  Mendocino  County,  just  below 
the  present  Humboldt  trail  near  the  Trinity 
line,  and  where  the  North  Eel  abruptly 
changes  its  course  on  its  way  to  the  sea 
from  due  south  to  due  west.  He  came 
upon  Um-wa,  the  Wylackie  maiden,  who  had 
rambled  away  from  the  other  women  of  her 
tribe  while  gathering  the  blossoms  of  the 
white  clover  which  grows  in  patches  among 
the  wild  oats  on  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
and  who  with  her  half-filled  basket  had  lain 
down  to  rest  for  an  hour,  and  had  fallen 
asleep. 

Bland  had  one  spot  paramount  in  weak- 
ness to  all  the  others  in  his  otherwise  iron 
nature ;  he  was  very  impressionable,  espe- 
cially as  to  women:  the  more  so  that  at  that 
time  women  of  his  own  race,  who  might  have 
had  a  refining  and  redeeming  influence  over 
him,  were  exceedingly  scarce.  In  point  of 
fact,  as  far  as  that  part  of  Mendocino  was 
concerned,  it  may  be  said  that  there  were 
literally  no  white  women.  As  he  gazed 
upon  the  well-shaped  Indian  girl  lying  all 
unconscious  of  his  eager  scrutiny,  with  her 
head  resting  on  her  extended  arm,  and  with 
lips  half  parted  and  smiling  as  if  in  a  gentle 
and  pleasing  dream,  he  succumbed  to  her 
influence  at  once,  and  became,  in  one  sense, 
the  captive  of  his  capture.  His  courtship 
was  not  shackled  by  restrictions  attendant 


1883.] 


An  Episode  of  Old  Mendocino. 


141 


upon  affinities.  The  party  of  the  first  part 
was  more  than  willing :  that  was  enough  ac- 
cording to  the  Blandial  code,  whose  funda- 
mental principle  was  "the  right  of  the 
strongest " ;  and  before  sunset  the  poor  Um- 
wa  found  herself  enthroned  and  locked  up 
securely  in  the  hunter's  cabin — the  unwilling 
queen  of  the  lowly  abode  and  of  an  ab- 
horred prince  consort,  who  took  good  care 
to  place  his  rifle  and  other  weapons  where 
she  could  not  reach  them. 

Rough  as  the  man  was  by  nature  and  by 
circumstances,  he  was  not  altogether  devoid 
of  a  dim  knowledge  of  some  of  the  ameni- 
ties of  life,  and  of  the  dues  from  man  to  wo- 
man, be  she  white,  red,  or  black;  although 
he  was  not  given  to  splitting  hairs  on  that  or 
any  other  subject,  even  if  he  was  already 
more  than  half  madly  in  love.  But  his  rude 
and  almost  half-shy  courtesy  toward  the  dis- 
consolate Indian  girl  was  of  no  avail,  and 
his  almost  heart-broken  captive  would  not 
be  consoled.  Watching  her  opportunity, 
she  succeeded  one  night  soon  after  in  es- 
caping from  the  cabin,  despite  the  vigilance 
of  her  abductor.  By  doubling  here  and 
there  upon  her  tracks  in  the  chemisal,  or 
hiding  every  once  in  a  while  behind  some 
thick  clump  of  verde  or  displaced  bowl- 
der, to  evade  her  pursuer,  she  finally 
reached  safely  an  outpost  of  the  small  de- 
tachment of  regular  soldiers  occupying  the 
valley.  The  officer  in  command  was 
touched  by  her  youth  and  beauty,  as  well  as 
by  the  distressing  circumstances  of  her  case, 
which,  after  innumerable  difficulties,  she 
succeeded  at  last  in  making  him  understand, 
and  sent  her  with  an  escort  for  protection 
to  the  Indian  Reservation  to  await  the  arri- 
val of  some  of  her  people  to  whom  runners 
were  dispatched  the  next  morning. 

But  in  the  mean  time,  and  before  they 
could  reach  the  place,  Bland  had  ascer- 
tained her  whereabouts.  He  came  to  the 
Reservation  in  broad  daylight  on  some  pre- 
tense or  other,  availed  himself  of  the  time 
when  all  the  other  Indians  were  congregated 
around  the  supervisor's  storehouse  await- 
ing the  issue  of  their  more  than  scanty  pit- 
tance, and  stole  unperceived  into  the  wig- 


wam, or  brush  shanty  temporarily  assigned 
to  the  girl  for  shelter.  With  his  handker- 
chief bound  over  her  mouth  to  prevent  her 
cries  for  help  from  being  heard,  he  succeed- 
ed in  reaching  his  cabin  under  the  lee  of  the 
Blue  Nose  ridge,  some  miles  from  the  val- 
ley, and  poor,  forlorn  Um-wa,  more  than 
desolate,  was  placed  under  lock  and  key 
once  more. 

Deceived  by  her  dumb  sorrow,  and  labor- 
ing under  the  impression  that  she  was  be- 
coming reconciled  to  her  fate,  which  he  did 
not  think  hard  by  any  means,  he  relaxed 
his  watchfulness  by  degrees.  One  day,  while 
he  was  busy  at  something  or  other  outside 
of  the  cabin  with  the  door  inadvertently 
left  open,  she  flew  out  of  it  like  an  arrow 
from  a  bow,  speeding  through  the  grease- 
wood  and  wild  laurel,  until,  faint,  bleeding 
at  all  pores,  and  moaning  like  a  stricken 
deer,  she  reached  what  had  become  to  her 
a  city  of  refuge— the  Indian  Reservation.  A 
detail  from  the  small  garrison  marched  at 
once  into  the  mountains  to  arrest  Bland  and 
bring  him  to  account.  But  he  had  surmised 
this  action  on  the  part  of  the  commander, 
and  being  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
topography  of  the  country,  had  hidden  him- 
self where  he  could  not  be  found ;  and  after 
an  unsuccessful  search,  the  soldiers  returned 
to  the  post  as  they  came — empty-handed. 

For  a  few  days  the  Wylackie  girl  enjoyed 
a  period  of  comparative  rest  while  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  her  people  who  were  searching 
the  mountains  for  her.  They  were  expected 
the  next  morning,  when  late  one  dark  night 
the  indefatigable  Bland,  led  on  by  a  love 
which  he  could  no  longer  resist,  dashed  in 
among  the  Yuka  women  with  whom  Um- 
wa  had  been  placed;  and  before  an  alarm 
could  be  given  he  was  on  his  horse  with  the 
again  recaptured  girl  in  his  arms,  and  on  his 
way  toward  the  mountains. 

The  abduction,  however,  was  immediately 
reported  to  the  military,  and  pursuit  made 
at  once,  and  so  earnestly  that  the  rescuing 
party  soon  came  up  with  Bland.  To  save 
himself  from  the  indignant  and  by  this  time 
infuriated  soldiers,  he  threw  the  persecuted 
girl  from  his  saddle,  and  eventually  succeed- 


142 


An  Episode  of  Old  Mendocino, 


[August, 


ed  in  making  good  his  escape  in  the  dark. 
Um-wa,  fortunately  unharmed  by  the  fall, 
although  fainting  from  fear  and  rough  usage, 
was  taken  back  to  the  Reservation. 

But  Bland  had  only  escaped  retribution 
for  a  time;  forever  within  him,  gnawing  at 
his  heart  by  day  and  by  night,  like  a  dark 
Nemesis  hurrying  him  on  to  his  doom,  was 
the  love  that  he  could  not  conquer.  For 
weeks  and  for  months,  in  mountains  and 
in  valleys,  sometimes  among  friends,  oftener 
among  foes,  he  wandered  in  search  of  her 
he  could  not  find,  and  who  had  become 
dearer  than  life  to  him;  sleeping  at  night  in 
the  hollow  of  trees,  under  the  shelter  of 
rocks,  with  the  moans  of  the  night  wind  and 
the  hooting  of  owls  around  him  to  make 
darkness  still  drearier;  brooding  upon  the 
memory  of  his  lost  love  until  daylight  ap- 
peared; then  onward  again  across  moun- 
tains and  streams — onward  to  his  fate — on- 
ward, without  intermission,  to  the  atonement 
that  he  could  not  evade. 

One  evening  just  before  sunset,  weary 
and  nearly  famished,  he  came  upon  a  large 
party  of  Wylackies  under  their  head  chief. 
They  had  hutted  for  the  night  in  a  small 
cove  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  which  to 
this  day  is  known  by  his  name.  He  asked 
them  for  food.  They  were  about  to  provide 
for  his  wants  when  Um-wa  appeared.  She 
was  of  the  party,  and  had  been  gathering 
ferns  for  her  temporary  couch  a  little  way 
up  the  creek  in  an  angle  of  which  the  camp 
had  been  made.  At  the  sight  of  her  tor- 
mentor, she  threw  her  armful  on  the  ground, 
and  sprung  trembling,  with  a  cry  of  fear,  to 
her  father's  side.  The  long  search  was  over; 
Bland  was  recognized,  and  the  Wylackies 
were  upon  him. 

He  knew  no  law,  but  fear  was  also  a 
stranger  to  his  heart.  He  knew  well  that 
his  last  hour  had  come,  and  well  he  would 
know  how  to  die.  Bounding  to  his  feet, 
with  a  scornful,  half-muttered  curse  upon 
his  lips,  he  drew  his  revolver,  and  every  bar- 
rel told.  Empty,  he  threw  it  in  their  faces, 
and  clubbing  his  rifle,  struck  right  and  left, 
crushing  with  a  dull  thud  through  the  brains 
of  his  foes. 


On  his  knees  at  last,  bleeding  and  faint, 
but  dauntless  as  ever,  his  eye  never  flinched, 
his  heart  never  quailed — he  deserved  to  live. 
But  numbers  were  against  him:  and  suc- 
cumbing for  the  last  time,  pinioned  hand 
and  foot,  he  was  tied  to  the  stake. 

He  knew  no  death-song;  he  only  knew 
the  love  that  brought  him  to  his  death,  and 
to  the  last  he  gazed  upon  her  face.  Um-wa 
had  never  heard  of  the  teachings  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  yet  she  knew  its  best  lesson — 
"Forgiveness  unto  thine  enemy."  From  chief 
to  braves,  from  braves  to  chief,  with  clasped 
hands  and  eyes  swimming  in  tears,  she  ran ; 
but  vain  as  her  struggles  had  been  among 
the  white  clover  at  the  foot  of  the  Lah-met 
spanning  the  North  Eel,  as  vain  were  her 
entreaties  and  her  prayers — and  the  death- 
dance  of  the  Wylackies  began. 

The  morning  sun  rose  upon  a  deserted 
camp;  the  wild  flowers  bloomed  as  sweet 
and  the  song  of  the  forest  birds  was  as  cheer- 
ful as  before,  but  its  first  rays  rested  upon 
still  glowing  embers  and  the  charred  remains 
of  human  feet  and  hands. 

Some  time  after  this,  Captain  Jarboe,  who 
had  been  commissioned  by  Governor  Weller 
to  civilize  the  Indians  of  Mendocino  toy 
bringing  them  against  their  will  to  encounter 
starvation  on  the  Reservation,  and  who,  in 
pursuance  of  this  laudable  object,  was  busily 
engaged  with  some  forty  volunteers  in  ex- 
terminating them  all,  came  upon  the  spot. 
He  was  at  the  time  searching  the  mountains 
for  Bland,  whose  prolonged  absence  from 
his  habitual  haunts  was  beginning  to  trouble 
the  settlers.  For  in  those  early  days  a  white 
man  counted  for  something  among  his  kind, 
no  matter  what  character  he  bore  in  the  com- 
munity. 

In  the  middle  of  a  little  cove  formed  by 
the  angle  of  a  mountain  streamlet  intersect- 
ing with  the  Eel  River,  on  the  other  side  ot 
the  most  prominent  landmark  of  Round 
Valley,  Bland  Mountain,  they  found  the 
remains  of  a  fire,  with  a  few  white  calcined 
bones  showing  among  the  darker  wood- 
ashes.  The  ground  all  around  bore  the  still . 
distinguishable  evidences  ofa  desperate  strug- 
gle, as  if  more  than  one  life  had  been  fought 


1883.] 


An  Episode  of  Old  Mendocino. 


143 


for  and  lost  amid  the  drooping  ferns  and 
trampled-down  wild  flowers.  As  Bland  was 
never  seen  again,  it  was  surmised  that  he  had 
perished  there  in  the  tortures  of  the  fiery 
stake,  after  gallantly  defending  himself  to 
the  last  against  overpowering  numbers. 

But  after  all  these  years,  when  home 
scenes  of  contentment  and  peace  have  nearly 
effaced  the  memory  of  strife  and  bloodshed 
among  the  Indians  on  the  Reservation,  as 
well  as  among  the  whites  in  their  little  village 
near  by,  the  last  of  the  nearly  extinct  Wy- 
lackies  gives  the  romantic  little  dell  with  the 
babbling  rivulet  a  wide  berth  in  his  hunt 
after  the  fast-disappearing  game  or  on  his 
fishing  excursions.  For  often  at  night,  when 
the  moon  shines  bright,  the  shadowy  forms 
of  victim  and  executioners  are  dimly  seen 
rehearsing  the  tragedy  and  expiation  once 
more;  and  more  than  one  belated  and  trem- 
bling Indian  has  heard  wailings  mingled 
with  curses  borne  upon  the  night  wind  from 
among  the  ferns  and  willows,  as  awe-struck 
and  silent  he  hastened  toward  home. 

Among  the  old,  musty  records  of  Gen- 
eral Clarke's  administration  of  California 
affairs,  at  the  military  headquarters  in  San 
Francisco,  is  the  following  official  letter.  It 
is  signed  by  an  officer  of  the  regular  army, 
who  in  the  old  Mexican  days  had  followed 
Scott  over  more  than  one  field,  and  who  in 
the  late  war  between  the  States  fell  dead 
upon  a  Tennessee  battle-field,  gallantly  charg- 
ing a  Union  battery  under  the  gray  uniform, 
which,  among  all  the  flower  of  the  South, 
covered  no  truer,  braver,  tenderer  heart. 

"I  report  the  following  for  the  information 
of  the  general  commanding  the  department 
relative  to  military  and  Indian  affairs  in 
Round  Valley :  One  Bland,  a  citizen,  has 
undoubtedly  been  killed  by  the  Indians. 
One  of  those  who  committed  the  murder,  or 
rather  who  killed  Bland  in  self-defense,  I 
have  as  a  prisoner,  and  shall  turn  him  over 
to  the  civil  authorities  of  this  county;  and 
should  they  decline  to  receive  him,  I  shall 
send  him  to  the  Reservation  at  Mendocino. 

"This  Bland  was  a  noted  ruffian,  who  had 
committed  many  outrages  upon  unoffending 
Indians.  He  took  a  squaw  from  her  people 
by  force ;  she  escaped  from  him  and  came  to 


the  Reservation ;  he  came  after  her  and  car- 
ried her  off  I  sent  a  party  to  arrest  him 
while  I  was  in  the  valley,  but  he  escaped, 
and  the  girl  was  placed  on  the  Reservation 
again  for  safety.  He  afterwards  came  in  at 
night  and  forcibly  carried  her  off  once  more. 
Pursuit  was  made  and  the  girl  recaptured, 
but  Bland  escaped;  and  he  has  since  been 
out  in  the  mountains  harassing  and  annoy- 
ing the  Indians,  and  following  up  this  girl, 
until  at  last  he  has  met  with  a  well-merited 
death." 

But  the  young  Indian  reported  as  arrested 
by  the  gallant  old  soldier  was  neither  tried 
by  the  civil  authorities  of  Mendocino  Coun- 
ty nor  sent  to  the  death-breeding  corral  at 
Mendocino  City. 

In  these  quieter  days,  in  the  little  log 
shelter  nestled  under  the  snow-capped  moun- 
tains, half-way  between  the  Ome-haut  and 
the  sea,  around  the  cheerful,  well-stocked 
hearth,  while  the  storm  and  the  north  wind 
shriek  outside  among  the  pines  in  the  win- 
ter nights;  or  in  the  summer  evening  under 
the  wide-spreading  branches  of  the  oaks, 
arching  like  an  segis  of  peace  and  protection 
above  its  humble  roof,  with  the  harvest- 
moon  throwing  a  half-obscured  yellow  light 
over  the  Bland  Mountain,  and  the  rush  of 
the  waters  of  the  Eel  River  rolling  onward 
among  the  pre-Adamite  bowlders  on  their 
way  to  the  sea,  deadened  by  the  distance — 
the  story  of  the  death-fight  among  the  ferns 
and  wild  flowers  is  sometimes  told  to 
earnest  little  faces  clustering  around  the 
sweet-faced  Indian  mother  with  the  dove- 
like  eyes  and  the  half-pensive  smile  upon 
the  lips.  The  shy  grace  of  former  days  in 
her  slender  form  is  half  hidden  by  a  neat 
calico  print,  and  a  white  bit  of  collar  is 
around  the  graceful  neck.  And  that  manly 
brown  hand,  as  true  as  it  is  supple  and 
strong,  stroking  lovingly  the  once  coal-black 
hair  already  thickly  streaked  with  gray,  be- 
longs to  John,  the  smart  hunter  and  thrifty 
sheep-owner,  the  tender  husband  and  kind- 
hearted  father  despite  his  full  Indian  blood. 
The  bullet-hole  in  his  shoulder  will  remind 
him  as  long  as  he  lives  of  that  summer 
evening's  avenging  episode  in  the  early  days 
of  Old  Mendocino.  A.  G.  T. 


144 


California  Cereals. 


[August, 


CALIFORNIA   CEREALS.— II. 


AFTER  plowing  is  over,  the  land  is  general- 
ly ready  for  the  seed.  But  if  the  soil  has 
plowed  up  very  rough,  harrowing  is  some- 
times necessary  as  a  preliminary  to  sowing. 
Seed-time  for  winter-sowing  lasts  three 
months — December,  January,  and  February 
— commencing  often  some  time  in  November. 
But  the  sowing  of  land  that  lies  fallow  dur- 
ing the  summer  is  done  much  earlier  in  the 
fall,  before  the  first  rains  and  while  the 
ground  is  dry.  It  may  be  done  at  any  time 
after  harvest — say  from  August  to  October  or 
November.  The  summer-fallow  is  thus 
ready  for  all  the  rains,  and  has  a  much 
longer  season  for  growth.  These  are  great 
advantages,  especially  in  dry  seasons  and 
on  the  poorer  lands.  Mr.  G.  W.  Colby 
says:  "It  makes  little  difference  in  the  time 
of  maturing  of  grain  whether  sown  in  Oc- 
tober or  March  or  April — giving  us  seven 
months  of  the  year  for  seeding." 

As  a  rule,  poorest  lands  should  be  sown 
earliest.  For  on  rich  lands  grain,  if  sown 
early,  is  in  danger  of  making  too  rank  a 
growth  of  straw,  and  thereby  lodging  and 
perishing.  Wheat  is  sown  first,  then  barley, 
then  oats. 

Grain  is  usually  sown  broadcast,  by  a 
sowing  machine  attached  to  a  wagon,  and 
operated  by  a  chain  connecting  with  the 
wagon  wheel.  Many  farmers  use  drills,  and 
to  advantage.  It  is  a  somewhat  slower  and 
more  expensive  way,  but  on  some  if  not 
most  kinds  of  lands  is  the  best. 

Harrowing  and  cross-harrowing  follow  the 
sowing.  Sometimes  the  soil  requires  a  third 
harrowing.  When  the  grain  is  about  three 
inches  high,  the  land  is  rolled.  This  pro- 
cess crushes  the  lumps,  and  leaves  the  sur- 
face more  even  for  the  header  or  reaper. 

Harvesting  is  done  almost  entirely  by 
machinery.  When  the  grain  is  ripe,  it  is 
usually  cut  by  headers.  Of  these,  that 
known  as  the  Haynes  Improved  seems  to 
be  a  favorite  in  all  quarters  of  the  State. 


These  machines  are  too  familiar  to  every 
visitor  of  the  country  during  harvest-time  to 
need  detailed  description  here.  They  con- 
sist of  long  frames  armed  at  the  front  with 
reaping  knives,  and  are  pushed  into  the 
standing  grain  by  horses  fastened  behind. 
Behind  the  knives,  and  parallel  with  them, 
revolves  an  endless  draper  of  canvas,  about 
four  feet  wide  and  elevated  and  ending  in  a 
spout  at  the  side  of  the  machine.  A  wagon 
carrying  a  large,  hopper-shaped  header-box, 
from  fourteen  to  sixteen  feet  long  and  eight 
feet  wide,  and  higher  on  one  side  than  the 
other,  accompanies  the  header,  the  lower 
side  of  the  box  being  next  the  machine. 
The  knives  clip  the  stalks  a  few  inches  be- 
low the  heads.  The  heads  fall  upon  the 
draper,  are  carried  up  the  incline  through 
the  spout,  and  are  poured  into  the  header- 
box. 

Headers  cut  a  swath  of  from  eight  to  six- 
teen and  even  twenty-four  feet  wide.  The 
usual  width  is  twelve  feet.  The  wider  head- 
ers can  be  used  only  on  large  fields  free 
from  stumps,  trees,  and  other  obstructions. 
The  number  of  horses  used  to  propel  the 
header  varies  from  four  to  twelve.  A  head- 
er twelve  feet  wide,  propelled  by  six  good 
horses  or  mules,  will  cut  about  thirty  acres 
per  day.  As  soon  as  one  header  wagon  is 
full,  its  place  is  supplied  by  another,  while 
the  loaded  wagon  is  drawn  to  the  stack  or 
the  threshing  machine,  as  the  case  may  be. 
The  small  farmers  and  those  who  cannot 
make  a  large  outlay  of  capital  on  machinery 
and  labor  at  any  one  time  stack  the  headed 
grain,  and  thresh  it  afterwards  from  the 
stacks.  There  is  of  course  no  uniform  rule 
as  to  the  size  of  the  stacks.  Their  contents 
are  said  roughly  to  vary  from  twelve  hun- 
dred to  thirty-five  hundred  bushels.  Even 
some  of  the  large  farmers  prefer  the  method 
.of  stacking  from  the  headers,  and  threshing 
afterwards.  Mr.  Bidwell  considers  it  prefer- 
able. It  is  more  economical.  When  the 


1883.] 


California  Cereals. 


145 


heading  and  threshing  are  done  at  the  same 
time,  the  grain  being  carried  directly  from 
the  header  to  the  separator,  the  outlay  for 
men,  horses,  and  apparatus  is  very  large. 
A  separator  which  threshes  from  twelve  hun- 
dred to  sixteen  hundred  bushels  per  day  re- 
quires three  headers  and  nine  wagons  to 
keep  it  running.  This  represents  from  thir- 
ty to  forty  horses  and  nearly  the  same  num- 
ber of  men.  This  method  is  much  in  use 
among  the  owners  of  large  farms — say  three 
thousand  acres  and  over. 

The  transfer  of  grain  from  the  header  to 
the  thresher  necessarily  involves  waste,  much 
of  the  grain  being  tossed  over  the  sides  of 
the  header-boxes.  When  the  transfer  is 
from  the  header  to  stacks  and  from  the 
stacks  to  the  threshers,  the  loss  is  still 
greater,  being  augmented,  for  instance,  by 
the  grain  left  in  the  stack  bottoms.  These 
and  other  objections  to  this  clumsy  process, 
together  with  the  disadvantage  of  employing 
so  many  men  at  once,  have  led  to  the  inven- 
tion of  an  ingenious  machine,  the  working 
of  which  was  described  in  article  I. — the 
combined  header  and  thresher.  This  ma- 
chine was  patented  but  a  few  years  ago,  by 
a  firm  in  Stockton,  California.  Its  cost  is 
about  $3,000.  It  is  capable  of  cutting  from 
twenty-five  to  forty  acres  per  day,  according 
to  size.  From  sixteen  to  twenty-four  ani- 
mals are  required.  To  run  the  machine  the 
services  of  only  four  men  are  necessary — a 
driver,  pilot,  sack-sewer,  and  one  to  regulate 
the  height  of  the  knife.  The  cost  of  har- 
vesting by  this  mode  is  one  dollar  per  acre, 
and  the  cost  by  the  old  plan  is  from  three  to 
four  dollars  per  acre.  These  machines  are 
said  to  have  given  great  satisfaction.  How- 
ever, I  understand  that  the  grain  threshed 
by  them  is  filled  with  dust,  and  rates  low  on 
this  account.  And  on  one  occasion,  riding 
about  the  farm  of  C.  M.  Stetson  of  Stanis- 
laus, in  the  wake  of  one  of  these  machines, 
I  noticed  that  the  ground  passed  over  by  the 
machine  was  considerably  strewn  with  grain ; 
and  the  straw  coming  out  of  the  thresher- 
box  was  by  no  means  free  from  a  like  indi- 
cation of  waste.  The  percentage  of  loss 
may  be  less  than  in  the  old  method. 
VOL.  1.— 10. 


Instead  of  the  header,  the  combined 
reaper  and  binder  is  coming  considerably 
into  use;  and  it  possesses  some  very  marked 
advantages  over  its  clumsy  predecessor.  By 
this  new  machine  the  grain  is  cut  near  the 
ground,  and  instead  of  being  tossed  in  loose 
stalks  or  heads  into  a  header-box,  it  drops  at 
intervals  off  the  board  of  the  reaper,  neatly 
tied  with  stout  cord  into  compact  sheaves, 
which  may  be  loaded  into  wagons  and  car- 
ried without  great  loss.  One  of  the  chief 
advantages  of  this  machine  over  the  header 
lies  in  the  fact  that,  in  order  to  successfully 
operate  the  latter,  the  grain  must  be  thor- 
oughly ripe.  In  this  condition  it  is  liable 
to  waste.  Mr.  Bidwell  states  some  of  the 
advantages  of  this  machine  as  follows: 
"With  the  combined  reaper  and  binder 
there  would  be  a  saving  in  time,  for  harvest 
could  be  begun  one  or  two  weeks  earlier,  and 
before  the  hottest  weather  sets  in ;  in  other 
words,  the  harvest  would  sooner  begin  and 
sooner  end.  The  grain  is  secured  before 
dry  enough  to  shell  and  waste;  the  straw, 
which  is  now  generally  wasted  by  burning,  is 
saved;  after  the  grain  is  in  the  dough,  the 
sooner  cut  the  better  the  quality  of  both 
grain  and  straw." 

The  threshing  is  done  by  separators,  those 
known  as  the  Pitt's  Improved,  manufactured 
at  Buffalo,  New  York,  the  Russel  Improved, 
manufactured  in  Ohio,  and  the  Gold  Medal 
being  largely  used.  The  amount  threshed 
per  day  varies  with  the  size  of  the  machine 
from  twelve  hundred  to  three  thousand 
bushels.  From  sixteen  to  twenty-one  men 
are  required. 

The  threshing  machines  are  run  by  horse 
power  or  steam  power,  the  latter  being  now 
almost  universally  used.  The  engines  em- 
ployed for  this  purpose  burn  wood  or  straw. 
Straw-burning  engines  have  recently  become 
very  popular.  On  the  plains  where  wood  is 
scarce  they  possess  of  course  a  great  advan- 
tage. It  is  said  also  that  they  are  safer.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  claimed  that  wood- 
burners  last  longer,  and  keep  up  a  more 
regular  power. 

G.  W.  Colby  is  authority  for  the  following 
general  statement  as  to  the  cost  of  labor: 


146 


California  Cereals. 


[August, 


Wages  of  the  men  vary  according  to  the 
labor.  In'the  winter  months,  while  prepar- 
ing the  soil  and  seeding,  very  little  if  any 
labor  commands  over  thirty  dollars  per 
month;  while  in  the  summer  harvesting 
there  is  a  graduated  scale  from  one  dollar 
and  a  half  to  four  dollars  per  day.  Hours 
of  service,  sunrise  to  sunset;  which  in  the 
long  summer  days  means  in  the  fields  from 
four  A.  M.  to  seven  P.  M. 

While  California  climate  and  soil  are  so 
favorable  to  cereal  culture,  our  farmers  have 
nevertheless  many  difficulties  to  contend 
with.  It  is  impossible  to  give  a  reliable  es- 
timate of  the  crop  until  it  is  actually  sacked. 
Wet  weather,  over-rank  growth,  wild  oats, 
may  render  a  large  percentage  of  wheat 
planted  for  grain  unfit  for  anything  but  hay. 

Mr.  Bidwell  says:  "In  regard  to  yield,  no 
man  can  tell.  The  straw  is  generally  heavy ; 
but  we  have  often  learned  by  sad  experience 
that  straw  is  not  wheat.  The  most  prom- 
ising grain  may  lodge  and  ruin;  for  lodging 
grain  always  fails  to  fill  out  and  mature.  The 
heaviest  grain  is  always  in  most  danger  of 
lodging.  Sometimes  we  think  a  field  will 
yield  forty  bushels  per  acre;  and  so  it  would 
if  it  continued  to  stand.  But  if  it  lodge,  we 
may  get  ten  to  fifteen  bushels  of  shrunk 
wheat,  or  it  may  be  a  total  loss.  The  wheat 
that  I  shall  save  and  cut  this  year  (1880) 
will  average,  I  think,  twenty-five  bushels  per 
acre.  But  very  dry  north  winds,  or  rain  and 
wind  to  lodge  the  grain,  will  diminish  that 
estimate.  In  making  such  estimates,  it  is 
well  to  be  careful,  for  my  experience  tells 
me  that  most  persons  overshoot  the  mark." 

In  1 880,  John  Boggs  had  four  thousand 
acres  planted  in  wheat,  and  estimated  his 
yield  at  twenty-five  bushels  per  acre.  But 
two  weeks  of  north  winds  reduced  this  esti- 
mate ten  per  cent. 

As  to  the  average  yield  per  acre  of  the 
cereals,  the  following  statements  are  of  value: 

In  1880,  J.  M.  Mansfield  in  Napa  County 
had  twelve  hundred  acres  in  wheat,  estimat- 
ed to  yield  thirty -three  and  one-half  bushels 
per  acre;  Dr.  Glenn  in  Colusa  had  fifty  thou- 
sand acres,  estimated  at  less  than  twenty 
bushels  per  acre;  C.  H.  Huffmann,  of  Merced 


had  thirty-three  hundred  acres,  averaging 
thirty  bushels  per  acre.  For  that  year,  J. 
B.  Lankersheim  estimated  his  crop  in  Los 
Angeles  County  at  twenty-five  bushels  per 
acre,  some  fields  yielding  forty  bushels  per 
acre,  and  others,  sown  late  in  February, 
perhaps  fifteen  bushels  per  acre.  For  this 
crop,  plowing  began  on  the  ist  of  Novem- 
ber, 1879,  before  the  rain,  and  on  a  loose 
loam  that  had  been  plowed  before. 

J.  P.  Raymond  says,  with  regard  to  the 
yield  in  Salinas  Valley  :  "The  average  yield 
of  wheat  and  barley  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know, 
it  having  been  so  different  in  different  por- 
tions of  the  valley,  owing  principally  to 
other  causes  than  quality  of  soil.  Leaving 
out  that  portion  of  the  valley  where  there 
have  been  continual  failures  or  partial 
failures  from  the  unfortunate  adoption  of 
a  system  not  at  all  adapted  to  the  soil 
and  climate  of  that  portion  referred  to,  our 
average  would  stand  very  high;  say,  for 
wheat,  on  the  upland  portion,  from  twelve  to 
fifteen  centals ;  and  on  the  bottom-lands 
from  fifteen  to  twenty  centals  for  the  differ- 
ent seasons,  and  on  the  most  favored  fields 
often  as  high  as  thirty  centals.  Our  best 
barley  lands  are  expected  to  annually  yield 
thirty  to  thirty-five  centals;  frequently  much 
exceeding  that;  while  our  upland  barley 
fields  are  counted  upon  to  give  twenty  to 
twenty-five  centals.  These  figures  may  be 
taken  as  the  usual  average  of  the  northern 
half  of  the  valley,  which  seldom  suffers  from 
lack  of  moisture." 

In  early  days  the  average  yield  was  much 
greater  than  at  present.  In  the  winter  of 
1854-55,  J.  M.  Mansfield  planted  in  Napa 
Valley,  in  the  virgin  soil,  three  hundred 
acres  of  wheat  and  one  hundred  acres  of 
barley.  His  yield  was  forty-one  bushels  of 
wheat  and  sixty-five  bushels  of  barley  per 
acre.  He  says:  "I  was  among  the  few  who 
were  fortunate  enough  to  secure  machinery 
for  harvesting  and  threshing  grain;  conse- 
quently I  was  called  upon  by  my  neighbors 
to  assist'  them;  and  while  my  yield  was 
about  the  average,  I  did  cut  and  thresh  by 
measurement  seventy-six  and  one-half  bush- 
els of  wheat  and  one  hundred  and  ten  bush- 


1883.] 


California  Cereals. 


147 


els  of  barley  to  the  acre.  At  that  time  this 
valley  was  no  exception  to  all  of  the  bay 
counties  where  grain  was  raised." 

G.  W.  Colby  writes:  "In  1850,  I  had 
about  two  hundred  acres  of  barley  and  wheat 
on  the  American  River,  Sacramento  County. 
The  seed  cost  thirteen  cents  per  pound;  the 
barley  produced  over  ninety  bushels  per 
acre,  the  wheat  only  forty  bushels.  I  sold 
the  crop  for  seven  and  nine  cents  per  pound. 
In  1851,  I  sowed  wheat  on  the  iyth  of 
March  that  yielded  over  sixty  bushels  per 
acre." 

This  leads  naturally  to  the  consideration 
of  the  deterioration  of  the  soil  and  the 
modes  adopted  to  prevent  its  total  exhaus- 
tion— a  subject  which  is  daily  growing  more 
important  in  our  State.  For  a  long  time  the 
great  fertility  exhibited  by  the  soil  in  this 
State  though  cultivated  many  consecutive 
years  almost  convinced  the  farmers  that  its 
producing  power  was  exhaustless.  They 
have  gradually  been  forced  to  the  other  view. 
Their  experiences  in  this  matter  are  best 
told  by  themselves. 

On  this  subject  John  Bid  well  says:  "The 
best  lands  of  California  would  be  hard  to 
surpass.  Most  writers  would  describe  them 
as  of  'inexhaustible  fertility.'  But  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  fertility  that  will  endure 
without  diminished  production.  That  which 
is  drawn  from  the  soil  must  in  some  way  be 
returned  to  it.  I  have  seen  good  lands  pro- 
duce over  seventy-three  bushels  of  good 
clean  wheat  per  acre,  measured.  I  have 
seen  even  better  wheat  that  we  could  not 
take  time  to  measure.  Some  of  these 
lands  I  have  known  to  be  cultivated  con- 
tinuously to  cereals  (wheat,  barley,  and 
oats)  for  twenty  years.  At  first  the  average 
crop  would  be  about  forty-one  bushels  of 
wheat  per  acre.  At  last  it  was  not  more 
than  fifteen  bushels;  the  diminution  having 
been  gradual  during  the  twenty  years.  Such 
practice,  if  continued,  will  lead,  of  course,  to 
early  exhaustion  and  ruin.  California  is  a 
perfect  Egypt  for  abundance.  But  we  must 
give  up  the  notion  of 'inexhaustible  fertility,' 
for  there  is  no  such  thing  in  the  sense  that 
production  will  remain  undiminished,  no 


matter  how  much  and  how  long  cultivation 
and  harvesting  may  go  on.  California  agri- 
culture is  in  the  morning  of  its  existence. 
Our  climate  and  soil  are  peculiar.  We  have 
much — in  fact,  almost  everything — to  learn 
Can  we  begin  too  soon?" 

I  have  above  referred  to  the  large  yield 
per  acre  in  Napa  County  in  1854-55,  and 
the  experience  of  J.  M.  Mansfield  there  at 
that  time.  From  that  date  to  1860  wheat 
was  planted  after  wheat  in  that  county  in 
each  successive  year.  Mr.  Mansfield  says: 
"From  1860  the  wheat  produced  showed  a 
gradual  falling  off  both  in  the  yield  and  the 
weight  per  acre.  From  1860  to  1865  there 
was  such  a  marked  change  in  this  respect 
that  producers  were  forced  to  inquire  into 
the  cause." 

Dr.  Glenn  adds  his  testimony  as  to  the 
deterioration  of  the  soil.  He  says :  "  I  have 
cultivated  land  for  twelve  successive  years ; 
have  land  that  has  been  in  cultivation  twenty- 
seven  years  without  being  summer-fallowed, 
and  has  a  crop  on  it  this  season  (1880)  that 
will  average  over  twenty  bushels  per  acre. 
Land  does  deteriorate:  will  lose,  after  hav- 
ing been  cultivated  from  twenty  to  twenty- 
five  years,  fifty  per  cent.  I  think  land  like 
the  piece  mentioned  above  would  have 
yielded  in  its  virgin  state  fifty  bushels  per 
acre.  The  loss  mentioned  above  resulted 
from  the  land  being  continually  cultivated 
to  wheat." 

G.  VV.  Colby  says  on  this  subject:  "On 
black  adobe  and  loamy  bottom-lands  subject 
to  overflow  occasionally  I  can  perceive  no 
diminution  in  production  in  thirty  years  of 
grain-raising.  I  have  never  had  a  failure, 
though  very  many  about  me  have,  owing  gen- 
erally to  poor  cultivation  and  sowing  when 
the  soil  was  not  in  proper  condition.  Our 
light  soils  want  rest,  pasturage,  and  summer- 
fallowing,  and  with  like  seasons,  I  see  no 
material  difference  in  production  where 
cropped  twenty-five  and  thirty  years.  I  have 
river  bottom-lands  that  have  produced  crops 
of  wheat  for  twenty-six  years  successively, 
and  have  as  large  a  crop  this  year  (1880) 
as  ever — over  fifty  bushels  per  acre.  It  is 
want  of  proper  cultivation,  frequent  plowing, 


148 


California  Cereals. 


[August, 


thorough  destruction  of  foul  stuff  before  sow- 
ing, and  frequent  change  of  seed  that  lead 
to  light  crops;  the  fault  is  not  in  the  soil." 

Testimony  similar  to  Mr.  Colby's  comes 
from  J.  B.  Lankersheim  with  regard  to  Los 
Angeles  County.  He  says:  "In  relation  to 
deterioration  of  the  soil,  it  is  scarcely  per- 
ceptible in  this  county.  In  fact,  it  is  consid- 
ered better  to  plant  barley  on  new  land,  as 
the  growth  of  wheat  is  too  rank  at  first. 
Land  that  has  been  in  barley  eight  and  ten 
years  shows  no  diminution  in  fertility.  This 
is  owing  to  the  natural  fertility  of  the  soil, 
and  to  the  fact  that  during  seasons  of  light 
rainfall  the  crops  are  small  and  do  not  ex- 
haust the  soil.  Occasionally  a  dry  year 
allows  the  land  to  rest,  and  no  doubt  this 
prevents  too  rapid  deterioration."  It  may  be 
added  that  in  this  county  pasturing  sheep 
and  stock  on  grain  land  for  three  or  four 
months  in  the  year  is  customary. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  where  deterioration 
does  not  occur  it  is  because  of  precautions 
taken  against  it,  as  in  Mr.  Colby's  case;  or 
where  custom  and  climate  act  as  prevent- 
ives, as  in  Mr.  Lankersheim's  case. 

Convinced  of  the  fact  of  deterioration  of 
land  when  cultivated  continuously,  the  fann- 
ers have  cast  about  for  preventives  and 
remedies.  Many  plans  have  been  tried, 
among  them  the  following:  Plowing  in  the 
stubble;  sleeping  the  land,  farming  half  the 
year  about;  plowing  in  some  suitable  crop; 
rotation  of  crops;  manuring;  pasturing; 
chemical  fertilizing;  deep  plowing;  irriga- 
tion; summer-fallowing. 

As  to  plowing  in  the  stubble,  J.  M.  Mans- 
field gives  the  following  account:  "Views 
(as  to  prevention  and  cure  of  deterioration) 
were  interchanged  by  the  farmers  in  different 
parts  of  the  State,  and  the  conclusion  reached 
was  that  the  deterioration  of  the  soil  was 
caused  by  the  burning  of  the  stubble,  which 
was  the  universal  practice  in  the  State.  From 
1865  on,  for  several  years,  many  of  the  pro- 
ducers plowed  down  their  stubble.  I  was 
among  the  number.  Instead  of  finding  re- 
ief,  the  falling  off  continued  until  our  yield 
was  reduced  from  forty  bushels  to  less  than 
twenty  to  the  acre. 


"There  were  three  reasons  for  abandoning 
the  system  of  plowing  down  stubble:  first, 
the  stubble  did  not  decompose,  but  re- 
mained to  be  turned  up  the  next  plowing; 
second,  while  it  remained  turned  down  it 
kept  the  soil  in  an  open  state,  rendering  it 
very  susceptible  to  the  drying  winds  we  are 
more  or  less  subject  to;  third,  it  permitted  all 
the  foul  seeds  to  grow  when  turned  to  the 
surface.  Burning  destroyed  these,  at  the 
same  time  leaving  a  light  deposit  of  potash 
on  the  ground  in  an  available  form,  which  all 
our  lands  need." 

Sleeping  the  land,  farming  half  the  year 
about,  was  tried  by  Mansfield  and  many 
others,  commencing  in  1870,  after  the  failure 
of  the  plan  of  plowing  in  the  stubble.  This 
system  was  found  to  give  relief  to  a  limited 
extent;  not  sufficient,  however,  to  warrant 
its  continuance.  Mr.  Bidwell  says  of  the 
plan  of  resting  the  land,  that  it  "will  last  for 
a  time,  but  not  always;  because  it  does  not 
to  any  considerable  extent  return  what  has 
been  taken  away." 

The  plan  of  plowing  in  some  suitable  crop 
has  been  suggested  and  tried,  not  altogether 
with  success,  though  much  is  yet  hoped  from 
it,  as  an  auxiliary  at  least  of  other  methods. 
Mr.  Bidwell  says:  "On  account  of  the 
dryness  of  the  climate  no  crop  has  as  yet 
been  found  to  answer  the  purpose  of  turning 
under,  like  clover  in  the  Atlantic  States." 
J.  P.  Raymond  says,  speaking,  however,  of 
summer-fallow  land:  "When  a  fertilizer  is 
required,  I  believe  the  most  economical,  and 
for  our  soil  and  climate  (Salinas  Valley)  the 
best,  will  be  the  plowing  in  of  some  green 
crop,  perhaps  the  volunteer  grain." 

Rotation  of  crops  is  practiced  with  great 
benefit.  John  Boggs  says :  "  I  find  that  an 
occasional  crop  of  barley,  or  rotation  from 
barley  to  wheat  and  then  back  to  barley, 
is  almost  as -good  as  summer-fallowing." 
Not  only  is  the  character  of  the  cereal 
seed  changed  from  year  to  year,  but  the 
land  is  rested  at  intervals  from  grain  pro- 
duction altogether,  and  planted  with  some 
entirely  different  crop.  Potatoes,  for  in- 
stance, leave  land  in  a  better  condition  for 
wheat. 


1883.] 


California  Cereals. 


149 


Stable  and  barn-yard  manures  are  of 
great  benefit  to  the  land,  and  are  largely 
used. 

Pasturing  proves  very  effective  in  renew- 
ing the  vigor  of  land.  And  for  this  reason 
ranching  and  dairying  business  may  be  car- 
ried on  to  great  advantage  as  an  adjunct 
to  grain-raising.  Mr.  Bidwell  says  that 
pasturage  (especially  by  sheep)  is  as  good  as 
summer-fallowing,  and  therefore  in  many 
places  preferable  to  the  latter.  Sheep  are 
turned  into  the  field  of  stubble  and  straw, 
feed  upon  them  and  trample  them  down. 
In  Los  Angeles  County,  for  instance,  it  is 
the  custom  to  rent  stubble  fields  for  grazing 
stock,  especially  sheep,  as  long  as  three  or 
four  months  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 

Chemical  fertilizers  are  little  known 
among  our  farmers.  It  is  doubtful  if  they 
are  needed  at  present  to  any  great  extent. 
Their  value  is  recognized  by  the  more  en- 
lightened producers,  and  their  possible  ex- 
tensive introduction  at  no  very  distant  day  is 
admitted.  Mr.  Mansfield  says :  ''Should  the 
time  come  that  our  lands,  now  worth  forty 
dollars  per  acre,  reach  a  valuation  of  sixty 
or  seventy-five  dollars,  then  men  farming  will 
have  to  turn  their  attention  to  commercial 
fertilizers  ;  and  I  am  of  the  opinion  the  time 
is  near  at  hand  when  by  means  of  commer- 
cial manures  all  of  our  lands  will  be  brought 
under  cultivation,  instead  of  one-half  only 
as  under  the  present  system.  While  I  make 
no  claim  to  having  kept  up  with  the  rapid 
progress  of  chemical  science,  my  casual  ob- 
servation enables  me  to  say  this  with  a  good 
degree  of  certainty."  The  introduction  of 
fertilizers  will  be  hastened  and  their  use  ex- 
tended through  the  influence  of  Professor 
Hilgard  of  the  Agricultural  Department  of 
the  State  University.  With  a  view  to  the 
improvement  of  our  agricultural  practic  e  in 
this  respect,  already  series  of  scientific  and 
practical  experiments  with  commercial  and 
chemical  fertilizers  have  been  made  at 
Berkeley.  The  results  of  the  experiments 
have  been  published  by  Professor  Hilgard 
in  various  reports,  which  are  available  to  all. 
Here  may  be  found  varied  and  valuable 
information  on  the  practical  utility  of  such 


fertilizers  as  bone  meal,  lime,  gypsum,  and 
ammonia  sulphate. 

Deep  plowing  is  considered  by  some,  but 
hardly  with  sufficient  reason,  to  be  a  complete 
substitute  for  if  not  better  than  the  use  of 
fertilizers.  When  land  begins  to  show  signs 
of  lessened  productiveness,  no  doubt  deeper 
plowing,  bringing  new  soil  into  use,  acts 
as  a  check  upon  the  deterioration.  But  can 
deep  plowing  alone  ever  be  more  than  a 
check  merely?  Mr.  Bidwell's  remarks  on 
this  subject  commend  themselves  to  reason. 
He  says:  "Like  rest  and  irrigation,  deep 
plowing  is  beneficial.  It  brings  into  use 
from  a  greater  depth  that  which  the  soil  con- 
tains. It  invites  from  the  atmosphere. 
But  does  it  restore  an  equivalent  for  the 
wheat  sent  to  Liverpool?  The  deeper  the 
plowing  the  deeper  will  be  the  exhaustion 
in  process  of  time,  unless  prevented  by 
periodical  overflows,  as  of  the  Nile,  or  by 
something  else.  This  seems  reasonable  and 
to  accord  with  experience." 

Irrigation  of  grain  lands  is  not  entirely 
unknown  in  this  State.  In  the  San  Joaquin 
Valley  wheat  is  raised  to  some  extent  on  ir- 
rigated lands.  In  Los  Angeles  County  some 
barley  is  raised  on  similar  lands.  But  irri- 
gation is  generally  considered  too  expensive 
for  grain. 

The  preventive  and  remedy  for  deteriora- 
tion and  exhaustion  which  has  met  with  uni- 
versal success  is  the  practice  of  summer- 
fallowing.  This  consists  in  plowing  the 
land  in  the  early  part  of  the  year — say  in 
March  and  April — after  the  winter  sowing  is 
over,  and  allowing  it  to  rest  until  fall,  sowing 
it  before  the  rains — say  from  August  to  No- 
vember. In  this  way  a  crop  is  raised  but 
once  in  two  years,  and  the  land  is  allowed  to 
rest ;  and  the  influence  of  the  air  and  sun 
upon  the  upturned  soil  during  its  long  ex- 
posure is  beneficial. 

I  have  referred  above  to  the  experiences 
of  the  Napa  Valley  farmers  in  seeking  for 
some  check  to  the  deterioration  of  their 
land.  After  the  plan  of  sleeping  the  land 
had  proved  unsatisfactory,  summer-fallowing 
was  adopted.  Mr.  Mansfield  says :  "In  the 
last  few  years  we  have  adopted  the  mode  of 


150 


California  Cereals. 


[August, 


summer-fallowing  and  rotation  of  crops,  by 
which  system  we  were  happy  to  find  we  were 
fast  bringing  our  tired  lands  back  to  their 
virgin  productiveness;  and  I  am  fully  con- 
vinced that  our  farming  lands  will  reach  a 
much  higher  value,  and  that  the  latter  system 
is  the  only  successful  one  without  the  use  of 
fertilizers." 

John  Boggs  says:  "The  surest  mode  of 
cultivation  is  by  summer-fallowing,  and  when 
that  mode  is  adopted  a  failure  of  a  fair  crop 
from  a  drought  in  the  Sacramento  Valley  is 
a  thing  unknown.  I  have  land  that  I  have 
cultivated  in  wheat  for  twenty  years.  I  find 
that  it  deteriorates  from  constant  cultivation 
in  wheat,  but  summer-fallowing  about  every 
third  year,  and  letting  it  rest,  acts  as  a  fertiliz- 
er ;  and  by  adopting  that  mode  of  cultivation, 
and  resting  the  land,  it  soon  recovers  and 
produces  about  as  well  as  when  new." 

John  Finnell  says :  "  When  land  gets  poor 
or  tired,  summer-fallow  is  all  that  is  required. 
We  have  summer-fallowed  this  season  (1880) 
six  thousand  acres,  which  we  have  plowed 
the  second  time.  We  plow  eight  inches  deep 
for  summer- fallow;  five  inches  deep  for  win- 
ter-sowing. We  winter-sow  the  richest  bot- 
tom-land and  summer-fallow  the  second-class 
land.  Summer-fallow  will  produce  a  good 
crop  on  the  lightest  land  we  have,  and  it 
also  insures  a  crop  in  dry  seasons.  I  lived 
where  George  C.  Yount  first  settled  in  Napa 
Valley  in  1836;  he  said  he  raised  wheat 
about  that  time.  I  have  the  same  land 
under  cultivation.  It  still  produces  wheat 
and  good  crops." 

Summer- fallowing  is  so  effective  in  pre- 
serving the  fertility  of  the  soil  that  those 
who  have  adopted  this  plan  from  the  first 
notice  no  deterioration.  Mr.  Mansfield 
says  on  this  subject:  "The  two  great  valleys 
of  the  State  for  wheat  and  barley  are  the 
Sacramento  and  San  Joaquin.  Starting  in 
later  to  farm  the  lands  of  those  two  valleys, 
they  have  adopted  the  unfailing  mode  of 
summer-fallowing;  profiting  by  the  experi- 
ence of  the  early  producers  of  the  smaller 
valleys,  I  will  say  here  that  it  is  my  ex- 
perience that  a  man  can  afford  to  pay  forty 
dollars  per  acre  for  land  in  either  of  the  two 


valleys,  Sacramento  or  San  Joaquin,  adopt 
the  summer-fallow  system,  and  make  one 
per  cent,  per  month  on  his  investment,  or 
twelve  per  cent,  per  annum,  raising  wheat  at 
one  and  one-half  cents  per  pound,  or  ninety 
cents  per  bushel." 

C.  H.  Huffman  of  Merced  has  cultivated 
his  land  to  wheat  for  eight  years.  He  says 
that  his  land  is  increasing  in  productiveness, 
instead  of  deteriorating.  He  cultivates  al- 
most entirely  by  summer-fallowing.  He  says 
that  the  proper  way  to  plow  and  have  the 
land  in  good  condition  is  to  summer-fallow 
in  the  early  part  of  winter,  and  cross-plow 
in  the  spring. 

Summer-fallowing  is  very  extensively  prac- 
ticed, and  always  with  the  best  results.  In 
1880,  upwards  of  two-thirds  of  the  land  in 
Colusa  County  was  summer-fallowed.  And 
generally  the  land  in  the  Sacramento  Valley 
away  from  the  river  cannot  be  successfully 
farmed  except  by  this  system.  In  other 
districts  the  need  of  summer-fallowing  is 
recognized,  but  its  use  is  prevented  by  cir- 
cumstances. For  instance,  it  is  said  that  in 
Salinas  Valley  summer-fallowing  is  practiced 
very  little  if  any,  because  of  the  refusal  of 
the  landlords  to  give  leases  longer  than  one 
year.  On  this  point,  Mr.  Raymond  says:  "In 
summer-fallowing  nothing  has  been  done, 
owing,  I  think,  to  the  fact  that  very  nearly 
all  that  portion  of  the  valley  where  it  is  most 
desirable  to  do  so  is  owned  in  large  tracts, 
the  owners  of  which  refuse  to  rent  for  a 
longer  period  than  one  year,  and  require 
rent  for  all  the  land  plowed,  whether  it  be 
seeded  or  not ;  thus  they  have  to  'seed  the 
land  continuously  to  wheat;  and  they  gather 
very  indifferent  crops  where,  I  am  confident, 
the  very  best  of  crops  would  have  been  ob- 
tained had  a  thorough  system  of  summer- 
fallow  been  adopted. 

"  I  remarked  to  one  of  the  large  ranch  own- 
ers while  riding  through  his  grain  fields  some 
time  ago,  that  his  present  system  of  renting 
and  cultivating  would  soon  break  every  ten- 
ant on  his  ranch,  and  that  they  in  turn  would 
break  him.  Either  summer-fallow  or  irriga- 
tion must  be  adopted  to  make  grain-raising  a 
success  in  that  portion  of  the  valley." 


1833.] 


California  Cereals. 


151 


Dr.  Glenn  makes  the  following  practical 
remarks  as  to  summer-fallowing:  "Summer- 
fallowing  is  the  most  certain  and  reliable  way 
to  farm,  depending,  to  a  great  extent,  on 
class  and  kind  of  land.  Rich,  first-quality, 
and  new  land  should  be  winter-plowed  and 
sown;  for  if  summer-fallowed,  it  grows  en- 
tirely too  rank,  and  would,  in  ordinary  sea- 
sons, fall  down."  Touching  the  same  subject, 
Mr.  Bidwellsays:  "Adobe  lands  require  to 
be  summer-fallowed.  Their  soil  is  black, 
stiff,  and  (when  wet)  sticky,  and  therefore  not 
available  or  profitable  for  winter-sowing." 

I  shall  close  this  article  with  a  few  re- 
marks on  California  wheat  and  flour  from 
the  miller's  standpoint.  I  quote  from  a 
letter  written  by  Starr  &  Co.,  of  the  Starr 
Mills,  Vallejo:  "Our  wheat  is  much  of  the 
same  nature  as  the  fall  or  winter  wheat  of 
the  Western  States ;  but  owing  to  the  pecu- 
liarity of  our  climate  it  has  the  advantage  of 
the  Western  States  wheat  by  its  remaining 
in  a  uniform  condition  throughout  the  year ; 
while  the  western  fall  and  winter  at  some 
times  of  the  year  is  extremely  dry,  and  at 
others  is  so  damp  and  moist  as  to  require 
artificial  drying  before  it  can  be  milled. 

"Ours  is  always  dry,  and  nearly  always  re- 
quires moistening  before  milling,  or  to  prop- 
erly prepare  it  for  milling.  It  is  not  hard  or 
flinty,  like  the  western  spring  wheat,  which  is 
very  flinty,  and  in  grinding  granulates  only. 
Ours  powders,  and,  properly  milled,  easily 
separates  from  the  bran.  It  has  been  the 
custom  in  California,  and  is  now  on  account 
of  the  dryness  of  our  wheat,  to  moisten  it 
before  grinding — the  moistening  having  the 
effect  of  toughening  the  bran  and  causing  it 
to  come  away  from  the  grain  in  flakes,  in- 
stead of  pulverizing  as  it  passes  through  the 
stones;  and  when  pulverized,  it  tends  to  dis- 
color the  flour.  It  can  be  milled  without 
any  or  with  but  a  very  small  proportion  of 
the  water  now  used  under  the  new-process 
system  of  milling.  This,  however,  has  never, 


we  believe,  been  adopted  by  any  Californian 
mill,  and  has  never  to  this  date  (May  27, 
1880)  been  fully  tested  in  the  State,  we 
think.  And  our  wheat  is  not  of  a  nature  to 
require  the  adoption  of  this  process,  it  being 
white  and  soft  though  dry. 

"For  shipping,  it  has  the  advantage  of 
most  of  the  wheat  produced  elsewhere;  its 
dryness  being  a  preservative  quality,  and 
usually  causing  it  to  come  out  of  ships  in 
good  condition  after  long  voyages.  Our 
flour  will  undoubtedly  keep  longer,  and 
stand  the  changes  of  climate  incident'  to 
transportation  by  water  better,  than  flour 
made  from  other  than  California  wheat. 

"The  reduction  of  the  grain  to  flour  is 
easier  and  cheaper  here  than  in  other  parts 
of  the  United  States,  owing  to  its  being  al- 
ways in  a  uniform  condition  for  milling  and 
for  foreign  shipment.  We  think  Californian 
flour  and  wheat  are  superior  to  those  of  the 
Eastern  or  Western  States,  or  Oregon.  Such 
experience  as  we  have  had  and  the  informa- 
tion we  have  received  lead  us  to  believe 
that  it  will  stand  transportation  better,  and 
turn  out  at  destination  better,  than  other 
wheat  and  flour." 

Mr.  H.  M.  A.  Miller  of  the  same  compa- 
ny tells  of  a  case  within  his  own  knowledge 
where  a  sack  of  Californian  flour  was  carried 
in  the  storeroom  of  a  ship  for  two  hundred 
and  fifty  days,  on  the  voyage  from  San  Fran- 
cisco to  Liverpool  and  return,  and  was  at 
the  close  of  the  voyage  in  good  condition, 
making  excellent  bread. 

To  bring  this  article  down  to  the  present 
date,  I  would  state  that  during  the  past 
three  years  the  large  milling  companies  on 
this  coast  have  been  making  extensive  ex- 
periments with  the  so-called  roller  process, 
and  are  so  much  impressed  with  its  workings, 
both  as  to  the  quality  of  flour  produced  and 
the  decreased  expense  in  connection  there- 
with, that  mill-stones  are  being  largely  set 
aside  and  rollers  put  in  their  place. 

Joseph  Hutchinson. 


152 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[August, 


KING  COPHETUA'S   WIFE. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

"  Whose  was  the  fault  if  she  did  not  grow 
Like  a  rose  in  the  summer  ?     Do  you  know  ? 
Does  a  lily  grow  when  its  leaves  are  chilled  ? 
Does  it  bloom  when  its  root  is  winter-killed  ?  " 

A  BRIGHT  light  streaming  out  into  the  ves- 
tibule from  the  hall;  the  murmur  of  voices 
that  floated  out  with  the  warm  air  like  the 
far-off  sound  of  the  ocean  on  a  summer  af- 
ternoon ;  the  rustling  of  fans  and  draper- 
ies ;  and  the  varied  effect  of  opera  bonnets 
and  those  wonderfully  gotten-up  wraps  that 
women  usually  know  well  how  to  wear  so 
that  they  may  be  an  adorning  as  well  as 
comfortable  addition  to  their  toilets — this 
was  the  concert-hall. 

I  was  acting  as  escort  to  Mrs.  Jaquith. 
Maurice  Barras  and  his  wife  had  come  on  to 
their  sister's  American  debut;  and,  indeed,  I 
met  many  of  our  Boston  friends  as  we  passed 
into  the  hall.  Madge  had  started  off  before 
my  carriage  reached  Mrs.  Jaquith's,  her 
brother-in-law  and  Mrs.  Barras  driving  over 
with  her.  Our  seats  were  directly  in  the 
center  of  the  hall,  and  on  reaching  them,  we 
found  Maurice  and  his  wife  in  possession  of 
those  next  to  us.  As  we  seated  ourselves, 
Maurice  whispered  to  Mrs.  Jaquith : 

"I  wish  it  were  possible  to  have  Ascot 
here  to-night;  he  would  play  his  very  best,  I 
am  sure;  and  I  think  his  companionship 
would  take  away  some  of  the  nervousness 
that  Madge  is  full  of.  Poor  child,  she  has 
not  a  friend  with  her,  and  though  my  wife 
wanted  to  stay  in  the  anteroom,  she  fairly 
drove  her  out." 

Then  the  concert  began. 

A  fantasy  by  the  choice  orchestra;  a  ten- 
or solo,  which  was  as  sweet  as  the  single 
voice  that  rises  in  a  foreign  cathedral  when  a 
Te  Deum  is  being  sung,  and  that  made  me 
feel  as  if  the  notes  were  pouring  into  my 
soul;  and  I  thought  of  those  lines  by  the 
young  English  poet: 


"  Ave  and  Ave  !  and  the  music  rolled 
Along  the  carven  wonder  of  the  choir, 
Thrilled  canopy  and  spire, 
Up  till  the  echoes  mingled  with  the  song ; 

And  now  a  boy's  flute-note  that  rings 
Shrill,  sweet,  and  long. 

Ave  and  Ave,  louder  and  more  loud 
Rises  the  strain  he  sings, 
Upon  the  angel's  wings, 
Right  up  to  God." 

A  master  of  the  piano  came  next  on  the 
programme,  whose  execution  of  some  classic 
composition  was  very  fine ;  but  I  think  that 
the  thoughts  of  all  in  our  little  party  turned 
towards  the  delicate  creator  of  music  whose 
power  we  knew  so  well,  and  whose  touch 
upon  the  instrument  was  as  though  the  spir- 
it within  him  was  directing  the  placing  of 
his  fingers  upon  the  keys,  which  seemed  to 
love  him  even  as  he  loved  and  believed  in 
them.  While  to  this  man,  it  was  merely  a 
piano  that  he  played  upon,  and  that  he  had 
mastered  the  scholarly  part  of,  but  not  the 
pure  and  spiritual. 

Then  Madge  came  out,  facing  the  large 
audience  that  sat  wondering  who  this  woman 
could  be  and  where  she  had  sprung  from. 
Professor  This  and  Herr  That  vouched  for 
her  talent,  and  she  was  a  guest  of  Mrs. 
Jaquith,  to  whose  house  it  was  so  hard  to 
obtain  an  invitation;  therefore  she  must  be 
Somebody;  and  the  name  of  Barras  carried 
its  own  weight,  for  those  that  bore  it  might 
gain  entrance  to  any  of  the  exclusive  circles 
in  conservative  Boston. 

And  she  stood  there  for  a  minute  before 
she  began  to  sing.  In  her  plainly  made 
dress,  a  present  from  Maurice,  and  over  the 
brocade  of  its  corsage,  clambered  the  pale, 
sweet  roses  she  had  asked  for,  a  quantity  of 
the  same  hanging  on  their  long  leafy  stems 
down  over  the  skirt.  Ah!  they  were  my 
roses.  I  had  touched  them  and  hung  over 
them  before  I  sent  them  to  her,  and  she  was 
wearing  them.  My  heart  beat  loud  and 


1883.] 


King  Cophetuas  Wife. 


153 


knocked  against  my  breast,  as  if  determined 
to  find  its  way  out  and  to  her  feet. 

And  when  she  sang — ah !  when  she  sang, 
the  melody  filled  the  room  with  its  own 
grand  beauty.  Again  and  again  she  was  re- 
called, retiring  each  time  with  a  slight  bow, 
until  the  audience,  determined  that  she 
should  give  another  song,  made  such  a  dem- 
onstration that  she  came  to  the  front  of  the 
stage  and  sang  the  simple  little  song  whose 
words  it  seems  to  me  no  other  one  than 
Dinah  Muloch  could  have  written.  There 
must  have  been  tears  in  the  eyes  of  every 
person  in  the  hall  as  the  pathetic  sentences 
were  carried  by  the  sweet  yet  noble  voice 
out  to  the  world.  I  stood  it  very  well  until 
the  stanza — 

"  I  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you ; 
Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows ; 
I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true." 

And  I  choked  up  then,  and  could  have 
cried  like  a  baby,  as  I  saw  other  men  doing 
almost  unconsciously;  but  I  knew  that  if  she 
were  to  see  me  break  down  her  courage 
would  give  way  and  her  voice  fail  her. 

She  sang  once  more  at  the  close  of  the  pro- 
gramme, and  then  the  verses  by  Aldrich — 
the  verses  to  which  he  has  given  the  name  of 
"Palabras  Carinosas."  Beautiful  as  a  newly 
plucked  rose,  and  as  full  of  feeling,  notwith- 
standing their  delicacy,  as  the  passionate 
heart  of  a  lover. 

"Good  night !     I  have  to  say  good  night 

To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good  night  unto  that  fragile  hand 

All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ; 
Good  night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 

Good  night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good  night  unto  the  perfect  mouth 

And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  good  night  again." 

When  we  left  the  room  after  that,  Mrs. 
Jaquith  insisted  upon  our  all  coming  to  her 
house  to  congratulate  Madge,  and  we  went. 

She  had  reached  there  before  us,  and  was 
sitting  idly  in  a  large  easy-chair,  as  if  she 
had  stopped  for  thought  while  lazily  drawing 
off  a  glove.  Her  mind  was  over  the  ocean, 


and  she  did  not  hear  us  come  in ;  perhaps 
the  waves  of  memory  drowned  the  sound  of 
our  footsteps. 

Lightness  and  brightness  came  back  to 
her  as  we  gathered  around  her  chair,  and 
she  took  up  the  manner  and  quick,  cheery 
badinage  we  used  to  find  one  of  her  distinct- 
ive characteristics. 

I  was  standing  over  by  the  piano ;  it  was 
very  late,  and  I  was  thinking  of  leaving  for 
my  hotel,  when  Madge  came  up  to  me. 

"What!  thinking? — -and  gloomy  thoughts 
at  that?  No,  no,  my  dear  friend,  you  must 
not  be  sad.  Think  how  well  I  have  kept 
up  this  evening;  have  I  not  done  well?  My 
heart  is  as  numb  as  a  gravestone,  and  I  can 
laugh  and  be  merry  with  the  best  of  you. 
Your  roses  were  beautiful,  and  I  am  grate- 
ful, as  you  know  without  my  saying  it.  Why, 
smile,  Frank;  you  make  me  feel  as  if  you 
were  very  unhappy;  what  is  the  trouble?" 

"Nothing ;  at  least  you  would  call  it 
nothing  if  you  knew  what  it  really  is.  Per- 
haps it  is  because  you  sang  that  '  Douglas,' 
as  much  as  anything." 

"Yes,  is  it  not  a  pathetic  poem?  But 
see,  I  can  sing  it  over  again  without  my 
voice  breaking  at  all." 

And  she  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  did 
sing  the  lovely  song  for  me,  and  when  she 
rose  she  said  : 

"  Have  I  not  learned  to  control  myself  ? 
Something  is  gone  out  of  me  that  will  not 
come  back,  and  I  am  not  a  heart-broken 
woman  now.  I  belong  to  the  world  as  you 
do,  only  in  a  smaller  way,  to  be  stared  at  by 
men  and  women,  criticised,  and  talked 
about." 

"  Do  not,  do  not,  I  beg  of  you — do  not 
speak  in  this  way.  God  Almighty  knows 
that  it  is  hard  for  me  to  see  you  who  should 
be  carefully  kept  and  sheltered  like  a  flower, 
not  for  all  eyes  to  gaze  upon,  but  for  the  few 
who  can  see  the  half-divine  womanhood  be- 
hind the  beauty  outside  to  approach  and 
know.  I  say  it  pains  my  heart  to  see  you 
in  this  position;  but  you  make  it  doubly 
hard  for  me  by  talking  as  though  the  pub- 
licity of  your  career  had  already  grown  dis- 
tasteful to  you.  Can  you  not  drop  the 


154 


King  Cophetud's  Wife. 


[August, 


singing?    Will  you  not  return  to  your  home 
and—" 

"Home?  I  have  no  home;  that  is  gone 
from  me.  I  have  nothing  left  me  but  my 
friends.  Not  that  I  am  ungrateful  to  or  for 
them,  nor  that  I  do  not  love  them  for  their 
goodness  to  me.  But  you  know  how  well  I 
loved  and  do  love  Neil.  He  is  my  world, 
my  all." 

"  Do  not  talk  any  more,  Madge ;  I  must 
go  away  now,  for  you  are  tired.  I  will  call 
again  in  the  morning,  for  I  leave  in  the 
afternoon  for  Boston." 

I  could  not  have  heard  her  talk  longer  of 
being  homeless  while  my  home  was  so  deso- 
late. I  suffered — ah!  I  suffered  again  the 
old  agony  I  had  tried  to  kill,  but  which  was 
still  alive  and  bitter.  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  streets,  and  I  thought  of  what  Harry 
had  said  the  autumn  before  when  we  crossed 
the  Public  Gardens  in  Boston,  and  all  seemed 
so  prosperous  and  pleasant  in  Neil's  family. 
I  thought,  too,  of  the  lad  who  was  so  far 
away,  and  fading  even  as  the  flowers  fade, 
gradually  but  surely  going  to  his  rest.  He 
was  suffering,  besides  his  physical  pain,  the 
same  great  heart-ache  that  I  was  enduring. 
Then  I  went  back  to  my  hotel,  thinking  of 
this  delicate  boy  who  kept  smothered  in  his 
heart  the  same  love  that  I  was  trying  so  hard 
to  smother  myself.  And  I  went  to  bed  with 
the  tears  streaming  down  my  cheeks. 

And  the  next  morning  I  went  to  see 
Madge.  She  was  alone  in  the  morning- 
room,  and  I  had  brought  her  a  basket  full  of 
pinks — fresh,  sweet  pinks.  She  buried  her 
face  in  the  fragrant  mass,  and  then  said: 

"  How  beautiful  these  are!  They  look  up 
at  me  with  such  cheerful  faces,  and  their 
spicy  odor  is  delightful.  You  know  how 
I  love  flowers,  and  are  so  kind  to  remember 
my  love  for  them  so  often  and  so  gracefully." 

Mrs.  Jaquith  came  into  the  room  and 
stood  by  me  while  Madge  put  some  of  the 
white  pinks  at  the  throat  of  her  kind  friend, 
who  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  window, 
while  Madge  walked  across  the  room.  And 
after  a  few  words  with  Mrs.  Jaquith,  I  fol- 
lowed Madge,  and  stood  watching  her  put 
the  pinks  into  vases — watching  her  as  I 


had  done  at  my  own  house  when  she  ar- 
ranged the  flowers  for  me  before  my  small 
tea-party. 

As  we  were  talking,  two  cards  were  brought 
to  Mrs.  Jaquith.  I  saw  her  start  and  look 
suddenly  at  Madge ;  then  came  a  movement 
of  her  lips — "Admit  them." 

I  lost  the  thread  of  my  conversation  with 
Madge,  and  stood  looking  at  the  door;  I  did 
not  know  why,  but  a  subtle  feeling  of  fore- 
boding ran  over  me,  and  I  felt  sure  that  who- 
ever might  be  waiting  in  the  reception-room 
had  a  direct  influence  upon  my  life  or  upon 
that  of  one  dear  to  me. 

It  seemed  a  long  time,  although  a  minute 
could  hardly  have  passed,  before  a  lady 
dressed  in  deep  mourning  crossed  the  thresh- 
old, accompanied  by  a  young  man.  Madge 
had  looked  up  at  me  when  I  stopped  talking, 
and  her  eyes  followed  the  bent  of  mine. 
She  must  have  seen  Harry  while  the  lady 
was  saying  a  few  low  words  to  Mrs.  Jaquith, 
for  she  exclaimed,  "Harry  Ascot!"  and 
stepped  forward  to  greet  him;  but,  seeing 
the  lady  who  had  entered  with  him,  drew  back 
and  stood  near  me,  with  one  hand  upon  my 
arm — a  steady  hand  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
as  the  lady  threw  back  her  veil  it  dis- 
closed the  face  of  Beulah  Beldon.  Harry 
stood  in  the  background,  and  Mrs.  Jaquith 
straightened  herself  up  a  bit  with  a  peculiar 
hauteur,  and  Mrs.  Beldon  said : 

"You  will  pardon  me  for  calling  upon  you 
without  an  invitation  to  do  so,  Mrs.  Jaquith." 

Madge  started  to  leave  the  room,  but 
Harry  came  to  her  and  whispered  a  few 
words  in  her  ear,  and  his  sister  went  on : 

"  We  arrived  from  Europe  early  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  begged  Harry  to  come  here  with 
me  at  once,  for  I  have  something  to  say  to 
Mrs.  Barras,  if  she  will  permit  me  to  see 
her  alone." 

Madge  drew  herself  away  from  the  sup- 
port of  her  arm.  "  You  can  have  nothing 
to  say  to  me,  madam,  that  I  should  not  wish 
my  friends  here  to  know.  I  think  you  can 
have  nothing  to  say  that  will  be  agreeable  to 
me;  but  if  you  feel  that  you  have,  I  will 
listen  now." 

Mrs.  Beldon  came  towards  her,  and  Har- 


1883.] 


King  Cophetuas  Wife. 


155 


ry  brought  a  chair  forward  for  Madge,  which 
she  declined  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  and 
motioned  for  Mrs.  Beldon  to  take  it. 

"  Be  seated  yourself,  please.  If  I  am  to 
tell  my  story  in  the  presence  of  so  many,  it 
will  be  better  that  all  are  seated."  It  was 
the  same  sweet,  fascinating  voice  we  had  al- 
ways known  as  one  of  Beulah  Beldon's 
charm  s — a  voice  that  seemed  to  have  caught 
some  of  its  musical  breadth  from  Harry's 
genius.  Madge,  as  she  sank  into  a  chair, 
was  st  ill  looking  with  a  penetrating,  riveted 
gaze  at  the  woman  who  had  so  ruined  her 
life.  Harry  had  come  up  to  me,  and  was  sit- 
ting in  his  favorite  position  on  the  arm  of 
my  chair,  and  his  sister,  leaning  lightly  for- 
ward from  a  low  sofa,  began : 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  objection  to 
saying  in  the  presence  of  these  your  friends, 
Mrs.  Barras,  what  I  have  to  say.  They  are 
interested  in  your  life  and  its  sorrow,  but 
not  one  of  them  more  so  than  I,  although 
you,  naturally  enough,  will  not  believe  me. 

"I  met  your  husband  at  a  society  hotel, 
and — here  is  my  confession,  which  I  make 
honestly,  though  to  my  shame— noticing  his 
strength  and  manliness,  his  face,  which  ap- 
peared full  of  character  and  power,  so  differ- 
ent from  the  society  men  who  had  been 
following  me  about  in  an  absurdly  senti- 
mental way,  I  went  directly  to  work  to  attract 
him.  Thoughtlessly,  I  swear,  without  look- 
ing forward  to  what  might  follow,  I  assure 
you. 

"My  husband  (whom  I  married  because 
he  loved  me,  and  was  good  and  kind  to  me, 
and  was  always  willing  I  should  follow  the 
bent  of  my  own  inclinations)  ventured  no  re- 
monstrance, showed  no  grievance  at  what  I 
see  now  was  unwomanly  and  untrue  in  me. 
Therefore,  there  was  no  obstruction  there. 
It  was  a  temptation  that  a  woman  like  your- 
self cannot  comprehend.  Here  was  a  man 
whom  every  woman  could  not  bring  to  her 
feet ;  it  would  be  a  delight  to  draw  him  on 
and  into  a  position  that  I  did  not  believe  he 
had  ever  been  brought  to. 

"I  saw  at  last  what  I  had  done.  Mr. 
Eldridge  spoke  frankly  to  me  of  the  evil  I 
was  bringing  upon  his  friend,  and  his  words, 


falling  hot  upon  my  already  conscience- 
stricken  heart,  angered  me,  made  me  obsti- 
nate and  cruel;  and  I  spoke  to  him  as  I 
have  been  very  sorry  ever  since  that  I  did 
speak. 

"So  it  went  on,  growing  worse  from  day  to 
day.  Mr.  Eldridge  returned  to  Boston,  and 
Mr.  Barras  left  soon  after.  I  had  never 
seen  you  then — remember  that.  Mr.  Barras 
pursued  me;  and  if  I  were  on  my  death:bed, 
and  about  to  walk  straight  from  here  into  the 
presence  of  angels,  I  should  be  ready  to 
swear,  as  I  swear  now,  that  I  tried  to  avoid 
him." 

She  was  standing,  in  her  excitement,  and 
her  voice  lost  none  of  its  ringing  clearness 
in  the  rapidity  with  which  she  spoke,  mak- 
ing an  impressive  picture  in  her  long  sweep- 
ing garments  of  black  and  with  her  upraised 
hand. 

"Some  one — not  I — telegraphed  to  your 
husband  the  news  of  Mr.  Beldon's  death. 
He  came  to  New  York  and  was  very  kind 
to  me,  very  attentive;  but  his  presence  was 
an  annoyance  rather  than  a  pleasure.  After 
my  brother  and  I  had  left  for  England,  he 
followed  us  there — and,  indeed,  wherever  we 
went  through  Europe,  until  Harry  sent  him 
away  by  confronting  him  with  the  strong, 
forcible  truth. 

"I  have  been  guilty  of  drawing  your  hus- 
band from  you,  Mrs.  Barras.  I  have  been 
guilty  of  spoiling  your  life;  and  of  much, 
much  that  I  cannot  talk  about  here.  But, 
oh,  believe  me !  I  am  guiltless  of  any  inten- 
tional wrong — of  doing  a  thing  that  I  thought 
would  rebound  upon  you.  You  will  not  be- 
lieve me  now :  I  could  not  expect  it  of  you. 
Some  day  you  will  know  that  I  speak  the 
truth,  and  that  I  would  do  anything  in  my 
power  to  bring  him  back  to  you." 

She  paused,  and  putting  her  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes,  fell  back  into  a  chair. 

Then  Madge  rose  up. 

"You  do  not  bring  him  back  to  me;  you 
cannot  give  him  again  to  me  as  he  was  when 
he  loved  me,  and  I  alone  could  fill  his  cup 
of  happiness.  All  that  is  gone  out  of  my  life 
— a  woman's  life.  You  must  have  known 
sometime,  or  you  will  sometime  know  what 


156 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[August, 


that  is  in  a  woman's  life;  it  leaves  her  nothing 
but  the  barrenness  of  existence;  it  leaves  her 
hopeless  and  turned  almost  into  stone." 

Mrs.  Beldon  went  up  to  her  and  put  her 
arms  around  Madge's  neck,  and  laying  her 
shrouded  head  on  her  shoulder,  wept  bitterly 
and  long.  Madge  suffered  it — nay,  even  laid 
her  own  cheek  against  that  of  Beulah's  and 
wept  with  her.  Then  she  said,  tenderly  and 
firmly : 

"I  forgive  you  wholly,  even  as  I  hope  to 
be  forgiven  for  my  many  failings.  We  will 
be  friends,  if  you  please ;  it  will  be  better  so 
for  us  both ;  and  some  day  he  rnay  come 
back  to  me." 

Then  Harry  and  I  left  the  room,  which 
Mrs.  Jaquith  had  already  quitted.  I  had  a 
long  talk  with  Harry;  the  boy  had  grown 
thinner  and  paler.  I  could  not  see  how  he 
had  been  enabled  to  fight  disease,  as  he 
had  fought  it  and  conquered,  for  so  long. 
He  told  me  how  changed  his  sister  was  ;  how 
this  trouble  had  preyed  upon  her  mind ;  and 
how,  all  the  way  across  the  ocean,  she  would 
gladly  hail  each  new  day  that  brought  her 
nearer  to  Mrs.  Barras. 

We  went  again  into  the  room  where  we 
had  left  them,  and  found  the  two  women  sit- 
ting together  on  a  sofa,  with  closely  clasped 
hands,  and  tears  upon  the  face  of  each. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

"Why,  you  can  all  bear  me  witness  how  I  loved 
him  :  you  used  to  laugh  at  me." 

"O,  my  brave,  sweet  lad  !  how  his  angel  eyes 

Will  gaze  out  over  the  ocean  dim, 

That  reaches  from  here  unto  Paradise, 

Till  I  set  my  sail  and  follow  him. " 

Harry  Ascot  had  engaged  to  give  an  or- 
gan-concert in  Washington  in  November,  for 
the  benefit  of  a  certain  notable  charity,  and, 
agreeable  to  an  old  promise,  I  was  to  go  to 
the  capital  with  him,  and,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  to  the  concert. 

We  reached  the  city  the  night  before  that 
on  which  he  was  advertised  to  appear ;  and 
after  dinner  he  sat  down  to  the  upright  piano 
he  had  ordered  for  our  sitting-room,  and 
played  with  more  brilliancy  and  powerful 
fingering  than  I  had  known  him  to  do  since 


his  return  from  Europe ;  yet  he  steadily  re- 
fused to  improvise  for  me. 

"I  am  'on  the  bills'  to  improvise  to-morrow 
night,  you  know,  and  must  not  wear  out  my 
fancy  before  then.  Besides,  a  piano  does 
not  suit  my  mood  in  these  days.  I  want  an 
organ ;  then  I  can  pour  out  all  the  longing 
of  my  heart,  all  its  cries  and  pain.  I  can 
talk  to  you  on  an  organ;  on  a  piano  I  should 
be  bound  down  to  the  commonplace." 

I  looked  closely  at  him  as  he  sat  there  in 
the  bright  light,  and  saw  how  transparent  his 
hands  had  grown,  how  thin  and  sharp  his 
nose.  The  heavy  ring  that  he  wore  more 
than  once  slipped  off  his  finger  and  fell  on 
the  keys  of  the  instrument.  And  at  last, 
with  an  angry  gesture  and  exclamation,  e 
threw  the  jeweled  band  of  gold  across  the 
room,  where  it  lay  on  the  floor,  with  the 
baleful  cat's-eye  and  glittering  diamonds 
gleaming  at  me  as  I  turned  to  find  it. 

"Let  it  lie  !"  he  cried  sharply  to  me,  and 
his  hands  crashed  out  a  discord.  "Let  it 
lie,  I  tell  you  !  They  say  that  a  cat's-eye,  if 
worn  faithfully,  brings  good  luck.  Good 
luck !  I  wonder  what  that  is.  It  would 
take  God  and  the  Devil  together  to  set  my 
tangled  threads  of  life  into  the  proper  web 
and  woof  again." 

And  he  turned  back  to  his  music,  and 
chose  out  the  wildest  of  compositions  from 
the  great  masters  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
As  we  were  about  to  retire  for  the  night, 
he  came  to  me,  and  taking  my  hand,  put  upon 
my  finger  the  ring  that  he  had  discarded. 

"Wear  it  always,  Frank — wear  it  always. 
I  know  your  secret,  even  as  you  know  mine; 
and  let  this  ring  be  a  reminder  always  that 
it  is  not  to  ourselves  alone  we  owe  faith, 
honor,  and  purity,  but  to  the  one  we  love. 
Remember  always  to  be  brave  and  true  to 
yourself,  my  best  of  friends." 

He  would  not  let  me  go  to  his  dressing- 
room  with  him  the  next  night;  and  I  went 
into  the  audience-room  with  a  strange  feel- 
ing, as  of  suffocation. 

The  church  was  crowded — thronged.  I 
found  a  vacant  place  in  the  far  corner  of  a 
gallery  where  I  could  watch  the  organ  close- 
ly— and  waited. 


1883.] 


King  Cophetucis  Wife. 


157 


Eight  o'clock  came,  the  door  to  the  organ- 
loft  opened,  and  the  performer  of  the  even- 
ing passed  to  his  place.  The  assembled 
hearers  gave  him  a  noisy  greeting,  but  he 
neglected  to  acknowledge  it.  In  a  few  min- 
utes the  first  notes  came  pouring  forth. 
Composition  after  composition  was  played, 
and  the  people  forgot  to  applaud. 

The  latter  part  of  the  concert  was  to  be  of 
improvisations.  He  took  these  listening 
strangers  into  the  country,  as  he  had  once 
taken  Neil  and  Madge  and  me.  Ah,  so  long 
ago  it  seemed ! 

He  took  the  theme  of  "Othello,"  and  re- 
vealed the  grand  tragedy  in  music,  with  all 
the  power  of  expression  that  human  thought 
could  render. 

I  leaned  far  forward  and  wondered  again 
and  again  at  the  strength  in  those  delicate 
fingers,  at  the  subtle  intellect  hidden  behind 
the  clear,  childish  eyes.  The  audience 
cheered  him  when  he  finished  that  great 
piece  of  work,  yet  he  did  not  lift  his  eyes. 

Then — ah,  then ! — he  began  to  play  again. 
I  knew  before  he  had  struck  a  dozen  chords 
that  he  was  telling  his  whole  life  to  these 
human  beings,  and  they  could  not  know  it. 
His  boyhood,  full  of  rippling  laughter  and 
wonderment,  his  hopes,  his  dreams,  his  fears, 
and  his  failures.  I  knew  and  understood 
all  that  he  made  the  instrument  tell  for  him ; 
and  then  he  began  talking  to  me.  He  gave 
thanks  for  me  arid  for  my  friendship,  he 
counseled  me  and  encouraged  me,  and  so 
plain  was  it  all  to  me  that  I  shrunk  back 
against  the  wall,  half  expecting  to  see  the 
mass  of  faces  turned  towards  me.  I  could 
not  think — if  I  thought  at  all — why  they, 
cultured,  musical  persons,  did  not  know  what 
he  was  saying  and  to  whom  it  was  said.  But 
they  heard  only  the  melody  and  sweetness, 
the  weird,  strange  pathos ;  and  when  the 
music  died  away  in  a  wild  cry,  as  if  he  were 
asking  to  be  taken  from  all  these  men  and 
women  and  to  be  comforted  and  caressed, 
the  audience  gave  him  plaudit  after  plaudit, 
and  then  went  out  of  the  building. 

I  heard  those  about  me  comment  on  my 
boy's  playing;  all  kinds  of  words  were  used 
expressive  of  admiration,  and  I  hurried 


through  the  crowd  and  around  to  the  minis- 
ter's room,  that  had  been  given  up  to  the 
organist's  use.  There  stood  my  friend,  re- 
ceiving the  compliments  and  congratulations 
of  the  managers  of  the  affair  and  their 
friends.  Cold,  indifferent,  uninterested,  he 
stood  there  without  a  sign  of  fatigue  or 
weakness  after  the  efforts  of  the  evening. 
But  he  t  urned  to  me  with  a  quick  smile  of 
pleased  rel  ief,  threw  his  fur-lined  ulster  about 
him,  bowed  hastily  to  the  persons  in  the 
room,  and  taking  my  arm,  passed  rapidly  to 
his  carriage.  Then  he  leaned  back  wearied 
and  worn,  and  said  : 

"Did  you  understand,  Frank,  what  the 
organ  said  to  you  for  me?" 

"  Yes,  laddie,  every  word.  But  you  had 
better  not  talk  now,  you  are  tired  out." 

"No,  not  exactly  tired;  surely  not  tired  by 
my  playing,  but  weary  of  it  all — the  world, 
the  struggle,  and  the  sorrow  of  it." 

When  we  reached  the  hotel  he  drank  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  sat  down  to  the  piano, 
playing  softly  to  himself  in  the  unlighted  sit- 
ting-room ;  and  I  thought,  as  I  listened  with 
my  eyes  shaded  from  the  fire-light,  that  what 
he  was  playing  was  like  a  prayer — that  he 
was  talking  to  God. 

I  must  have  gone  to  sleep,  for  I  started  up 
suddenly  to  find  that  the  fire  had  gone  down 
in  the  grate,  and  that  there  was  a  silence  in 
the  room.  I  crossed  quickly  to  the  piano, 
put  out  my  hand,  and  found  that  Harry  had 
laid  his  head  upon  his  folded  arms  and 
gone  to  sleep  apparently,  for  he  did  not  an- 
swer when  I  spoke  to  him.  I  took  hold 
of  his  shoulder,  but  he  did  not  stir.  I 
put  my  hand  gently  under  his  chin  and 
turned  his  face  towards  me;  still  he  did 
not  speak.  His  flesh  was  cold  and  wet,  and 
my  hand  too  was  moist.  I  lighted  a  match 
and  the  gas.  It  was  blood  that  was  on  my 
hand,  blood  upon  the  piano-keys — blood  that 
had  flowed  from  the  mouth  of  my  dear  boy 
friend,  who  had  died — the  doctors  said — 
painlessly  and  quietly  from  hemorrhage. 

Then  I  knew  that  the  last,  the  sweetest 
thing  he  had  ever  played  was — as  I  had  fan- 
cied— a  prayer  to  God.  The  last  offering  of 
his  genius  was  to  him  who  gave  it. 

James  Berry  Bensel. 


[CONCLUDED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


158 


Avalon,  the  Precursor  of  Maryland. 


[August, 


AVALON,    THE    PRECURSOR   OF   MARYLAND. 


IN  the  southwest  of  England,  about  mid- 
way between  the  cities  of  Bath  and  Taunton, 
are  situated  the  ruins  of  the  richest  and 
most  powerful  abbey  in  the  land.  Surround- 
ed by  orchards  of  ruddy  apples,  from  which 
it  gets  its  name  of  Avalon,  on  the  east  look- 
ing towards  the  mountainou  s  paths  that  lead 
up  to  old  Sarum,  and  towards  the  west  hav- 
ing a  prospect  of  the  famous  Bristol  Chan- 
nel, the  site  chosen  for  the  historic  Abbey 
of  Glastonbury  is  worthy  of  the  cluster  of 
famous  names  inseparably  associated  with  its 
history.  Within  sight  of  this  shrine,  now  des- 
olate, dwelt,  according  to  legend,  Joseph  of 
Arimathea  and  St.  Patrick  ;  Lucius,  the  first 
Christian  king  of  Britain, .and  King  Arthur, 
his  renowned  successor  ;  here  lived  St.  Augus- 
tine, the  first  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and 
St.  Dunstan,  the  primate  who  was  unequaled 
by  Richelieu,  Ina  and  Edgar  and  Alfred, 
the  greatest  of  England's  early  kings.  In 
our  day  it  is  the  favorite  residence  of  Eng- 
land's greatest  historian,  whose  "Norman 
Conquest"  relates  the  story  of  its  early  re- 
nown and  sore  disasters.  Long  before  the 
bishops  of  Durham  had  a  place  in  history, 
the  abbots  of  Avalon  were  sovereigns  in 
their  secluded  isle;  neither  king  nor  bishop 
dare  enter  their  abode  without  their  per- 
mission. The  hanging  and  quartering  of 
the  last  abbot  for  his  sturdy  resistance  to 
Henry  VIII.  brought  destruction  to  the  sa- 
cred shrine.  Its  glory  has  faded  away. 
The  ivy  which  now  clings  to  the  walls  guard- 
ing the  ashes  of  King  Arthur  and  King  Ed- 
gar would  conceal  from  vulgar  eyes  these 
sacred  ruins  of  departed  grandeur. 

Upon  the  shores  of  the  new  world  there 
arose  a  new  Avalon,  the  first  fruits  of  Ca- 
bot's discovery;  it  was  intended  by  its  found- 
er to  fill  in  history  the  space  formerly  held 
by  its  great  namesake.  Its  glory,  however,- 
soon  passed  away ;  its  destruction  was  has- 
tened, not  as  that  of  the  shrine  of  St.  Dun- 
stan, by  the  hands  of  cruel  men,  but  by  those 


irresistible  agents,  the  wind,  the  storm,  and 
the  flood. 

During  the  reigns  of  the  last  of  the  Tu- 
dors  and  the  first  of  the  Stuarts,  the  people 
of  England  were  in  a  constant  fever  of  ex- 
citement in  regard  to  the  wonderful  news 
continually  pouring  in  from  the  distant  East 
and  West  Indies.  Sovereign  and  subject, 
noble  and  gentry,  merchant  and  artisan,  were 
equally  anxious  to  know  all  that  could  be 
learned  about  the  new  lands,  and  to  receive 
their  share  of  the  fabulous  riches  possessed 
by  their  inhabitants  or  stored  away  in  their 
sacred  buildings.  Trading  companies  were 
formed,  ships  were  fitted  out  for  long  voy- 
ages of  discovery  and  of  profit,  and  all  classes 
of  people,  from  prince  to  peasant,  joined 
heartily  in  plans  to  gain  wealth  or  fame. 
Emigrants  from  inland  towns  hurried  to  the 
seashore  with  their  families  and  humble  for- 
tunes, ready  and  eager  to  brave  the  dangers 
of  the  deep  to  find  homes  and  wealth  in 
the  El  Dorados  laved  by  the  waters  of  the 
Atlantic  and  the  Pacific.  The  ocean  was 
dotted  with  white  sails  issuing  from  innu- 
merable seaports  of  western  Europe.  Thou- 
sands of  vessels  were  engaged  in  the  con- 
veyance of  precious  gems  and  metals  and 
spices  from  the  continent  of  Asia  and  the 
neighboring  islands,  and  whole  fleets  visited 
the  shores  of  America  in  search  of  gold  and 
valuable  products.  The  English  and  the 
Dutch  East  India  Company  and  the  Dutch 
West  India  Company  were  declaring  enor- 
mous dividends,  ranging  from  seventy-five  to 
one  hundred  per  cent.  The  Spanish,  the 
French,  the  Dutch,  and  the  English  adven- 
turers and  settlers  vied  with  each  other  for 
the  right  of  erecting  forts  and  factories  along 
the  south  and  east  shores  of  Asia,  and  along 
the  Atlantic  coast  from  the  peninsula  of 
Florida  to  the  large  island  of  Newfoundland. 
The  most  surreptitious  means  were  taken  to 
secure  the  possession  of  new  territory,  and 
frequently  a  contest  of  words  would  lead  to 


1883.J 


Avalon,  the  Precursor  of  Mart/land. 


159 


a  hard  struggle  on  land  and  sea  for  disputed 
lands. 

The  extent  of  the  mania  for  speculation  is 
illustrated  by  the  desperate  attempts  to  es- 
tablish colonies  and  trading  posts  upon  the 
most  inhospitable  and  dangerous  shores,  and 
also  in  the  large  fortunes  sunk  by  individ- 
uals and  by  joint-stock  companies;  even 
the  foggy,  barren  island  of  Newfoundland 
became  the  locus  of  many  colonization 
schemes. 

This  large  island,  lying  near  the  entrance 
of  Hudson's  Bay,  was  frequently  visited  by 
English  pirates  and  fishing-vessels.  Its  in- 
terior was  a  sealed  book  to  the  fishermen  re- 
siding along  the  shore;  but  as  it  lay  on  a 
parallel  with  England  and  Scandinavia,  it 
was  taken  for  granted  its  soil  and  climate 
were  similar  to  that  of  these  countries.  The 
absence  of  information  strengthened  the 
imagination,  and  led  to  the  circulation  in 
England  of  highly  exaggerated  accounts  of 
its  fertile  soil  and  salubrious  climate. 

Captain  Hayes,  second  in  command  to 
the  expedition  under  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert, 
who  visited  Newfoundland  in  1583,  wrote  an 
account  of  the  expedition,  describing  in 
glowing  terms  the  advantages  to  be  gained 
the  English  nation  by  making  permanent 
settlements  on  the  island.  The  worthy  cap- 
tain had  remained  but  a  few  weeks  on  the 
island,  but,  gifted  with  a  vivid  imagination 
and  an  eloquent  pen,  he  saw  many  good 
things  that  his  credulous  readers  looked  for 
in  vain.  Had  the  captain  been  the  agent  of 
a  land  company,  he  could  not  have  employed 
more  forcible  argument.  His  logic  was  pe- 
culiar, and  because  of  its  peculiarity  was 
convincing  to  a  large  class  of  readers.  He 
saw  the  island  in  the  month  of  August,  when 
the  harvest  was  ripening,  and  so  had  a  foun- 
dation upon  which  to  build  his  warm  narra- 
tion. 

"I  grant  that  not  in  Newfoundland 
alone,  but  in  Germany,  Italy,  and  Afrike, 
even  under  the  equinoctiall  line,  the  moun- 
taines  are  extreme  cold  and  seeldome  un- 
covered of  snow,  in  their  culme  and  highest 
tops ;  .  .  .  .  the  cold  cannot  be  so  great  as 
that  in  Swedland,  much  less  in  Muscovia  or 


Russia;  yet  are  the  same  countries  very 
populous,  and  the  rigor  of  cold  is  dispensed 
with  by  the  commoditie  of  stoves,  warme 
clothing,  meats,  and  drinkes."  Again  he 
says:  "The  grasse  and  herbe  doth  fat  sheepe 
in  very  short  space,  proved  by  English  mar- 
chants  which  have  carried  sheepe  thither  for 
fresh  victuell,  and  had  them  raised  exceeding 
fat  in  lesse  than  three  weeks."  He  con- 
cludes his  cogent  description  by  an  appeal 
that  would  have  been  warmly  seconded  by 
Malthus:  "We  could  not  observe  the  hun- 
dredth part  of  creatures  in  those  uninhabited 
lands;  but  these  mentioned  may  induce  us 
to  -glorifie  the  magnificent  God,  who  hath 
superabundantly  replenished  the  earth  with 
creatures  serving  for  the  use  of  man,  though 
man  has  not  used  the  fift  part  of  the  same, 
which  the  more  doth  aggravate  the  fault  and 
foolish  slouth  in  many  of  our  nation,  chus- 
ing  rather  to  live  indirectly,  and  very  miser- 
ably to  live  and  die  within  this  realme 
pestered  with  inhabitants,  then  to  adventure 
as  becommeth  men,  to  obtaine  an  habitation 
in  those  remote  lands,  in  which  Nature  very 
prodigally  doth  minister  unto  men's  endeav- 
ours, and  for  art  to  worke  upon." 

The  accounts  given  by  writers  of  this  class 
stirred  the  people,  both  the  poor  and  the 
wealthy :  the  one  seeking  a  home  surrounded 
by  luxuries  unknown  in  England;  the  other 
a  place  for  remunerative  investment.  Nu- 
merous trading  posts,  factories,  and  settle- 
ments were  made  ;  emigrants  were  secured, 
ships  equipped,  stores  provided,  towns  were 
laid  out,  dwellings  were  built,  ports  erected, 
and  government  instituted.  Preparations 
were  made  to  settle  the  coasts  and  to  ad- 
vance gradually  towards  the  interior.  Hope 
ran  high.  The  balmy  weather  of  summer, 
inspired  the  settlers  with  enthusiasm.  The 
sound  of  the  hammer  blended  with  the  song 
of  the  fisherman  and  the  cheery  words  of 
the  planter.  But  soon  there  came  a  nipping 
frost;  the  days  became  exceedingly  short, 
the  sun  ceased  to  give  out  its  heat,  and  the 
old  ocean  hurled  storm  and  angry  winds 
upon  the  daring  intruders.  The  crops  rotted 
before  they  could  ripen,  the  animals  sickened 
and  died  for  want  of  proper  nourishment. 


160 


Avalon,  the  Precursor  of  Maryland. 


[August, 


The  settlers  became  despondent,  and  has- 
tened to  leave  the  ill-fated  land. 

One  of  the  most  disastrous  of  these  fail- 
ures was  that  of  Sir  George  Calvert,  the  future 
Lord  Baltimore  and  founder  of  Maryland. 
Driven  by  adverse  circumstances  from  inhos- 
pitable Newfoundland,  he  found  a  more  gen- 
erous soil  within  the  boundaries  of  Virginia. 

Sir  George,  one  of  the  principal  secretaries 
of  state,  was  engrossed  in  politics,  and  could 
ill  afford  time  to  verify  the  marvelous  tales 
he  had  heard  of  the  new-found  land,  its 
exuberant  soil,  its  fruitful  waters.  In  the 
year  1621,  he  sent  over  a  small  colony  of 
thirty-two  persons,  consisting  of  salt-makers, 
mechanics,  fishermen,  and  other  laboring 
men.  The  absence  of  women  and  children, 
of  clergymen  and  of  nobility,  would  indicate 
that  this  colony  should  perform  the  pioneer 
work  of  digging  and  leveling,  building  store- 
houses, dwellings,  and  granaries.  His  ex- 
periment was  very  expensive ;  according  to 
one  writer,  the  outlay  amounted  to  £20,- 
ooo;  but  this  doubtless  included  the  cost 
of  the  territory.  The  little  colony,  com- 
posed chiefly  of  Puritans,  was  subject  to 
the  authority  of  Captain  Edward  Wynne, 
commissioned  as  governor. 

The  province  of  Avalon,  which  Calvert 
purchased  in  1621  and  received  the  exclu- 
sive grant  for  from  King  James  in  1623,  lay 
in  the  southeastern  part  of  Newfoundland, 
stretching  about  one  degree  northward  from 
46^°  parallel  of  latitude.  It  was  in  the 
shape  of  a  peninsula,  extending  eastward  into 
the  Atlantic,  and  on  the  west  side  connected 
by  a  narrow  isthmus  of  four  miles  in  width 
with  another  peninsula  of  larger  area.  The 
name  Avalon  now  includes  both  peninsulas. 
Cape  Race,  the  southern  extremity  of  Avalon, 
is  the  first  land  that  gladdens  the  eyes  of 
the  sea-tossed  voyager  in  traveling  towards 
America.  The  charter  of  Avalon  is  similar 
to  the  charter  of  Maryland,  received  nine 
years  later,  but  presents  some  conspicuous 
differences.  The  territory  was  to  be  held 
by  knight-service;  whenever  the  sovereign 
should  visit  the  land,  Sir  George  was  obligated 
to  present  him  with  a  white  horse,  in  token 
of  his  fealty.  The  charter  secured  to  Sir 


George  the  products  of  all  fisheries  and  of 
all  mines  lying  around  or  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  peninsula  of  Avalon,  the  patronage  and  ' 
advowson  of  all  churches,  and  the  right  to 
exercise  and  enjoy  all  the  royalties,  liberties, 
immunities,  and  franchises  possessed  by  any 
bishop  of  Durham  within  his  county  pala- 
tine. The  lordly  magnificence  and  splendor 
of  the  fighting  bishops  of  Durham,  with 
their  thousands  of  retainers  and  their  regal 
paraphernalia  and  sovereign  jurisdiction,  may 
well  have  inspired  Calvert  to  noble  efforts  in 
settling  his  colony. 

Although  there  were  in  England  a  large 
population  ready  to  embark  to  the  New 
World,  there  were  comparatively  few  who 
dared  to  venture  upon  the  unknown  island 
of  Newfoundland ;  for  notwithstanding  the 
favorable  reports  of  its  fertility  and  salubrity, 
there  were  the  conflicting  reports  of  disin- 
terested voyagers  and  travelers.  Calvert 
was  anxious  "to transport  thither  a  very  greate 
and  ample  colony  of  the  English  Nation"; 
he  therefore  looked  favorably  upon  the  appli- 
cation of  Captain  Whitbourne  to  circulate 
in  England  a  new  narration  of  the  island 
and  the  advantages  it  offered  to  immigrants. 
Sir  George,  together  with  other  members  of 
the  Privy  Council,  sent  a  commuication  to 
the  Archbishops  of  Canterbury  and  York, 
urging  them  to  use  their  influence  in  circu- 
lating in  the  parishes  of  York  and  Kent 
copies  of  Whitbourne's  book,  "  Westward, 
Hoe  for  Avalon."  The  Archbishops  prompt- 
ly acceded  to  the  request,  and  recommended 
highly  the  discourse  of  Captain  Whitbourne, 
and  instructed  the  clergy  to  have  it  distrib- 
uted in  all  the  parishes  of  the  kingdom  for  the 
encouragement  of  adventurers  to  the  Planta- 
tion of  Avalon.  In  all  parish  churches 
flattering  accounts  of  Newfoundland  were 
read  to  the  assembled  congregations.  Cap- 
tain Whitbourne  borrows  the  descriptive 
style  of  Captain  Hayes,  but  is  enabled  to 
enter  more  largely  into  details.  His  simple 
diction  was  adapted  to  make  his  book  ex- 
ceedingly attractive  to  the  class  intended  to 
be  reached.  He  begins,  "The  iland  of 
New-found-land  is  large,  temperate,  and 
fruitefull."  As  he  proceeds  in  his  narration, 


1883.] 


Avalon,  the  Precursor  of  Maryland. 


161 


his  pages  become  more  glowing  and  the 
scene  more  alluring.  He  dwells  upon  the 
"faire  strawberries,  raspasseberries,  goose- 
berries, and  bilberries ;  peares,  cherries,  and 
filberts";  "herbs  for  sallets  and  broth,  as 
parsley,  alexander,  sorrell,  etc.";  roses  and 
other  flowers,  "  which  are  most  beautifull 
and  delightfull,  both  to  the  sight  and  smell"; 
and  "questionlesse,  the  country  is  stored 
with  many  physicall  herbs  and  roots."  The 
fertility  of  the  soil  adapts  it  to  foreign 
products;  "cabbage,  carrets,  turneps,  lettice, 
parsley,  and  such  like,  prove  well  there." 
The  land  is  capable  of  producing,  "without 
the  labour  of  man's  hand,  great  plenty  of 
green  pease  and  fitches,  faire,  round,  full, 
and  wholesome  as  our  fitches  are  in  England, 
of  which  I  have  fed  on  many  times."  "Doe 
but  looke,"  he  continues,  "upon  the  populous- 
nesse  of  our  country,  to  what  a  surfet  of 
multitude  it  is  subject;  consider  how  char- 
itable for  those  that  goe,  and  how  much 
ease  it  will  be  for  those  that  stay."  In  his 
endeavors  to  secure  emigrants  to  this  ver- 
itable land  of  promise  of  later  days,  he 
addresses  his  arguments  to  all  classes  of 
people — the  king,  the  clergy,  the  capitalists, 
and  the  overcrowded,  underfed  poor.  He 
describes  at  length  the  possibility  of  New- 
foundland becoming  a  great  naval  station  to 
the  fleets  sailing  to  the  Orient  and  the  Indies 
by  way  of  the  Northwest  passage.  "I  can- 
not see,"  says  he,  "but  that  from  hence 
[Newfoundland]  further  discoveries  may  be 
made  and  new  trades  found  out — yea,  perad- 
venture,  the  supposed  Northwest  passage." 

We  here  find  Whitbourne,  and  possibly 
Calvert,  indulging  in  the  delusive  dream  of 
the  day — a  dream  that  had  cost  the  life  of 
many  a  daring  Englishman,  and  which  had 
caused,  so  late  as  the  year  1610,  the  gallant 
Hudson  to  be  set  adrift  and  lost  on  the 
rock-bound  coast  of  Newfoundland. 

Whitbourne's  account  of  the  productivity 
of  the  fisheries  of  the  banks  of  Newfound- 
land was  undoubtedly  true,  judging  from 
the  abundant  evidence  of  later  days.  Its 
shores  were  annually  visited,  so  early  as  the 
seventeenth  century,  by  six  or  seven  hun- 
dred sailing  vessels  in  quest  of  the  cod. 
VOL.  II.— ii. 


As  a  flattering  recommendation  of  Whit- 
bourne's  book  had  been  indorsed  by  Calvert, 
its  perusal  is  extremely  interesting  in  view 
of  the  latter's  colonization  schemes.  The 
book  was  circulated  in  England  immediately 
after  Calvert  had  sent  a  small  colony  to  Ava- 
lon,  and  about  the  time  he  had  received  a 
formal  grant  of  the  territory  by  an  ample 
charter  from  King  James  (1623). 

Unfortunately  for  Calvert,  he  was  de- 
ceived. A  statesman  rather  than  a  col- 
onizer, he  had  relied  too  much  upon  report 
and  too  little  upon  personal  investigation. 
He  believed  the  statements  of  Whitbourne, 
and  spared  no  expense  to  make  his  adven- 
ture a  success.  He  waited  patiently  for  a 
remuneration  for  his  outlay,  but  he  waited 
in  vain.  In  the  grant  of  Avalon,  he  had 
received  some  excellent  fishing-banks,  but 
an  inhospitable  shore  for  permanent  settle- 
ments. The  cares  of  state  and  domestic 
afflictions  prevented  Calvert  from  visiting  his 
plantation  until  1627.  He  at  once  saw  that 
it  would  be  a  wasteful  expenditure  of  time 
and  money  to  continue  the  settlement. 
The  rigor  of  the  climate  and  the  barrenness 
of  the  soil  were  conclusive  evidence  of  the 
necessity  of  migrating  to  a  more  temperate 
climate.  It  was  not  necessary  for  him  to 
penetrate  the  interior  of  the  island.  His 
eye  told  him  that  no  permanent  abode 
could  be  made  upon  the  shore,  almost  im- 
passable with  huge  rocks  separated  by  great 
heaps  of  sand;  the  steep  hills  in  the  back- 
ground covered  with  stunted  trees  and  val- 
ueless shrubbery,  the  long  narrow  valleys 
filled  with  sand,  the  broad  plains  covered 
with  heath  or  rocks  where  scarcely  a  tree  or 
bush  could  he  seen,  formed  a  strong  con- 
trast to  the  fertile  lowlands  of  Middlesex  or 
to  the  picturesque  hill  country  of  Yorkshire. 
To  this  day  large  parts  of  Avalon  are  known 
as  the  Barrens.  Doubtless  in  some  parts 
of  Newfoundland  there  were  bright  oases, 
but  their  beauty  was  soon  waning,  and  their 
verdure  was  soon  blighted  by  the  early  au 
tumn  and  the  long,  dreary  winter.  In  this 
"  country  of  fog,  of  ice,  of  storm  and  snow," 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  climate  would  seri- 
ously interfere  with  the  raising  of  wheat  and 


162 


Avalon,  the  Precursor  of  Maryland. 


[August, 


corn.  The  bleak  and  desolate  districts  lying 
to  the  east  and  south,  included  in  Calvert's 
grant,  were  particularly  exposed  to  the  fury 
of  the  raging,  frigid  ocean.  A  recent  trav- 
eler describes  the  Atlantic  shore  as  fre- 
quently covered  with  a  dense  saline  vapor, 
and  guarded  by  vast  bodies  of  floating  polar 
and  gulf  ice,  which  refrigerate  the  air  long 
after  the  winter  months  are  past.  It  is  true 
that  in  July  and  August  the  weather  is  as 
mild  as  in  England,  and  vegetation  in  some 
places  is  very  luxuriant;  but  the  cold  blasts 
of  the  early  autumn  cause  the  wheat,  the 
barley,  and  the  oats  to  perish  on  the  stalk. 
The  icebergs  drifting  along  its  shore  are 
quaintly  described  as  so  immense  as  to 
"have  crushed  a  first-rate  ship  of  war  as 
easily  as  the  foot  of  Goliath  would  have  de- 
molished a  spider." 

Another  serious  obstacle  to  the  success  of 
Calvert's  plantation  was  the  continual  war- 
fare between  the  crews  of  vessels  of  differ- 
ent nations.  These  disputes  were  frequently 
prolonged  on  shore.  Claimed  by  the  Dutch, 
the  French,  and  the  English,  the  island  be- 
came a  scene  for  struggles,  continued  through 
many  years.  Not  only  were  the  waters 
plowed  by  avowed  pirates,  but  many  of  the 
so-called  trading  vessels  were  secretly  pi- 
ratical. The  principles  inculcated  in  Hugo 
Grotius's  famous  book  upon  jus  gentium 
(1625)  were  imperfectly  understood  and  only 
gradually  adopted.  When  we  bear  in  mind 
the  causes  that  led  to  the  war  of  1812,  we 
need  no  arguments  to  prove  the  utter  neglect 
of  the  first  principles  of  international  comity 
two  centuries  previous.  Calvert  says  he 
"came  to  builde  and  sett  and  sowe,"  but  he 
was  soon  "falne  to  fighting  wth  Frenchmen 
who  hawe  heere  disquieted  mee  and  many 
other  of  his  Maties  subiects."  That  famous 
arch  pirate,  Peter  Easton,  with  his  ten  sail 
"  of  good  ships  well  furnished  and  very  rich," 
made  frequent  visits  to  the  island,  and  brought 
dismay  and  terror  to  the  settlers. 

Calvert  had  received  from  King  James 
abundant  machinery  for  enforcing  law  and 
punishing  wrong-doers;  but  of  what  avail  are 
laws  and  regulations  without  means  to  ex- 
ecute them?  The  nominal  sovereignty  lay 


with  Calvert  and  his  commissioned  officers, 
but  the  actual  sovereignty  was  in  the  hands 
of  thieving  fishermen  and  drunken  savages. 
The  presence  of  these  lawless  nomad  bands 
inspired  distrust  and  fear  among  the  peaceful 
settlers.  Criminals  easily  made  their  escape 
inland  into  the  recesses  of  the  rocky  interior, 
or  escaped  in  their  shallops  into  secret  coves 
indenting  the  rocky  shore.  Even  the  better 
class  of  colonists  would  chafe  and  fret  at 
immoderate  restraint,  and  upon  provocation 
would  set  at  defiance  the  laws  and  ordi- 
nances of  an  executive  invested  with  no  real 
power. 

The  economic  investments  of  Sir  George 
miserably  failed  His  parched  crops  re- 
mained unharvested,  his  catches  of  fish  were 
stolen  by  rascally  seamen  and  land  pirates, 
his  men  were  forced  to  live  upon  salt  meats, 
and  contracting  the  scurvy,  became  unfit  for 
work,  and  many  died;  the  severe  weather 
rendered  navigation  almost  impossible,  and 
during  the  long  winter  months  communica- 
tion with  the  outside  world  became  exceed- 
ingly precarious.  No  mines  revealed  secret 
stores  of  gold  and  silver,  no  peaceful  tribes 
of  Indians  exchanged  rich  furs  and  fells  for 
English  trinkets. 

The  Canaan  became  a  Sahara;  instead 
of  roses  of  Sharon,  he  gathered  apples  of 
Sodom.  Calvert  became  thoroughly  dis- 
gusted, and  was  on  the  point  of  returning  to 
England  and  spending  his  days  in  the  quiet 
pursuits  of  a  retired  statesman. 

He  decides,  however,  to  make  one  more 
attempt  in  "some  other  warmer  climate  of 
this  new  world,  where  the  wynter  be  shorter 
and  less  rigorous."  Avalon  would  be  forsaken, 
but  not  utterly  deserted.  He  determined  to 
commit  the  affairs  of  the  plantation  "to  fish- 
ermen that  are  able  to  encounter  storms  and 
hard  weather,"  and  to  remove  himself  to  the 
more  genial  climate  of  Virginia. 

Soon  after  his  letter  to  King  Charles  was 
written  (August,  1629)  Calvert  and  his  family, 
amounting  to  some  forty  persons,  set  sail 
from  the  barren  coasts  of  Avalon,  and  pro- 
ceeded southward  to  establish  a  new  colony 
contiguous  to  the  recent  settlements  in  New 
England.  In  October,  1629,  we  find  him 


1883.] 


Sonnet. 


163 


arrived  at  Jamestown,  Virginia;  after  re- 
maining a  short  time,  he  passes  northward 
into  his  future  dominions  of  Maryland,  and 
finally  sails  to  England  to  secure  the  charter 
that  was  to  make  him  Lord  Proprietary  of  a 
large  tract  of  land  lying  on  the  two  sides  of 
the  great  Chesapeake  Bay. 

The  economic  beginnings  of  Avalon,  in 
1620,  lead  directly  up  to  the  establishment 
of  the  province  of  Maryland.  The  policy 
that  dictated  the  settlement  at  Avalon  was 
continued,  though  the  scene  of  action  was 
located  in  a  different  climate.  The  motives 
that  led  Calvert,  four  years  before  the  sur- 
render of  his  secretaryship,  to  erect  the  one 
colony  must  have  been  the  same  that  in- 
duced him  eight  years  afterwards  to  make 
preparation  to  establish  the  other.  In  re- 
moving his  colonists  from  the  unproductive 
fishing  shores  of  Avalon  to  the  remunerative 
agricultural  lands  of  Maryland,  Calvert  as- 
signs no  other  motive  than  the  extension  of 
his  Majesty's  empire  in  a  warmer,  more  fer- 
tile, and  a  more  peaceful  country. 

His  claims  upon  Avalon  became  vitiated 
by  his  absence,  and  in  the  next  century,  in 
1754,  were  entirely  denied  his  successor; 
but  the  claims  of  Maryland  upon  Calvert  for 
his  sacrifices,  his  perseverance,  his  fair  and 
honored  name,  will  increase  with  each  suc- 


ceeding generation.  Had  Avalon  proven 
successful,  Maryland  would  have  been  found- 
ed by  other  hands,  or  its  own  individual  life 
would  have  remained  involved  in  that  of 
Virginia  or  Pennsylvania.  In  either  case, 
the  most  tolerant,  the  most  conservative  of 
the  original  colonies,  with  one  hand  upon 
the  impulsive  South,  the  other  stretched 
over  the  aggressive  North,  would  have  been 
wanting  in  the  time  of  the  three  great  strug- 
gles that  have  shaken  the  foundations  of  our 
government  and  institutions.  The  Avalon 
of  George  Calvert,  notwithstanding  its  sa- 
cred name,  borrowed  from  the  most  ancient 
of  English  sanctuaries,  has  like  its  namesake 
almost  faded  from  the  pages  of  history ; 
though  increasing  in  territorial  area,  it  has 
proportionally  decreased  in  commercial  and 
historic  importance;  but  Maryland,  the 
second  Avalon,  though  unfairly  deprived  of 
land  by  her  great  rivals,  has  demonstrated — 
by  her  noble  concessions  in  one  great  strug- 
gle, her  patriotism  in  the  second,  and  her 
wise  forbearance  in  the  third,  and  by  her 
transmission  to  the  Dark  Continent  of  the 
moral  and  intellectual  light  she  has  received 
from  over  the  ocean — the  wisdom,  the  integ- 
rity, the  moderation,  the  lofty  grandeur  of 
her  founder,  Sir  George  Calvert,  Lord  Pro- 
prietary of  Avalon  and  Maryland. 

L.  W.  Wilhelm. 


SONNET. 

AFAR  art  thou,  my  love,  and  what  to  me 

Is  cloud  or  sunset  'neath  these  alien  skies? 

What  help  to  me'  the  glance  of  pitying  eyes 
That  knew  you  not?     The  dawn's  breath  wild  and  free 
Comes  chilly,  whispering,  "I  know  naught  of  thee." 

The  still  noon's  blinding  glare  each  day  denies 

All  comfort  to  me.     But  at  night  I  rise, 
And  the  drenched  grasses  sweeping  past  my  knee 
Whisper,  "We  know";  the  few  stars  high  and  bright, 

And  the  moon's  crescent  low,  whisper,  "We  know." 

But  under  other  skies  the  mountain's  blue, 
The  fair,  broad  bay  'neath  every  dawn's  new  light, 

The  murmuring  laurel,  and  the  brook's  still  flow 
Would  share  my  sorrow:  they  remember  you. 

Katharine  Royce. 


164 


My  New  Friend. 


[August, 


MY  NEW   FRIEND. 


I. 


WHAT  a  terrible  thing  is  a  competitive  ex- 
amination! What  grinding  and  cramming 
are  necessary !  What  self-denial  in  refusing 
invitations,  and  burning  the  midnight  oil  in 
one's  own  chamber  while  other  young  people 
are  enjoying  themselves.  All  this  I  had  done 
most  religiously.  And  now  I  am  seated  in  a 
room  with  a  score  of  other  young  men,  all 
candidates  for  two  vacancies  in  the  Civil 
Service  in  the  city  of  Dublin.  It  is  the 
second  day  of  the  examination,  and  we  are 
at  present  engaged  in  the  composition  of 
"  themes."  A  terrible  stillness  reigns  in  the 
apartment;  nothing  is  heard  but  the  scratch- 
ing of  pens.  Occasionally  one  of  the  examin- 
ers moves  round  the  hall,  glancing  over  our 
shoulders  at  the  paper  before  us.  No  doubt 
these  gentlemen  wonder  what  we  have  been 
doing,  when  in  many  cases  they  survey  a 
blank  sheet  as  innocent  of  ink  as  when  we 
sat  down;  but  they  politely  forbear  to  com- 
ment on  the  fact,  and  merely  remark,  "One 
hour  and  a  half,  gentlemen." 

I  took  a  box  of  John  Mitchel's  pens  out 
of  my  pockets,  spread  the  paper  before  me, 
read  the  titles  of  the  three  themes  on  one 
of  which  we  were  obliged  to  descant,  made 
my  selection  instanter,  and  tried  to  think. 
To  think !  How  difficult  a  thing  it  is  when 
you  are  ordered  to  do  it,  and  when  your 
time  is  limited  to  two  hours !  On  another 
occasion,  I  have  no  doubt  I  could  find 
something  to  say  on  the  subject  of  the  Res- 
toration, but  now  my  truant  thoughts  con- 
tinually wander.  I  find  myself  studying  the 
faces  of  my  fellow-candidates,  and  speculat- 
ing on  their  private  lives  and  characters. 

My  name  is  Nelson  Joy.  My  parents 
called  me  Nelson  in  honor  of  the  hero  of 
Trafalgar,  for  whom  they  had  a  great  admi- 
ration. I  must  here  enter  a  protest  against 
the  habit  of  giving  a  poor  boy  with  a 
mediocre  quantity  of  brains  the  name  of 


some  illustrious  personage:  it  makes  him  a 
laughing  stock.  I  knew  a  "John  Milton " 
and  "Michael  Angelo"  who  were  the  sport 
of  their  acquaintances.  Dante  Rossetti  is 
the  only  case  I  can  remember  of  a  man  tak- 
ing in  some  of  the  genius  of  his  namesake. 

My  father,  a  poor  professional  man  with 
seven  more  children  besides  myself,  could 
ill  afford  to  pay  my  college  expenses,  so  I 
determined  to  make  an  effort  to  help  myself. 
The  reader  will  perceive  that  a  great  deal 
depends  on  my  success,  and  that  I  ought 
not  to  be  wasting  these  two  precious  hours 
studying  the  physiognomy  of  my  compan- 
ions. Well,  I  make  an  effort  to  call  back 
my  wandering  thoughts,  which  will  run  in 
spite  of  me  on  a  novel  I  intend  to  write 
when  I  have  found  a  proper  hero.  I  firmly 
resolve  to  concentrate  my  mind  on  that  event 
in  English  history  called  the  Restoration.  I 
write  a  few  sentences,  and  pause.  I  try  to 
call  to  mind  a  passage  from  Macaulay,  in 
his  essay  on  Milton,  which  might  help  me. 
While  engaged  in  this  effort,  I  happen  to  look 
at  the  young  man  next  me.  He  is  a  hand- 
some young  fellow,  with  thick,  dark  curls 
piled  over  a  low,  white  forehead,  brilliant 
brown  eyes,  and  white  teeth.  His  name 
is  Francis  Litton.  I  have  watched  him 
with  interest  from  the  beginning,  thinking  he 
might  suit  me  for  a  hero.  His  appearance 
is  quite  to  my  taste.  Being  ugly  myself,  I 
have  a  great  admiration  for  beauty.  My 
young  Apollo  seemed  perturbed  in  his  mind. 
He  bit  his  pen  and  gazed  at  the  blank  paper 
before  him;  then  at  another  fellow's  head 
with  such  a  searching  glance — as  if  he  meant 
to  extract  some  idea  from  it;  then  he  threw 
his  fine  eyes  ceiling-wards;  and  finally  took 
out  his  penknife  and  mended  the  pen  which 
he  had  all  this  time  been  crunching  between 
his  ivory  teeth.  He  dipped  it  in  the  ink- 
bottle,  wrote  something  in  a  fit  of  despera- 
tion— and  made  a  blot. 

"You  find  quill  pens  disagreeable:  so  do 


1883.] 


My  New  Friend. 


165 


I,"  I  said ;  "try  one  of  these  " ;  and  I  offered 
the  box. 

"O,  it  is  not  that;  they  are  horrid — but 
it  is  not  that.  I  wish  you  would  not  look 
at  me  so  much — it  puts  me  out." 

I  could  not  restrain  a  little  laugh — for  a 
moment  forgetting  my  awful  situation.  The 
young  men  in  the  throes  of  composition 
started ;  and  one  of  the  examiners,  shocked 
by  my  levity,  gave  me  a  terrible  look. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  very  sorry,"  I 
said,  resuming  my  pen,  and  dashed  off  a 
short  essay  which  I  flattered  myself  would 
pass  muster.  I  saw  that  my  neighbor  looked 
sadly  at  his  production. 

"I  wonder  what  sort  of  stuff  he  has  in  that 
handsome  brain-box  of  his,"  I  speculated. 
"He  has  not  much  of  a  forehead;  no  matter, 
he  might  do  for  a  hero  all  the  same." 

I  spoke  to  him  as  we  went  out;  and  our 
way  lying  in  the  same  direction,  we  talked 
about  our  chances  of  success  as  we  went. 
We  were  joined  by  a  mutual  acquaintance, 
Jack  Lowry,  a  medical  student. 

"I  hope  I  did  not  spoil  your  essay,  Mr. 
Litton." 

"O  no,"  he  replied  with  a  self-deprecia- 
tory shrug;  "I  never  could  write  a  decent 
essay;  least  of  all  could  I  do  it  under  these 
circumstances.  And  you?" 

"Pretty  well,"  I  replied;  and  we  walked 
on  chatting  till  we  met  a  young  lady  in 
mourning,  who  turned  out  to  be  Litton's  sis- 
ter, and  he  left  us  and  walked  away  with  her. 

"They  are  miserably  poor,"  said  Jack; 
"their  father  did  not  leave  them  a  penny,  I 
believe.  Litton  is  fond  of  his  sister,  and  will 
keep  her  if  he  gets  an  appointment.  If  not, 
she  must  seek  a  situation,  for  he  can  barely 
support  himself  by  teaching.  So  you  see, 
anxious  as  you  are  about  this  affair,  he  has 
more  reason  to  be." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "my  father  is  poor,  but  his 
home  is  still  mine ;  and  even  if  I  fail,  he  will 
say  I  did  my  best." 

"Indeed,  I  think  your  governor  does  be- 
lieve in  you;  I  wish  mine  did,  and  he  would 
be  more  liberal,"  said  Jack. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  your  own  fault  that  he 
does  not,"  I  said. 


"I  dare  say;  but  if  I  don't  enjoy  myself 
now,  when  shall  I?" 

"But  if  you  should  end  like  old  Litton?" 
"  No,  no ;  I  hope  to  be  one  whose  follies 
will  cease  with  youth.  Poor  Litton  !  Do 
not  be  angry  if  I  say  I  hope  he  will  get  a 
place.  He  wants  it  worse  than  you,  Joy; 
he  really  does. " 

II. 

Frank  Litton  and  I  leaped  into  an  inti- 
macy. I  succeeded,  and  he  failed ;  but  that 
did  not  interfere  with  our  rapidly  growing 
friendship.  He  had  a  nomination  for  the 
next  examination,  and  was  reading  up  for  it, 
and  I  assisted  him  in  his  studies.  He  was 
supporting  himself  by  teaching.  One  day, 
on  a  country  walk,  he  opened  his  mind  to 
me,  and  told  me  all  his  affairs.  He  said  he 
should  not  have  minded  the  disappointment 
of  losing  the  place  if  it  had  not  been  for  his 
sister,  as  he  was  consequently  obliged  to  part 
with  her. 

"  What  is  she  going  to  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"  In  the  County  Wicklc^  there  is  a 
cousin  of  my  mother's  married  to  a  gentle- 
man of  property,  and  they  have  kindly  in- 
vited her  to  stay  with  them  and  look  after 
the  education  of  the  little  girls.  There  are 
two  grown-up  and  two  little  ones,  with  boys 
between.  She  would  rather  stay  with  me — 
poor  Nora  ! " 

"Would  she?  Well,  perhaps  you  may 
be  in  a  position  to  take  her  back  some  day 
soon,"  I  said;  and  we  talked  freely  about 
our  future  prospects. 

I  liked  Litton  more  the  more  I  saw  of 
him.  He  was  amiable,  modest,  sincere,  and 
companionable,  and  he  seemed  to  have 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  me.  When  Easter 
was  approaching,  we  planned  to  take  a  brief 
excursion  to  the  Wicklow  Mountains;  and  in 
fact,  on  Easter  Saturday  we  sallied  forth  with 
little  knapsacks  and  sticks,  in  the  most  joy- 
ous frame  of  mind.  Taking  the  train  as  far 
as  Bray,  we  then  dashed  across  the  country, 
making  for  the  mountains.  We  climbed 
the  heath-covered  Djonce,  and  ate  our  lunch 
on  the  summit,  enjoying  the  magnificent 
prospect. 


166 


My  New  Friend. 


[August, 


"This  is  delightful,"  said  Litton.  "We 
must  have  some  more  days  like  this  in  sum- 
mer." 

"Yes,  and  perhaps  we  might  get  some 
other  friends  to  join  us." 

"  I  dare  say;  but  I  like  this  better.  'Two 
are  company' — you  know  the  adage." 

"  One  or  two  choice  spirits  would  not  spoil 
our  fun,"  said  I. 

"I  do  not  know  any  one  whose  society  I 
enjoy  as  much  as  yours,  with  whom  I 
feel  such  perfect  confidence,"  said  Litton; 
"but  I  do  not  expect  that  you  should  feel 
the  same  with  me;  you  are  too  much  my 
superior  in  intellect  to  have  the  same  pleas- 
ure in  my  society  that  I  have  in  yours." 

Of  course  I  protested  against  Litton's  ex- 
cessive modesty  (which  was  quite  sincere), 
and  told  him  that  I  was  studying  him  for  a 
hero  for  my  novel,  as  a  proof  that  I  found 
him  interesting. 

He  colored  like  a  girl,  and  said:  "How 
very  absurd !  I  am  such  a  commonplace 
sort  of  fellow." 

"  Supposing,  for  argument's  sake,  that  I 
grant  that,  are  not  the  majority  of  our  fel- 
low-men commonplace?  It  is  the  business 
of  the  novelist  to  make  ordinary  humanity 
interesting — not  to  seek  for  extraordinary 
and  unnatural  specimens.  But  you  are  not 
so  commonplace  as  you  imagine;  every 
human  being  has  an  individuality  more  de- 
cided than  the  general  world  knows  of;  the 
delicate  little  traits  and  points  of  difference 
are  only  to  be  discovered  on  close  examina- 
tion." 

"Am  I  under  examination  now? — poor 
me !"  said  Litton.  "  I  never  dreamed  I  was 
worth  analyzing;  I  shall  become  quite  con- 
ceited. Tell  me  some  of  the  ingredients  of 
which  I  am  composed;  the  way  I  may  learn 
to  know  myself." 

"  Not  till  I  have  completed  my  work. 
Come  along;  it  will  be  night  before  we 
reach  Roundwood;  and  perhaps  if  we  are 
late  the  village  inn  may  be  closed,  and  so 
farewell  to  bed  and  supper." 

"  I  have  plenty  for  our  supper,  and  I  am 
much  inclined  to  sleep  here  in  the  heather 
under  the  moon  and  stars." 


"  Delightfully  poetic,  but  at  this  season  of 
the  year  a  little  dangerous,"  I  replied. 

"I  say,  Joy,"  said  Litton,  as  we  trudged  on 
our  way  to  Roundwood,  "  if  we  have  given 
up  the  Devil's  Glen  this  time,  could  we  not 
pay  a  visit  to  Ballymoyle,  and  see  how  my 
sister  gets  on?  It  is  a  beautiful  road,  and 
my  cousin's  place  is  pretty." 

"  But  I  am  a  total  stranger  to  the  family." 

"  Never  mind;  they  will  be  glad  to  see  so 
agreeable  a  stranger  in  this  remote  region." 

"Very  well;  to-morrow  afternoon  we  may 
set  forth." 

We  slept  that  night  at  the  inn  of  Round- 
wood;  next  morning  being  Easter,  we  at- 
tended church,  and  had  a  species  of  early 
dinner  before  starting  on  our  journey.  We 
did  not  know  the  road,  and  had  to  trust  to 
making  inquiries  of  any  chance  peasant  that 
came  the  way.  Some  of  these  must  have 
directed  us  wrong,  or  else  we  misunderstood 
their  injunctions;  for  we  had  walked  many 
miles  more  than  we  had  calculated  on, 
and  still  Ballymoyle  was  nowhere  in  view. 
Night  was  falling,  and  we  were  tired  from 
our  tremendous  walk  of  the  day  before. 
On  consultation,  we  decided  to  seek  shelter 
in  the  first  farm-house  we  met.  And  in 
fact,  on  encountering  a  woman  with  a  child 
in  her  arms,  we  made  inquiries  of  her,  and 
found  that  she  was  in  the  service  o  a 
farmer  and  his  wife  who  had  gone  to 
spend  the  Easter  with  friends,  leaving  her- 
self and  husband  in  care  of  the  house. 
With  some  difficulty  we  persuaded  this  wo- 
man to  give  us  lodging  and  something  to  eat. 

It  was  a  respectable  two-story  house,  with 
a  sitting-room  at  either  side  of  the  hall,  and 
four  bedrooms  up-stairs.  The  woman  and  her 
husband  occupied  an  apartment  in  the  region 
of  the  kitchen,  and  there  was  no  other  inhab- 
itant in  the  house  except  the  two  pedestrians 
who  now  sought  shelter  for  the  night.  When 
we  had  partaken  of  some  supper — home-made 
bread,  cheese,  eggs,  and  a  jug  of  milk — the 
woman  showed  us  our  respective  chambers, 
and  said  good  night. 

As  I  was  winding  my  watch,  Frank  Litton 
came  into  my  room  to  ask  what  time  I  should 
like  to  set  out  in  the  morning. 


1883.] 


My  New  Friend. 


167 


"What  a  glorious  night!"  I  said,  opening 
my  window. 

"  Go  to  bed,"  said  Litton ;  "  we  have  to 
be  up  early.  Good  night,  old  fellow." 

"  Good  night,  Frank." 

I  extinguished  my  candle  and  sat  down  by 
the  window,  admiring  the  moonlit  landscape, 
and  delighting,  as  only  a  poor  city  student 
can  delight,  in  the  wild  beauty  of  the  scenery. 
I  remembered,  after  a  long  reverie,  in 
which  I  had  sat  still  in  that  delicious  dreamy 
state  which  only  young  people  enjoy,  my 
mind  full  of  half-formed  projects  —  I  re- 
membered that  it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and 
I  prayed  that  all  succeeding  Easters  might 
find  me  with  a  heart  as  thankful  for  the 
blessings  of  providence,  and  as  capable  of 
appreciating  the  pure  delights  which  nature 
affords. 

I  had  just  risen  to  my  feet,  when  I  heard 
the  handle  of  my  door  turn.  I  drew  back 
behind  the  curtain  of  the  window.  Some 
one  entered  cautiously.  I  flattened  myself 
against  the  wall  and  held  my  breath.  My 
idea  was  to  wait  till  the  robber  was  well  into 
the  room,  then  rush  out  to  Litton's,  which 
was  opposite,  and  barricade  the  door.  I 
peeped  out  cautiously.  Oh  heavens,  what 
a  sight !  There  stood  Frank  Litton,  in  his 
shirt,  a  look  of  deadly  hate  and  fear  on  his 
pale  face,  a  knife  gleaming  in  his  hand. 
He  approached  the  bed,  raised  the  knife 
with  all  his  force,  drove  it,  pulled  it  out, 
and  stabbed  again  with  demoniacal  rage.  I 
stood  transfixed  with  horror ;  every  blow 
seemed  to  have  pierced  my  heart.  When 
he  was  gone,  an  instinct  of  self-preservation 
made  me  lock  my  door.  I  sank  into  a 
chair  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  For  some  minutes 
I  doubted  my  senses.  Did  I  dream,  or  was 
I  going  mad?  I  did  not  dream,  for  I  was 
standing  when  he  entered:  1  was  not  mad, 
for  there  was  his  knife  stuck  to  the  handle 
in  the  feather  bed.  I  threw  myself  down 
beside  it  in  an  agony  of  tears,  and  cried  out 
to  heaven  that  the  world  was  composed  of 
demons. 

When  it  was  near  day,  I  thought  I  should 
decide  on  some  plan  of  action.  At  first  I 
thought  of  flying  from  the  spot;  but  this 


seemed  a  cowardly  course.  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  denounce  him ;  and  finally 
decided,  since  my  life  had  been  spared, 
to  drop  him  quietly,  and  bury  the  recol- 
lection of  this  night  as  a  terrible  dream. 
What  was  his  motive?  I  asked  myself 
over  and  over  again.  Revenge?  But  for 
what?  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  that 
I  had  obtained  the  post  for  which  we 
both  had  striven  in  fair  contest.  He  had 
told  me  the  day  before  that  he  was  jealous- 
minded,  and  when  I  disputed  it  he  replied, 
"  Perhaps  you  know  me  better  than  I  know 
myself."  O,  Nelson  Joy!  what  an  arrogant 
fool  you  were  to  think  you  could  read  the 
human  heart !  I  said  to  myself  bitterly. 
Well  might  the  villain  laugh  at  your  preten- 
sions, and  fool  you  with  his  flattery.  He 
must  be  a  very  lago. 

III. 

I  dressed  early  and  went  down  to  the 
parlor.  Litton  was  not  there.  I  went  up 
and  knocked  at  .his  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  clear,  young  voice.  Yes- 
terday, how  pleasant  it  sounded ;  to-day,  how 
hateful ! 

I  entered  the  room  with  throbbing  pulse. 
"Not  up  yet?"  I  said,  holding  the  door 
handle,  and  looking  at  him  as  he  lay  in  bed. 
He  was  pale,  but  quite  composed. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked,  pulling  the 
watch  from  under  his  pillow.  "  Seven  o'clock ; 
it  is  too  late  to  go  before  breakfast.  I 
don't  know  why  I  slept  so  long.  Why  didn't 
you  call  me?" 

"You  do  not  look  well  this  morning,"  I 
stammered. 

"  I  had  a  terrible  dream,"  he  said,  running 
his  fingers  through  his  short  curls. 

"So  had  I — most  horrible!" 

"It  must  have  been  the  cheese,"  said 
Litton. 

As  I  stood  looking  at  him,  and  wondering 
at  the  contrast  of  his  outward  beauty  and 
his  foul  soul,  I  thought  of  a  saying  common 
with  the  country  people  where  I  was  born: 
"Trust  not  a  man,  though  he  be  your 
brother,  whose  whiskers  and  hair  are  not  of 


168 


My  New  Friend. 


[August, 


one  color."  A  foolish  saying,  no  doubt;  but 
at  that  moment  trifling  things  assumed  an 
unwonted  importance.  Litton's  hair  was 
dark  brown,  and  his  downy  mustache  a 
bright  auburn. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Joy?  Why  do  you 
look  so  strange?"  he  asked.  , 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  else,"  I 
•said,  shaking  myself.  "Suppose  I  order 
breakfast  while  you  are  dressing?" 

I  walked  down-stairs  in  a  dazed  condition, 
hardly  yet  realizing  what  had  happened  since 
yesterday;  but  always  conscious  of  a  load  of 
grief  on  my  heart.  Litton's  unconscious  air 
had  given  me  strength  and  courage  to  pursue 
the  plan  that  was  least  obnoxious  to  my 
feelings — that  of  ignoring  the  crime  and 
separating  peacefully. 

"You  eat  nothing,  Joy,"  said  Litton,  as  we 
sat  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"I  am  not  well,"  I  replied. 

"Indeed;  perhaps  the  cheese  disagreed 
with  you." 

"Perhaps  so,"  I  assented.  My  friend 
seemed  to  enjoy  his  breakfast,  and  when  he 
had  finished,  I  spoke  with  an  effort. 

"Litton,  I  do  not  intend  to  go  to  Bally- 
moyle." 

"Not  go  to  Ballymoyle  !  I  thought  it  was 
all  settled.  Why  have  you  changed  your 
mind?" 

"Because  of  a  dream  I  had." 

"A  dream!    You  surely  are  not  serious?" 

"Yes,"  I  affirmed  resolutely;  "I  have  been 
warned  in  a  dream  that  danger,  perhaps 
death,  awaits  me  if  I  pursue  this  journey  far- 
ther." 

"You  do  astonish  me.  You  are  the  last 
i 

man  of  my  acquaintance  I  should  have 
supposed  to  be  influenced  by  such  super- 
stitions." 

"If  Caesar  had  been  warned  by  his  wife's 
dream,  he  might  have  escaped  assassination." 

"One  dream  in  a  million  may  presage 
something;  but  would  you  regulate  your  life 
by  dreams?"  asked  Litton. 

"Such  arguments  urged  Caesar  to  his 
death,"  I  remarked. 

"Why,  Caesar  seems  to  have  taken  posses- 
sion of  you,  Joy,"  said  Litton,  laughing.  "I 


cannot  see  the  resemblance  between  you — 
with  all  deference  be  it  spoken." 

"There  is  this  much  in  common  between 
'  the  foremost  man  of  all  the  world '  and  my 
insignificant  self:  I  have  a  life  to  lose,  which 
I  would  fain  preserve,  worthless  though  it 
be." 

I  spoke  bitterly,  for  a  moment  forgetting 
the  role  I  intended  to  play.  Litton  looked 
at  me  with  surprise. 

"My  dear  Joy,  I  did  not  mean  to  offend 
you;  but  it  seems  to  me  you  attach  too  much 
importance  to  a  trifle.  You  could  not 
imagine  that  I  could  speak  lightly  of  any  real 
danger  that  threatened  you?" 

I  made  an  effort  to  reply,  but  the  words 
stuck  in  my  throat.  My  embarrassment  was 
not  lost  on  him. 

"Surely  you  do  not  suppose  that  I  would 
make  a  laugh  of  your  trouble — if  trouble 
there  was." 

He  came  round  the  table  to  where  I  sat; 
his  close  proximity  increased  my  agitation. 
In  vain  I  tried  to  suppress  it,  and  struggle 
to  answer  him;  the*  words  died  away  in  an 
inarticulate  murmur. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  doubt  the  sincerity  of 
my  regard?"  persisted  my  persecutor. 

I  could  hold  up  no  longer;  I  dropped  my 
head  upon  the  table,  and  sobbed.  I  was 
only  twenty-two,  and  had  never  yet  been  de- 
ceived. 

"  Nelson !  my  dear  Nelson,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  What  have  I  done  to  vex 
you?  What  in  heaven's  name  could  I  have 
done  to  cause  this  grief?"  and  he  seized  my 
hand. 

I  shrunk  from  his  touch,  raised  my  head, 
and  looked  at  him.  No  sign  of  guilt  was  on 
the  smooth,  young  forehead;  he  met  my  gaze 
with  unfaltering  eye;  in  his  face  there  was  a 
hurt,  perplexed  expression. 

"Have  I  unawares  trodden  on  any  feeling 
or  prejudice  of  yours?  If  so,  is  it  necessary 
to  say  I  apologize?  Speak  out;  what  is  it? 
I  can't  bear  to  see  you  look  like  that." 

There  were  tears — actual  tears — in  his 
eyes.  They  were  beautiful  eyes — large,  clear, 
brown — capable  of  the  most  winning  expres- 
sion ;  and  there  was  such  feeling  looking  out 


1883.] 


My  New  Priend. 


169 


of  them  now  as  almost  beguiled  me  of  my 
senses.  He  must  be  a  wizard,  I  thought,  as 
I  recalled  the  face  that  had  presented  itself 
to  my  view  the  night  before. 

"The  truth  is,  Litton,  I  am  not  myself 
to-day.  I  feel  ill  and  depressed,  so  pray 
excuse  me  if  my  manner  seems  odd  to  you. 
You,  of  course,  must  go  to  see  your  sister, 
but  I  shall  go  home  at  once.  I  would  be  a 
wet  blanket  on  you  in  my  present  state." 

"If  you  are  ill,  Joy,  I'll  go  with  you." 

"No;  I  would  prefer  to  go  alone,"  I  said 
gloomily. 

"O,  in  that  case  I  will  start  at  once." 

He  left  the  room  with  an  offended  air, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  returned,  ready  for  the 
road. 

"I  am  sorry  you  won't  come.  I  hope  to 
find  you  in  better  health  and  spirits  when  I 
return." 

"Thank  you.  Give  my  compliments  to 
Miss  Litton.  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  day." 

With  these  formal  words  we  parted ;  but 
Litton  turned  back  at  the  door  and  offered 
his  hand,  which  I  could  not  refuse.  I 
breathed  more  freely  when  he  was  gone. 

With  what  different  feelings  did  I  traverse 
the  road  from  those  of  yesterday !  Then,  I 
was. full  of  joyous  trustfulness  in  everybody; 
now,  I  suspected  every  man  I  met  of  being 
a  possible  murderer,  and  grasped  my  stick 
with  a  firmer  hold  when  I  passed  a  wayfarer. 
The  beauty  had  gone  even  out  of  the  land- 
scape ;  what  was  grand  and  attractive  yester- 
day seemed  bleak  and  dreary  to-day.  I  took 
a  car  at  the  first  village  I  came  to,  drove 
to  Bray,  and  arrived  in  Dublin  towards 
evening. 

The  following  day  Litton  returned  and 
called  on  me.  I  had  sufficiently  mastered 
my  feelings  to  treat  him  pretty  much  as 
usual.  He  was  as  friendly  as  ever;  was  so 
sorry  I  had  not  accompanied  him  to  Bally- 
moyle — a  delightful  place,  charming  cousins, 
etc. 

"I  hope  you  found  your  sister  well?" 

"Very  well  indeed;  she  is  quite  content. 
My  cousins  were  quite  angry  with  me  for 
letting  you  escape,  having  heard  from  Nora 
what  a  clever,  charming  fellow  you  are." 


"Miss  Litton  is  very  kind:  she  sees  me 
with  her  brother's  partial  eye,"  I  said  with  a 
forced  laugh,  which  grated  on  my  own  ears 
painfully. 

"I  must  go  now,"  said  Litton;  "if  you 
are  down  town  later  will  you  look  in  on  me?" 

I  said,  "Perhaps";  but  I  did  not  go  then 
or  after.  I  received  him  civilly  when  he 
called,  and  pleaded  business  when  he  pressed 
me  to  accompany  him.  He  became  aware 
that  I  wanted  to  shake  him  off  quietly,  and 
determined  not  to  let  me  do  it.  He  entered 
my  room  one  evening  when  I  was  reading. 

"  I  hope  I  don't  intrude,"  he  said. 

"  Not  at  all";  and  I  shut  my  book. 

"You  have  been  so  busy  lately  that  I 
have  seen  very  little  of  you." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  busy,"  I  assented. 

"  Nelson,  let  us  be  candid  with  each  oth- 
er. You  have  shown  a  disposition  to  avoid 
me  the  last  couple  of  weeks.  You  are 
changed  towards  me,  I  see  plainly.  I  want 
to  know  the  reason  of  this?" 

"Have  I  not  said  that  I  was  busy?" 

Litton  saw  through  the  transparent  artifice. 

"  But  I  know  there  is  another  cause ; 
there  is  some  deeper  reason  for  your  changed 
demeanor.  What  is  it?" 

"You  have  all  the  answer  I  choose  to  give." 

An  angry  flush  overspread  his  face,  and 
he  exclaimed:  "I  knew  you  wanted  to  quar- 
rel. Why,  then,  do  you  not  say  what  is  wrong 
between  us,  and  let  it  be  rectified?  I  might 
be  able  to  explain." 

"Really,  Litton,  I, wanted  no  explanation; 
I  have  asked  none." 

"  But  /  want  an  explanation,"  he  an- 
swered hotly;  "and  it  is  not  like  a  gentleman 
to  refuse  to  say  why  you  treat  me  so." 

"  Gently,  Mr.  Litton,  do  not  excite  your- 
self." 

"  I  cannot  help  being  excited.  A  sudden 
estrangement  has  arisen  between  us — I  quite 
ignorant  of  the  cause — and  you  treat  me  like 
a  stranger." 

I  now  saw  it  was  necessary  to  put  the  case 
clearly. 

"  I  treat  you  with  civility  as  long  as  you 
do  the  same  towards  me ;  that  is  all  you 
have  a  right  to  demand.  Friendship  and 


170 


My  New  Friend. 


[August, 


confidence  are  not  to  be  enforced  at  the 
point  of  the  bayonet." 

"  Have  I  done  anything  to  forfeit  your 
confidence?"  he  asked,  with  an  air  of  in- 
jured innocence  which  was  peculiarly  aggra- 
.  vating. 

For  one  mad  moment  I  thought  I  would 
confront  him  with  the  naked  truth.  But 
then,  like  a  lightning  flash,  the  thought 
darted  through  my  mind  of  how  this  ser- 
pent would  receive  and  meet  the  charge. 
He  would  say  I  had  dreamed  it — that  I  was 
a  monomaniac — and  perhaps  go  about  de- 
stroying my  reputation;  and,  to  tell  the 
whole  truth,  I  also  shrunk  from  the  painful 
excitement  of  such  a  scene. 

"  Be  satisfied,"  said  I,  looking  at  him  with 
freezing  coldness,  "  that  if  I  have  any  such 
idea,  rightly  or  wrongly,  in  my  head,  I  will 
never  impart  it  to  another.  Understand, 
once  for  all,  that  I  will  not  be  catechised.  I 
do  not  know  of  any  law  which  compels 
people  to  keep  up  every  intimacy  they  may 
form  in  youth  to  the  day  of  their  death.  Say 
I  am  fickle,  heartless,  cynical — what  you 
will.  There  is  no  use  in  annoying  yourself 
and  me  further." 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  minute  or  two, 
and  then  said : 

"I  know  you  too  well,  Joy,  to  take  that 
answer.  Your  indifference  is  put  on  to  hide 
a  sore.  If  I  had  a  proper  sense  of  my  own 
dignity,  I  should  go  away  without  another 
word ;  but  I  like  you  too  well  to  give  up  this 
last  chance  of  an  explanation.  You  have  a 
grievance :  in  heaven's  name,  out  with  it." 

Thus  did  the  Devil  tempt  me  to  call  him 
a  murderer ;  but  I  resisted  still,  and  remained 
silent. 

"Have  I  humbled  myself  in  vain?"  he 
asked. 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  should  have  done 
so,"  I  replied,  "after  I  had  given  you  plain- 
ly to  understand  that  our  intimacy  was  at  an 
end." 

"  That  is  enough,"  said  he.  "  I  was  re- 
solved to  leave  nothing  undone  on  my  part. 
I  will  never  trouble  you  again;  but  perhaps 
some  day  you  will  be  sorry  for  the  wrong 
you  have  done  me." 


IV. 


A  little  more  than  a  year  after  the  conver- 
sation recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  I  was  in- 
vited to  spend  a  week  at  a  small  watering- 
place  by  my  friend  Jack  Lowry,  who  had 
gone  there  with  his  family  for  the  summer 
vacation.  During  that  time  Mrs.  Lowry 
gave  a  picnic,  and  among  the  visitors  who 
came  from  town  to  attend  it  was  my  former 
friend,  Francis  Litton.  He  cast  a  cloud 
over  my  enjoyment.  I  felt  his  presence  like 
an  evil  genius.  He  tried  to  avoid  me,  how- 
ever, as  I  did  him.  When  we  returned  in 
the  evening,  and  the  other  young  men  were 
preparing  to  go  home,  Mrs.  Lowry  invited 
Litton  to  stay  all  night,  for  he  was  a  favorite 
with  her  as  with  ladies  generally.  When 
she  asked  him,  I  observed  some  confusion  in 
his  manner,  and  he  promptly  declined ;  but 
finally  he  yielded  to  her  persuasions.  As 
there  were  other  visitors,  I  gave  up  my  room 
that  night,  and  had  a  bed  in  that  of  rny 
friend  Jack. 

I  had  not  been  long  asleep  when  I  was 
startled  by  a  hand  being  laid  roughly  on 
my  shoulder,  and  saw  Jack  standing  over 
me. 

"Hush,  don't  speak!  There  is  some  one 
in  the  house.  I  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs; 
take  your  stick  and  follow  me." 

We  hastened  down-stairs,  and  arrived  in 
the  hall  just  as  somebody  went  out  of  the 
door.  We  ran  after  him,  and  as  he  walked 
on  to  the  rocks  overhanging  the  bathing- 
place,  Jack  called  out,  "Stop,  you  rascal!" 

The  man  gave  a  start,  a  cry,  and  fell 
headlong  over  the  rocks. 

"By  Jove,  I  fear  he  is  killed!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"No,  it  is  not  high,  and  the  sand  is  soft 
below,"  I  said,  swinging  myself  down  over 
the  rock,  and  dropping  on  all  fours  on  the 
sand  bank. 

We  carried  the  insensible  form  of  a  man 
home,  and  laying  him  on  the  dining-room 
sofa,  we  called  up  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lowry. 
Lights  were  brought,  and  when  the  blood 
and  sand  were  washed  off  the  face  of  the 
wounded  man,  to  our  astonishment  we  rec- 


1883.] 


My  New  Friend. 


171 


ognized  the  classic  features  of  Francis  Litton, 
fixed  and  rigid. 

We  had  exhausted  all  our  efforts  to  restore 
consciousness,  when  the  patient  opened  his 
eyes.  Jack  raised  his  head  while  Mrs.  Low- 
ry  put  wine  to  his  lips,  but  the  movement 
caused  him  such  pain,  that  he  sank  back  with 
a  deep  groan.  Jack  then  began  to  examine 
him  to  see  what  injury  he  had  sustained,  and 
the  process  seemed  to  cause  him  great  agony. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Is  it  serious?" 
asked  Mr.  Lowry. 

"The  shoulder  is  dislocated,  and  I  fear 
there  is  some  internal  injury.  I  should  like 
to  have  some  other  advice,"  said  Jack. 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  his  father.  "Go 
for  a  doctor  at  once." 

"It  is  not  so  easy  to  get  one.  There  is 
no  resident  doctor,  and  I  don't  know  that 
Hamilton  is  not  gone  back  to  town." 

"Then  we  must  send  to  Bray  for  one; 
but  first  try  is  Hamilton  here." 

"Let  me  go,  Jack,"  I  said;  "you  stay 
with  the  patient." 

The  doctor  came,  found  Litton  seriously 
injured;,  and  having  administered  all  the 
relief  in  his  power,  he  left  directions  with 
Jack,  promising  to  return  next  day. 

Jack  staid  by  the  sick-bed  all  night.  I 
got  up  at  daybreak,  and  found  Mrs.  Lowry 
in  great  anxiety.  Litton  was  in  a  danger- 
ous state,  and  Jack  wished  the  doctor  to  be 
sent  for  before  breakfast. 

"  Did  he  tell  why  he  went  out  last  night?" 
I  asked  eagerly. 

"O  yes  :  he  was  asleep,  poor  fellow!" 

''Asleep?" 

"  He  is  a  somnambulist.  Since  he  was  a 
child,  he  has  had  the  habit  of  walking  in  his 
sleep  when  fatigued  or  excited.  His  sister 
told  me  when  he  lost  the  first  examination 
he  was  so  much  disturbed  about  it  that  he 
used  to  walk  about  at  night.  One  night  she 
heard  him  in  the  sitting-room,  and  on  going 
in  to  see  what  he  was  about,  she  found  him 
with  a  candle  lit,  paper  before  him,  and  a  pen 
in  his  hand,  saying,  'Only  one  hour;  only 
half  an  hour.'  He  attempted  to  write,  but 
threw  down  the  pen,  exclaiming,  'It  is  no 
use,  I'm  beaten!'" 


I  had  listened  with  intense  interest  to  this 
account.  The  attempt  on  my  life  was  ex- 
plained, and  a  flood  of  remorseful  feeling 
rushed  over  me  as  I  thought  of  the  poor  fel- 
low, suffering,  perhaps  dying,  from  the  effects 
of  the  unhappy  peculiarity  which  had  de- 
ceived me.  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  sit 
up  that  night,  promising  to  call  Jack  if  there 
was  any  change  in  the  patient.  Litton  was 
asleep  when  I  took  my  place  beside  his  bed, 
and  slept  for  nearly  two  hours  after;  but  he 
was  restless  and  uneasy,  moaning  and  mutter- 
ing unfinished  sentences.  "Don't  torture 
me  !  I  have  nothing  to  tell — nothing — noth- 
ing ! "  he  shouted,  and  awoke.  He  looked 
round  wildly,  his  beautiful  eyes  bright  with 
fever,  and  asked  for  a  drink. 

"I  had  an  awful  dream,"  he  said,  as  I 
gave  him  the  glass  and  raised  his  head. 

"It  was  only  a  dream,  Frank;  you  are  all 
right  now." 

He  recognized  my  voice. 

"Joy,  what  brought  you  here?" 

"  I  came  to  take  care  of  you  to-night, 
Frank." 

"  It  is  kind  of  you,  no  doubt ;  but  I  would 
much  rather  you  did  not." 

"  Why,  Frank,"  I  began. 

"  I  don't  want  that  sort  of  kindness,"  he 
said;  "it  humiliates  me.  Just  call  to  mind 
your  words  when  we  parted,  Easter  twelve 
months." 

"  My  dear  Frank,  just  listen  to  me.  You 
said  then  that  I  should  be  sorry  for  my  con- 
duct to  you  some  day:  that  day  has  arrived. 
I  would  give  more  then  I  can  tell  to  efface 
it.  I  am  here  to  ask  your  pardon." 

"  Is  it — is  it — because  I  am  ill  or  dying?  " 

"  No ;  I  was  laboring  under  a  gross  mis- 
take, and  have  learned  the  truth.  It  has 
taken  a  load  off  my  mind,  and  at  the  same 
time  filled  me  with  remorse.  I  cannot  now 
explain  it  all,  but  I  may  tell  you  how  anx- 
ious I  am  for  your  recovery,  and  how  much. 
I  desire  to  atone." 

He  smiled  and  put  out  his  hand. 

"  I  knew  you  were  mistaken,  Nelson ; 
that's  why  I  pressed  for  your  reasons.  But 
what  was  it  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  me,  dear  Frank,"  I  replied, 


172 


My  New  Friend. 


[August. 


pressing  his  hand.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  now, 
but  I  must  when  you  are  well.  It  is  always 
better  to  make  a  clean  breast  at  any  cost." 

"  Indeed  it  is.  If  you  had  only  explained 
at  the  time,  it  would  have  saved  me  much 
trouble.  I  was  very  unhappy  about  the  af- 
fair." 

"Not  half  so  much  as  I  was,  as  you  will 
see  when  I  tell  you  the  whole  story." 

"Tell  me  all  now.  I  have  been  racking 
my  brain  continually  to  know  what  I  had 
done;  my  conscience  accused  me  of  no 
fault  towards  you.  Some  one  must  have 
slandered  me ;  and  it  is  only  common  justice 
to  tell  me  who  it  was." 

"  No  one  ever  did  to  me ;  I  could  not 
have  believed  anybody — nothing  but  the  sight 
of  my  eyes" — I  stopped  abruptly. 

"  The  sight  of  your  eyes  ?     Pray  explain." 

"Not  till  you  are  better." 

"Now — now!  I  insist.  You  have  not 
treated  me  well  in  this  matter,  Nelson.  You 
ought  to  have  given  me  the  chance  I  prayed 
for  so  earnestly  of  an  explanation." 

"I  own  it — heaven  only  can  know  with 
what  sorrow  and  shame!" 

"  Do  not  torture  me  any  longer  with  con- 
jectures; if  I  must  die,  let  my  mind  be  at 
rest  on  this  question." 

I  could  not  resist  longer. 

"  You  know,  Frank,  that  you  are  given  to 
sleep-walking,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  unhappily,  or  I  should  not  be  here 
now." 

"Do  you  remember  Easter  Sunday  night 
at  the  farm-house  near  Ballymoyle?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  yes." 

"  Have  you  any  recollection  of  having  left 
your  room  that  night?" 

"  None.  I  do  remember  a  terrible  dream 
— a  desperate  struggle  with  a  sort  of  Mephis- 
topheles,  who  wanted  to  steal  my  soul,  and 
my  only  chance  of  escape  was  to  kill  the 
fiend." 

"Well,  suppose  you  took  me  for  Mephis- 


topheles,  and  that  I  had  never  heard  of  your 
somnambulism,  and  that  when  I  saw  you  en- 
ter my  room  late  at  night,  and  stab  a  knife 
through  the  bed — which  luckily  was  tenant- 
less,  or  I  should  not  be  here  to  tell  the 
tale—" 

"£)  my  God!  can  this  be  true?"  he  ex- 
claimed, grasping  my  arm,  and  looking  into 
my  face.  "Did  you  believe  me  to  be  a 
murderer  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Frank,  forgive  me !  I  can 
hardly  ever  forgive  myself.  I  am  ashamed 
to  look  you  in  the  face." 

"But  after  all,  I  cannot  blame  you;  what 
could  you  think,  seeing  what  you  did? 
No,  no;  I  have  no  right  to  blame  you. 
Give  me  your  hand.  There,  let  it  all  be  for- 
gotten, like  a  horrible  nightmare  which  in 
truth  it  was.  Now  I  understand  your  in- 
explicable conduct  that  morning.  I  would 
have  given  much  to  have  extracted  the  truth 
from  you  then  and  afterwards.  In  fact,  I 
have  never  really  changed  towards  you." 

Litton  had  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  very 
feeble  voice,  and  as  he  ceased,  an  ashy  pale- 
ness overspread  his  face,  and  his  head  fell 
back.  "He  is  dying,"  I  said;  "the  agita- 
tion has  killed  him." 

A  thrill  of  horror  ran  through  me,  and 
with  all  the  tenderness  I  was  capable  of  I 
raised  his  head  on  my  arm  and  put  the  drink . 
to  his  lips.  I  felt  like  a  murderer;  and  I 
never  experienced  such  a  sense  of  relief  as 
when  he  looked  up  with  a  grateful  smile  and 
said,  "I  am  better."  I  put  my  lips  to  his 
forehead. 

"Live,  dear  Frank,  and  there  is  nothing  I 
will  not  do  to  atone  for  the  wrong  I  have 
been  guilty  of." 

"No  more  of  this.  I  will  not  hear  another 
word  of  self-reproach.  Whether  I  live  or 
die,  be  satisfied  that  my  regard  for  you  is 
unchangeable." 

Frank  recovered,  and  we  have  been  more 
than  friends — brothers  all  our  lives. 

G.  S.  Godkin. 


1883.] 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


173 


PUTTING   IN   THE   SUMMER   PROFESSIONALLY.— II. 


THE  three  succeeding  months  were  filled 
with  many  new  and  novel  experiences.  I 
had  never  taught  before,  and  did  not  know 
exactly  how  to  commence.  The  district, 
moreover,  had  just  been  organized,  and  I 
was  the  first  teacher.  Everything  was  crude 
and  primeval.  There  was  not  even  a  school- 
house  yet.  Down  by  a  little  lake  in  the 
heart  of  a  wood,  an  abandoned  log  cabin 
had  been  designated  for  this  purpose,  and 
here  I  was  told  to  organize  my  flock.  Fur- 
niture there  was  none.  We  rolled  in  logs 
for  the  children  to  sit  on,  and  my  throne 
consisted  of  an  empty  syrup-keg.  Empty, 
I  say,  although  the  thing  had  a  way  of  rising 
with  me  at  times — especially  on  hot  days — 
which  induced  doubts  upon  this  point. 
The  woodpeckers  had  bored  so  many  holes 
in  the  shake  roof  that  it  became  necessary 
to  pile  brush  on  top  to  keep  out  the  sun- 
light, and  my  big  girls  stuffed  wild  grasses 
and  fern  leaves  into  the  glassless  and  solitary 
window-sash  at  one  end  of  the  structure. 
Immediately  in  front  of  the  door,  which 
was  massive  and  never  shut,  lay  the  wreck  of 
an  immense  steel  trap  which  the  former  oc- 
cupant of  the  place  had  used  for  catching 
grizzlies,  and  just  beyond  it,  nailed  high 
up  against  the  trunk  of  an  oak,  were  the 
spreading  antlers  of  a  buck. 

I  soon  found  out,  in  fact,  that  my  lot  was 
cast  among  a  race  of  hunters.  The  larger 
boys  had  a  way  of  sauntering  down  to  school 
in  the  morning  with  shot-guns  and  rifles 
on  their  shoulders,  and  the  grand  "stack 
arms"  in  the  cow-shed  would  have  done 
credit,  on  occasions,  to  an  Oakland  mili- 
tary company.  This  kind  of  business  made 
me  a  little  nervous  at  first,  although  I  soon 
became  accustomed  to  it,  and  even  carried 
a  gun  myself  before  the  term  was  finished. 

Fortunately  for  me,  there  were  no  arms  in 
sight  on  the  first  morning,  else  I  should  have 
taken  to  the  brush  like  a  quail.  Since  my 
adventure  with  Stumpit,  I  had  largely  lost 


confidence  in  things  terrestrial,  and  held 
myself  in  readiness  to  shy  on  the  slightest 
provocation.  There  were  three  or  four  boys 
in  my  class — wirey,  muscular  mountaineers, 
who  could  have  whipped  me  easily  in  the 
event  of  war.  One  of  them  had  already 
killed  his  man — an  Indian,  in  a  sheep-herd- 
er's quarrel — and  was  looked  up  to  as  a  hero 
by  his  admiring  companions.  There  were 
likewise  two  or  three  buxom  lasses  in  my 
flock  who  took  no  back  seat —  as  I  afterwards 
found  out — when  it  came  to  a  question  of 
muscle  and  grit.  Two  of  them  were  very 
pretty,  and  I  was  secretly  in  love  with  them 
during  the  whole  term,  but  never  dared  to 
say  so  for  fear  some  of  the  young  bucks  in 
the  neighborhood  would  murder  me.  Be- 
sides, I  could  riot  decide  in  my  own  mind 
which  one  I  preferred.  So  I  concluded  to 
preserve  my  dignity,  and  that  silence  which, 
if  not  always  golden,  is  most  frequently  dis- 
creet. 

There  were,  all  told,  about  thirty  young- 
sters in  my  school,  varying  in  age  from  six 
to  twenty  years.  Most  of  them  came  down 
on  horseback,  and  it  would  have  done  you 
good  to  hear  them  whooping  in  the  canons 
and  screaming  through  the  woods  as  they 
came  and  went.  For  a  long  time  their 
movements  were  a  mystery  to  me.  They 
seemed  to  spring  up  in  the  morning  like 
wild  things  from  the  bushes,  and  disappear  at 
night  in  the  same  marvelous  manner.  I 
could  not  see  any  houses  anywhere,  or  any 
signs  of  human  habitation;  and  but  for  my 
limited  knowledge  of  woodcraft  I  should 
have  believed  that  they  lived  in  the  forest 
like  blue  jays. 

All  this  mystery,  however,  was  destined  to 
be  made  clear,  for  my  contract  provided 
that  I  should  "board  around."  How  much 
this  means  can  only  be  understood  by  the. 
man  of  vast  and  varied  experiences.  To 
me  it  meant  that  I  should  learn  all  the  sheep- 
trails  and  hidden  paths  through  the  hills; 


174 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


[August, 


that  I  should  make  the  acquaintance  of 
busy  housewives,  diversified  babies,  and  sus- 
picious dogs ;  that  I  should  know  every- 
body's business,  and  eat  all  kinds  of  food ; 
that  I  should  sleep  in  strange  places  and  in 
strange  company;  and  that  I  should  learn  to 
go  to  bed  in  the  dark,  and  dress  like  light- 
ning in  the  nick  of  time  on  the  following 
morning.  The  acquirement  of  this  latter 
accomplishment  gave  more  trouble  than  all 
the  others.  The  homes  of  my  patrons  were 
simple  and  rustic.  Few  of  them  contained 
over  two  rooms,  most  of  them  but  one. 
When  bed-time  came,  the  men  folks  would 
withdraw  to  the  corral  or  go  out  a  little  way 
into  the  brush,  upon  which  the  women 
would  retire  and  put  out  the  lights.  It  then 
behooved  the  masculine  biped  to  sneak  in 
and  undress  himself  in  the  dark.  It  was  a 
delicate  and  trying  ordeal  for  a  timid  man 
— one  requiring  blind  faith  in  providence 
and  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  topog- 
raphy of  the  room.  Subdued  giggles 
would  occasionally  reach  his  ears  as  he 
struggled  with  a  boot  or  stumbled  over  a 
chair;  and  on  one  occasion  which  the 
writer  recalls,  there  was  a  wild  outburst  of 
fiendish  female  laughter  when  the  school- 
master's bed  went  down  with  a  crash.  I  am 
morally  certain  that  those  young  women 
manipulated  that  bed  in  such  a  manner  that 
it  would  fall  upon  being  occupied,  but  they 
never  had  the  grace  to  acknowledge  their 
guilt. 

If  going  to  bed,  however,  was  surrounded 
with  such  difficulties  and  dangers,  the  act  of 
rising  was  not  less  perilous.  Woe  be  to 
the  young  man  who  slept  with  his  face 
turned  from  the  wall !  The  women  rise  first 
in  this  mountain  land,  and  early  in  the  dim 
dawn  they  cast  an  eagle  eye  about  to  see 
that  the  coast  is  clear.  Turn  over,  young 
man,  and  go  to  sleep,  or  some  one  will  dex- 
trously  toss  a  horse-blanket  or  a  sheep-skin 
over  your  face;  and  then,  when  the  old 
woman  has  gone  down  to  the  spring  and  the 
girls  are  out  milking  the  cows,  you  rustle 
around  and  get  into  your  clothes,  for  you 
may  not  have  another  chance.  These  rosy 
lasses  have  a  streak  of  humor  in  their  com- 


position, and  sleepy  fellows  have  been 
known  to  stay  in  bed  until  noon  before  they 
could  "clear" — all  because  they  failed  to  em- 
brace the  early  opportunity  given. 

After  getting  fairly  under  way  with  my 
school,  all  went  well  for  several  weeks. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  insubordination  or 
disposition  to  give  me  trouble  on  the  part  of 
my  pupils,  and  everywhere  I  was  greeted 
with  cordiality  by  the  bluff  mountaineers 
when  I  met  them  in  their  homes  or  on  the 
roads.  One  morning,  however,  on  going 
down  to  the  school-house  a  little  earlier  than 
usual,  I  was  surprised  to  find  the  great  oaken 
door  closed  and  barred.  Tethered  here  and 
there  in  the  bushes  were  the  horses  of  most 
of  the  pupils,  but  not  a  child  was  in  sight, 
and  perfect  stillness  reigned  in  the  little 
clearing.  This  was  such  an  unusual  state  of 
affairs  that  my  suspicions  were  at  once 
aroused  that  some  mischief  was  on  foot. 
Going  closer,  I  attempted  to  open  the  door. 
A  wild  shout  of  laughter  immediately  went 
up  from  the  assembled  youngsters  on  the 
inside. 

"Open  the  door,"  I  commanded. 

"Hiyi!  Whoop  la  !  Open  it  yourself!" 
came  back  the  response. 

Peering  in  through  a  crack,  I  could  see 
the  larger  boys  and  girls  on  guard  at  the 
window  and  door,  both  of  which  were 
strongly  barricaded,  while  the  younger  chil- 
dren were  huddled  together  and  frightened  in 
the  corners.  For  some  little  time  I  was  un- 
decided how  to  act.  Should  I  attempt  to 
enter  by  force  with  these  odds  against  me, 
or  go  for  assistance  ? 

Should  I  consider  this  matter  as  a  serious 
breach  of  discipline,  or  give  the  boys  a  tussle 
and  let  the  thing  go  as  a  joke? 

Of  one  thing  I  was  certain :  if  I  did  not 
conquer  now  I  should  lose  prestige,  and 
probably  all  control  of  the  school.  Upon 
the  outcome  of  this  affair  depended  not  only 
my  future  influence,  but  my  ability  to  remain 
in  the  district.  To  go  for  help  would  cause 
them  to  despise  me.  Better  make  a  square 
fight  and  get  whipped. 

First,  however,  I  would  try  parley.  But 
parley  would  not  work.  They  flatly  refused 


1883.] 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


175 


to  come  out  or  open  the  door  unless  I 
should  declare  the  day  a  holiday  and  send 
a  boy  down  to  Lower  Lake  to  purchase  a 
supply  of  nuts  and  candies  as  a  peace-offer  - 
ing. 

This  I  would  not  do.  The  latter  part  of 
the  condition  I  could  not  do  if  I  would,  be- 
cause of  financial  stress.  So  war  was  deter- 
mined upon. 

Going  back  into  the  woods  a  little  way  I 
procured  a  stick — the  heaviest  I  could  carry 
— and  charged  the  butt  end  of  it  with  all 
my  force  against  the  window  barricades. 
The  splinters  flew  and  there  was  a  whoop 
of  defiance  from  within.  Again  and  again 
I  charged  it,  and  then  there  was  a  crash, 
and  I  could  see  that  the  old  wagon-bed 
which  they  had  braced  up  against  the  win- 
dow on  the  inside  had  gone  down.  Spring- 
ing instantly  into  the  opening,  I  succeeded 
in  getting  my  body  half-way  through,  when  I 
was  met  by  a  dozen  arms,  and  a  lively  skir- 
mish took  place  on  the  sash,  nearly  breaking 
me  in  two.  As  a  result,  I  was  violently  ex- 
pelled, my  coat  was  split  up  the  back  to  the 
collar,  and  my  hat  remained  in  the  hands  of 
the  enemy. 

In  the  second  round  I  directed  my  bat- 
tering-ram against  the  door.  For  a  while  it 
resisted  my  best  endeavors,  and  the  boys  on 
the  inside  were  laughing  in  derision,  when  a 
luminous  idea  struck  me.  Extending  out 
over  the  school-house  was  a  limb  of  the  oak 
tree  to  which  reference  has  already  been 
made  in  this  article.  To  throw  a  rope  over 
this  branch  and  suspend  my  battery  was  a 
very  simple  matter,  and  I  soon  had  a  ram  at 
work  which  made  the  old  log  house  tremble. 
Bang,  bang,  bang  it  went;  the  door  began 
to  groan  and  grumble ;  the  younger  children 
screamed  with  terror,  and  the  older  ones 
yelled  in  unison;  and  then  came  a  grand 
splintering,  and  before  the  dust  cleared  away, 
I  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  school- 
room in  triumph.  Immediately  three  or 
four  of  the  large  boys  seized  me,  and  a  des- 
perate struggle  took  place.  There  was  no 
disposition  to  strike  blows  on  either  side, 
but  the  boys  were  bent  on  putting  me  out  of 
the  building,  and  I  was  equally  determined 


to  stay  in.  Although  overpowered  from  the 
start,  it  was  still  possible  for  me  to  make  a 
very  respectable  resistance,  and  the  com- 
bined enemy  did  not  succeed  in  evicting  me 
until  my  clothing  was  pretty  much  all  torn 
off,  and  a  number  of  scratches,  bruises,  and 
bloody  noses  testified  to  the  intensity  of  the 
struggle. 

My  breath  was  now  exhausted,  and  I  sat 
down  to  take  a  rest.  The  boys  in  the  mean 
time  had  replaced  the  fallen  door  and  cut 
down  my  battering-ram.  During  the  fracas 
most  of  the  smaller  children  had  escaped  to 
the  woods,  and  I  could  see  their  scared  little 
faces  peeping  into  the  clearing  from  the  sur- 
rounding circle  of  trees  and  bushes.  While 
thinking  the  matter  over,  and  wondering  if  it 
would  not  be  a  good  idea  to  hitch  a  horse  to 
one  corner  of  the  building  and  pull  it  down, 
a  little  girl  approached  very  timidly  from  the 
direction  of  the  school-house,  and  handed 
me  a  scrap  of  paper. 

"  Nancy  Clark  put  this  through  a  crack," 
she  said,  "and  told  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

I  opened  and  read  as  follows : 

"  Git  in  at  the  winder;  we  will  help  you. 

"NANCY." 

"This  would  seem  to  indicate,"  I  thought, 
"that  I  have  friends  in  the  garrison."  The 
"we "was  somewhat  indefinite,  it  is  true,  but 
it  certainly  meant  more  than  one.  "If  I 
can  effect  another  lodgment  in  that  shanty,'' 
I  argued,  "  and  there  are  two  persons  on  the 
inside  who  will  stand  by  me — male  or  fe- 
male— we  can  hold  the  fort." 

Approaching  cautiously  from  a  blinded 
corner,  I  peered  through  a  crevice  at  the 
rebel  crew  inside.  All  told,  they  were  nine 
— five  boys  and  four  girls.  The  boys,  I  no- 
ticed, were  guarding  the  door,  while  the 
window  was  left  to  their  female  companions. 
This  latter  had  not  been  barricaded  since  I 
demolished  the  wagon-bed,  my  early  repulse 
at  that  point  having  led  them  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  was  not  necessary.  Nancy  stood 
nearest  to  the  opening,  her  face  flushed  with 
excitement,  and  her  lithe,  graceful  figure  as 
alert  as  a  cat.  Around  her  were  grouped 
the  other  girls — no  doll-faces,  by  the  way, 
but  healthy,  rosy  lasses  with  plenty  of  firm, 


176 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


[August, 


shapely  muscle;  girls  who  could  handle  a 
rifle  or  an  ax,  ride  a  mustang  or  lasso  a  steer. 

"If  these  radiant  creatures,"  I  thought, 
"  have  concluded  to  desert  the  rebel  cause 
and  join  my  standard,  I  will  win  this  battle 
yet." 

I  was  ungallant  enough  to  have  some 
doubts  as  to  their  fidelity ;  but  reflecting 
that  I  had  nothing  to  lose  and  everything  to 
gain  by  so  powerful  an  alliance,  I  resolved 
to  throw  myself  into  their  hands.  Procuring 
an  immense  club,  I  renewed  my  assault  on 
the  door  with  all  the  vigor  at  my  command. 
To  demolish  it  without  the  aid  of  the  swing- 
ing battery  I  knew  was  impossible,  but  an- 
other purpose  was  shaping  itself  in  my  mind. 
When  satisfied  that  the  attention  of  the  gar- 
rison was  fully  fixed  upon  the  door,  I  sud- 
denly dropped  the  club,  and  slipping  quietly 
around  the  building,  sprung  into  the  open 
window  and  down  into  the  arms  of  my  Am- 
azonian friends  before  a  masculine  hand 
could  be  raised  to  stop  me. 

The  scene  which  now  ensued  was  the  live- 
liest, I  ween,  that  the  old  log  school-house 
ever  witnessed.  The  boys  made  a  dash  for 
me,  but  the  girls  rallied  to  the  defense  like 
Spartan  heroes,  and  gallantly  stood  off  the 
assault. 

"Open  the  door,"  some  one  shouted, 
"and  we  will  drag  him  out." 

The  door  was  opened,  but  the  dragging- 
out  process  did  not  follow.  Securely  in- 
trenched in  a  corner  with  four  gritty  girls  to 
defend  me,  I  was  prepared  to  defy  the  county. 
I  even  wished  that  I  had  Stumpit  there. 
Now  that  my  hand  was  in  and  my  support 
was  so  excellent,  I  felt  sure  of  our  ability  to 
soundly  trounce  him.  For  half  an  hour  the 
struggle  lasted,  and  then  everybody  was  out 
of  breath.  Taking  advantage  of  the  lull  in 
the  storm,  I  mounted  the  syrup-keg  to  make 
a  speech. 

"Boys,"  I  said,  "you  have  done  nobly, 
but  your  sisters  are  better  men  than  you  are." 

"Hooray  for  the  gals!"  shouted  a  bare- 
legged urchin  near  the  door. 

"I  think,"  I  continued,  "that  we  have 
had  fun  enough.  Let's  call  this  thing  quits, 
and  get  back  to  work." 


"You  ain't  mad,  then?"  queried  one  of 
the  rebels,  an  active  youth  of  about  sixteen, 
who  had  taken  a  leading  part  in  the  revolt. 
There  was  something  in  the  gravity  with 
which  the  question  was  put  that  excited  my 
risibility;  but  before  I  could  frame  a  reply 
the  head  of  the  syrup-keg  caved  in,  and  I 
came  to  the  floor  amid  a  general  laugh. 

"Hooray  for  the  teacher!"  shouted  the 
bare-legged  youth;  and  a  chorus  of  whoops 
and  approving  yells  greeted  the  proposi- 
tion. 

The  tide  had  now  turned  completely  in  my 
favor,  and  all  resistance  was  at  an  end.  At 
my  suggestion  the  boys  put  the  room  in  order, 
the  little  ones  were  called  in  from  the  brush, 
and  studies  were  resumed.  When  the  noon- 
hour  came,  I  noticed  Nancy  and  several  of 
the  other  girls  holding  a  whispered  conver- 
sation under  the  trees;  and  then  one  of  the 
boys  was  mounted  on  a  swift  pony  and  hastily 
dispatched  over  the  mountain  trail.  Three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  later  he  returned  with  a 
bundle  on  his  saddle,  and  I  was  waited 
upon  by  a  select  committee  of  young  ladies, 
and  requested  to  accept  the  loan  of  a  suit  of 
Pete  Blethen's  Sunday  clothes  until  they 
could  repair  my  own  badly  dilapidated  gar- 
ments. They  asked,-  furthermore,  that  I 
would  repair  at  once  to  the  woods  and  make 
the  exchange,  as  they  were  provided  with 
needles  and  thread,  and  proposed  to  put  my 
wardrobe  in  order  without  further  delay. 

This  consideration  was  indeed  most 
timely,  for  my  condition  was  pitiable.  I  was 
literally  torn  to  pieces,  and  had  to  tie  things 
up  with  a  bale-rope ;  so  I  accepted  the 
proffered  apparel  with  deepest  gratitude. 
Pete  Blethen  was  a  larger  man  than  I  am. 
There  was  room,  as  one  of  the  boys  re- 
marked, for  a  bale  of  hay  inside  my  waist- 
band after  I  had  donned  his  unmention- 
ables; but  this  was  a  matter  of  slightest 
consequence  under  the  present  stress  of 
weather.  Anything  was  better  than  rags; 
and  Pete  Blethen's  suit,  with  its  sleeves 
rolled  up  a  foot,  a  double  reef  in  the  back, 
and  the  pants  tucked  into  my  boots,  was 
a  vast  improvement  on  fig-leaves  and  bale- 
rope. 


1883.] 


Putting  in  the  Summer  Professionally. 


177 


It  took  the  girls  most  of  the  afternoon  to 
sew  me  up,  and  in  the  mean  time  but  little 
pretense  was  made  of  keeping  school.  So 
the  youngsters  had  their  holiday,  after  all; 
but  I  don't  know  who  had  more  fun  out  of 
it — they  or  I.  The  candies  and  nuts  de- 
manded were  missing,  but  these  I  furnished 
on  another  occasion;  and  the  store-keepers 
in  Lower  Lake  wondered  what  I  was  going 
to  do  with  so  much  rubbish.  I  am  really 
under  the  impression  that  I  exhausted  the 
confectionery  supply  of  that  thriving  town. 

On  the  morning  after  the  fracas  I  found 
that  the  boys  had  been  down  to  the  school- 
house  during  the  night  and  repaired  the 
door.  They  had  also  improvised  a  desk  for 
my  use  out  of  the  old  wagon-bed,  and  every- 
thing was  swept  up  and  stored  away  in  the 
nicest  order.  From  that  day  foAvard  I  had 
not  the  slightest  trouble.  My  every  wish  was 
law,  and  a  happier  little  community  would 
be  hard  to  find  in  all  the  wilderness.  The 
three  months  of  my  brief  term  slipped 
quickly  away,  and  then  the  last  day  came. 
I  was  not  a  hardened  sinner  in  those  times, 
and  this,  to  me,  was  a  trying  ordeal.  You 
may  smile  if  you  will,  O  cynical  reader,  but 
if  you  had  seen  those  big  boys,  who  so 
shortly  before  were  bent  on  tossing  me  out 
of  the  window,  sitting  around  the  room 
blubbering  like  babies;  if  you  had  seen  the 
grief  of  the  girls,  and  the  affection  of  the 
little  ones  who  came  for  the  last  time  to 
clamber  over  me  and  fill  my  hat  rim  full  of 
wild  things;  if  you  had  learned  to  know 
•  them  as  I  knew  them,  and  then  a  black  day 
came  when  you  must  say  good  by  and  go 
away — I  am  quite  sure  you  would  have 
seated  yourself  on  that  log  beside  me  and 
cried  too. 

A  few  days  before  the  closing  of  my 
school;  a  letter  reached  me  from  the  Doctor, 
which  said,  among  other  things:  "Meet  me 
at  Lower  Lake  on  the  5th.  I  am  on  my 
way  home  from  Yreka,  and  have  a  job  for 
you." 

My  first  impression  was,  of  course,  that  he 

wished  to  initiate  me  again  into  the  dentistry 

business.     Imagine   my  surprise,  therefore, 

on  joining  him  at  the  appointed  time,  to  find 

VOL.  II.— 12. 


that  he  had  abandoned  his  dental  outfit 
some  where  in  the  north,  and  was  now  on 
his  way  to  Sacramento  with  a  drove  of  hogs. 
He  was  the  dustiest-looking  pirate  I  had 
seen  for  many  a  day.  So  far  as  color  was 
concerned,  I  could  hardly  tell  him  from  the 
two  Indians  he  had  along  to  help  drive. 

"So  this  is  the  job  you  offer  me,"  I  re- 
marked, an  hour  or  so  after  we  had  ex- 
changed greetings. 

"Yes:  I  propose  to  make  you  chief  of  the 
band." 

It  was  vain  to  argue.  I  held  that  it  was 
not  dignified  or  becoming  in  two  profession- 
al gentlemen  to  walk  behind  a  drove  of 
hogs  from  Lower  Lake  to  Sacramento.  We 
should  lose  social  caste  by  such  an  act,  and 
be  mistaken  for  butchers.  But  all  my  fine 
logic  went  to  the  winds.  It  was  evidently 
decreed  that  my  glittering  career  as  a  moun- 
tain school-master  should  be  rounded  off 
and  perfected  by  a  two  weeks'  apprentice- 
ship as  hog-driver.  So  I  accepted  the  inev- 
itable, and  fell  graciously  into  line. 

It  is  not  my  purpose,  however,  on  this 
occasion,  to  describe  to  you  the  vicissitudes 
and  adventures  of  that  memorable  trip. 
You  will  be  interested  in  knowing  that  it 
was  not  a  pleasure  excursion.  No  loitering 
now  in  green  pastures  or  beside  the  still  wa- 
ters; no  gentle  dalliance  under  summer 
moons  or  vagabond  slumberings  in  fragrant 
hay-stacks.  It  was  solid  work — tramp, 
tramp,  tramp,  all  day  in  the  dusty  wake  of  a 
villainous  band  of  unromantic  porkers;  and 
at  night,  lonely  vigils  to  keep  off  the  coyotes 
and  prevent  the  hogs  from  scattering. 

Our  course  led  us  down  through  the 
canon  of  Cache  Creek  into  the  Berryessa 
valley.  Here  a  burning  field  of  stubble 
stampeded  the  band  one  day,  and  it  took  us 
half  a  week  to  get  it  together  again.  They 
went  to  the  thirty-two  points  of  the  compass, 
and  we  only  recovered  them,  by  twos  and 
threes  from  the  surrounding  grain  fields,  at 
the  cost  of  immense  labor  and  patience. 
One  night  we  reached  the  town  of  Woodland, 
and  were  just  securing  our  drove  in  a  friend- 
ly corral,  when  some  one  rode  up  and 
said: 


178 


A  Proud  Woman. 


[August, 


"Hello,  old  fellow,  what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

It  was  Harry  King,  my  old  school-fellow 
of  Brayton  College  days.  We  had  studied 
verbs  from  the  same  Latin  grammar,  and 
Fred  Campbell  once  bumped  our  heads  to- 
gether for  smuggling  a  cat  into  the  class- 
room. The  boy  had  recognized  me  some- 
how through  all  my  disguise  of  dust  and 
overalls,  and  put  out  his  hand  in  hearty 
greeting.  I  introduced  the  Doctor,  and 
then  King  insisted  upon  our  going  home 
with  him.  It  was  useless  to  protest.  His 
mother  and  sisters  would  never  forgive  us  if 
we  went  by  without  calling. 

"But,  Harry,"  I  insisted,  "see  the  plight 
we  are  in.  Your  mother  would  not  allow  us 
to  come  in  at  the  front  gate  if  she  should 
see  these  rigs." 

But  no  refusal  would  be  accepted.  Dust 
and  all,  we  must  come  along,  and  come  at 
once,  for  it  was  about  supper-time. 

You  should  have  seen  the  surprise  of  Mrs. 
King  when  Harry  marched  us  into  her  ele- 
gant back  parlor.  She  evidently  mistook  us 
for  tramps,  and  started  to  say  something 
about  "taking  them  round  the  back  way," 
when  I  spoke,  and  she  recognized  me.  The 
young  ladies  came  in  a  few  moments  later, 
and  then  we  had  a  big  laugh.  A  most  de- 
lightful evening  followed.  Supper  over,  we 
adjourned  to  the  parlor,  and  the  Doctor,  be- 
grimed and  bedeviled  as  he  was,  had  the 
audacity  to  sit  down  on  Miss  Kate's  deli- 
cately covered  piano-stool  and  sing  a  song. 
He  had  a  fine  voice,  and  knew  something  of 
music ;  but  as  he  sat  there  chanting  about 


the  "dove  upon  the  mast,"  and  "my  love  he 
stood  at  my  right  hand,"  I  had  to  laugh  in 
his  face.  He  looked  like  a  buccaneer  at  a 
christening. 

When  bed-time  came,  we  were  ushered 
by  Miss  Kate  into  a  cozy  upper  room,  and 
left  to  ourselves  with  many  kindly  admoni- 
tions to  call  for  anything  we  wanted,  and 
make  ourselves  perfectly  at  home.  The 
room  was  evidently  that  occupied  by  the 
young  ladies.  How  clean  and  sweet  every- 
thing was — the  white  curtains  at  the  win- 
dows, the  towels,  and  the  toilet-stand !  Only  a 
woman's  touch  could  make  a  room  look  like 
this.  And  the  bed !  It  was  white  as  snow, 
and  there  was  lace  on  the  pillow-slips,  and  a 
touch-me-not  air  of  purity  about  it  that 
spoke  volumes. 

"Doctor, "I  said,  "I  won't  sleep  in  that 
bed." 

"Nor  I  either,"  he  answered;  "it  would 
be  sacrilege." 

So  we  curled  up  on  the  floor  in  the  bay- 
window  and  pulled  a  rug  over  us;  and  those 
gentle  ladies  have  never  learned  until  this 
day  how  we  managed  to  make  up  that  bed 
so  neatly  on  the  following  morning. 

A  few  more  weary  days  in  the  hot  sun,  and 
our  tramp  was  ended.  At  Sacramento  there 
were  barber-shops  and  bath-houses  and  rest ; 
and  if  you  had  seen  the  Doctor  splurging 
around  on  the  fair  grounds  a  week  later  with 
a  plug  hat  on,  accompanied  by  a  slender 
youth  in  green  kid  gloves,  you  never  would 
have  dreamed  that  the  two  had  been  putting 
in  the  summer  with  such  utter  disregard  of 
the  proprieties. 

D.  S.  Richardson. 


A   PROUD   WOMAN. 


JOHN  VANDOR'S  sky  had  always  been 
cloudless.  He  had  seen  life  through  a  rose- 
lined  haze,  and  had  walked  rough-shod  over 
its  meadow  bloom.  Naturally  he  forgot  or 
never  knew  that  somewhere  and  sometimes 
there  were  sodden  paths  to  tread,  that  the 
meadow  bloom  turned  to  rustling  broom 


stalks,  and  the  sky  to  "an  under-roof  of 
doleful  gray."  He  was  sunshiny  because  he 
had  never  peered  into  the  shadows.  To 
have  a  purse  well  filled  without  knowing 
who  fills  it,  to  open  your  hand  for  a  gift  of 
fortune  and  have  it  drop  in  carelessly,  to 
win  love  without  seeking  it — in  short,  to  play 


1883.] 


A  Proud  Woman. 


179 


at  living  is  pleasant  occupation,  but  very 
poor  discipline.  Perhaps  John  Vandor  was 
a  trifle  selfish,  in  spite  of  his  inexhaustible 
good  nature,  his  intelligence,  his  invariable 
"good  form." 

Agnes  Earle  was  the  sort  of  girl  men  call 
dashing  and  women  —  out  of  respect  to 
their  own  preferences  —  dare  not  classify. 
She  had  dark  and  unreadable  eyes,  matched 
to  a  shade  by  a  profusion  of  crinkled  hair, 
and  set  off  by  long,  almost  curly  lashes — 
lashes  that  would  have  made  the  Sistine 
Madonna  a  half  coquette.  Her  complexion 
was  that  rich,  deep,  yet  perfectly  clear  olive 
one  sees  more  often  in  the  best  Spanish 
portraits  than  in  American  life.  From  re- 
mote ancestors  she  had  perhaps  Spanish 
blood  in  her  veins.  In  figure  she  was 
neither  so  tall  as  Diana  nor  so  mature  as 
Juno;  neither  lithe  nor  willowy  describe  her 
exactly,  though  either  may  help  to  indicate 
the  subtle  something  in  her  carriage  which 
made  her  as  graceful  in  movement  as  in  re- 
pose, in  speech  as  in  silence,  in  alert  atten- 
tion as  in  self-saturated  reverie.  Indeed, 
Agnes  Earle  would  have  been  almost  beau- 
tiful if  she  had  had  no  other  charm  than  the 
wonderfully  pretty  hands  which  had  made 
John  Vandor  fall  half  in  love  with  her  when 
they  first  met,  and  had  helped  to  persuade 
him  that  he  loved  her  ever  after. 

Vandor  was  not  exactly  handsome.  He 
was  fine-looking.  One  could  not  but  ad- 
mire his  physique,  and  one  could  not  help 
noticing,  in  looking  him  full  in  the  face, 
that  he  had  brains. 

These  two  began  by  liking  each  other 
somewhat  blindly  and  altogether  unreason- 
ably. He  liked  in  her  the  brilliance  and 
dash  of  her  style,  the  suggestive  fluency  of 
her  small  talk,  and  above  all,  her  compel- 
ling beauty.  She  liked  in  him  a  certain 
strength,  a  certain  suggestion  of  restrained 
power,  which  seemed  to  underlie  his  obvi- 
ous conceit  and  his  superficial  empiricism 
of  thinking;  and  she  liked  his  open-handed  - 
ness,  his  big,  brave  ways,  his  love  of  dogs 
and  horses  and  of  "all  outdoors." 

These  young  people  were  second  cousins, 
but  they  had  not  met  or  known  much  of 


each  other  until  he  was  a  man  of  twenty-six 
and  she  a  woman  of  nineteen.  He  had 
come  to  California  for  no  good  reason — for 
no  reason.  One  Saturday  afternoon,  after 
a  week  of  most  comprehensive  "doing" 
of  San  Francisco,  he  walked  into  Richard 
Earle's  study  at  Berkeley,  bearing  a  note  of 
introduction  from  Cousin  Mary,  who  lived  in 
Albany.  He  found  a  bronzed  grizzly,  curt 
and  gruff,  who  scowled  him  a  dubious  wel- 
come without  rising. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  this  State, 
young  man?"  asked  the  host. 

"Just  ten  days — two  in  Sacramento,  eight 
in  San  Francisco." 

"  Are  you  broke  ?  " 

"Do  you  mean  out  of  funds?"  asked  the 
guest,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself. 

"I  mean  broke — b-r-o-k-e;  busted,  p'r'aps 
you  say.  Came  here  to  borrow?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  came  to  pay  you  my 
respects,  and  wish  you  a  very  good  day." 
And  second  cousin  Vandor,  turning  on  his 
heel,  .quietly  left  the  room. 

In  the  hall  he  was  arrested  by  the  unmis- 
takable rustle  of  feminine  drapery,  just  in 
time  to  avoid  a  collision  with  a  lady. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  rather  stiff- 

iy. 

"Have  you  been  quarreling  with  papa?" 

The  young  lady  smiled  while  she  asked 
the  question,  and  all  the  stiffness  had  gone 
from  his  voice  as  he  replied:  "Not  exactly; 
I  am  a  cousin  of  your  father's — of  yours  too, 
by  the  way — and  I  had  come  to  be  very  civil 
to  my  relative.  Your  father  thought  I  had 
come  to  borrow  money." 

He  had  forgotten  his  anger;  forgotten  that 
he  ought  to  have  been  in  full  retreat. 

"Come  back  with  me,  and  let  me  explain, 
I'll  make  him  apologize.  Our  cousin  must 
not  go  away  in  such  a  fashion,  with  the  af- 
ternoon sun  about  to  go  down  upon  his 
wrath.  I'  don't  wonder  you  were  angry ;  but 
then,  'twas  only  father." 

"Your  cousin  had  much  rather  accept  the 
family  apology  from  you"  said  Vandor, 
laughing.  "However,  I'll  go  back,  and  try 
and  explain  that  I'm  not  'broke.'" 

Agnes  led  the  way,  and  marched  straight 


180 


A  Proud  Woman. 


[August, 


to  her  father's  side.  She  bent  and  kissed 
him  lightly,  and  then  standing  directly  in 
front  of  him,  she  shook  at  him  one  taper 
ringer,  saying,  with  an  inimitable  drawl: 
"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?" 

"Why  didn't  he  come  here  at  once, 
then,"  snarled  the  bronzed  grizzly. 

"Ah,  ha!  and  that's  the  reason  you  send 
our  cousin  away  with  your  awful  bluntness. 
Now  please  understand,  Da" — she  called 
him  "Da" — "that  I  shall  permit  no  such 
high-handed  acting.  Come  here,  cousin,  and 
notice  how  meekly  he  shakes  hands." 

By  this  time  both  men  were  laughing,  and 
Agnes  smiled  complacently  and  left  the 
room.  The  second  cousins  masculine  shook 
hands,  and  the  elder  soon  became  interested 
in  news  from  his  old  home.  When  Miss 
Earle  re-entered  the  room,  an  hour  later, 
she  saw  that  the  cousins  were  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  each  other,  and  judiciously  in- 
vited the  young  man  to  go  out  on  the  porch 
with  her  and  watch  one  of  their  show  sun- 
sets. "Judiciously"  means  that  the.  wise 
young  woman  did  not  intend  that  the  others 
should  have  a  chance  to  become  bored  with 
each  other. 

From  being  a  mere  looker-on  in  Vienna, 
Vandor  became  enamored  of  "our  glorious 
climate,"  and  resolved,  with  the  calm,  far- 
seeing  discretion  of  twenty-six,  to  invest  the 
major  portion  of  his  fortune  in  California  se- 
curities. Fortunately,  Richard  Earle  was  a 
wise  mentor.  No  one  knew  the  ins  and 
outs  of  San  Francisco  trade  better  than  he ; 
and  Vandor  managed  to  steer  clear  of  Pine 
Street,  and  locked  most  of  his  money  into 
the  walls  of  a  big  bonded  warehouse.  From 
being  enamored  of  our  State  and  our  cli- 
mate, it  was  easy  enough  to  fall  in  love  with 
one  of  our  loveliest  girls;  and  before  their 
knowledge  of  each  other  had  lasted  a  year, 
Agnes  made  herself  believe  that  she  loved 
him  well  enough  to  become  his  wife;  and  all 
this  with  the  full  consent  of  gruff  Richard 
Earle. 

At  a  point  on  the  lowest  shelf  of  the 
Berkeley  foothills,  about  midway  between  the 
South  Hall  of  the  University  and]the)grounds 
of  the  State  Institute  for  the  Deaf,  Dumb, 


and  Blind  is  a  covered  cistern,  in  which  is 
gathered  the  outflow  of  a  dozen  mountain 
springs.  This  point  is  the  vantage  ground 
of  a  superb  outlook.  To  the  south,  the 
farthest  visible  horizon  is  marked  by  the 
rounded  shoulders  of  Loma  Prieta,  ten  miles 
southwest  of  San  Jose.  To  the  north,  in 
the  farthest  discernible  distance,  are  the  low 
hills  between  Petaluma  and  Santa  Rosa,  a 
waving  line  of  deepest  indigo  at  the  base  of 
the  blue  sky.  There  are  three  evenings  in 
October  and  three  in  April,  when,  looking 
from  Berkeley,  the  sun  sets  directly  behind 
the  Farallones,  and  against  its  exaggerated 
and  distorted  disk  the  curious  clusters  of 
black  rocks  stand  out  like  silhouettes. 

It  lacked  less  than  an  hour  of  sunset  when 
Agnes  climbed  to  the  little  knoll  and  stood 
beside  the  queer,  cone-shaped  cistern  roof. 
The  fair  scape  of  land  and  sea  and  sky  un- 
rolled like  a  scroll  from  her  very  feet,  west 
and  south  and  north. 

A  little  path  meandered  at  an  upward 
angle  around  a  southerly  curve  in  the  broad 
hillside.  Along  this  path  came  a  young 
man,  with  a  dog  at  his  heels  and  a  gun  under 
his  arm.  It  was  John  Vandor,  trudging 
home  from  a  contraband  sally  after  unlawful 
wing-shots.  Agnes  did  not  heed  his  ap- 
proach, and  he  leaned  against  the  fence 
scarcely  a  rod  away,  with  the  dog  at  his  feet 
and  a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

It  is  idle  to  try  and  attain  the  impossible 
— to  put  into  accurate  thinking  and  tangible 
words  the  loveliness  of  that  evening  scene. 
Looking  due  south,  over  the  apparently  per- 
fect level  of  Oakland  and  Alameda,  the 
southern  arm  of  the  bay,  which  gleams  under 
the  morning  sun  like  a  narrow  silver  ribbon 
that  a  boy  might  jump  across,  was  a  river  of 
indigo,  with  scarcely  a  visible  ripple  on  all 
its  surface.  A  wall  of  smoke  arose  above  the 
houses  of  the  city;  its  base  in  gloom,  its 
coping  lighted  with  yellow  flame. 

"I  like  it,  Agnes;  do  you?" 

Agnes  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and 
there  was  a  trace  of  dissatisfied  surprise  in 
her  tones  of  welcome. 

The  young  man  would  have  been  dull 
indeed  if  he  had  not  noticed,  and  spiritless. 


1883.] 


A  Proud  Woman. 


181 


if  he  had  not  been  piqued.  "You  surely 
don't  wish  to  keep  the  picture  quite  to  your- 
self, do  you?" 

"No,  it  was  the  immediate  foreground  only 
that  I  cared  to  monopolize." 

"Cared  is  past  tense,  Agnes." 

"Care,  then." 

"'Care  then'  isn't  grammar." 

She  looked  at  him  disdainfully  for  an 
instant,  and  then  looked  another  way. 

"You  will  be  sorry  for  this  sometime,"  the 
young  man  said,  quietly  but  very  gravely.  If 
I  have  offended  you,  let  me  know  how; 
I'm  always  ready  enough  to  apologize,  am  I 
not?" 

"Too  ready." 

"Too  ready?" 

"Yes.  I  am  as  tired  of  this  interminable 
scene-making  as  you  can  possibly  be — this 
'kiss  and  make  up'  condition  of  affairs.  We 
are  engaged ;  we  have  exchanged  vows  and 
rings  and  sophistries — " 

"Sophistries?" 

"Yes;  have  we  not  declared  over  and  over 
again  that  we  love  each  other  above  all  else  ? 
It  is  a — an  error.  Each  of  us  loves  his  own 
way  better  than  sweetheart  or  lover.  Is  it 
not  so  ?  " 

"For  you,  possibly:  not  for  me." 

If  she  had  looked  more  closely  at  him  as 
she  spoke,  she  would  have  noticed  that  his 
face  wore  an  expression  she  had  never  before 
seen.  John  Vandor's  forehead  carried  a 
frown  as  black  as  the  shadows  of  the  forest 
hillsides  above  San  Pablo,  and  there  was  the 
precise  sort  of  glitter  in  his  brown  eyes  that 
the  usual  fictionist  describes  as  "baleful." 
But  she  did  not  notice;  and  when  he  said, 
slowly  and  almost  painfully,  as  if  every  word 
cost  him  a  moment  of  physical  pain,  "  Do  you 
want  your  freedom  back  again,  Agnes?"  she 
answered  him,  with  the  defiant  ring  of  as- 
sured proprietorship  in  her  lark-like  voice: 
"Why,  yes,  for  a  while,  if  you  please." 

"  It  shall  be  until  you  please  to  tire  of  it," 
was  all  he  said. 

He  strode  down  the  hillside  slope  without 
a  single  good  by,  and  she  continued  to  stand 
with  a  scornful  smile,  while  the  afterglow 
faded  out  of  the  sky.  But  the  smile  faded 


with  the  waning  flush  in  the  western  skies, 
and  with  the  darkness  came  a  sudden  dread 
— a  dread  she  had  not  known  or  dreamed  of. 
"Will  he  ever  come  back?"  she  thought. 
"Will  he?"  she  said  aloud.  An  obtrusive 
hoot-owl  screeched  a  shrill  reply,  and  the 
proud  girl  found  it  anything  but  reassuring. 

She  had  been  so  sure  of  John  Vandor's 
love,  had  taken  it  so  for  granted,  that  no 
daring  seemed  too.  great.  She  had  thought 
it  did  not  greatly  matter  how  courtship 
fared,  since  marriage  would  be  master  on 
the  morrow.  She  was  prepared  to  be  to  her 
husband  all  that  a  wife  ought  to  be;  but  to 
abate  one  jot  of  her  freedom  in  compliance 
to  her  betrothed — that  was  another  matter. 

The  morrow  came  and  the  morrow's  mor- 
row; but  John  Vandor  did  not  come  with 
them.  One  day  Agnes  went  to  her  father's 
study.  In  her  eyes  were  unwonted  tears. 
She  told  him  everything.  He  waited  until 
she  stopped  crying;  then  he  said — and, 
though  the  words  were  the  words  of  Richard 
the  bear,  the  tones  of  his  voice  had  in  them 
all  the  tenderness  of  the  father — "  It  will 
serve  you  right  if  you  two  never  meet  again ; 
but  you  will." 

The  whistle  of  the  midnight  locomotive  star- 
tled the  echoes  asleep  in  the  Madera  freight- 
house:  in  the  freight-house,  because  there 
was  nothing  else  in  Madera  big  enough  to 
harbor  an  echo.  First-class  passengers  sleep 
aboard  trains  on  the  first  stage  of  the  Yo- 
semite  trip.  Richard  Earle  had  been  asleep 
in  his  section  three  hours.  What  to  him 
was  the  mellow  moonlight  that  shone  on  an 
ocean  of  yellowing  grain?  But  for  Richard 
Earle's  traveling  companion  there  was  no 
sleep  while  that  moonlight  lasted.  It  was  to 
Agnes  a  new  glamour;  and  of  glamour  she 
had  had  but  little  in  the  two  years  then  past. 
She  was  a  proud  girl,  and  braver  than  most; 
but  the  prolonged  and  unexplained  absence 
of  her  lover  had  been  no  passing  grief.  If 
the  world  did  not  suspect — if  even  her  fa- 
ther did  not  fully  know — the  brown  eyes  of 
John  Vandor  would  have  winced  for  his  un- 
forgivingness  could  he  have  looked  into  hers 
for  a  glance's  span.  Ill  she  was  not;  sad 


182 


Love  Deathless. 


[August, 


she  was  not.  But  in  her  eyes  was  a  weary 
look  that  the  world  never  noticed,  and  be- 
neath her  vigorous  health  was  a  nervous, 
craving  unrest  that  even  her  father  never 
saw. 

When  the  train  drew  up  to  the  station, 
Agnes  still  sat  in  her  open  section,  peering 
with  longing  eyes  into  wonderland.  Half  an 
hour  after  the  train  had  settled  itself  for  the 
night,  a  tall  girl  in  brown  linen  and  Cruik- 
shank  sunshade  was  walking  alone  down 
the  track  towards  Merced,  with  her  feet  in 
the  fairy  light  (and  the  cinder  dust  of  the 
uneven  road-bed),  following  the  waning 
moon. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  would  be  imprudent  as 
well  as  improper  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  wheat, 
Ruth-like  and  romantic?" 

She  spoke  aloud,  but  nothing  in  the  pro- 
found stillness  answered  her.  The  moon 
had  touched  the  far  horizon,  silvering  the 
crest  of  the  west  side-hills.  Despite  herself, 
the  girl  was  a  trifle  tired  and  very  sleepy. 

"Are  there  poppies  in  the  wheat?"  she 
asked  herself,  smiling.  "What  if  I  go  to 
sleep  for  just  five  minutes,  who  shall  say  me 
nay — or  care?" 

It  was  a  long  five  minutes.  The  first 
meadow-lark  staid  his  shrill  matins  lest  he 
should  waken  her;  and  a  tall  young  man  on 


a  piebald  mare  checked  his  gallop  with 
startled  abruptness  to  see  a  woman's  figure 
in  a  linen  dress,  asleep — or  dead — by  the 
supervisor's  highway. 

The  piebald  mare  stood  still,  nibbling  the 
milky  wheat.  The  young  man  approached 
the  recumbent  folds  of  linen,  half  hidden 
under  the  Cruikshank  hat.  Quite  as  a 
matter  of  course  he  knelt  beside  her,  and 
gently  pushed  back  the  broad  brim  of  the 
big  hat.  The  first  ray  of  the  rosy  morning 
fell  upon  the  sleeping  face.  The  eyes  of  the 
young  man  opened  their  widest  in  recogni- 
tion. Then  the  eyes  of  the  young  woman 
opened  also,  only  to  close  again  as  she  mur- 
mured something  he  could  not  catch.  He 
bent  more  near.  Surely,  it  was  in  a  dream 
she  spoke: 

"And  you  have  come  back  to  me  at  last 
— to  hear  me  say  I  am  sorry." 

You  ask,  Where  was  her  woman's  pride, 
that  she  gave  him  back  her  freedom  without 
the  asking?  That,  young  gentlemen  and 
misses,  is  something  no  one  may  answer  for 
any  one  else. 

Perhaps  Richard  the  bear  was  not  so 
phenomenally  cool  as  he  looked  when  he 
said  to  truant  and  captor  an  hour  later, 
"  Where  the  deuce  have  you  two  been,  any- 
how? " 

Ralph  S.  Smith. 


LOVE   DEATHLESS. 

WHO  claims  that  death  is  one  cold,  endless  sleep 
Has  never  felt  lov.e's  gladness  in  his  soul, 
Has  never  made  a  woman's  heart  his  goal, 

Nor  from  red  lips  a  harvest  tried  to  reap. 

Why  should  we  love,  if  graves  are  made  to  keep 
Body  and  spirit  in  their  calm  control, 
While  waves  of  pulseless  slumber  o'er  us  roll, 

And  centuries  unheeded  by  us  sweep? 

Who  solves  the  mystery  held  by  one  sweet  kiss, 
Who  reads  the  song  that  shines  in  brilliant  eyes, 
Who  gathers  wisdom  from  warm,  fragrant  breath — 

He  makes  eternal  life  and  beauty  his ; 
He  garners  all  the  glory  of  clear  skies; 
He  lives  secure  above  the  call  of  death. 

Thomas  S.  Collier. 


1883.] 


Uncertainties  of  Science. 


183 


UNCERTAINTIES   OF  SCIENCE. 


So  much  is  said  on  every  hand  about  sci- 
entific proof  and  the  scientific  method  and 
scientific  certainty,  and  disputants  so  often 
attempt  to  silence  one  another  by  denounc- 
ing the  argument  of  their  opponents  as  un- 
scientific, that  one  would  suppose  science  to 
be  all  certainty.  On  the  contrary,  the  so- 
called  science  of  the  present  day,  so  far  as  it 
relates  to  the  actual  facts  and  laws  of  nature, 
is  almost  wholly  devoid  of  certainty,  and 
scientific  men  themselves  are  the  first  to  dis- 
claim infallibility  for  their  views.  Scientific 
men  pride  themselves  on  always  being  ready 
to  learn.  The  most  that  any  of  the  students 
of  physical  science  claim  is,  that  their  obser- 
vations are  approximately  correct,  and  that 
the  conclusions  drawn  from  these  observa- 
tions are  highly  probable.  The  field  of 
absolute  certainty  is  limited  -to  a  few  self- 
evident  truths,  and  to  those  personal  experi- 
ences of  which  we  have  immediate  knowl- 
edge. I  am  certain  that  one  and  one  make 
two,  that  there  is  more  than  one  color  upon 
the  printed  page  before  me,  and  that  the 
letters  are  arranged  in  intelligible  order.  I 
am  certain  that  I  ought  to  love  my  neighbor; 
but  I  am  not  certain  whether  love  to  my 
neighbor  requires  that  I  should  feed  him  or 
flog  him,  whether  I  should  vote  the  Demo- 
cratic ticket  or  the  Republican.  I  do  not 
certainly  know  whether  the  writer  of  the 
sentence  before  me  was  sane  or  insane,  dis- 
honest or  truthful.  I  am  not  certain  that 
the  two  half-bushels  before  me  will  make  a 
bushel,  for  I  am  not  sure  that  either  of  the 
units  is  an  exact  half-bushel. 

Scientific  uncertainty  begins  with  the  facts 
of  observation  from  which  conclusions  are 
drawn.  It  is  not  safe  to  repose  with  un- 
qualified confidence  in  any  man's  testimony 
— not  even  our  own.  If  to  our  vision  a  star 
looks  double,  it  may  be  because  there  is  a 
tear  in  our  eye.  If  the  mountain  looks  near 
at  hand,  it  may  be  because  the  sky  is  un- 
usually clear.  If  the  object  at  which  we  are 


gazing  does  not  look  green,  it  may  be  be- 
cause we  are  color-blind.  If  the  room  feels 
warm,  it  may  be  because  we  are  feverish. 
The  report  given  to  our  minds  by  physical 
objects  is  not  the  straightforward,  simple 
story  of  a  single  witness,  but  one  in  which 
many  voices  blend.  The  loudness  of  the 
sound  which  we  hear  when  a  cannon  is  fired 
depends  upon  the  size  of  the  charge,  upon 
the  distance  separating  us  from  it,  upon  the 
state  of  the  atmosphere,  and  upon  the  acute- 
ness  of  our  hearing  apparatus,  which  in  turn 
may  depend  upon  the  question  whether  we 
have  a  cold  in  the  head  or  not.  The  first, 
and  oftentimes  the  most  difficult,  task  of  the 
scientific  man  is  "to  sugar  off  his  evidence," 
and  find  out  what  the  facts  really  are.  An 
observer,  for  instance,  says  he  saw  a  crow. 
Did  he  really  see  a  crow,  or  only  something 
that  looked  like  a  crow?  Professor  Watson 
says,  that  during  an  eclipse  he  saw  a  planet 
between  Mercury  and  the  sun.  The  as- 
tronomers are  still  discussing  whether  he 
really  saw  a  planet,  or  something  that  looked 
like  a  planet.  A  number  of  honest  sea-cap- 
tains affirm  that  they  have  seen  a  sea-ser- 
pent. Who  knows  what  they  really  saw? 
Fossil  footprints  of  some  kind  are  found 
on  the  rocky  floor  of  the  back  yard  of  Car- 
son prison.  Are  they  human  footprints,  or 
do  they  only  look  like  human  footprints? 
Professor  Whitney's  Calaveras  skull  is  in  the 
museum  at  Sacramento  city;  but  whether  it 
was  found  under  Table  Mountain  or  not  is  a 
fact  which  rests  on  evidence  of  various  kinds, 
and  must  be  proved  in  open  court.  Scien- 
tific men  are  not  allowed  to  assume  their 
facts,  but  are  called  upon  to  prove  their 
facts  as  well  as  their  theories.  The  story  of 
mediaeval  philosophers  wrangling  over  the 
question,  Why  does  a  pail  of  water  weigh  no 
more  with  a  fish  in  it  than  after  the  fish  has 
been  removed?  before  they  had  inquired 
whether  that  were  really  true,  can  be  easily 
matched  in  modern  times.  When  Wenham 


184 


Uncertainties  of  Science. 


[August, 


ice  in  Massachusetts  was  first  becoming  an 
article  of  export,  a  half-century  ago,  learned 
men  of  science  were  discussing  why  it  was 
that  Wenham  ice  was  so  much  slower  in 
melting  than  other  ice.  Now,  alas !  all  the 
ice  in  New  England  is  Wenham  ice. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  hear 
people  declaim  against  theories,  and  to  af- 
firm their  determination  to  follow  facts 
rather  than  fancies.  On  the  other  hand, 
few  things  are  more  difficult  than  to  draw 
the  line  between  fact  and  theory.  Nearly 
every  so-called  "fact"  is  in  reality  a  theory. 
Our  calling  it  a  "fact"  does  not  make  it  so. 
The  only  certainty  about  many  things  we 
call  facts  is  that  we  believe  them  to  be  so. 
The  fact  that'  we  are  satisfied  with  the  evi- 
dence does  not  always  establish  the  truth  of 
what  we  believe.  The  province  of  science 
is  not  to  displace  the  uncertain  by  the  cer- 
tain, but  by  the  less  uncertain. 

It  is  the  prerogative  of  science  to  over- 
come in  part — but  only  in  part — the  limita- 
tions of  our  ignorance.  In  attaining  scien- 
tific knowledge,  the  mind's  eye  penetrates 
much  farther  than  the  natural  vision  can 
reach.  The  great  mystery  of  philosophy 
relates  to  the  questions,  How  can  the  past 
become  a  guaranty  as  to  the  future?  how 
can  that  which  is  within  the  present  expe- 
rience assure  us  of  the  facts  which  are  be- 
yond experience  both  in  time  and  in  space? 
The  realm  from  which  various  degrees  of 
uncertainty  enter  scientific  conclusions  will 
be  brought  to  view  if  we  more  attentively 
consider  our  relations  to  time  and  space, 
and  observe  a  simple  classification  of  scien- 
tific conclusions,  as  they  are  related  to  us  in 
time  and  space. 

The  sciences  may  be  classed,  with  refer- 
ence to  time,  as  historical  and  prophetic; 
with  reference  to  space,  as  experimental  and 
inferential.  Considering  first  those  sciences 
which  concern  relations  in  space,  we  turn 
our  attention  to  the  experimental.  In  this 
aspect  of  science,  we  are  limited  to  the  mere 
facts  of  observation.  The  old-fashioned 
way  of  studying  botany  was  little  more  than 
a  species  of  book-keeping,  in  which  the  ob- 
server recorded  that  in  such  and  such 


places  he  found  plants  with  leaves  of  such 
shape,  and  with  flowers  of  so  many  stamens 
and   pistils;  and   the  plants  were  classified 
according  to  various  degrees   of  similarity. 
Between  18^2  and  1859  the  work  of  classi- 
fication in  botany  and  zoology  proceeded  at 
an  enormous  rate;  but  it  was  not  leading  to 
satisfactory  results,  because  of  the  superficial 
character  of  the  resemblances  upon  which 
the  individuals   were    grouped  together  in 
species,  so  that,  in  the  words  of  Bentham, 
the  greatest   of    English   botanists,   "syste- 
matic botany  was  in  too  many  cases  beginning 
to  merit  the  reproach  of  German  physiolo- 
gists, that  it  was  degenerating  into  an  arbi 
trary  multiplication  and  cataloguing  of  names 
and   specimens,  of  use  to   collectors   only, 
and  serving  as  impediments  instead  of  aids 
to  the  extension  of  our  scientific  knowledge 
of  the  vegetation  of  the  world."     Botanists 
had  come  to  enumerate  more  than  one  hun- 
dred thousand  species  of  flowering  plants. 
The  elder  De  Candolle  spent  a  long  life  on 
a  descriptive  catalogue  of  such  plants;  and 
his   son  took  up   the  work  after  him,  but 
finally  laid   it  down  in  despair,  estimating 
that   it  would  occupy  half  of  the  life  of  a 
Methuselah   to  arrange   and  systematically 
describe  them,  and  the  other  half  to  revise 
the  work  and  bring  it  down  to  date.     It  re- 
quired between  four  hundred  and  five  hun- 
dred closely  printed  octavo  pages  for  their 
enumeration  of  the  species  of  the  leguminous 
family,  and   between  sixteen  hundred   and 
seventeen  hundred  pages  for  those    of  the 
great  family  of  the  compositse.     According 
to  Bentham,  also,  there  had  come  to  be  in 
many  cases  no  means  of  properly  estimating 
the   importance   or  value  of  the  characters 
upon  which  species  were   based,  and    "no 
means  of  determining  what  degree  of  varia- 
tion  and  persistence  actually  distinguished 
the  species  from  the  variety.     The  botanist 
who   affirmed   that    Rubus  fructicosus   [the 
blackberry],  Draba  verna,  or  Sphagnum  pa- 
lustre  were  each  one  very  variable  species, 
and  he  who  maintained  that  they  were  col- 
lective names  for  nearly  four  hundred — for 
at  least  two  hundred — or  for  some  twenty 
separately  created  and  invariably  propagated 


1883.] 


Uncertainties  of  Science. 


185 


species,  had  each  arguments  in  their  favor 
to  which  no  definite  reply  could  be  given." 
According  to  Professor  Asa  Gray,  "  in  a  flora 
so  small  as  the  British,  one  hundred  and 
eighty-two  plants  generally  reckoned  as  varie- 
ties have  been  ranked  by  some  botanists  as 
species.  Selecting  the  British  genera  which 
include  the  most  polymorphous  forms,  it  ap- 
pears that  Babington's  flora  gives  them  two 
hundred  and  fifty-one  species,  Bentham's 
only  one  hundred  and  twelve,  a  difference 
of  one  hundred  and  thirty-nine  doubtful 
forms.  Illustrations  of  this  kind  may  be 
multiplied  to  a  great  extent." 

This  method  of  studying  botany  has  been 
superseded  by  what  is  called  the  "natural 
system,"  which  adds  to  these  mere  facts  of 
resemblance  a  judgment  of  the  observer  as 
to  what  points  of  resemblance  are  most 
fundamental,  and  what  are  merely  superfi- 
cial. The  same  change  has  taken  place  in 
zoology,  and  may  be  illustrated  by  the  ques- 
tion whether  the  whale  should  be  classed 
among  fish,  or  should  be  set  down  as  more 
nearly  related  to  such  animals  as  the  cow, 
the  horse,  and  the  elephant.  In  many  re- 
spects the  whale  both  looks  like  a  fish  and 
acts  like  a  fish;  he  lives  in  the  water,  and 
swims,  and  has  fins,  and  cannot  live  on  land. 
Why  not,  then,  call  him  a  fish?  Because,  the 
zoologist  says,  these  are  superficial  charac- 
teristics, and  in  the  more  fundamental  points 
he  differs  from  fish.  The  whale  has  lungs, 
must  have  air  to  breathe,  and  is  warm- 
blooded ;  the  young  whale  is  born  alive,  and 
not  hatched  from  an  egg,  and  for  a  season 
after  birth,  like  other  mammals,  is  dependent 
on  his  mother's  milk  for  nourishment.  Now 
these  resemblances  to  a  great  class  of  land- 
animals  are  said  to  be  more  fundamental 
than  the  resemblances  to  fish,  which  are  so 
apparent.  Therefore,  the  whale  is  classed 
among  mammals. 

To  determine  just  what  this  attempt  to 
classify  according  to  what  is  most  funda- 
mental means  introduces  us  to  some  of  the 
deepest  questions  of  philosophy.  It  is  this 
endeavor  to  distinguish  between  the  super- 
ficial and  the  fundamental  facts  of  natural 
history  which  has  landed  us  amid  the  some- 


what vague  theories  of  Darwinism.  Few  of 
us  can  appreciate  the  difficulties  attending 
this  work  of  classification.  In  the  lower 
forms  of  life,  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  draw 
the  line  between  plants  and  animals.  This 
is  true,  not  only  of  microscopical  organisms, 
but  of  organisms  which  can  be  seen  with  the 
naked  eye.  Observations  on  insectivorous 
plants  show  that  these  plants  not  only  catch 
flies,  but  eat  them  and  digest  them,  and  act 
as  if  they  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  it  was 
better  worth  their  while  to  hold  on  to  a  big 
fly  than  on  to  a  small  one.  Indeed,  there 
are  so  many  movements,  not  only  in  in- 
sectivorous but  in  climbing  plants,  so  close- 
ly resembling  what  we  call  the  effects  of 
instinct  in  animals,  that  Sir  Joseph  Hooker 
pointed  the  conclusion  of  one  of  his  ad- 
dresses with  the  suggestion  that  we  might 
hereafter  include  plants  as  well  as  animals 
among  "our  brethren."  The  same  sugges- 
tion of  relationship  appears  in  the  title, 
"How  Plants  Behave,"  which  Professor 
Asa  Gray  gave  to  one  of  his  most  interest- 
ing volumes  upon  botany. 

The  fact  referred  to  a  little  while  ago  is 
too  often  forgotten,  and  is  worth  repeating 
in  another  form;  namely,  that  the  classifica- 
tion of  plants  and  animals  expresses,  not  facts, 
but  the  judgment  of  individual  botanists 
and  zoologists  as  to  the  relative  importance 
of  certain  features  of  resemblance  and  di- 
versity. So  that,  whether  we  shall  call  aclass  of 
plants  or  animals  a  variety,  a  species,  or  a  genus 
depends  not  only  upon  the  meaning  we  give 
those  words,  but  upon  our  estimate  of  the  per- 
manence and  importance  of  the  peculiarities 
marking  the  class.  This  uncertainty  about  the 
limitation  of  species  does  not  decrease  with 
increase  of  knowledge.  It  is  just  those  men 
who  know  most  of  botany  and  zoology  who 
have  the  deepest  sense  of  their  own  igno- 
rance as  to  the  precise  relationship  of  one 
plant  or  animal  with  another.  It  is  not  a 
novice  in  botany,  but  the  veteran  Asa  Gray, 
who  writes:  "Increasing  knowledge  and 
wider  observation  generally  raise  [in  botanical 
classification]  as  many  doubts  as  they  set- 
tle  Some  one  when  asked  if  he  be- 
lieved in  ghosts  replied,  No;  he  had  seen 


186 


Uncertainties  of  Science. 


[August, 


too  many  of  them.  So  I  have  been  at  the 
making  and  unmaking  of  far  too  many 
species  to  retain  any  overweening  confidence 
in  their  definiteness  and  stability." 

Chemistry  has  come  to  be  looked  upon 
as  one  of  the  most  exact  of  the  sciences ; 
but  the  realm  of  chemical  certainty  is  much 
more  restricted  than  is  commonly  supposed. 
The  chemist  cannot  solve  all  questions  in 
the  crucible,  because  only  a  few  things  can 
be  put  into  it;  and  even  of  the  things  that 
are  in  it,  he  has  only  an  imperfect  knowl- 
edge. The  chemist  is  limited  especially  in 
the  degree  of  temperature  and  pressure  to 
which  he  can  subject  the  substances  with 
which  he  experiments.  We  still  speak  of 
sixty  or  seventy  original  elements,  and  with 
pretty  general  consent  discard  the  old  idea 
of  the  alchemists,  that  the  metals  might  be 
transmuted.  The  most,  however,  that  chem- 
ists have  a  right  to  say  is,  that  with  their 
limited  resources  they  have  not  been  able  to 
transmute  the  baser  metals  into  gold.  They 
can  make  no  positive  affirmation  as  to  what 
might  take  place  under  the  enormous  pres- 
sure and  in  the  tremendous  heat  which  exist 
in  the  center  of  the  earth.  By  analysis, 
chemists  can  show  that  graphite  (black 
lead),  charcoal,  and  the  diamond  are  identical 
in  their  composition;  they  are  all  forms  of 
carbon.  If,  for  example,  we  should  con- 
ceive of  the  molecules  of  carbon  as  having 
definite  shape,  like  a  brick,  whose  length 
and  breadth  and  thickness  are  unequal,  the 
chemist  might  perhaps  conceive  of  graphite 
as  a  collection  of  bricks  laid  together  so  as 
to  present  the  sides  to  view,  charcoal  as  the 
same  collection  arranged  so  as  to  show  only 
the  ends,  and  the  diamond  so  as  to  expose 
the  edges.  It  certainly  is  an  unfathomable 
mystery  that  the  same  substance  should  ap- 
pear in  three  such  diverse  guises  as  graphite, 
coal,  and  diamond.  Phosphorus  is  another 
element  which  appears  in  different  guises. 
When  subjected  to  a  high  degree  of  heat  in 
a  closed  vessel,  it  changes  to  a  red  powder, 
which  is  at  once  much  heavier  than  the  or- 
dinary form,  much  less  easily  ignited,  and  is 
devoid  of  its  peculiar  odor.  But  upon  rais- 
ing the  temperature  still  higher,  the  substance 


returns  to  its  original  condition.  Sulphur 
i<=  even  more  remarkable  than  phosphorus 
for  the  diversity  of  forms  in  which  it  can 
exist.  Native  sulphur  is  a  brittle  solid  of  a 
yellow  color,  and  more  than  twjce  as  heavy 
as  water,  melting  at  114°  Centigrade;  when, 
however,  it  is  allowed  to  cool  slowly,  it  be- 
comes brown  in  color,  partially  transparent, 
and  is  both  relatively  lighter  than  before  and 
harder  to  melt;  the  shape  of  the  crystals 
has  also  changed.  Another  form  (what  is 
called  the  "milk  of  sulphur")  has  a  greenish 
white  color.  If  sulphur  be  subjected  to 
about  twice  the  degree  of  heat  at  which  it 
melts,  and  then  slowly  poured  into  cold 
water,  it  becomes  plastic,  so  that  it  can  be 
drawn  out  into  fine  elastic  threads.  These 
and  several  other  modifications  are  very  per- 
plexing to  the  chemist,  and,  like  the  differ- 
ent guises  of  phosphorus  and  carbon,  and 
some  other  elements,  keep  alive  the  dreams 
of  reducing  the  baser  metals  to  gold. 

The  restriction  placed  upon  our  knowl- 
edge by  the  limited  sphere  in  which  we 
experiment  is  illustrated  in  the  behavior  of 
ice  when  gathered  in  a  large  mass.  No  one 
would  have  suspected  that  ice  was  capable 
of  moving  like  a  semi-fluid,  had  it  not  been 
that  Nature  was  performing  experiments 
before  our  eyes  upon  a  scale  far  surpassing 
anything  which  the  chemist  or  physicist  could 
produce  in  his  laboratory.  The  ice  accumu- 
lated to  great  depth  in  mountain  valleys 
moves  down  them  like  lava  from  a  volcano; 
but  even  the  mountain  glaciers  of  the  Alps 
and  of  the  Cordilleras  had  not  prepared  us 
for  those  vaster  movements  of  ice,  conti- 
nental even  in  their  proportions,  the  marks 
of  which  are  left  all  over  the  northern  part 
of  Europe  and  of  North  America.  It  was 
not  until  explorers  had  visited  the  conti- 
nental glacier  of  Greenland  that  we  were  pre- 
pared to  believe  that  a  true  glacial  movement 
of  ice  could  amount  to  as  much  as  sixty 
feet  in  a  day.  So  in  all  matters  the  certainty 
of  the  chemist  and  the  physicist  is  confined 
to  a  very  narrow  realm.  As  to  what  is  true 
beyond  that  realm,  he  is  in  no  better  position 
than  any  one  else  to  affirm  or  deny. 

Geology  is  a  good  type  of  the  historical 


1883.] 


Uncertainties  of  Science. 


187 


sciences,  and  well  illustrates  the  general  un- 
certainty of  all  our  attempts  to  reconstruct 
the  past.  Huxley  calls  it  "retrospective 
prophecy."  It  is  the  boast  of  some  judicial 
authorities  that  circumstantial  evidence  is 
more  trustworthy  than  that  of  personal  wit- 
nesses, because,  as  they  say,  men  may  lie, 
but  circumstances  cannot.  It  is,  indeed,  true 
that  a  witness  may  swear  to  a  falsehood,  but 
it  is  also  true  that  a  circumstance  may  admit 
of  various  interpretations,  and  may  contain 
a  very  imperfect  record  of  its  origin  and  at- 
tendant conditions.  The  common  statement 
that  we  have  no  way  of  judging  the  future 
but  by  the  past  is  supplemented  in  modern 
geology  by  the  statement  that  we  have  no 
way  of  judging  the  past  but  by  the  present. 
So  it  has  come  to  be  a  principle  of  the  mod- 
ern school  of  geologists,  that  we  have  no 
right  to  assume  a  greater  activity  of  the  forces 
of  nature  in  the  past  than  in  the  present. 
On  the  other  hand,  this  school  of  so-called 
"Uniformitarians"  are  prone  to  forget  that 
they  have  no  right  arbitrarily  to  assume  the 
contrary.  The  uniformity  of  nature's  ope- 
rations is  not  a  principle  that  can  be  estab- 
lished either  by  observation  or  from  the 
nature  of  the  case.  Even  our  limited  ob- 
servation makes  us  familiar  with  cycles  in 
which  the  forces  of  nature  operate  with  great 
diversity  of  energy.  Cities  like  Pompeii  and 
Herculaneum  exist  securely  for  centuries  at 
the  base  of  a  volcanic  cone,  when  suddenly 
an  eruption  destroys  them  and  covers  them 
with  ashes;  and  for  centuries  the  volcano  is 
quiescent.  The  city  of  Lisbon  has  been 
destroyed  by  an  earthquake  only  once.  There 
may  be  uniformity  in  the  actual  amount  of 
power  exerted  by  the  forces  of  nature;  but 
the  effects  are  different,  according  to  the 
points  upon  which  this  force  is  concentrated. 
A  steam  fire-engine  when  heated  and  con- 
suming a  given  amount  of  coal  expends  a 
given  amount  of  power;  but  what  that  power 
does  depends  upon  where  the  nozzle  of  the 
pipe  is  directed.  If  the  jet  is  thrown  per- 
pendicularly in  the  air,  the  water  will  come 
down  as  gentle  rain;  if  against  a  bank  of 
sand  and  gravel,  it  will  create  a  small  torrent, 
and  form  at  the  base  a  stratified  deposit  en- 
veloping whatever  may  be  in  its  way. 


The  endeavor  to  account  for  geological 
facts  by  an  extension  of  the  action  of  present 
geological  forces  with  their  present  intensity 
rests  in  a  large  part  upon  an  assumption 
which  we  cannot  verify.  This  assumption 
affects  all  our  estimates  of  geological  time ; 
and  some  of  the  most  wonderful  discrepan- 
cies have  arisen  between  astronomers  and 
geologists  as  to  how  long  plants  and  animals 
have  been  able  to  live  in  the  world.  Of  late, 
geologists  have  shown  a  tendency  "to  be 
prodigal  of  time  and  parsimonious  of  force," 
and  quite  generally  have  assumed  that  the 
bank  of  time  upon  which  they  had  to  draw 
was  unlimited.  They  have  freely  claimed  that 
two  hundred  million  years,  or  even  twice  or 
three  times  that  amount,  were  not  a  longer 
period  than  is  necessary  for  the  formation  of 
'the  sedimentary  strata  of  rocks  which  so 
nearly  cover  the  globe.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  astronomers,  if  not  parsimonious  of  time, 
have  no  fears  of  being  prodigal  of  force;  and 
the  most  eminent  of  them  now  assert  that 
less  than  twenty  million  years  ago  the  heat 
of  the  earth  was  so  intense  that  no  living 
beings  could  have  existed  upon  it. 

The  reasoning  of  geologists  is  largely  what 
is  called  "analogical,"  and  should  always  be 
taken  with  a  liberal  grain  of  allowance;  and 
geologists,  like  all  sensible  scientific  men, 
usually  pride  themselves  on  never  being  too 
old  to  learn,  and  upon  always  being  ready  to 
correct  their  theories  on  the  discovery  of 
further  facts.  President  Hitchcock  found  in 
the  old  sandstones  of  the  Connecticut  val- 
ley some  marks  which  he  called  "bird- 
tracks."  All  that  he  had  a  right  to  say, 
however,  was  that  they  looked  like  bird- 
tracks;  and  subsequent  investigations  have 
shown  that  they  were  probably  not  made  by 
birds,  but  by  reptiles.  The  mistake  arose  in 
this  way :  Birds  have  two  legs,  and  only  three 
toes  upon  each  foot;  and  of  these  toes,  the 
inner  has  three  joints,  the  middle  four,  and 
the  outer  five;  but  when  the  birds  walk  on 
the  mud,  the  end  joints  make  no  track,  so 
that  the  track  shows  toes  of  two,  three,  and 
four  joints.  But  it  is  found  that  certain  rep- 
tiles would  have  made  with"  their  hind  feet 
just  such  tracks;  and  it  appears,  also,  that 
they  sometimes  walked  upon  their  hind  feet 


188 


Uncertainties  of  Science. 


[August, 


for  a  short  distance  without  the  aid  of  the 
others;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  some  of 
them  always  walked  so.  Geologists  have 
now  given  up  the  idea  of  these  tracks  having 
been  made  by  birds,  and  picture  the  animal 
as  a  reptile  with  short  fore  legs  and  a  long 
tail. 

Cuvier  was  famous  for  the  success  with 
which  he  could  reconstruct  an  animal  from 
a  few  bones,  and  the  older  geologies  were 
usually  adorned  with  the  picture  of  an  ani- 
mal resembling  the  tapir,  which  was  sup- 
posed to  have  inhabited  the  northern  part 
of  France  in  early  times;  and  some  of  his 
fossil  bones  did  have  a  remarkable  resem- 
blance to  some  of  the  bones  of  the  tapir. 
But  subsequent  discoveries  of  more  complete 
skeletons  show  that  the  animal  resembled 
a  horse  much  more  nearly  than  a  tapir. 

Such  illustrations  might  be  multiplied  in- 
definitely, and  they  most  clearly  show  that, 
while  circumstances  may  indeed  tell  the 
truth,  they  rarely  tell  the  whole  truth,  and 
scarcely  ever  tell  it  in  a  perfectly  intelligible 
manner.  We  do  the  science  of  geology 
great  injustice  if  we  attribute  to  all  its  con- 
clusions an  equal  degree  of  certainty.  A 
few  main  principles  are  firmly  established; 
but  in  a  wide  range  of  details  the  facts  are 
incapable  of  full  interpretation,  and  the 
farther  back  we  get  in  time,  the  wider  is  this 
range  of  obscurity.  All  efforts  at  definite 
geological  chronology  are  well  nigh  useless. 
There  is  also  supposed  to  be  a  science  of 
the  future  as  of  the  past ;  and  here,  too,  its 
voice,  like  that  of  the  Delphic  oracle,  is 
most  certain  where  it  is  most  vague  and  in- 
definite, and  the  difficulty  of  prediction  in- 
creases as  we  appoach  those  subjects  that 
are  of  the  most  immediate  concern  to  the 
human  race.  We  have  penetrated  the  se- 
crets of  the  solar  system  so  far  that  we 
can  predict  an  eclipse  hundreds  of  years 
in  advance.  We  have  penetrated  the  se- 
crets of  the  weather  so  far  as  to  predict  the 
approach  of  a  storm  twenty-four  hours  in 
advance.  But  the  definiteness  with  which 
we  predict  the  effects  of  the  storm  is  far  be- 
low that  with  wrfich  we  predict  the  depth  of 
the  shadow  caused  by  an  eclipse.  That 


there  will  be  a  storm  to-morrow  in  Iowa  we 
may  be  certain;  but  whether  its  force  will 
expend  itself  harmlessly  over  a  large  area, 
or  will  concentrate  itself  in  a  cyclone  which 
shall  devastate  everything  in  its  track,  can 
only  be  determined  a  few  moments  before 
the  destruction  comes.  Those  utterances 
of  scientific  men  which  lead  us  to  imagine 
we  are  about  to  be  amply  forewarned  of  all 
impending  evil  are  made  in  haste,  and  are 
the  dreams  of  men  who  have  not  duly  re- 
flected upon  the  vast  complication  of  causes 
producing  an  earthquake,  a  tornado,  a  com- 
mercial crisis,  an  epidemic,  or  a  political 
revolution.  The  elements  in  which  we  live 
and  move  and  have  our  being  are  extremely 
unstable,  and  most  delicately  balanced  in 
their  influence  upon  each  other. 

If  the  sciences  be  arranged  according  to 
this  idea  of  permanency  of  collocation  in  the 
conspiring  physical  causes,  they  form  a  pyra- 
mid. 

SOCIOLOGY 
METEOROLOGY 

ZOOLOGY 

GEOLOGY 

ASTRONOMY 

CHEMISTRY 

In  proportion  as  we  ascend  from  the  bot- 
tom, the  influence  of  the  physical  and  cal- 
culable elements  becomes  less  and  less 
predominant,  and  the  phenomena  more  and 
more  difficult  to  predict.  In  other  words, 
the  collocation  of  causes  to  produce  chemical 
phenomena  is  much  more  simple  and  per- 
vasive than  in  the  production  of  astronomical 
phenomena;  and  the  collocation  increases  in 
complexity  as  we  successively  reach  geology, 
zoology,  meteorology,  and  sociology.  Any 
number  of  astronomical  systems  could  have 
arisen  with  the  existing  laws  of  chemistry. 
Any  one  of  a  countless  number  of  geological 
systems  could  have  existed  with  the  chemical 
and  astronomical  forces  the  same  as  now. 
Any  of  a  countless  series  of  plants  and  ani- 
mals could  have  supervened  upon  the  present 
actual  geological  systems.  And  the  develop- 
ment of  history  and  religion  have  been  de- 
pendent upon  the  intervention  of  still  more 
subtle  causes. 

G.  Frederick  Wright. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


189 


ANNETTA. 


XIII. 


ANOTHER  silence  fell,  which  neither  broke ; 
but  a  crackling  voice  vaulting  thither,  appar- 
ently from  the  back  door: 
"Anybody  home?" 

Immediately  loud,  brisk  footsteps  brought 
Rodney  Bell  into  the  parlor,  to  nod  to 
Treston,  to  shake  hands  with  Annetta,  to 
throw  himself  at  three-quarters  length  upon 
the  sofa.  From  that  position  he  announced 
complacently: 

"Going  to  stay  to  dinner.  Tom  sent  me 
out.  Been  neglecting  you  folks  lately." 

Treston  soon  rose  to  leave.  When  he  had 
taken  his  hat,  he  said,  tentatively,  "  The 
Richings  troupe  sing  Fra  Diavolo  to-morrow 
night." 

"I  should  so  enjoy  hearing  them,"  Annet- 
ta declared. 

"So'd  I,"  piped  in  Bell.  "Say,  Treston, 
hold  on" — clawing  frantically  in  his  pocket; 
"here,  just  secure  me  a  seat  while  you're 
about  it,  and  we  three'll  go  together."  Then 
when  Treston  was  barely  out  of  hearing: 
"You  ought  to  thank  me,  Netta,  for  saving 
you  from  a  long  evening  alone  with  that 
stick.  Great  guns  and  little  pistols !  I'd 
die  if  I  didn't  have  more  go  in  me." 
"Would  you?"  asked  Annetta,  dryly. 
Rodney  Bell  may  possibly  have  remem- 
bered his  meddling  engagement  for  full  half 
an  hour.  Apart  from  business  matters 
(Bartmore's  word  for  it,  he  never  forgot 
such),  his  friends  found  him  profuse  in 
promises  and  prodigal  of  non-performance. 

Seeing  that  his  seat  at  Fra  Diavolo  re- 
mained unoccupied,  Annetta  and  her  com- 
panion wasted  some  conjectures  upon  his 
absence,  but  no  regret.  They  seemed  en- 
tirely bent  upon  enjoying  the  music  and 
each  other's  society.  One  hope  was  present 
in  Annetta's  mind  as  a  strong  undercurrent 
— the  hope  that  Treston  might  tell  her  the 
story  she  longed  so  intensely  to  hear. 


Tom  had  driven  to  the  theater  with  them, 
but  there  was  still  the  homeward  drive.  She 
felt  sure  that  their  conversation  would  not 
be  limited  to  discussions  of  the  opera  and 
criticisms  of  the  indifferent  voices. 

Nothing,  however,  was  to  be  as  she  wished. 
Tom  had  been  waiting  some  time  in  the 
carriage.  He  thrust  his  head  forth  from  the 
open  door  at  sight  of  them  to  say,  with  off- 
hand unconsciousness  of  spoiling  everything: 

"Was  just  making  for  the  cars  when  I 
happened  to  think  that  it  wouldn't  be  many 
minutes  before  the  theaters  would  be  out. 
Jump  in,  Netta;  Treston,  I'll  save  you  the 
bother  of  seeing  sis  home." 

Several  days  elapsed.  Treston  came  and 
went,  but  Annetta  had  never  a  word  alone 
with  him.  She  wondered  if  he  chafed  se- 
cretly, as  she  did,  against  the  insignificant 
trifles  that  kept  them  apart  more  effectually 
for  all  confidential  purposes  than  did  the 
Babylonian  house-wall  those  other  hearts 
that  beat  for  us  still  in  tragic  myth  and 
modern  travesty. 

At  last  she  need  wonder  no  more.  "The 
fates  have  been  froward  this  long  week,  An- 
netta," Treston  said,  as  they  were  bowling 
gently  through  the  Park  one  afternoon  be- 
hind a  pair  of  well-matched,  high-headed 
bays.  "  But  now  " — with  an  accent  of  quiet 
satisfaction — "I  fancy  we  may  reasonably 
count  upon  an  uninterrupted  hour.  I  shall 
not  feel  any  true  contentment  until  you 
know  more  fully  than  any  human  being 
knows — save  myself — what  my  heart  experi- 
ences have  been." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  proceeded  to  tell, 
in  tones  that,  following  the  harsh,  blatant, 
cackling  voices  of  her  world,  were  such  mel- 
ody to  Annetta's  ears,  such  a  rest  to  her 
heart,  how  he  had  begun  his  manhood's 
career  as  a  lawyer;  how  he  had  struggled 
through  some  years  of  hard,  unremunerated 
work;  how  at  last  an  important  case  was  put 
into  his  hands. 


190 


Annetta. 


[August, 


"I  could  easily  multiply  particulars,  and 
obscure  all  to  your  understanding  by  employ- 
ing a  legal  phraseology,"  he  said.  "But  I 
will  merely  place  what  is  essential  before  you 
in  the  simplest  language. 

"My  client's  name  was  Mary  Stenhamp- 
ton.  She  was  young,  beautiful,  a  widow 
barely  out  of  her  deepest  weeds.  I  knew 
her  by  name,  and  also  the  firm  of  which  her 
husband  had  been  head — Stenhampton  & 
Bingley,  importers  of  silks,  velvets,  and 
laces. 

"Being  suddenly  stricken  by  a  fatal  dis- 
ease, Stenhampton  sent  for  his  partner,  whom 
he  had  raised  from  obscurity  and  trusted  im- 
plicitly. Then  and  there  ensued  a  death- 
bed transaction,  by  which  Mrs.  Stenhampton 
became  Bingley's  creditor  for  an  amount 
equal  to  the  value  of  Stenhampton's  interest 
in  the  business,  the  actual  sum  to  be  deter- 
mined thereafter  by  an  arbitration,  and  to 
be  paid  in  such  semi-yearly  installments  that 
the  whole  would  be  settled,  with  interest  ac- 
cruing, in  five  years  from  the  date  of  the  de- 
cision. 

"Stenhampton  lived  longenough  to  confer 
once  again  with  Bingley  and  the  committee, 
and  to  see  certain  securities  which  Bingley 
offered  placed  in  their  hands,  but  not  long 
enough  to  hear  their  decision. 

"A  sarcasm  lurks  under  this  last  clause, 
which  you  are  not  expected — just  yet — to 
fathom. 

"A  year  after  her  aged  husband's  decease, 
Mrs.  Stenhampton  called  at  my  office  to  lay 
these  matters  and  others  before  me. 

"She  confessed  that  Bingley  had  several 
times  proposed  to  pay  his  vaguely  large  debt 
by  making  her  his  wife,  and  endowing  her 
with  all  his  worldly  goods.  She  explained 
that  as  to  the  arbitration  nothing  had  been 
done,  tha'nks  to  Bingley's  machinations.  She 
feared  the  securities  held  for  her  were  of 
comparatively  small  value.  She  had  heard 
faint  rumors  that  the  house  still  known  as 
Stenhampton  &  Bingley  was  tottering  to  its 
downfall.  She  wished  me  to  ascertain  the 
true  condition  of  affairs,  and  to  undertake 
whatever  measures  I  thought  best. 

"It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  devoted  my- 


self straightway  to  Mrs.  Stenhampton's  ser- 
vice; nor  will  I  bore  you  with  any  description 
of  my  methods,  unless — 

"The  story,  please,"  said  Annetta.  "  You 
know  I  don't  in  the  least  understand  busi- 
ness." 

Treston  was  indulgent. 

"Enough,  then,  that  I  unearthed  a  stupen- 
dous fraud.  Bingley  meant  to  fail,  and  to 
fail  rich.  He  was  working — had  been  work- 
ing slowly — to  that  end.  I,  too,  worked  slow- 
ly and  with  marvelous  patience.  Meanwhile, 
my  client  and  I  had  seen  much  of  each 
other,  and  had  come  to  such  an  understand- 
ing that,  in  my  youthful  zeal,  I  felt  as  certain 
of  a  wife  as  of  fame,  and  possibly  fortune. 
To  be  frank,  Mrs.  Stenhampton  had  prom- 
ised to  marry  me  in  the  event  of  my  success 
in  wringing  from  Bingley  any  portion  of  his 
ill-gotten  spoils. 

"  So  I  unraveled  the  mystery  of  a  depleted 
stock  of  goods,  resurrected  old  clerks  sup- 
posed to  be  safely  buried,  got  all  possible 
witnesses  of  Bingley's  knavery  together,  sent 
thousands  of  miles  for  affidavits,  interested 
my  wealthy  friends  in  buying  up  the  debts 
of  the  house.  Finally  came  the  long-ex- 
pected petition  in  insolvency  and  the  con- 
test for  appointment  of  receiver,  which  was 
my  opportunity.  On  the  first  day  in  court, 
however,  Bingley's  friends  were  too  strong 
for  our  side.  Mrs.  Stenhampton  left,  greatly 
agitated.  That  evening  I  spent  with  her, 
urging  her  to  release  the  securities  she  held 
in  order  overwhelmingly  to  swell  the  amount 
which  we  represented.  She  consented  loth- 
ly,  feeling  perhaps  that  nothing  else  stood 
between  her  and  poverty.  But  I  was  con- 
scious of  strength,  and  certain  of  our  ulti- 
mate triumph. 

"The  ensuing  morning,  haggard  from  long 
nervous  tension  and  loss  of  sleep,  I  was  early 
in  court,  and  afoot  watching  for  my  client. 

"Instead  of  seeing  Mrs.  Stenhampton  en- 
ter, my  eye  fell  upon  her  gardener,  an  old 
servant  who  had  stood  by  her  in  her  clouded 
fortunes.  He  handed  me  an  envelope,  un- 
sealed. 

"May  you  never  experience  such  agony  as 
I  experienced  reading  the  inclosure. 


Annetta. 


191 


"'Mr.  Bingley  is  waiting,'  so  the  lady 
wrote,  'to  conduct  me  to  the  presence  of  the 
nearest  clergyman.  He  has  finally  made  it 
clear  to  me  that  my  best  interests  are  one 
with  his.  Ruin  him,  and  you  ruin  her  whom 
you  have  professed  to  love.'" 

"Horrible!"  murmured  Annetta;  "what 
did  you  do?" 

"I  took  to  my  bed" — smiling  faintly.  "The 
doctors  called  it  brain-fever.  I  got  about 
after  a  time,  loathing  life  and  my  profession. 
The  one,  I  never  again  followed;  the  other" 
— brightening  still  more — "I  am  long  since 
reconciled  to." 

"And  Mrs. — Bingley?"  Annetta  inquired. 

Treston  answered: 

"Her  husband's  name  buried  that  lady  as 
completely,  to  my  thinking,  as  the  blackest 
of  mold." 

Through  these  reminiscences,  banks  of 
gorgeous  cineraria  had  been  flashing,  frank, 
sweet  odors  spreading  of  new-cut,  new-wa- 
tered grass,  great  scrolls  of  mist  unrolling 
zenithward,  only  to  dissolve  half-way,  and 
rhythmic  hoof-beats  playing,  how  hastening, 
now  slackening. 

Treston  had  a  last  word  to  speak,  upon 
which,  as  he  paused,  the  ocean  burst  with  a 
roar  belittling  all  human  sounds. 

"She  proved  her  possession  of  a  heart 
by  having  it  speedily  broken.  She  is 
dead." 

He  stopped  the  team.  Annetta  looked 
off  across  the  tumble  of  froth  and  waver  of 
spume  to  where  sea  and  wind  and  sky  met 
in  a  wild,  green  mist. 

Dead. 

Upon  this  monosyllable  the  watery  waste 
running  full  and  high  seemed  to  pour  itself 
as  upon  rocks  and  sand  with  a  thunder  of 
irrevocableness. 

Treston  waited  a  little,  before  quoting 
softly, 

"  'But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 
It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ' " — 

meaning,  doubtless,  the  old  sorrow,  the  old 
burden. 

He  reached  forth  a  hand  to  tuck  the  warm 
robe  about  Annetta's  feet,  and  turned  the 
horses'  heads. 


Getting  Annetta  home,  Treston  did  not 
care  to  leave  immediately. 

"Will  you  play  for  me  if  Lstay?"  he  asked. 

Annetta  gladly  promised,  and  was  pres- 
ently seated  at  the  piano,  passing  from  one 
selection  to  another  without  query  or  com- 
ment, as  she  had  learned  Treston  best  liked; 
and  turning  about  laughingly,  only  when 
her  wrists  were  tired,  to  cry,  noting  his  ab- 
straction : 

"You  haven't  heard  a  note!" 

"Wrong,"  he  answered  gayly.  "I  have 
been  dreaming  out  an  enchanting  future  to 
that  music.  Annetta" — with  a  touch  of 
something  serious  under  his  airy  lightness — 
"  I  want  you  for  a  witness.  Take  the  stand 
and  be  sworn." 

Wondering,  secretly  palpitating,  Annetta 
ignored  the  chair  he  wheeled  for  her  after 
his  wont  into  a  position  directly  opposite 
her  own,  and  seated  herself  in  another  at  a 
little  distance.  To  what  purpose?  Treston 
rolled  his  own  chair  close  to  hers. 

"If  the  mountain  will  not  come  to  us,  we 
must  go  to  the  mountain,"  he  said. 

Annetta's  secret  agitation  did  not  subside, 
when,  getting  his  compelling  glance  in  line 
with  her  own,  Treston  murmured  something 
imperatively. 

"I  want  you  to  describe  to  me  your  ideal 
of  manhood." 

But  this  was  a  fiery  trial  to  which  Annetta 
could  in  no  wise  submit.  The  color  flamed 
into  her  cheeks.  She  caught  her  breath, 
and  began  too  hastily,  with  a  saucy  air : 

"I  adore  a  tall  man." 

"A  tall  man!"  repeated  Treston,  provoked 
into  criticism  by  an  answer  certainly  un- 
locked for.  "Any  tall  man — that  is,  mere 
abstract  height.  Pray  inform  me  how  many 
feet  and  inches  are  necessary  to  call  forth 
your  adoration?" 

"The  figure  I  most  admire,"  returned 
Annetta,  tinglingly  alive  to  Treston's  sar- 
casm, however  playful,  "  would  stand  a  head 
higher  than  you." 

She  then  deliberately  proceeded  to  set 
before  him  certain  points  of  masculine  ap- 
pearance, a  certain  type  of  good  looks  made 
familar  to  her  in  the  person  of  Dan  Meagher 


192 


Annetta. 


[August, 


— poor  Dan,  forgotten  these  past  weeks  so 
utterly ! 

"You  are  describing  some  one  whom  you 
know,"  said  Treston,  quietly.  He  dropped 
back  in  his  chair,  shading  his  eyes  with  a 
hand,  and  leaving  Annetta  to  feel  rather  than 
to  see  that  he  did  so  to  hide  a  look  of  pain. 
She  began  straightway  to  reproach  herself. 
Why  need  she  have  reverted  to  Dan  in  that 
positive  way?  The  time  had  wholly  gone 
by  when  she  could  stand  in  rapt,  girlish  ad- 
miration of  his  beauty,  however  rich  in 
strength  and  color.  She  longed  to  own  her 
disingenuousness.  Treston  gave  her  no  op- 
portunity. 

A  grave  sweetness  of  voice,  presently  em- 
ployed, rebuked  her  seeming  frivolity. 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  out  of  place — intru- 
sive— for  me  to  tell  you  what  traits  have 
most  enthralled  me  in  one  of  your  sex,  Miss 
Bartmore." 

"I  should  greatly  like  to  hear,"  murmured 
Annetta,  faintly.  Her  heart  stood  still  an 
instant,  and  then  beat  painfully.  If  Treston 
should  describe  some  one  other  than  herself 
—Mrs.  Stenhampton,  for  instance.  Her 
nerves  thrilled  with  strong  repulsion.  But 
needlessly.  Her  contrition  returned,  her 
self-dissatisfaction.  How  had  she  portrayed 
features  merely  outward.  Treston  glanced 
lightly  at  such  to  dwell  almost  reverently 
upon  inward  traits.  Yet  Annetta's  hopes, 
as  she  listened,  flashed  upward,  only  to  be 
dashed  again  when  he  ended,  smiling  quiz- 
zically upon  her. 

"I  have  met  a  young  person  of  whom  this 
is  an  accurate  word-photograph,  taken,  per- 
haps, in  the  full  sunlight  of  lover-like  fancy 
— but  you  do  not  know  her,  Miss  Annetta." 

Why  this  closing  assertion,  the  sheerest 
bit  of  raillery,  should  seem  to  Annetta  the 
very  death-blow  of  joy,  was  one  of  the  mys- 
teries of  that  state  to  which  she  found  her- 
self hopelessly  committed. 

She  rose  hurriedly,  meaning  to  put  an 
end  to  the  tete-a-tete  A  hand,  persuasive 
yet  firm,  detained  her. 

"Stay  a  moment.  One  other  question, 
and  I  must  go.  My  thoughts  are  running 
strangely  upon  things  matrimonial  of  late: 


tell  me  what  masculine  peculiarity  you  think 
most  inimical  to  married  happiness?" 

Annetta  partially  recovered  herself.  She 
could  almost  wax  eloquent  now.  Had  she 
not  studied  closely  a  problem  of  domestic 
infelicity?  And  did  she  not  ardently  feel, 
since  things  seen  are  in  a  sense  purely  of 
earth,  greater  than  things  unseen,  that  no 
wifely  woe  could  be  so  dreadful  as  that 
which  had  borne  Carrie  Bartmore  to  an 
early  grave  ? 

She  answered  quickly,  standing  before  her 
questioner  with  a  flushed  air: 

"Nothing  can  possibly  be  worse  in  a  hus- 
band, apart  from  actual  vice,  than  a  lack  of 
sympathetic  readiness." 

Treston  may  inwardly  have  smiled  a  little 
at  a  vehemence  of  assertion  so  characteristic 
of  youth,  but  he  was  struck  too. 

"Ah?"  he  murmured,  turning  an  inter- 
ested countenance  upon  her  out  of  a  pause 
of  quiet  reflection.  He  evidently  cared  to 
hear  further. 

"A  woman's  confidences,  even  should 
they  appear  trivial  to  a  man,  ought  never  to 
be  repelled." 

"For  instance?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  cannot  cite  any  particular 
case" — her  impetuosity  going  suddenly  halt 
through  a  loyal  dread  of  exposing  Tom's 
domestic  shortcomings.  "But  in  a  general 
way:  just  fancy  for  yourself  what  a  woman 
must  feel — a  woman  who  has  been  wooed 
and  won  with  all  the  usual  show  of  devoted 
affection — just  fancy  what  she  must  feel, 
when  pouring  forth  her  whole  heart,  to  be 
met  with  an  ejaculation  of  indifference — or 
worse,  a  blank,  unawakened  stare." 

"But  you  see,  Annetta,"  said  Treston, 
with  argumentative  mildness,  "that  might 
sometimes  happen,  even  with  a  loving  man, 
his  mind  being  worried  by  outside  cares. 
The  physical  well-being  of  the  wife  depend- 
ing upon  him,  when  apparently  least  respon- 
sive to  her  moods,  he  might  yet  be  wholly 
absorbed  in  planning  how  better  and  more 
luxuriously  to  provide  for  her." 

"Give  me,  then,"  cried  Annetta,  heedless 
whither  her  impulse  would  lead  her,  "a  sim- 
pler diet,  plainer  apparel,  less  costly  home 


1883.] 


Annetta, 


193 


appointments,  and   that    quick   and    loving 
appreciation  which — which — 

"You  will  always  merit,"  said  Treston, 
rising. 

His  smile  was  so  warm  and  charming 
that  the  impalpable  wall  Annetta  had  been 
rearing  between  herself  and  him  melted 
away  like  mist. 

"If  I  only  had  the  courage  to  unsay  all 
that  nonsense  about  adoring  a  tall  man!" 

Annetta  thought  this,  while  Treston  was 
making  his  adieu;  still  she  could  arrange 
nothing  in  her  mind  suitable  for  a  begin- 
ning. 

She  followed  him  to  the  front  door  and 
through  the  garden,  plucking  a  bouquet  for 
him  as  she  went,  and  detaining  him  with 
pretty  speeches  about  her  favorite  plants. 

Treston  had  already  untied  his  team,  and 
was  about  to  get  into  his  buggy  without — 
she  noticed  what  was  so  unlike  him — saying 
aught  of  any  other  meeting.  Half  desper- 
ately, wholly  faltering,  she  called  him  back. 

"Mr.  Treston!" 

He  returned  quickly. 

"Annetta?" 

"I — I  confess  that  I've  not  been  perfectly 
truthful  this  afternoon,  sir." 

"How?     Not  perfectly  truthful?" 

"  In  answering  your  questions." 

"  I  won't  absolve  you  " —  glowing  more  and 
more  as  she  grew  shyer — "until  you  have 
righted  everything." 

"Don't  ask  me  to  explain  now — but  I  will 
explain." 

Treston  looked  down  at  her,  pondering  a 
moment,  then  laughed  indulgently. 

"To-morrow?  Will  you  be  ready  so  soon? 
And  to  make  certain  of  a  quiet  talk,  we  will 
drive  again." 

But  one  man  proposes  and  another  dis- 
poses. Bartmore  had  apian  for  the  ensuing 
day,  which  interfered  with  Treston's.  He 
announced  at  breakfast  that  he  would  not 
be  home  until  evening;  and  after  a  while, 
the  spirit  moving  him,  he  explained  : 

"  Six  of  my  work-horses,  by  Jove,  have  to 
be  turned  out.     I'm  going  to  San  Mateo  to 
look  up  some  fresh  stock.     Guess  I'll  ask 
Treston  to  go  along  and  see  the  country." 
VOL.  II.— 13- 


"But  he  and  I  were  to  drive  to  the  Park 
this  afternoon,"  Annetta  said  with  what  pert- 
ness  she  could  summon. 

"O  well,  any  time  will,  do  for  you,"  re- 
turned Bartmore  carelessly,  yet  not  slight- 
ingly. It  was  only  that  his  business  was 
always  of  supreme  importance. 

Drumming  on  the  table  with  one  hand,  he 
went  on  presently : 

"I  want  to  sound  him  about  that 

Street  property.  Sometimes,  by  jingoes,  I 
think  he's  playing  me.  If  I  find  that  he  is, 
I'll—I'll—" 

He  broke  off,  staring  straight  before  him, 
with  lips  apart  and  an  air  of  suspended  de- 
cision. His  hard  gaze  happening  to  meet 
his  sister's  face  as  a  part  of  vacancy,  poor 
Annetta  began  immediately  to  imagine  that 
he  was  trying  to  probe  her  feelings  toward 
Treston. 

Yet  although  she  turned  red  and  behaved 
uneasily  enough,  her  brother  only  stared  on, 
muttering: 

"  He's  a  damn  hard  fellow  to  plumb. 
Deeper  by  several  fathoms  than  I  gave  him 
credit  for  at  first." 

Annetta  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  man  that 
was  "hard  to  plumb"  toward  evening.  She 
thought  his  smile  joyously  transparent.  He 
drove  by  with  Tom,  and  both  remained  so 
long  at  the  stables  that  Annetta  ceased  to 
expect  them  back. 

She  ran  to  inquire  of  the  hostler  whither 
they  had  gone.  But  he  could  only  declare 
that  Nelly  was  in  her  stall,  adding : 

"She's  been  drove  harrd,  miss.  She  looks 
soarter  pale  and  peaked." 

Returning  to  the  house  from  camp,  An- 
netta found  Tom  and  Mr.  Treston  there, 
taking  a  forthcoming  supper  for  granted  in 
the  lordly  way  peculiarly  masculine.  To 
be  sure,  Treston  started  to  apologize ;  but 
Bartmore  laughed  him  down. 

A  number  of  persons  dropped  in  before 
the  cloth  was  removed,  and  Annetta  was 
glad  to  note  from  Tom's  getting  his  coat  off 
and  his  slippers  on  that  he  meant  to  stay  at 
home. 

Thrillingly  alive  to  Treston's  presence  and 
observation,  she  avoided  any  conversation 


194 


Annelid. 


[August, 


with  him  the  more  persistently,  because  she 
once  or  twice  surprised  Dr.  Bernard  study- 
ing her  with  pale-eyed,  calculating  glances. 
She  wondered  how  she  could  ever  have  ad- 
mired him  even  in  the  least.  His  eyelids, 
hanging  in  long,  oblique  wrinkles,  gave  him 
a  lowering  expression.  His  gaze  was  dis- 
agreeably objective,  speculative.  His  skin 
was  not  only  pale,  but  sallow;  his  smile  a 
mere  surface  reflection  when  compared  with 
the  inner  warmth  of  Treston's. 

Little  wonder,  indeed,  that  Dr.  Bernard 
watched  Annetta  so  closely.  Herself  un- 
conscious of  any  change  in  manner  and 
bearing,  both  were  greatly  changed.  Not 
that  she  was  less  charming  as  a  hostess :  nay, 
even  more  so.  But  she  no  longer  expressed 
her  feelings  with  simple  ardor;  their  com- 
plexity forbade.  Finding  herself  loftily  re- 
mote in  spirit  from  the  rude  hilarity  around 
her,  her  airs  and  attitudes  were  involuntarily, 
if  prettily,  condescending.  Unsung  carols 
of  self-delight  alternated  with  low  monotones 
of  self-abasement  in  her  breast.  Deer-like 
poises  suggested  that  she  was  ready  to  start 
back  at  the  least  approach  of  familiarity. 

Impelled  at  last  to  some  expression  of 
his  secret  wonder,  Dr.  Bernard  found  an  op- 
portunity to  whisper:  "How  you  have  im- 
proved, Miss  Annetta ! " 

And  Colonel  Faunett,  venting  his  admira- 
tion in  a  long,  wooden  stare  which  Annetta 
indignantly  turned  her  back  upon,  privately 
informed  Ben  Leavitt,  in  his  choicest  phras- 
eology, that  "  Miss  Bartmore's  figger"  was 
"enough  to  bust  a  man's  heart."  The  same 
gentleman,  indeed,  approached  Dr.  Bernard, 
and  with  a  preliminary  ahem,  asked,  in  tones 
of  gravity  fairly  sepulchral : 

"About  how  much  do  you  think  she 
weighs,  now?" 

Apart  from  Annetta's  immediate  affairs, 
the  evening  was  quite  like  those  preceding 
Bartmore's  political  effort.  Bartmore  him- 
self was  wildly,  uproariously  jovial,  drinking 
deep,  and  forcing  others  to  do  likewise. 
Colonel  Faunett's  wooden  rigidity  gradually 
relaxed  under  these  influences,  until  he  sud- 
denly broke  forth  in  a  whoop  of  ecstasy, 
proposing  that  they  all  go  outside  where 


there  was  more  room.  For  what,  he  did 
not  specify.  Bartmore  not  only  laughed 
and  joked,  but  sang,  "Begone,  dull  care," 
and  "Landlord,  fill  the  flowing  bowl,"  find- 
ing many  imaginary  da  capos,  and  an  inex- 
haustible zest  for  each  repetition. 

The  opportunity  Annetta  would  not  offer, 
Treston  boldly  seized  for  himself.  He  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  dining-room,  whither  she 
went  to  fetch  the  ingredients  for  a  second 
punch.  She  returned,  after  a  bare  instant's 
absence  from  the  general  company,  with  an 
accession  of  delight  in  her  bearing.  That 
instant  had  sufficed  for  a  renewing  of  the  en- 
gagement to  drive. 

Somewhere  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night 
the  guests  streamed  forth  into  the  garden. 
Annetta  went  too,  a  lace  scarf  about  her 
ears.  Many  stars  were  rejoicing  anew  in 
their  old,  old  glory  high  over  the  tree-tops. 
Glancing  up  at  these,  glad  of  the  few  hours 
that  need  elapse  before  the  morrow,  Annetta 
found  herself  alone  with  Dr.  Bernard 

"Tom's  a  curious  fellow,"  the  Doctor  was 
saying  in  his  throaty  voice,  the  words  half- 
formed.  "He  seems  very  willing  for  you  to 
run  about  with  that  Treston,  of  whom  none 
of  us  know  anything.  Suffering  humanity ! 
what  one  can  see  in  him !  I'd  be  more 
precious  of  you  if  you  were  my  sister." 

Annetta  laughed  lightly. 

"I'd  rather  be  Tom's  sister." 

"  I'd  be  content  with  things  as  they  are, 
too,  if  you'd  let  me  make  love  to  you." 

"Nonsense,  Doctor! " — listening  for  Tres- 
ton's voice  across  the  garden.  "We  are 
such  old,  old  friends,  you  know." 

Despite  this,  the  Doctor  would  probably 
have  gone  on  in  the  same  strain,  but  some- 
thing stirred  in  the  shrubbery.  He  darted 
aside  with  a  violent  out-thrusting  of  his  right 
arm.  Annetta  cried  aloud  and  sharply. 

In  an  instant  everyboby  from  the  other 
path  was  there.  All  were  clustering  over  a 
dark  form  sprawling  on  a  flower-bed. 

"What  is  it?"  "Who  is  it?"  were  excla- 
mations often  repeated. 

"I  saw  the  fellow  crouching  under  a 
bush" — thus  Doctor  Bernard,  apparently  un- 
ruffled by  his  unusual  exertion. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


195 


Bartmore  now  had  the  intruder  well  and 
roughly  in  hand. 

"Och,  Misther  Bairtmore,  dear!"  yelled  a 
familiar  voice,  somewhat  disjointed  by  fran- 
tic struggles  for  liberty.  "Let  me  go!  Let 
me  go  !  I  was  m'anin'  no  harrm,  as  God 
sits  in  heaven." 

"So,  Barney  Flynn!"  ejaculated  Bartmore, 
with  greater  determination  than  rage.  "I've 
caught  you  trespassing,  have  I?  Well,  I'll 
make  an  example  of  you." 

Whether  or  not  he  heard  this  threat, 
Flynn  redoubled  his  vociferations. 

"Och,  Misther  Bairtmore  de--ar!  I  was 
only  afther  seein'  the  light,  an'  thinkin'  to  ax 
a  bit  iv  docthor's  stuff  from  Miss  Bairtmore. 
That's  all,  an'  may  the  Divil  make  a  red 
writin'  iv  it  if  I'm  lyin'.  Joe's  tuck  bad — an' 
ne'er  a  crust  nor  a  praty  in  the  house." 

"Stop  your  bawling,  you  fool!"  roared 
Bartmore,  shaking  him  until  his  teeth  clat- 
tered like  castanets.  "Don't  pretend  to  tell 
me  that  you  expected  to  find  my  sister  up 
at  this  time  of  night!" 

"Sure,  boss,"  exclaimed  Barney,  proving 
conclusively  that  his  anguish  of  fear  was 
perfectly  controllable  by  dropping  his  voice 
to  a  whining  key,  "if  she'd  wait  up  for  yez, 
whin  wud  she  iver  be  airlier  abed?" 

Even  in  that  strait  he  could  not  let  an 
opportunity  to  say  a  sharp  thing  pass.  He 
chuckled  a  little  in  desultory  fashion,  until 
Bartmore  choked  his  chuckling  off. 

The  rest  were  laughing  aloud. 

Annetta  now  began  to  plead  for  him,  and 
Treston  said: 

"  Isn't  he  one  of  my  tenants  ?  " 

Bartmore  answered  in  a  high,  domineering 
tone: 

"He  is.  You'll  find  there's  no  treating 
this  sort  of  cattle  like  human  beings.  Is  he 
satisfied,  do  you  fancy,  with  all  you've  done 
for  him?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  won't  be 
satisfied  with  anything  short  of  a  town-lot 
and  a  municipal  office.  There!  quit  your 
howling,  you  coyote,  take  yourself  off,  and 
never  let  me  catch  sight  of  your  hang-dog 
face  again.  Do  you  hear?" 

Flynn  heard,  and  made  the  night  hideous 
with  wild  vows  of  future  good  behavior  and 


extravagant  praises  of  Bartmore's  "gineros- 
ity."  But  no  sooner  was  his  captor's  grasp 
relaxed  than  he  shuffled  off  and  out  of  the 
garden,  muttering  imprecations  as  he  went. 
There  was  some  discussion  of  the  incident, 
and  some  surmises  as  to  Flynn's  designs. 
Bartmore  dismissed  the  whole  matter  dryly 
as  he  dismissed  his  guests. 

"  The  fellow  was  only  sneaking  around  to 
see  what  he  could  pick  up." 

Another  matter  filled  his  mind,  another 
theme  upon  which  he  must  needs  angrily 
dilate,  pacing  the  parlor,  with  Annetta  an 
enforced  listener. 

"Confound  Treston,  anyway !"  so  he  fieri- 
ly  concluded.  "  A  man's  not  only  a  fool 
who  spends  his  money  for  repairs  like  that,, 
but  he  makes  a  lot  of  trouble  for  his  wiser 
neighbors.  My  tenants  are  beginning  to 
feel  sore-headed.  He'll  never  get  an  in- 
crease in  rents;  no  fair  return  for  the  ex- 
pense he's  been  to.  Such  tomfoolery  is 
enough  to  upset  a  sensible  man's  stomach  " 

This  harangue  troubled  Annetta's  dream- 
ing but  not  her  waking  hours.  For  the 
morning  sunshine  seemed  to  flood  her  very 
heart  with  sunshine.  A  stir  within  her  breast 
answered  to  the  stir  of  early  birds  flying 
about  the  garden  ;  a  song  answered  to  their 
songs.  Even  Maggy's  stereotyped  greeting 
fell  on  her  ears  as  brimful  of  freshness  and 
fervor.  She  looked  forward  to  the  days' 
duties,  and  beyond  them,  with  an  ardent 
readiness  little  short  of  enchantment. 

Maggy  recognized  the  effect  of  Annetta's 
exultant  happiness,  and  felt  after  the  cause. 

"What's  on  yez,  miss?"  she  asked,  her 
own  face  broadening  and  shining  with  sym- 
pathetic delight.  "  Whoiver'd'a'  though  t  whin 
yez  was  lyin'  wid  but  a  sheet  'twixt  yez  an 
the  devourin'  worrums  that  yez  'ud  iver  be  a 
larkin'  round  the  house  like  this  !  " 

The  old  vague  dreams  were  gone  from 
Annetta's  mind.  She  dreamed  still,  but  it 
was  in  tense  attitudes,  her  countenance  glow- 
ing with  a  soft  light  which  was  neither  a  smile 
nor  a  blush,  yet  partook  of  the  nature  of 
both. 

The  hours  flashed  together  and  fled  away. 
Annetta  had  dressed  for  the  drive  before 


196 


Annetta. 


[August, 


luncheon.  A  gayety  one  could  no  longer 
liken  to  that  of  a  bird  informed  her  every 
movement — a  gayety  not  incompatible  with 
the  deepest  and  tenderest  feelings.  Now 
and  again,  when  alone,  she  would  clasp  her 
hands  as  if  in  an  ecstasy  of  anticipation.  At 
intervals  she  would  find  herself  bursting  forth 
in  song  of  wonderful  force  and  freshness. 

"  If  I  watch  for  him,"  she  said  philosophi- 
cally, "it  will  make  the  time  seem  intermin- 
able." 

So  she  sat  at  the  piano,  diligently  practic- 
ing. But  through  all  her  sparkling  measures 
she  caught  herself  listening  intently  for 
the  bell. 

Twice  its  tinkle  had  sent  a  darting  and 
painful  delight  through  her  breast,  and  twice 
she  had  run  impetuously  to  meet  the  ingra- 
tiating countenance  and  glib,  mechanical 
accents  of  a  peddler.  At  the  third  ring 
there  was  the  same  involuntary  pang,  the 
same  involuntary  haste.  Half-way  to  the 
door,  however,  she  bethought  herself,  and 
walked  sedately.  She  even  made  some 
difficulty  with  knob  and  latch,  that  she  might 
school  herself  to  confront  realization  or  dis- 
appointment outwardly  unmoved.  A  gen- 
tleman stood  waiting,  with  his  back  toward 
her.  At  sight  of  those  broad  shoulders  in  a 
familiar  brown  overcoat,  Annetta  became  a 
very  picture  of  shy  delight.  Treston  turned 
slowly. 

Instead  of  the  beaming  radiance  which  had 
brought  heaven  down  to  that  spot  of  earth 
where  Annetta  dwelt,  the  poor  girl  encoun- 
tered such  a  gaze  as  set  her  heart  in  instant 
ice.  She  could  only  ask  herself  despairingly, 
"What  have  I  done  ?  "  and  wildly  rack  her 
brain  for  replies. 

Treston's  countenance  was  sterner  than 
she  could  have  conceived  possible.  His 
heavily  contracted  brows  were  forbidding. 
She  flashed  a  look  past  him :  no  team  waited 
at  the  gate. 

Annetta  never  thought  of   any  ordinary 
greetings;  none  were  indulged  in  by  Treston. 
He  said,  "  Miss  Bartmore,  I  am  going  away." 
"Soon?" 
"To-morrow." 
"Far?" 


"Some  thousands  of  miles — to  my    old 
home,  that  is." 
"To— stay?" 
"  It  is  likely." 

Each  curt  answer  vouchsafed  to  her  faint 
queries  sounded  cold,  irrevocable,  horrible. 
If  Annetta  had  given  way  to  her  feelings,  she 
would  have  beaten  the  air  for  breath.  It 
was  as  if  she  was  being  coffined  alive  in 
cruel  circumstances  which  Treston  unfalter- 
ingly closed  about  her,  as  coffin  lids  are 
screwed  down.  Out  of  all  the  stifling  an- 
guish within,  she  could  utter  no  cry,  no 
word  of  appealing.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  her  that  she  ought  to  invite  her  caller  to 
enter. 

"It  must  be,"  said  Treston. 
Did  his  tone  soften  a  little,  his  severity 
relax  ? 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  into  the 
parlor.     Holding  it,  he  faced  her  there. 
"Tom  and  I  have  quarreled." 
Annetta  gasped,  "Oh!"  then  added,  with 
a  visible  effort,  "not — finally?" 
"Finally." 

He  dropped  her  hand. 
She  realized  with  frightful  anguish  that  he 
was  going. 

She  motioned  toward  a  chair.  He  did 
not  heed. 

"Good  by,  Annetta." 
"You  are  not  angry  with  me,  sir?" 
She  seemed  to  hear  some  one  else  say- 
ing this,  in  a  hollow,  pectoral  murmur.     She 
herself  was  only  conscious  of  wildly  casting 
about  for  some  prayer  or  pleading  potent  to 
keep  him. 

It  was  no  time  for  the  measured  cadences 
of  a  well-ordered  dialogue.  Treston  did  not 
answer  her  question  directly.  But  his  lips 
quivered ;  an  ineffable  change  put  gloom  far 
away  from  him.  He  drew  nearer.  He  had 
only  uttered,  "Annetta!"  as  this  new  rush  of 
emotion  dictated,  when  she  was  shocked  by 
an  unmistakable  whir  of  wheels. 
"Tom!" 

She  ejaculated   that   name  with   all  the 
dread  she  felt. 

Treston  was  not  unmoved. 
"Stay  here,"  he  commanded. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


197 


She  could  not  obey.  As  he  turned  and 
walked  vigorously  out  of  the  house,  she  fol- 
lowed him. 

Bartmore  had  not  yet  dismounted  at  the 
garden-gate.  His  mare,  flecked  with  foam, 
was  stamping  to  and  fro. 

Treston  spoke  first,  merely  saying: 

"Good  day,  Bartmore." 

The  other  voice  rang  out  roughly  : 

"  Damn  you*!  you  did  get  here  before  me." 

Annetta  lifted  her  horror-stricken  glance. 
Bartmore's  under  jaw,  unshaven  for  days 
enough  to  bristle  with  a  coarse  young  beard, 
was  set,  his  very  forehead  inflamed.  His 
starting  eyes  were  red-rimmed. 

Treston  preserved  his  tense  calmness. 

"I  told  you  when — at  what  hour — I  would 
come." 

"And  I  told  you  to  keep  away." 

Here  Bartmore  would  have  flung  himself 
from  the  vehicle,  but  the  mare,  startled  by 
his  voice,  sprung  sharply  to  one  side. 

Quick  as  thought,  and  with  a  hand  of 
steel,  Treston  grasped  the  bridle.  Bart- 
more reeled  back  into  his  seat  and  took 
fiercer  hold  upon  the  reins.  One  standing 
here,  another  throned  there,  the  quivering  an- 
imal between,  the  two  men  faced  each  other. 

"I  will  hold  her  while  you  get  out,"  said 
Treston,  the  slightest  touch  of  scorn  in  his 
tone. 

Bartmore  cursed  him  aloud. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  am  capable  of  manag- 
ing my  own  animal?"  he  sneered. 

Another  impassioned  leap  of  the  terrified 
creature  gave  Treston  his  cue. 

"Not  in  your  present  mood." 

"Let  go  of  those  lines  " — jerking  his  whip 
from  its  socket. 

"  Don't  strike  her,  man,"  urged  Treston, 
while  poor  Nelly  plunged  about,  her  flanks 
and  nostrils  quivering  in  terror  of  the  lash. 

"Damnation!     Let  go!" 

Grinding  these  words  out  between 
clenched  teeth,  Bartmore  was  taking  full  ad- 
vantage of  his  position  and  his  weapon. 
The  whip-lash,  he  standing  up  to  aim  it  at 
Treston's  face,  fell  short  of  its  mark  and 
writhed  hissing  over  Nelly's  glossy  off  shoul- 
der. 


A  wild  leap,  a  scramble  of  hoofs,  a  grind- 
ing of  wheels,  a  flying  of  bits  of  rock,  an 
oath — and  Annetta  was  standing  alone  with 
Treston. 

She  gave  way  to  her  shuddering  horror. 
"Go!"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands,  her 
bosom  heaving  with  short,  quick  sobs,  "be- 
fore he  comes  back  —  if  he  ever  comes 
back." 

Treston  still  controlled  himself.  A  wheel 
had  grazed  his  coat,  smirching  it  with  dust. 
He  brushed  it  away.  He  turned  toward 
Annetta.  The  gate  was  between  them. 
He  cast  such  a  look  upon  her  as  a  dying 
man  might  upon  the  beloved  woman  whom 
he  is  leaving  behind  him  unprotected. 

"You  may  learn — some  day  you  may 
learn — why  my  lips  are  sealed.  Annetta, 
let  me  hear  you  say  'Good  by  and  God  keep 
you.'" 

She  said  it  hurriedly,  adding  "Go,  go!" 
He  stepped  backward,  lifted  his  hat,  turned, 
and  went  a  little  way. 

"If,  when  I  reach  the  corner,"  he  said, 
stopping,  "I  see  that  your  brother  is  safe, 
that  he  has  Nelly  under  control,  I  will  mo- 
tion to  you — so." 

He  put  up  his  right  hand  to  show  her, 
and  the  last  glimpse  she  had  of  him  before 
he  disappeared  around  the  high  board  fence, 
whither  Dan  had  preceded  him  nearly  two 
months  before,  he  stood  with  solemn  face 
and  reassuring  gesture. 

Annetta  remained  in  a  sickening  daze, 
through  which  wheels  flew  presently,  and  a 
voice  spoke. 

"Damn  you  !  what  did  that  damned  hom- 
bre  say  to  you?" 

Her  brother  had  flung  himself  panting  to 
the  ground.  He  was  glaring  at  her  with  all 
the  fierceness  of  a  devouring  rage. 

Annetta  lifted  her  gray  eyes,  widened  past 
unshed  tears,  to  his  face. 

"He  said  good  by." 

"What  else?    No  evasions." 

"That  he  would  leave  for  home  to-mor- 
row." 

"Isn't  there  some  sort  of  understanding 
between  him  and  you?" 

"None." 


198 


Annetta. 


[August, 


"  Did  he  ask  you  to  meet  him  away  from 
here,  down  town — or — " 

"No." 

Her  interlocutor  glared  at  her  a  while 
longer,  then  asked  in  a  different  key,  but 
still  peremptorily: 

"What  did  he  tell  you  about  our  trouble?" 

"Only  that  you  and  he  had  quarreled." 

Annetta  had  gotten  through  with  this 
catechism,  she  knew  not  how,  and  Tom  had 
driven  away,  she  knew  not  where.  She  found 
herself  alone  in  her  own  room.  Everything 
was  just  as  she  had  arranged  it  that  happy 
morning.  She  stared  dumbly  at  those  in- 
animate and  long-familiar  objects,  looking 
from  one  to  another  as  if  in  pathetic  sort 
appealing  to  each  for  distraction  from  her 
horrible  suffering,  the  very  core  of  which  was 
that  Treston  had  never  really  cared  for  her. 
A  trembling  seized  her — a  trembling  not  so 
dreadful  to  note  as  the  helpless  effort  made 
to  control  it.  She  was  facing  the  future 
without  him  who  had  left  her  forever. 

When  she  could  bear  the  impassive  silence 
of  her  room  no  more,  she  fled  down-stairs 
and  into  the  kitchen.  Maggy  was  moving 
about  there,  preparing  supper,  singing  some- 
what lustily  over  her  work.  Annetta  rushed 
toward  her,  .and  half  falling  upon,  half  fling- 
ing herself  into,  that  broad,  honest  bosom, 
clung  there. 

"You  nursed  me,  Maggy,  when  I  was 
sick,"  she  cried,  between  groaning  and  sob- 
bing. "O  why  didn't  you  let  me  die?" 

But  to  none  of  Maggy's  earnest  inquiries 
would  she  answer  aught  concerning  her  grief. 

XIV. 

The  next  morning,  loathing  the  bed  where- 
on she  had  lain  all  night  awake,  Annetta 
was  up  early.  The  dreadful  to-morrow 
which  Treston  had  set  for  his  journey's  be- 
ginning had  come.  She  could  not  breathe 
indoors.  Thoughts  are  sometimes  as  stifling 
as  poisonous  fumes. 

Annetta  hurried  into  the  garden.  A  step- 
ladder,  surmounted  by  a  huge  pair  of  shears, 
and  planted  under  a  cypress-tree,  told  what 
work  old  Refugio  had  afoot.  As  Annetta 


approached,  that  ancient  being,  after  many 
precautionary  proceedings  and  with  palsied 
deliberation,  was  quitting  terra-firma.  Get- 
ting tremblingly  upon  the  fourth  round  of  his 
ascent,  he  peered  downward  and  saw  An- 
netta beneath  him.  His  violent  start  was 
comically  like  that  of  a  small  child  surprised 
in  some  forbidden  delight. 

"Sefior  Bartamora,"  he  began  eagerly, 
without  waiting  for  Annetta  to  speak,  "he 
like  mucho  Refugio" — finishing  the  sen- 
tence by  making  scissor-blades  of  a  pair  of 
warty  fingers,  and  working  them  vigorously 
as  upon  a  rusty  screw. 

Annetta  seemed  to  look  and  listen,  but 
neither  saw  nor  heard.  She  was  thinking  of 
Flynn's  Row.  Its  poor  tenants  had  been 
doubly  dear  to  her  since  Treston  became 
their  landlord.  She  would  hear  his  name 
uttered  gratefully  among  them.  However 
far  away  he  might  be,  she  would  still  be 
doing  what  he  commended  in  visiting  them 
and  caring  for  them.  This  thought,  this 
self-imposed  duty,  was  as  a  spar  in  ship- 
wreck— a  spar  in  shipwreck  which  means 
desperate  clinging  and  a  great  drowning 
horror. 

Annetta  could  not  wait  to  breakfast  with 
Tom.  She  was  soon  walking  quickly  up 
the  road  toward  the  hills,  a  basket  on  her 
arm.  The  aspect  of  those  poor  houses  had 
greatly  changed  with  their  changed  owner- 
ship. Neatly  painted,  each  with  its  new 
fence  and  garden-plat,  how  had  they  cheered 
and  delighted  Annetta's  heart.  But  now  she 
starts  back  aghast  at  sight  of  their  fronts,  to 
read  the  sign  whose  like  was  posted  twice 
on  each  of  the  six  small  houses.  Flynn's 
Row  was  advertised  for  sale  at  auction. 

Annetta  went  on  mechanically  toward 
Mrs.  Flynn's. 

As  she  passed  with  light,  familiar  foot 
through  a  slender  alley  toward  the  kitchen, 
she  heard  a  voice  which  she  thought  she 
recognized,  grumbling  in  accents  of  domi- 
neering brutality. 

"No;  I  won't  lave  him  his  lone.  Books! 
What's  thim  to  the  likes  o'  Joe?  He'd  bet- 
ther  be  knowin'  how  to  handle  a  pick  nor  a 
pen.  Whisht  your  gab,  Illen  Ann!  If  I 


1883.] 


Annctta. 


199 


lay  my  hand  till   yez,   I'll   be  to  gi'  ye  a 
mouthful!" 

"  Do  what  ye  plaze  wid  me.  Barney,"  a 
patient  voice  answered  him,  "but  spare  the 
child  his  bit  o'  happiness  an'  comfort." 

There  was  a  heavy  step,  a  clinking  noise, 
a  sharp  cry — Joe's — and  Annetta  stood,  un- 
seen by  any  save  Mfs.  Flynn,  in  the  open 
door.  The  woman  pleaded  with  a  frightened 
face,  but  silently,  and  wringing  her  hands. 
Annetta  softly  set  down  her  basket.  Her 
attitude,  involuntarily  assumed,  was  that  of 
flaming  youthful  indignation.  Barney  Flynn, 
his  hair  disordered,  his  beard  matted,  his 
eyes  bleared  and  bloodshot,  was  turning 
away  from  the  stove  into  which  he  had  just 
thrust  Joe's  choicest  treasure — the  last  book 
Annetta  had  given  him.  He  stood  glowering 
at  the  child,  who  when  he  shrieked  had  been 
standing  leaning  on  his  crutch,  but  now 
dropped  to  the  floor,  lay  close  to  it,  sobbing 
with  the  convulsive  abandonment  of  his 
years  and  his  temperament. 

"I'll  have  a  peg  at  yez,  now!"  Barney 
shouted  hoarsely,  glaring  around  in  a  rage 
that  longed  for  a  weapon,  and  doubling  his 
fist  as  he  strode  toward  him. 

"Don't  beat  me,  father!"  cried  Joe,  lifting 
his  beautiful  face  wet  with  that  hot  rain,  and 
clinging  to  his  father's  feet. 

Barney  kicked  off  the  grasp  of  those  small, 
persistent  hands. 

"I  will  bate  yez,"  he  returned,  with  the 
seething  slowness  of  vindictiveness  and 
certainty.  "I'll  bate  yez  wid  your  own 
shtick,  begorra!"  swooping  down  upon  the 
crutch  which  had  fallen  with  Joe. 

The  little  cripple,  his  back  toward  the 
door,  having  no  hope  of  any  efficient  inter- 
vention— what  could  his  poor  mother  do  but 
cry  and  pray? — lifted  himself  quickly  upon 
both  hands  and  one  knee.  Tears,  terror, 
helplessness  were  forgotten  in  a  flash  of  fiery 
energy. 

"Father,"  he  cried,  "if  you  strike  me,  I'll 
run  away." 

"We'll  thry  yez,  begorra!"  roared  Flynn, 
in  nowise  touched  by  the  dreadful  impossi- 
bility of  performance. 

But  when  he  straightened  himself  up,  grasp- 


ing the  crutch,  there  was  Annetta  standing 
close  beside  him,  her  face  pale  now,  her 
eyes  darting  lightnings.  Barney  seemed  to 
feel  the  force  of  her  scorn  before  she  spoke 
a  word.  He  rolled  a  servile  glance  upon 
her,  mumbling: 

"A  soop  o'  dhrink  lasht  night  an'  none  the 
mornin's  upset  me.  I  haven't  done  a  shtroke 
o'  pickin'  nor  shovelin'  since  the  boss  sacked 
me." 

Annetta  was  in  nowise  mollified.  Joe  had 
crawled  toward  her,  and  was  caressing  the 
ruffle  of  her  dress — her  very  feet.  Those  soft 
touches  urged  her  on.  She  tried  to  hold 
Barney's  shifty  glances.  She  chose  her  words 
deliberately,  as  wishing  to  mete  out  to  him  in 
full  measure  the  only  punishment  she  could 
inflict. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,  Barney,"  she  began, 
in  a  clear,  vibrant  voice.  "I  want  to  see  the 
most  contemptible  coward  the  whole  world 
can  produce,  the  man  who  would  strike  a 
sick  and  helpless  child — his  own,  at  that. 
The  man,  did  I  say?  I  make  instant  apology 
to  all  true  men — if  there  be  such." 

Poor  Annetta !  the  secret  sickness  of  her 
suffering  heart  involuntarily  recorded  itself 
in  that  parenthetic  exclamation.  A  sigh 
quivered  forth  with  the  words;  then  she  re- 
covered herself  and  went  on  more  impet- 
uously : 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  first  human — or  in- 
human— being  I  ever  met  whom  I  wouldn't 
think  it  worth  my  while  to  keep  alive.  I 
helped  to  keep  you  alive  once,  Barney,  not 
so  long  ago  either — heaven  forgive  me ! " 

Barney  had  cringed  before  her  unexpected 
presence,  her  glance:  nor  could  he  en- 
counter that  even  now ;  but  he  bridled 
against  her  tongue. 

"There's  worser  nor  me  at  sea  and 
ashore,"  he  mumbled. 

"  God  forbid  ! "  interjected  Annetta. 

Little  Joe  pressed  his  cheek  against  her 
gown  first,  then  laid  it  on  the  shoe  nearest 
him. 

"An'  for  the  matther  o'  lip,  Miss  Bairt- 
more,  seein'  that's  all  I  git  from  yez  or  him 
what's  own  yez,  I  make  bould  to  say  I've 
got  enough,  an'  that's  no  lie.  Barney 


200 


The  Poet  Hafiz. 


[August, 


Flynn's  neither  beholden  to  yez,  nor  yit  to 
the  'boss' — leastwise,  Misther  Thomas  Bairt- 
more,  an'  be  damned  to  him." 

"  But  you  are  accountable  to  the  law,  sir," 
exclaimed  Annetta,  sternly.  "  You  shall  be 
prosecuted  if  ever  you  harm  a  hair  of  this 
poor  head" — letting  a  tender  glance  fall  upon 
those  lowly  curls,  and  then  kneeling  to  lift 
them  to  her  bosom. 

"  I'll  do  what  I  plaze,  by  God !  wid  my 
own." 

"Not  this  side  of  the  water,  sir,"  cried 
Annetta,  triumphantly.  "And  be  careful  how 
you  behave  toward  me,  Barney.  You've 
reason  to  know  that  there's  one  who'll  fight 
my  battles." 

With  this  outward  reference  to  Tom  and 
an  inward  reference  far  less  assured  and 
exultant,  Annetta  turned  her  attention  en- 
tirely to  Joe,  who  when  his  father  had  slunk 
from  the  room  began  afresh  to  bewail  his 
loss. 

"But  I'll  bring  you  another  book,  Joey, 
lad,"  murmured  Annetta.  "And  now  guess 
what's  in  my  basket — fetch  it,  please,  Mrs. 
Flynn — for  you." 

Annetta's  head  and  Joe's  were  presently 
close  together  over  a  set  of  cheap,  bright 
plaques.  The  gray-haired  woman  stood 
silently  watching  a  while,  as  her  wont  was, 
noting  how  black  her  boy's  thick  locks  were 
when  laid  against  those  light  brown  waves 
and  folds  and  fringes. 


"You  must  be  filled  with  the  joys  of  the 
good,  miss,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Brimful  an' 
shpillin'  over,  seein'  what  drops  o'  brightness 
you  scatter  wherever  you  go — the  saints  have 
you  in  their  keeping  forever!  But  tell  me, 
is  it  thrue  indade  that  Mr. — Mr. — what's  on 
me  that  I  can't  remember  names  no  more? 
— though  his  isn't  aisy." 

"  Mr.  Treston  goes  East  to-day,"  Annetta 
answered.  And  with  these  words  her  load 
of  agony  became  well  nigh  insupportable. 

She  was  soon  wandering  down  the  home- 
ward road,  appealing  to  the  green,  plushy 
grass,  the  floating  clouds,  the  hills,  for  some 
verdant  or  airy  or  steadfast  denial  of  the 
crushing  fact  that  Treston  was  forever  de- 
serting her — determinately  deserting  her  after 
— what. 

He  had  never  spoken  his  love.  But  he 
had  looked  it. 

"Did  I  make  poor  Dan  suffer  like  this? 
O  my  God,  how  cruel!" 

She  had  spoken  aloud.  She  had  set 
down  her  basket  by  the  roadside  to  put  her 
hands  to  her  head. 

"I  would  not  let  him  show  me  that  let- 
ter: how  hard  my  heart  was!  And  he 
pleaded  so,  and  turned  so  pale.  If  I  might 
atone!" 

Even  in  that  moment  of  suffering  retro- 
spection she  did  not  seem  to  recall  with 
what  hope,  with  what  promise,  she  had  sent 
Dan  away. 

Evelyn  M.  Ludlum. 


[CONTINUED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


THE   POET   HAFIZ:     HIS   LIFE   AND   WRITINGS. 


MUHAMMED  SHEMS  uo-DiN  HAFIZ  was 
born  at  Shiraz,  the  capital  of  Fars,  a  southern 
province  of  Persia,  about  1300,  and  died 
1388. 

Although  every  part  of  Persia  has  produced 
many  eminent  men,  Shiraz  has  excelled  all 
others.  This  city  has  been  fitly  called  the 
Athens  of  the  East.  It  has  given  its  name 
to  the  most  refined  idiom  of  that  empire. 


Shiraz  would  have  glory  enough  had  it  pro- 
duced but  Sadi  and  Hafiz. 

The  time  in  which  our  poet  lived  might 
be  called  the  golden  age  of  Persian  literature. 
At  that  period  Persia  was  ruled  by  the  Mu- 
zaffer  princes,  who,  like  Maecenas,  were  et 
praesidium  et  dulce  decus  of  the  native 
writers.  The  Orient  was  ablaze  with  poets 
and  authors  while  Europe  was  in  a  night  of 


1883.] 


The  Poet  Hafiz. 


201 


darkness ;  yet  that  famous  trio  in  Italy, 
namely,  Dante,  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio,  and 
also  Chaucer,  the  first  English  poet,  were 
his  contemporaries. 

If  it  is  true  that  the  greatest  men  have  the 
shortest  biographies,  it  certainly  is  so  in  the 
case  of  Hafiz.  Little  is  known  of  his  life 
beyond  what  is  shadowed  in  his  poems.  His 
numerous  commentators,  Persian  and  Turk- 
ish, can  tell  us  little  more.  His  youth  was 
a  studious  one,  devoted,  among  other  stud- 
ies, to  literature,  music,  and  the  art  of  poetry. 
Being  profoundly  read  in  jurisprudence  and 
theology,  he  received  the  title  of  Doctor, 
and  delivered  lectures  in  a  college  founded 
in  his  honor  by  his  patron,  Haji  Kiram  ud- 
Din. 

The  fame  of  the  poet  having  spread  over 
western  and  southern  Asia,  he  was  often  in- 
vited by  princes  to  reside  at  their  courts. 
His  love  of  quiet,  liberty,  and  his  native 
place,  and  his  distaste  for  court  life  and  con- 
tempt of  honors  and  riches,  seldom  permitted 
him  to  leave  his  retreat  from  the  world.  He 
thought  to  be  happy  one  should  lack  noth- 
ing and  possess  nothing.  He  repeatedly 
tells  us,  with  the  ancient  philosopher,  there 
are  many  things  in  the  world  of  which  Hafiz 
has  no  need. 

Wishing  to  get  beyond  the  stir  and  babel 
of  the  world,  he  took  refuge  in  a  suburb  of 
his  native  city,  near  the  banks  of  the  little 
stream  Ruknabad,  immortalized  in  his  poems, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  celebrated  rose  gar- 
dens. Here  was  his  fountain  of  Helicon. 
Here  he  was  visited  by  the  muses.  This 
was  the  place  for  his  soul  to  breathe  and  ex- 
pand in  the  ecstasy  of  mystical  and  transcen- 
dental philosophy;  for  our  bard  was  no  less 
a  philosopher  than  poet.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, desire  to  escape  the  fact  that  life  is  real ; 
he  did  not  wish  to  deceive  himself  with  the 
falsity  that  he  could  step  out  of  the  monoto- 
nous march  of  his  years  by  stepping  aside 
from  the  world.  That  to  the  world  wisdom 
is  folly,  and  to  wisdom  the  world  is  folly,  is 
spread  all  over  every  page.  Here,  among 
the  gay  company  of  trees,  he  was  regaled  by 
the  songs  of  the  bulbul,  fanned  by  the  danc- 
ing leaves,  as  he  watched  the  hours  chasing 


one  another  from  a  Persian  sky.  Morning 
breezes  were  his  messengers,  spiritualizing 
his  whole  retreat ;  he  speaks  to  them  face  to 
face ;  they  carry  glad  tidings  to  his  friends. 
The  bulbul,  so  constantly  introduced  into 
his  poems,  was  not  for  ornament,  but,  like 
Michelet's  "L'Oiseau,"  gave  him  glimpses 
into  eternity.  Hafiz  was  indeed  a  hermit  in 
the  midst  of  a  market-place;  as  solitary  in  a 
throng  as  when  strolling  by  his  Ruknabad. 
Never  for  one  instant  was  absent  the  thought 
as  expressed  by  Ahmed,  the  poet-king  of  Af- 
ganistan:  "To-day  we  are  proud  of  our  ex- 
istence; to-morrow  the  world  will  count  us  in 
the  caravan  of  the  departed." 

Sultan  Ahmed  of  Baghdad  urged  Hafiz 
to  reside  at  his  court,  offering  him  splendor 
and  distinction.  The  latter  wisely  preferred 
the  air  of  the  poet  and  philosopher.  How- 
ever, as  a  token  of  gratitude  he  lauded  the 
Sultan  in  a  beautiful  ode,  which  he  sent  the 
prince,  accompanied  with  his  regrets  of  not 
being  able  to  gratify  the  wishes  of  so  liberal 
and  distinguished  a  patron.  The  Sultan 
was  himself  an  excellent  poet,  and  composed 
equally  well  in  Persian  and  Turkish.  He 
was  also  accomplished  in  music,  painting, 
and  calligraphy.  The  last  has  always  been 
considered  a  great  art  in  Oriental  countries, 
as  the  most  esteemed  literary  works  are 
written.  The  manuscripts  are  often  richly 
and  delicately  ornamented  with  gold  and 
many  colors,  and  illustrated  with  exquisite 
miniature  paintings.  The  Sultan  having 
grown  cruel  to  his  subjects,  the  first  men  of 
the  country  determined  to  get  rid  of  him. 
They  invited  the  famous  Tamerlane  to  in- 
vade the  country  and  take  possession  of  the 
throne.  When  he  had  taken  also  southern 
Persia,  he  visited  Shiraz,  where  Hafiz  was 
living.  The  great  conqueror  had  read  in 
one  of  the  poet's  odes,  "  For  the  dark  mole 
on  the  cheek  of  my  Shirazian  beauty,  I 
would  give  Samarkand  and  Bokhara."  The 
emperor  ordered  the  poet  into  his  presence, 
and  good-naturedly  said:  "I  have  conquered 
the  greatest  kingdoms  of  the  earth  to  give 
eminence  to  Samarkand  and  Bokhara,  my 
royal  residences;  yet  you  dispose  of  them 
both  at  once  for  a  single  mole  on  the  cheek 


202 


The  Poet  ffafiz. 


[August, 


of  your  beloved."  "Yes,  sire,"  said  the 
witty  poet,  "and  it  is  by  such  acts  of  gener- 
osity that  I  am,  as  you  see,  reduced  to  such 
a  state  of  poverty."  The  monarch  smiled, 
and  ordered  the  poet  a  magnificent  present. 

We  read  in  a  history  of  the  Deccan  by 
Muhammad  Kasim  Ferishtah,  that  Sultan 
Mahmud  Shah,  ruler  of  that  country,  was  a 
learned  and  accomplished  prince,  and  a 
generous  patron  of  the  Persian  and  Arabian 
poets  who  chos,e  to  visit  him.  Wishing  to 
add  Hafiz  to  his  court  as  a  distinguished 
ornament,  he  sent  him  a  liberal  gift  of  gold, 
and  a  pressing  invitation.  The  poet  having 
distributed  most  of  the  money  to  the  needy, 
set  out  for  the  court  of  his  admirer  and 
benefactor.  On  his  way  he  met  a  friend 
who  had  been  robbed,  and  to  him  he  gave 
the  rest  of  the  money.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  turning  back,  when  some  distin- 
guished countrymen,  returning  home,  gave 
him  a  considerable  purse,  and  urged  him  to 
go  aboard  at  Ormus,  on  the  Persian  Gulf, 
and  continue  his  route  by  an  easier  way. 
While  he  was  waiting  for  the  anchor  to  be 
weighed,  a  storm  arose,  which  so  filled  him 
with  abhorrence  that  he  went  ashore  and  re- 
turned home.  He  embodied  his  apology 
and  thanks  in  a  poem,  which  he  sent  to  the 
Sultan.  In  one  of  his  odes  he  thus  alludes 
to  the  disgusts  and  dangers  of  this  jour- 
ney: 

"  The  splendor  of  a  Sultan's  diadem,  with- 
in which,  like  a  casquet  enclosed,  are  fears 
for  one's  life,  may  be  heart-alluring  as  a  cap, 
but  not  worth  the  loss  of  the  head  it  covers. 
The  sea  may  appear  easy  to  bear  in  the 
prospect  of  its  pearls;  but  I  erred,  for  a 
hundred-weight  of  gold  could  not  compen- 
sate for  the  infliction  of  one  wave." 

When  far  away  from  home,  he  felt  that 
life's  anchor  was  lost,  and  he  longed  for  his 
native  soil.  In  a  poem  written  when  he  was 
visiting  a  prince,  he  says:  "No  longer  able 
to  bear  the  sorrows  of  estrangement,  I  will 
return  to  mine  own  abode,  and  be  mine  own 
monarch."  Time,  too,  was  a  pearl  of  great 
price  to  him;  thus  he  says:  "For  me  what 
room  is  there  for  pleasure  in  the  bowers  of 
beauty,  when  every  moment  the  bell  pro- 


claims, 'Bind  on  your  burdens  !'"  This  re- 
fers by  way  of  figure  to  the  journey  of  this 
life.  The  tinkling  of  bells  suspended  from 
camels'  necks  reminds  the  travelers  of  the 
time  to  be  ready  for  the  caravan.  How 
similar  is  the  following: 

Lusisti  satis,  edisti  satis,  atque  bibisti, 
Tern  pus  abire  tibi  est. 

Hor.  Ep.  ii.  2,  214. 

Wholly  absorbed  in  subjective  life,  he  was 
oblivious  of  the  mighty  events  sweeping  over 
the  world;  for  "what  has  the  frog  in  the  well 
to  do  with  the  news  of  the  country?" 

Travelers  and  historians  have  described 
Shiraz,  the  poet's  home,  as  being  the  most 
pleasant  city  in  Persia.  It  was  built  on  a 
plain  surrounded  by  mountains.  It  was  well 
watered,  had  rich  bazaars,  many  splendid 
mosques,  and  a  celebrated  university.  Its 
rose  gardens  were  the  most  extensive  and 
the  most  famous  in  all  the  East.  That  most 
delicious  of  perfumes,  the  attar  of  roses,  was 
there  made  in  abundance.  The  city  and  its 
surroundings  were  made  delightful  also  by 
countless  cypresses,  orange,  lemon,  pome- 
granate, and  rose-trees.  It  was  also  far  famed 
for  its  wine,  poets,  and  beautiful  women. 
The  poet  has  celebrated  his  native  city  in 
an  ode,  a  few  lines  of  which  follow : 

"Hail,  Shiraz,  O  site  without  compare! 
May  heaven  preserve  it  from  disaster.  Lord, 
defend  our  Ruknabad,  for  its  limpid  waters 
give  the  inhabitants  length  of  days.  The 
zephyrs  loaded  with  incense  breathe  between 
Jafarabad  [a  suburb]  and  Musella  [a  retired 
pleasure-ground].  Oh !  come  to  Shiraz,  and 
implore  for  it  a  profusion  of  the  Holy  Spirit." 
In  another  place  we  find:  "The  spicy  gale 
of  the  ground  of  Musella  and  the  waters  of 
Ruknabad  have  not  granted  me  permission 
for  the  enjoyment  of  traveling." 

If  there  is  anything  in  all  English  poetry 
that  can  formulate  in  a  few  simple  words 
Hafiz's  doctrine,  it  is  these  lines : 

"  The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow; 
From  our  own  selves  our  joy  must  flow, 
And  that  dear  hut,  our  home." 

Hafiz  was  married,  and  has  left  us  an  ode 
on  the  death  of  his  wife.  It  is  believed  that 
another  ode  points  to  the  death  of  an  un- 


1883.] 


The  Poet  Hafiz. 


203 


married  son.  He  is  said,  by  one  of  his  nu- 
merous Turkish  commentators,  to  have  kept 
his  wife  highly  ornamented,  after  the  custom, 
and  to  have  lived  with  her  most  lovingly  and 
confidingly.  The  poet  describes  her  in  the 
ode  as  an  angel  in  human  guise,  a  peri  per- 
fect in  all  respects,  endowed  with  urbanity 
and  acuteness.  "She  was,"  he  says,  "a 
crowned  head  in  the  empire  of  beauty.  My 
heart,  unhappy  one,  knew  not  that  its  friend 
was  bound  on  another  journey." 

Hafiz's  language  abounds  in  beautiful  fig- 
ures, graceful  and  always  Oriental.  Here  is 
one  that  calls  up  the  heat  of  the  desert,  the 
celebrated  rose  gardens,  the  welcome  dew, 
and  the  delightful  zephyrs  : 

"From  the  hotness  of  the  fire  of  separa- 
tion I  have  been  bathed  like  a  rose  in  dew; 
bring  me,  O  nightingale,  a  zephyr  to  cool 
this  burning  [of  our  separation]." 

Horace's  sentence,  "Nil  ego  contulerim 
jucundo  sanus  amico,"  is  thus  paralleled  by 
our  poet:  "May  it  never  be  lawful  for  me 
to  prefer  life  to  a  friend." 

Tu  secanda  marmora 

Locas  sub  ipsum  funus,  et,  sepulcri 

Immemor,  struis  domos. 

Hor.  Od.  ii.  18,  17. 

The  same  thought  is  presented  us  by  the 
Persian  bard:  "Every  one's  last  dormitory  is 
but  a  few  handfuls  of  earth.  Say,  what  need 
is  there  that  thou  wilt  rear  a  palace  to  the 
heavens?" 

His  independence  of  the  world  is  ex- 
pressed in  such  sentences  as  these: 

"  It  is  written  on  the  portico  of  the  palace 
of  paradise,  'Woe  to  him  who  hath  pur- 
chased the  smiles  of  the  world.'" 

"Seek  not  for  the  fulfillment  of  its  prom- 
ises from  this  world,  for  this  old  hag  has  been 
the  bride  of  a  thousand  wooers." 

"The  world  is  a  ruin,  and  the  end  of  it 
will  be  that  they  will  make  bricks  of  thy 
clay." 

"On  the  emerald  vault  of  heaven  is  in- 
scribed, in  letters  of  gold,  'Nothing  save  the 
good  deed  of  a  generous  man  will  remain 
forever.'" 

"In  this  world  there  is  no  true  friend; 
faith  is  dead." 


This  last  is  also  found  in  at  old  Italian 
poet: 

"  Nel  mondo  oggi  gli  amici  non  si  trovano, 
La  fede  e  morta,  e  regnano  1'invidie." 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  make  numer- 
ous excerpts  from  Hafiz's  poems,  and  find 
parallels  in  the  lyric  writers  of  Europe.  But 
however  close  the  resemblance  might  be, 
yet  the  greater  part  of  his  works  are  not  rep- 
resented by  the  literature  of  the  Western 
world.  Hafiz  is  eminently  Oriental. 

M.  Laboulaye  de  1'Institut,  in  his  beauti- 
fully written  preface  to  De  Rosny's  "An- 
thologie  Japonaise,"  makes  a  mistake — be  it 
said  with  due  deference — when  he  implies 
that  an  Arab  or  a  Hindu  could  not  under- 
stand Horace.  All  the  Muhammedan  nations 
do  understand  les  Parques,  Vurne  du  Destin, 
et  le  nocher  infernal.  Their  poetry  is  col- 
ored with  such  thought.  The  verses  which 
he  takes  from  the  Roman  poet,  as  having  no 
echo  in  Oriental  literature,  would,  if  trans- 
lated into  the  language  of  any  Moslem  na- 
tion, be  claimed  by  their  critics  as  having 
dropped  out  of  an  Oriental  sky.  Indeed,  no 
other  Latin  stanzas  are  more  Hafizian.  In 
them  we  hear  the  well  known  wail  of  the 
Persian  poet.  They  are  a^  follows: 

"  Hue  vina  et  unguenta  et  nimium  breves 
Flores  amoenae  ferre  jube  rosae, 
Dum  res  et  aetas  et  sororum 
Fila  trium  patiuntur  atra. 

"  Omnes  eodem  cogimur:  omnium 
Versatur  urna  serius  ocius 

Sors  exitura,  et  nos  in  aeternum 
Exsilium  impositura  cymbae." 

In  graceful  and  airy  diction,  enchanting 
melody,  elevation  of  thought  and  depth  of 
feeling,  and  philosophical  insight,  he  has 
hardly  been  approached.  No  forced  pathos 
venting  itself  in  turgid  lines.  He  is  the  poet 
of  sunshine  and  tempest;  at  one  moment 
visiting  sun-colored  cloud-land,  at  the  next 
hovering  over  black  fate  and  future  nothing- 
ness. Often  a  cry  of  distress  goes  up  from 
his  soul,  that  pierces  to  the  reader's  heart. 
At  intervals  doubting,  like  Descartes,  all  his 
senses,  he  seems  not  able  to  say  whether 
God  has  endowed  us  with  a  reason  to  under- 
stand things  as  they  are  or  not.  He  strives 


204 


The  Poet  Hafiz. 


[August, 


to  lift  the  veil,  and  torments  himself  about 
the  future  problem.  The  scene,  however, 
soon  changes  to  a  sunny  one,  and  in  the 
main  he  takes  a  cheerful  view  of  man's  con- 
dition, and  counsels  that  the  battle  of  life  be 
fairly  and  fearlessly  waged.  He  does  not 
undertake  to  expound  the  enigmas  of  phil- 
osophy, yet  there  is  a  continual  undercurrent 
of  philosophical  speculation.  To  those  un- 
acquainted with  Oriental  thought,  many  of 
his  reflections  seem  as  mysterious  as  the  rid- 
dles of  the  Sphinx.  He  says  himself,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  Emerson  and  Thoreau  : 

"The  bird  of  the  morning  only  knows  the 
worth  of  the  book  of  the  rose ;  for  not  every 
one  that  reads  the  page  understands  the 
meaning." 

The  purport  of  this  is  explained  in  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"That  a  man  has  spent  years  on  Plato 
and  Proclus  does  not  afford  a  presumption 
that  he  holds  heroic  opinions,  or  undervalues 
the  fashions  of  his  town." — Emerson. 

"  Listen  to  every  zephyr  for  some  reproof, 
for  it  is  surely  there,  and  he  is  unfortunate 
who  does  not  hear  it." — Thoreau. 

What  student  of  Persian  poetry,  reading 
the  last  sentiment,  and  not  knowing  its  ori- 
gin, would  not  pause  to  remember  where  he 
had  read  the  same  in  his  Oriental  author? 
Thoreau,  William  Ellery  Channing,  and  Em- 
erson have  much  of  this  spirit.  The  last  two 
have  shown,  in  the  few  scraps  a  lamentable 
stint  which  they  have  translated  from  Persian 
sources,  a  deeper  insight  and  truer  apprecia- 
tion of  Oriental  thought  than  are  to  be  met 
with  elsewhere. 

Had  Hafiz  been  an  Athenian  in  the  time 
of  Plato,  the  gardens  of  the  philosophers,  no 
less  than  the  groves  of  the  poets,  would  have 
been  his  haunts. 

It  is  evident  that  to  understand  this  writer, 


one  must  come  under  the  influence  of  his 
genius.  He  cannot  be  judged  by  any  Euro- 
pean standard.  It  is  well  known  that  poetry 
loses  in  a  translation,  not  only  the  vigorous 
movement,  but  the  imitative  harmony  of  the 
original.  All  the  delicate  coloring  and  shad- 
ing fade  out,  all  that  is  loveliest  and  most 
characteristic  vanishes.  To  know  the  beau- 
ty of  the  poet's  soul,  one  must  read  the  orig- 
inal. On  this  point  Goethe  has  said : 
"Wer  den  Dichter  will  verstehen, 
Muss  in  Dichter  Lande  gehen." 

This  applies  with  special  emphasis  to  Sufi 
poetry,  like  that  of  our  author,  a  perfect 
transfusion  of  which  into  idiomatic  English 
is  impossible. 

We  find  in  a  Turkish  commentary  that, 
on  the  death  of  the  poet,  a  dispute  arose 
among  the  doctors  of  Islamism  as  to  his 
claims  to  a  burial  among  the  faithful.  This 
opposition  to  giving  the  poet's  remains  suit- 
able funeral  rites  was  founded  on  a  charge  of 
heterodoxy,  frequent  derision  of  the  Proph- 
et, and  constant  distortion  of  the  words 
of  the  Koran  into  ludicrous  significations. 
Finally  it  was  agreed  to  take  zfal — that  is,  to 
open  the  author's  works  and  decide  by  the 
sense  of  the  first  distich  met.  The  following 
was  the  one  lighted  upon  : 

"  O,  turn  not  away  your  foot  from  the  bier  of  Hafiz, 
For  though  immersed  in  sin,  he  yet  will  enter  in- 
to Paradise." 

He  lies  buried  in  a  beautiful  garden  about 
two  miles  from  his  native  place.  A  short 
time  after  his  decease,  a  handsome  monu- 
ment was  placed  over  his  grave  by  Sultan 
Baber's  prime  minister.  Over  his  tomb 
there  is  a  fine  alabaster  slab,  on  which  are 
sculptured  with  exquisite  art  two  of  the 
poet's  odes.  To  this  spot,  called  Hafiziyah, 
many  of  the  poet's  numerous  admirers,  in- 
cluding princes,  make  a  sort  of  pilgrimage. 

O.  H.  Roberts. 


1883.] 


Summer  Canons. 


205 


SUMMER   CANONS. 


THERE  is  obtuseness  in  depreciating  our 
Californian  lowlands  in  summer.  It  is  only 
an  unseeing  eye  that  counts  the  months 
from  June  to  November,  without  discrimina- 
tion, the  "dry  season,"  and  makes  no  differ- 
ence between  the  ripe  yellow  and  brown  of 
summer  and  the  dead,  burnt-out  colors  of 
autumn.  It  is  of  course,  in  a  general  way, 
true  enough  to  say  that  we  have  not  the  four 
seasons,  as  the  East  has,  but  only  two,  the 
wet  and  the  dry;  and  nothing  could  be 
neater  by  way  of  broad  outline  characteriza- 
tion than  Bret  Harte's 

"Twice  a  year  the  seasons  shifted — wet  and  warm, 

and  drear  and  dry ; 

Half  a  year  of  clouds  and  flowers,  half  a    year  of 
dust  and  sky." 

And  by  comparison  with  the  melting  of 
snow  that  marks  off  Eastern  spring  from  win- 
ter, and  the  outblaze  of  autumn  colors  that 
signals  the  end  of  summer,  it  does  indeed 
seem  as  if  in  California  there  were  no  line 
between  winter  and  spring,  between  summer 
and  fall. 

As  to  our  winter  and  spring,  I  doubt 
if  any  one  could  draw  a  line  between  them. 
Winter  begins  with  the  first  rain,  and  spring 
ends  with  the  end  of  the  immediate  ef- 
fects of  the  last  rain;  but  between  these 
two  points  extends  only  the  long,  gradual 
swell  of  a  chord  of  greenness  and  growth. 
Roughly,  we  call  the  crescendo  of  the  swell 
winter,  the  fortissimo  and  the  diminuendo 
spring;  but  who  can  put  his  finger  on  a  day 
or  a  week  and  say,  Here  the  crescendo  ceased  ? 
In  nothing  are  our  seasons  more  capricious 
from  year  to  year.  We  have  a  tradition  about 
the  early  and  the  latter  rains,  with  a  spell 
of  beautiful  weather  between — covering  the 
latter  half  of  February  perhaps,  and  the 
first  half  of  March — and  that  in  this  interval 
winter  changes  to  spring.  But  this  tradition 
s  of  the  typical  year,  hardly  more  likely  to 
be  realized  in  any  one  actual  year  than  the 
typical  vertebrate  structure  as  pictured  in  the 


zoologies  is  to  be  realized  in  any  one  actual 
vertebrate  species.  In  winter,  green  things 
are  growing  up;  leaves  are  putting  out; 
there  are  many  flowers,  to  be  sure,  but  yet 
there  is  a  sense  of  preparation  and  expecta- 
tion :  in  spring,  that  sense  is  gone ;  leafage 
is  in  its  full  shadiness;  roses  have  their  yearly 
carnival;  the  earth  goes  mad  with  opulence 
of  life.  There  is,  indeed,  to  the  sympathetic 
eye — or  perhaps  I  should  say  to  the  sympa- 
thetic lungs,  since  it  is  mainly  a  matter  of 
quality  of  air — at  all  events,  to  the  sympa- 
thetic perception  a  day  when  a  subtle  change 
announces  the  beginning  of  spring,  as  surely 
as,  in  every  human  face,  to  a  keen  enough  eye 
there  is  a  day  when  for  the  first  time  the  look 
of  childhood  is  gone,  and  youth  is  begun. 
This  change,  however,  is '  the  subtlest  of 
the  subtle;  I  will  not  call  any  one  obtuse 
who  does  not  see  it.  But  I  do  call  obtuse 
the  sense  that  does  not  discriminate  between 
mellow  summer  and  withered  fall.  The  one, 
to  sight  and  to  feeling,  is  life — ripened,  in- 
dolent life;  the  other  is  the  season  of  death. 
Our  winter  is  leaf  and  bud,  our  spring  is 
blossom,  our  summer  is  fruit,  and  our 
autumn  is  the  time  of  withering  away — the 
lifeless  gap  that  needs  must  fill  out  the  year, 
since  we  have  left  out  the  Eastern  winter 
from  our  cycle,  and  made  of  their  spring  our 
winter;  of  their  summer,  our  spring;  of  their 
autumn,  our  summer.*  Not  that  I  would 
count  autumn  altogether  a  stop-gap  in  the 
calendar;  one  cannot  give  over  any  season 
to  drought  and  death,  except  comparatively 
speaking.  Last  October,  for  instance,  one 
only  needed  the  red  maples,  and  the  road- 
sides sprinkled  with  asters,  to  believe  it  was 
October  in  New  England.  Within  one's 
own  garden,  or  with  eyes  shut,  life  was  a 
serene  satisfaction.  But  abroad,  the  dust  of 
the  roads  had  reached  its  culmination;  the 
stubble-fields  had  lost  the  glow  that  lingered 
for  weeks  after  the  harvest;  hillsides  and 
plain  lay  utterly  dun,  dusty,  lifeless. 


206 


Summer  Canons. 


[August, 


But  there  is  no  finer  coloring — no  coloring 
more  full  of  lazy  life — than  these  fields  of 
grain,  lowland  and  highland,  in  summer.  One 
of  the  richest  colors  in  nature  is  that  of  a 
field  of  wheat;  a  red  gold  with  a  sort  of  deep 
glow  in  it,  like  that  in  the  flesh  of  a  ripe  apri- 
cot, or  the  center  of  a  Marechal  Niel  rose. 
One  field  will  be  a  yellower  gold,  another  a 
redder  gold;  sometimes  where  a 'swath  has 
been  cut,  and  the  little  wall  of  slender  col- 
umns beyond  it  stands  plain  in  view,  one 
may  look  deep  among  the  acres  of  stalks 
and  catch  a  glow  lurking  among  them  that 
almost  suggests  the  seemingly  self-luminous 
cup  of  an  eschscholtzia  in  May — not  in 
June  or  July,  or  later;  the  eschscholt- 
zia ff  summer  has  only  plain,  daylight 
color;  the  spring  eschscholtzia  has  the  ap- 
pearance— common  enough  in  flowers  with 
a  deep  cup  and  of  deep  color  and  good 
silky  texture — of  throwing  out  an  actual  light, 
tempered  by  passing  through  a  silken  medi- 
um from  some  hidden  place  deeper  than  the 
deepest  center  of  the  flower.  Reflected 
light,  properly  thrown  in  among  shadows, 
almost  always  produces  this  effect  of  light 
actually  given  out  by  the  object,  but  through 
a  translucent  medium.  Tamalpais  at  sun- 
set often  looks  as  if  it  were  chiseled  out  of 
amethyst  or  lapis  lazuli,  whose  semi-trans- 
parency is  faintly  lit  up  throughout  by  a 
fire  somewhere  in  the  center.  In  the  full 
light  of  day  it  is  unmistakably  opaque  earth 
shone  upon  by  a  light  from  without.  You 
will  see  the  same  thing  in  hills  not  five  miles 
or  one  mile  distant ;  the  opaque  round  tops 
and  shallow  recesses  of  noontime  give  out 
at  morning  and  evening  dusky  blue  or  green 
or  yellow  lights  from  the  deepened  canons 
— or,  more  correctly,  luminous  blue  or  green 
or  yellow  duskinesses. 

But  I  would  not  have  any  city-bred  read- 
er infer  from  this  comparison  that  wheat- 
stalks  can  be  eschscholtzia-colored,  nor  any 
country-bred  reader  that  I  suppose  they  can 
be.  The  deep,  red-gold  glow  as  you  look 
horizontally  through  the  ranks  of  wheat 
suggests  the  color  of  the  flower-cup  in  quali- 
ty, but  only  remotely  approaches  it  in  actual 
tint.  Some  fields  are  quite  without  any  red 


shade  in  the  yellow;  and  as  you  will  see 
fields  growing  side  by  side  of  all  different 
shades,  we  who  are  unlearned  on-lookers 
may  infer  that  the  farmer  could  tell  us  the 
difference  in  color  comes  not  from  soil  or 
climate,  but  from  difference  in  the  grain 
sown. 

Barley  fields  do  not  occur  so  often  as 
wheat  fields  in  these  farming  lands.  When 
you  do  see  one,  you  are  inclined  to  think  it 
a  more  beautiful  sight  than  the  wheat,  be- 
cause of  the  shining,  silky  surface,  shaking 
in  the  wind,  that  the  bearded  head  gives  it. 
But  this  surface  silveriness  is  all  there  is  to 
it;  there  is  no  great  richness  of  coloring 
about  its  uniform  pale-straw  shade.  The 
wild  oat,  which  ripens  to  a  much  more  sil- 
very whiteness  than  barley,  and  has  a  far 
more  graceful  plume,  looking  at  it  stalk  by 
stalk,  does  not  make  nearly  as  pretty  a  sur- 
face to  look  across  or  to  see  the  wind  pass 
over.  But  the  wild  oat  ripens  earlier  than 
wheat  or  barley.  In  May  and  early  June  it 
was  to  be  seen  on  the  crests  of  the  round 
hills,  gleaming  against  the  blue,  a  perfect 
phantom  of  feathery  silver — one  of  the  most 
indescribably  lovely  things  the  whole  year 
has  to  show.  But  in  July  and  August  the 
grain  is  shed  from  the  silver  plumes,  and 
the  skeleton  that  remains  on  the  stalk  is 
trodden  down  by  cattle  and  by  the  steady 
march  of  the  wind. 

This  west  wind,  all  the  summer  months, 
begins  every  afternoon  —  or  oftener  yet, 
shortly  before  noon — like  surf  in  the  trees  ; 
a  warm,  sleepy,  indefinite  wind,  rising  and 
falling  in  long  pulses,  yet  keeping,  for  all 
its  warmth,  just  a  touch  of  the  sea  about  it, 
which  makes  it  good  to  breathe.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  summer  the  mowing-ma- 
chines begin  in  the  fields,  and  later  the 
reapers,  and  then  the  threshers;  and  their 
distant  buzzing  and  ringing  noises  harmonize 
with  the  sleepy  wind  in  a  lazy,  idyllic  fashion, 
rather  absurdly  at  variance — when  you  come 
to  think  of  it — with  the  perspiring  realities 
of  machine  harvest-work.  About  the  scythe 
and  the  flail  poetry  may  be  written  at  close 
quarters;  about  the  reaper  and  thresher 
hardly.  Their  distant  sound  is  admirably 


1883.] 


Summer  Canons. 


207 


poetic;  so  is  the  beautiful  cascade  of  stems 
under  the  reaper's  knives,  and  the  little  river 
of  grain  from  the  thresher,  and  the  cloud  of 
chaff,  and  the  spinning  wheels ;  but  there  is 
no  rhythm  of  human  movement  about  it, 
and  so  the  human  figures  spoil  it.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  where  the  human  element  is 
not  the  most  desirable  element  of  a  picture? 
it  is  the  worst.  Our  fellow-beings  are  gifted 
to  either  kill  or  cure  in  the  matter  of  our 
landscapes.  We  stand  by  the  ocean,  or  in 
some  miracle  of  moonlight,  or  in  the1  sanctu- 
ary of  a  mountain  stream,  and  sigh,  "  O  warst 
du  da!"  and  feel  that  we  could  value  the 
white-capped  expanse  or  the  blue  and  silver 
world  or  the  green,  spray-filled  shade  very 
highly  as  an  enhancing  background  to  that 
particular  human  figure;  and  then  how 
promptly  does  the  background  rise  to  the 
importance  of  an  admired  picture  which  we 
cannot  bear  to  have  spoiled  by  intrusive  fig- 
ures, if  some  inoffensive  Neighbor  Robinson 
chances  to  wander  into  the  canvas.  How 
unanimously  too  do  school-girls  and  other 
amateurs  spoil  all  the  sentiment  of  their 
sketches  by  introducing  a  figure  or  two  to 
supply  human  interest.  As  if  a  figure  could 
be  dropped  like  a  pebble  into  a  picture  in 
that  fashion !  Either  it  must  be  from  the  out- 
set a  necessary  part  of  the  meaning  of  the 
picture,  the  thing  about  which  the  whole 
picture  gathers — even  though  it  be  but  an 
apparently  insignificant  bit  of  figure — or  else 
it  is  an  annoying  impertinence  there.  You 
may  put  in  as  a  subsidiary  touch  in  your  pic- 
ture, if  you  please,  a  tree,  a  rock — nay,  a  moun- 
tain, an  ocean — but  not  a  peasant,  nor  even 
so  much  suggestion  of  him  as  a  house,  unless 
about  the  human  hovers — however  covertly 
and  subtly — the  significance  of  the  whole. 

Still,  it  is  not  entirely  to  inartistic  hu- 
man elements  that  the  disparity  between 
a  threshing-machine  and  poetry  is  to  be  at- 
tributed ;  the  grease  has  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  it.  Just  so  with  spinning-machines ; 
one  great  point  of  superiority  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned wheel  for  poetic  and  artistic  purposes 
was  the  graceful  attitudes  and  rhythmic  mo- 
tions of  the  human  figure,  which  made  the 
main  point  in  the  picture;  but  the  compara- 


tive freedom  from  grease  and  little  bundles 
of  rags  employed  to  wipe  off  black  moisture 
and  the  like,  is  a  thing  not  to  be  overlooked. 

In  the  summer  months,  the  round  foot- 
hills that  border  much  of  our  farming  coun- 
try are  colored  as  richly  as  the  plain,  and  far 
more  effectively,  because  of  the  blue  back- 
ground. "The  hills  are  green,"  we  say,  to 
characterize  our  wet  season;  "the  hills  are 
brown,"  to  characterize  our  dry  season.  But 
who  with  an  eye  for  color  will  lose  interest 
in  the  hills  as  soon  as  they  cease  to  be  green? 
The  "brown"  of  the  summer  months  is  real- 
ly an  endless  variety  of  warm  yellows  and 
russets  and  bronze  and  gold  shades  innu- 
merable. The  wheat  and  barley  fields  ex- 
tend in  strips  and  blocks  and  all  manner  of 
irregular  patches  up  on  these  hills ;  and  the 
uncultivated  parts  are  covered  with  grasses 
that  are  not  dead,  but  ripened  and  cured  on 
the  stem  at  this  season.  Even  after  the 
grain  is  cut,  the  stubble  will  keep  its  richness 
of  color  for  a  while,  before  stubble  and  wild 
grass  and  everything  weather  into  the  uniform 
dun  color  of  autumn.  The  distant  hills 
soften  their  blue  with  white,  and  sink  their 
canons  and  ridges  out  of  sight,  thus  bringing 
all  the  blue  in  the  landscape — for  the  sky  is 
softened  too — far  better  into  key  with  the 
yellows  than  these  same  mountains  would  be 
in  their  sharp  sapphire  of  April.  It  is  still 
an  open  discussion,  I  believe,  whether  the 
colors  of  landscape  adapt  themselves  to  the 
laws  of  harmony,  or  the  laws  of  harmony 
adapt  themselves  to  the  colors  of  landscape. 
It  is  the  same  problem  as  that  of  the  almost 
invariable  harmony  in  tone  between  the  color 
of  a  flower  and  the  quality  of  green  in  its 
foliage. 

No,  one  need  not  desert  the  lowlands  for 
the  mountains  in  June  and  July  and  August 
because  the  lowlands  are  good  to  get  away 
from;  but  he  well  may  do  it  because  the 
mountains  are  good  to  get  to.  He  may  fol- 
low spring  into  the  higher  mountains — and, 
after  all  is  said,  spring  is  better  than  sum- 
mer. Even  in  the  coast  hills,  north  and 
south  of  San  Francisco,  among  the  redwood 
forests,  the  genuine,  tawny,  lowland  summer 
does  not  enter.  But  at  the  inland  sides  of 


208 


Summer  Canons. 


[August, 


Santa  Clara  and  Alameda  and  Contra  Costa 
counties  you  will  find  the  true  summer 
canons  that  I  want  to  give  a  little  idea  of — 
canons  that,  like  the  lowlands,  are  burning 
now  in  the  last  stages  of  that  slow  fire  we 
call  life.  One  reaches  them  by  unsuspected 
roads  leading  among  the  hills — well-made, 
much-traveled  roads,  which  constantly  reveal 
an  unsuspected  population  in  these  remote 
places.  Every  mile  or  two  the  steep  hill- 
sides draw  back  and  leave  a  little  room  be- 
side the  stream — for  it  is  a  stream,  of  course, 
that  decides  the  existence  of  the  pass — and 
here  a  farm-house  finds  room,  with  grain 
fields  stretching  up  over  the  slopes  behind, 
and  grape-vines  or  orchard  close  about  it, 
sometimes.  Through  and  through,  these 
hills  are  penetrated  with  roads,  each  of  which 
finds  out,  not  merely  spots  for  farm-houses, 
or  even  for  tiny  clusters  of  them,  but  level 
valleys  several  miles  in  extent,  crossed  by 
considerable  streams,  and  filled  with  grain 
fields  and  orchards.  One  is  surprised  to 
pierce  deep  into  a  range  of  hills  that  he  had 
supposed  a  barren,  uninhabited  country,  by 
a  road  whose  existence  he  had  not  suspected, 
and  come  across  a  pleasant  dwelling,  obvi- 
ously Spanish,  and  obviously  thirty  or  more 
years  old,  with  well-grown  orchard,  grape- 
vines climbing  over  the  balcony  that  runs 
around  the  upper  story,  and  adobe  barn,  get- 
ting pretty  ruinous,  near  by.  It  is  always  in 
some  especially  good  nook,  with  convenient 
springs,  that  such  a  dwelling  is  discovered. 
And,  ten  to  one,  it  is  no  Spaniard  that  you 
find  there  now;  the  one  that  built  it  is  prob- 
ably gambling  and  drudging  at  the  Mission 
San  Jose"  or  Santa  Clara,  and  the  gringo  is 
prospering,  by  virtue  of  much  thrift,  in  the 
pleasant  old  house. 

These  hills  would  be  called  mountains  in 
some  parts  of  the  world.  They  do  not 
come  within  the  geographical  limit  of  moun- 
tains; nevertheless,  you  have  to  throw  your 
head  pretty  well  back  to  see  where  the  yel- 
low wheat  meets  the  sky.  You  may  try  it 
fifty  times,  and  every  time  you  will  find  that 
the  stranger,  as  he  drives  between  these 
steep  hillsides,  will  exclaim  at  the  unusually 
deep  and  pure  blue  of  the  sky.  The  fact  is, 


that  we  habitually  see  only  a  few  degrees  of 
sky  up  from  the  horizon;  and  as  the  sky 
always  whitens  towards  the  horizon,  we  get 
quite  a  new  impression  of  its  color  when 
the  slopes  beside  us  carry  up  the  meeting  of 
earth  and  sky  half-way  to  the  zenith  or 
more,  where  the  genuine  blue  is.  Nothing 
could  be  more  splendid  than  these  yellow 
grain  fields  on  the  hill-crests,  against  that 
background  of  indescribable  azure.  But 
grain  fields  only  climb  the  hills  in  scattered 
places,  and  breathless  work  it  is  in  these; 
you  will  see  a  reaper  creep  along  the  side 
hill  with  two  men  holding  it  on  the  upper 
side;  sleds  take  the  place  of  wagons.  For 
the  most  part,  the  wild  grasses  still  cover 
the  slopes. 

Among  these,  on  southward  and  westward 
exposures,  an  occasional  bush  of  southern- 
wood or  chaparral  finds  place;  but  on  the 
northward    and    eastward    ones    there    are 
thickets  running  upward  from  the  streams. 
As   a  mountain  road   follows  a  stream  for 
a  while,  then  cuts  across  a  low  divide  till 
it    finds   some   other   stream  that  is   going 
its  way,  these  little  thickets  come  and  go 
along    the    route.      Poison-oak,    shrubs    of 
buckeye,    "California   coffee,"   wild  cherry, 
and  similar  shrubs  go  to  make  up  most  of 
the  growth;  in  spring  there  is  much  harbor- 
age of  wild  flowers  and  ferns  among  it.  Down 
at  the  bottom  of  the   ravine,  if  the  water 
flows  so  much  as  half  the  year,  a  crevice  full 
of  alder,  willow,  buckeye,  maple,  and  laurel, 
with  an  occasional  white  oak,  has  been  chan- 
neled ;  the  shrubs,  too,  make  their  way   to 
the  water's  edge,  and  of  blackberry  vines  and 
wild  rose   and    brake-fern   and   water-cress 
there  is  abundance  to  fill  all  interstices.     In 
wet  places  along  the  margin  of  these  streams 
the  scarlet  mimulus  must  blossom  in  spring; 
but  pale  wild  roses  are   all  that   blossoms 
now.     The  white  oak  trees  scatter  farther  up 
the  hillsides   than   the  shrubs,  and    follow 
the  road  longer  when  it  leaves  the  stream. 
On    the    hillsides    they    are    twisted    and 
dwarfed ;  but  on  the  little  plateaus  you  will 
occasionally  see  most  magnificent  specimens, 
worthy  a  place  on  any  English  lawn,  with 
shade  enough  for  a  regiment  to  camp  under. 


1883.] 


Summer  CanQns. 


209 


There  are  other  roads  among  these  neigh- 
boring foothills — roads  that  instead  of  creep- 
ing through  the  grain-sown  passes — taking 
lifts  from  the  streams  whenever  they  chance 
to  be  going  the  same  way  and  winding  over  low 
"  divides" — cut  steeply  over  some  ridge  that 
separates  large  valleys ;  for  when  the  larger 
streams  cleave  their  way  through  a  ridge, 
they  offer  no  help  to  roads ;  their  way  lies 
between  abrupt  sides,  and  their  channels  are 
strewn  with  great  fragments  of  rock  that  they 
have  brought  down  upon  themselves  from 
the  steep  slopes.  These  roads  lay  open  at 
every  curve  wilder  views  than  one  could 
dream  lay  within  fifty  miles  of  San  Francisco, 
over  deep  valleys,  winding  between  rugged 
ridges,  folding,  intersecting,  rising  abruptly 
to  imposing  heights,  plunging  down  into 
sharp  ravines ;  pine-trees,  too,  thinly  scattered 
over  some  of  the  hillsides;  and  an  abun- 
dance of  thicket  through  which  the  road  cuts. 
In  its  season,  maiden-hair  ferns  line  such  a 
road ;  columbines  and  saxifrage  are  sprinkled 
through  the  thickets  ;  and  on  their  edges  the 
silver-white  and  shell-pink  and  bronze  "Mari- 
posa  lilies,"  and  cyclobothras  grow  (a  dread- 
ful name,  cyclobothra,  to  be  the  every-day 
one  of  a  flower:  many  of  our  Californian 
flowers  are  positively  suffering  for  good  com- 
mon names) ;  and  still  higher  nemophilas 
and  buttercups.  In  summer,  red  tiger-lilies 
lurk  in  the  thickets;  and  along  all  their  open 
edges  and  glades  pale  crimson  godetias  as- 
semble in  multitudes,  and  the  ragged  clarkia 
more  scantly;  the  indefatigable  wild  rose 
blooms  on,  and  an  occasional  purple  aster. 

These  larger  canon  streams — the  peren- 
nial ones — are  approachable  everywhere  ex- 
cept where  they  cut  through  a  ridge,  and 
any  sure-footed  climber  can  follow  them  even 
through  these  gorges.  Some  sure-footed 
trees,  too — alder  and  sycamore,  especially — 
can  hardly  be  forced  from  the  water's  edge 
by  any  steepness  of  the  ravine.  Where  the 
walls  of  the  canon  fall  back  enough  to  allow 
the  trees  their  freedom  of  grouping,  you  will 
find  them  arranged  with  much  precision. 
Close  on  the  edge  of  the  summer  channel  of 
the  stream  (eight  feet  wide  it  is,  perhaps, 
along  the  very  bottom  of  the  canon)  the  al- 
VOL.  II.— 14. 


ders  stand  in  close  single  rank — beautiful 
trees,  graceful  in  growth,  with  foliage  very 
much  like  the  elm,  and  of  a  dark  yet  fresh 
green.  They  are  the  most  characteristic 
tree  of  the  foothill  canons,  but  always  a 
stream-side  tree.  They  will  not  even  grow 
at  high-water  mark,  but  cling  resolutely  to 
the  edge  of  the  summer  channel,  pushing 
away  other  trees.  The  consequence  of  this 
resolute  holding  on  to  their  summer  posi- 
tions throughout  the  winter  is  that  they  get 
much  torn  and  twisted  about  the  roots, 
which  does  not  seem  to  trouble  them  at  all. 
Indeed,  the  side  of  both  trunk  and  roots 
turned  toward  the  water  is  generally  scored 
deep  by  the  rolling  bowlders  of  the  winter 
torrent.  I  saw  one  of  which  a  good  third  of 
the  trunk  had  been  rubbed  away.  Yet  all 
this  seems  to  affect  neither  the  vigor  of  their 
growth  nor  the  erect  gracefulness  of  their 
attitude.  A  good  many  willows  crowd  in 
among  the  alders ;  yet  where  there  is  a  little 
level  between  the  stream  and  the  canon  wall, 
covered  with  the  stones  that  prove  it  under 
water  in  winter,  the  willows  will  draw  back, 
and  grow  away  from  water,  the  alders  never 
— and  the  willows  away  from  the  water  make 
finer  trees  than  those  on  the  edge.  Syca- 
mores, too,  get  an  occasional  foot  into  the 
stream ;  but  for  the  most  part,  their  slender, 
lilac  and  white  pied  trunks  are  sprinkled 
over  the  stony  "bottom."  Like  the  oak  and 
the  willow,  the  sycamore  reaches  its  best 
stature  and  breadth  in  good  soil,  away  from 
a  perennial  stream  but  where  the  ground  is 
well  wet  in  winter;  I  have  seen  most  noble 
specimens  in  such  a  place.  Farther  back 
than  the  sycamores,  scattered  over  the  hill- 
sides themselves,  white  oaks  grow  rather 
forlornly.  This  tree  is  common  enough 
close  along  small  streams,  in  deep  soil ;  but 
the  stones  with  which  the  larger  streams 
strew  their  beds  seem  to  frighten  it  off. 

They  are  warm  places,  these  canons — 
crevices  between  the  great,  tawny,  sunny 
wrinkles  of  the  foothills  as  they  are.  The 
daily  trade-wind  reaches  them,  but  milder, 
sleepier,  breathing  less  of  the  sea  than  even 
on  the  warm  lowlands.  When  the  high  fog 
blankets  the  lowland  sky  all  night,  it  shuts 


210 


Summer  Canons. 


[August, 


off  the  stars  above  the  canon  just  before 
daylight  comes  to  extinguish  them,  and 
breaks  up  and  melts  away  during  the  morn- 
ing. You  may  sling  your  hammock  there, 
between  two  of  the  lilac-and- white  sycamore 
stems,  and  feel  sure  that  even  the  hours  just 
before  dawn  will  not  infuse  a  chill  into  the 
sweet,  clean,  dry  air.  It  is  one  of  the  best 
of  places  to  be  at  night;  in  the  daytime, 
with  the  sleepy  wind  rising  and  falling  in 
the  trees,  and  the  warmth  collected  and 
poured  down  by  the  spreading  sides  of 
the  canon,  life  will  be  little  more  than  lying 
in  the  shade  close  to  the  stream,  where  a 
little  cool  breath  always  comes  creeping 
between  the  ranks  of  alder  that  touch 
branches  overhead  across  the  water.  But 
at  night,  if  you  discard  tents  and  traps — 
as  the  camper  always  should  unless  the  cli- 
mate makes  it  a  positive  imprudence — you 
may  find  life — oh !  most  full.  I  defy  you  to 
carry  an  anxiety  or  disappointment  into  the 
wilderness  that  the  mountain  stream  will  not 
smooth  into  quietness  if  you  will  lie  in  the 
still,  starlit  darkness,  and  listen  to  it.  The 
wind  goes  down  with  sunset.  The  treetops 
above  your  hammock  stand  motionless 
against  the  stars;  the  great  mountain  flanks 
rise  darker  and  more  motionless  on  either 
hand — so  steep  and  high  that  you  hardly 
need  turn  more  than  your  eyes  to  look  from 
one  dark  crest  to  the  other.  The  stream 
plunges  down  half  a  dozen  little  rapids  with- 
in hearing;  and  you  will  never  know  how 
many  tones  there  are  in  the  chord  of  a 
mountain  stream  till  you  lie  and  listen  be- 
side it  all  night,  without  so  much  as  a  tent 
wall  between.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
change,  too,  in  the  tones:  there  will  chime 
in  a  hollow  tinkling  noise  for  two  minutes, 
and  then  cease,  as  if  some  tricklet  had  found 
a  new  way  to  fall,  and  lost  it  again;  now  the 
nearest  "riffle"  will  drown  the  sound  of  a 
remote  one,  and  then  lull  till  both  are  blend- 
ing their  sounds.  But  under  all  variation  is 
the  soothing  monotone.  Goethe  might  have 


lain  beside  a  mountain  stream  at  night,  and 
translated  its  spirit  into  words  when  he  wrote 
the  "Wanderer's  Nachtlied"  of  Longfellow's 
translation:  "O'er  all  the  hilltops  Is  quiet 
now." 

It  lays  cool  hands  of  sound  on  the  hot 
and  aching  heart,  and  smooths  away,  slowly, 
monotonously,  imperceptibly,  the  heat  and 
ache,  as  a  patient  nurse  would  smooth  them 
out  of  the  temples.  The  crickets  chirp 
quietly;  from  somewhere  in  the  bushes  a 
cicada  sends  up  a  faint,  shadowy  remi- 
niscence of  the  dizzying  "  biz-z-z-z  "  he  has 
been  shrilling  out  during  the  day.  Nothing 
else  makes  any  sound.  Close  your  eyes,  and 
let  the  running  water  fill  your  consciousness; 
open  them,  to  see  the  great  gulf  of  heaven 
above,  and  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  stars 
whenever  you  choose  to  look;  to  see  the 
pale,  motionless  foliage  of  the  trees,  in 
perfect  rest,  bathing  in  starlight  and  in  the 
mild  coolness  of  the  night  air.  Away  from 
home  and  shelter?  In  the  wilderness?  You 
have  but  just  come  home;  you  have  been  in 
a  foreign  land,  among  strangers  who  vexed 
you  and  perplexed  you;  and  now  you  are 
come  back  to  go  to  sleep  under  your  own 
chamber-roof  again,  and  you  may  relax 
every  nerve,  and  let  the  sense  of  peace  and 
perfect  safety  flow  through  you.  Out  of 
dim  hereditary  instinct  from  our  half-human 
days  when  the  woods  were  our  refuge  and 
our  home  and  our. life;  or  out  of  the  soothing 
effect  on  the  senses  of  sound  and  sight ;  or 
out  of  perhaps  nothing  more  mysterious 
than  the  perfect  oxygenation  by  this  fragrant 
air  of  the  blood  that  goes  to  your  nerves 
and  brains — there  comes  to  you  the  sense  of 
a  great  protecting  presence  in  this  Nature — 
this  Mother  Earth — this  much-suspected  and 
guarded-against  order  of  the  universe,  this 
inanimate  collection  of  rocks  and  trees  and 
water  running  down  hill ;  a  presence  in  whose 
arms  you  may  nestle  down,  and  drop  your 
anxieties,  and  shut  your  eyes  to  sleep  as 
safely  as  a  baby  in  its  mother's  lap. 

Milicent  Washburn  Shinn. 


1883.] 


Recent  Fiction. 


211 


RECENT   FICTION. 


THE  most  ambitious  of  the  novels  that 
comes  to  our  table  this  month  is  Judge 
Tourgee's  Hot  Plowshares.1  This  is  pub- 
lished with  the  series  title  of  "American 
Historical  Novels,"  and  forms,  it  is  ex- 
plained, the  last  of  a  series  of  historical 
novels  that  the  author  has  been  projecting 
and  preparing  for  twenty  years,  illustrating 
the  causes  and  results  of  the  anti-slavery 
struggle.  Though  issued  as  the  last,  Hot 
Plowshares  is  legitimately  the  first  of  the  se- 
ries, for  it  begins  with  the  election  of  Polk, 
and  covers  the  time  from  that  date  to  the 
war.  Its  historical  object  is  to  trace  the 
growth  of  anti-slavery  sentiment  in  the 
North. 

It  was  certainly  the  part  of  wisdom  to 
publish  first  of  this  series  the  one  that  nat- 
urally came  last,  "A  Fool's  Errand,"  for  the 
close  bearing  of  that  book  upon  current  po- 
litical questions  secured  it  a  success  that  it 
could  not  have  had  as  mere  literature. 
Hot  Plowshares^  though  of  decidedly  better 
literary  grade  than  anything  its  author  has 
yet  produced,  will  probably  meet  with  less 
success.  In  his  reconstruction  books,  Judge 
Tourgee's  characters  were  largely  stock  types ; 
in  the  present  novel,  there  is  evident  a  much 
more  careful  drawing  from  life.  Neverthe- 
less, on  purely  artistic  grounds  it  falls  far 
short  of  being  a  first  or  even  second  rate 
novel.  There  is  not  a  spark  of  the  real 
novelist's  genius,  either  as  story-teller  or  an- 
alyst. The  characters,  even  though  they 
are  quite  correctly  copied  from  life,  are 
wooden;  they  have  not  the  least  share  of 
that  breath  of  life  that  genius  puts  even  into 
i  mpossible  and  unlife-like  creations. 

Moreover,  the  narrative  is  seriously 
clogged  by  long  political  and  historical  dis- 
sertations. A  novel  though  it  be  historical  has 
no  business  with  these :  their  place  is  in  history 
or  historical  essay;  if  the  incidents  of  a  novel 

1  Hot   Plowshares.     By  Albion  W.    Tourgee.    New 
York  :  Fords,  Howard,  &  Hulbert.     1883. 


do  not  convey  their  lesson  unbolstered  by 
these  additions,  then  they  were  not  worth 
telling.  The  insertion  of  history  in  large 
slices  into  fiction  is  using  that  form  of  art 
something  as  it  is  used  for  the  conveyance 
of  other  useful  information  in  books  of  the 
"Evenings  at  Home"  class. 

Apart  from  this  literary  consideration, 
there  is  little  fault  to  be  found  with  the  his- 
tory and  politics  in  Hot  Plowshares.  It  is 
scrupulously  fair  with  that  somewhat  labored 
fairness  of  the  partisan  who,  even  when  con- 
scientiously defending  his  opponents,  cannot 
give  us  the  same  impression  of  impartiality 
that  a  non-partisan  historian  does  even  when 
he  most  unreservedly  takes  sides.  Its  very 
fairness  takes  from  it  much  of  the  fire  that 
fervid  partisanship  puts  into  poetry  and  nar- 
rative; indeed,  it  is  slightly  dull  reading. 
One  need  only  mention  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cab- 
in" in  the  same  breath  with  Hot  Plowshares 
to  illustrate  all  the  deficiencies  of  the  recent 
book. 

Though  Tourgee's  be  the  most  ambitious 
novel  that  falls  to  our  notice  this  month, 
there  is  no  question  that  A  Sea-Queen?  is  the 
most  agreeable  one.  It  is,  as  every  reader 
familiar  with  the  author  will  know  before  he 
opens  it,  what  we  are  accustomed  to  call 
"an  old-fashioned  novel" — without  subtle- 
ties of  analysis  or  psychological  interest. 
The  characters  and  emotions  are  drawn  in 
simple,  generic  lines ;  love  is  love,  and  grief 
is  grief,  without  any  discriminations ;  people 
are  either  good  or  bad,  drawn  in  black  and 
white,  with  no  confusing  mezzotints.  The 
greater  thoughtfulness  of  the  character-novel 
almost  compels  a  certain  self-consciousness 
in  the  writer,  and  betrays  him  constantly 
into  mannerisms  and  affectations  which  are 
deepened  by  imitators  into  intolerable  sen- 
timentality. Thus,  even  those  who  consid- 
er character-study  a  higher  function  of  the 

2  A  Sea-Queen.  By  W.  Clark  Russell.  New  York  : 
Harper&Bros.  1883.  For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 


•21-2 


Jtecent  Fiction. 


[August, 


novel  than  story-telling  welcome  the  simple 
story  occasionally,  as  a  very  refreshing  vari- 
ety; while  there  is  a  class  of  readers  in  whom 
the  subtleties  and  complexities  of  interest  of 
the  character-novel  arouse  sheer  irritation 
and  distaste.  They  do  not  want  to  be 
troubled  with  making  discriminations  and 
abatements  in  their  sympathies;  granted  a 
hero  who  makes  no  blunders,  a  heroine  who 
has  no  weaknesses,  and  they  can  surrender 
their  sympathies  to  his  and  her  vicissitudes 
with  some  satisfaction.  Perhaps  the  strong- 
hold of  this  class  of  novel  readers  is  among 
the  older  generation;  but  recent  literary  dis- 
cussion has  revealed  a  goodly  company 
among  active  men  of  letters  who  care  more 
for  a  good  story  than  for  a  study  of  man- 
ners or  character  or  emotion.  The  models 
of  style  aimed  at  by  the  author  of  A  Sea- 
Queen  are  evident  from  his  reference  to  "that 
noble,  honest  writer,  De  Foe — prince  of  writ- 
ers, as  I  think  him,  for  style,  art,  pathos, 
and  absolute  freedom  from  sentimentality." 

The  story — a  simple  one  of  adventure  at 
sea,  made  picturesque  by  the  presence  of  a 
captain's  wife  who  is  able  to  do  ordinary  sea- 
man's duty  in  an  emergency — is  pleasant, 
unsentimental  reading;  but  the  thing  that 
raises  the  book  above  the  level  of  ordinary 
is  the  spirit  of  the  sea  that  pervades  it. 
This  is  of  course  no  new  thing  to  say  of  W. 
Clark  Russell's  books,  which  have  long  since 
been  set  down  as  pictures  of  the  ocean  and 
ocean  life  well  nigh  unequaled  in  literature. 
We  find  room  for  one  or  two  of  the  many 
fascinating  pictures.  In  the  first,  wife  and 
daughter  hasten  to  the  harbor  to  watch  for 
the  ship,  due  that  day  in  the  midst  of  a  gale. 

"The  bend  of  the  path  opened  the  mouth 
of  the  Tyne,  and  laid  bare  the  North  Sea  to 
the  near  horizon  of  iron-gray  mist.  It  was 
a  sight  to  give  such  a  memory  to  the  mind 
as  the  longest  lifetime  could  not  weaken. 
I  had  often  viewed  this  sea  in  stormy  weather 
from  the  Tynemouth  cliffs;  but  here  now 
was  a  scene  of  boiling,  deafening  commotion 
that  awed — ay,  and  almost  stunned — me,  as  a 
revelation  of  the  unspeakable  might  and  re- 
morseless ferocity  of  the  deep.  The  harbor 
bar  had  not  then  been  dredged  to  the  height 


it  now  stands  at,  and  as  the  steady,  cliff-like 
heights  of  dark,  olive-colored  water — their 
summits  melting  as  they  ran  into  miles  of 
flashing  foam  —  came  to  this  shoaling 
ground,  they  broke  up  into  an  amazing 
whirling  and  sparkling  of  boiling  waters,  fill- 
ing the  air  with  driving  clouds  of  spray,  like 
masses  of  blowing  steam,  and  whitening  the 
pouring  and  roaring  waves  in  the  mouth  of 
the  Tyne  beyond  the  bend  at  Shields,  and  as 
high,  maybe,  as  Whitehill  Point.  The  hori- 
zon was  barely  two  miles  off,  owing  to  the 
darkness  that  stood  up  like  a  gray  wall  from 
the  sea  to  the  heavens;  and  this  near  demar- 
cation, therefore,  exaggerated  the  aspect  of 
the  surges,  as  they  came  towering  in  the 
shape  of  ranges  of  hills  out  of  the  fog-cur- 
tain. 

"The  tumult,  the  uproar  of  the  trampling 
seas,  no  image  could  express.  The  huge 
breakers  coiled  in  mighty,  glass-smooth  comb- 
ers, and  burst  in  thunder  and  in  smoke 
upon  the  yellow  sands,  and  the  air  was 
blinding  with  the  flying  of  the  salt  rain  from 
these  crashing  liquid  bodies. 

"Across  the  river  the  Tynemouth  cliffs 
were  black  with  crowds  gazing  upon  the 
wonderful,  terrible  sight;  and  I  cannot  de- 
scribe the  solemnity  given  to  this  scene  of 
strife  betwixt  the  powers  of  the  earth  and 
the  air  by  that  immense  concourse  of 
human  beings,  thronging  the  summits  of 
the  chocolate-colored  rocks  up  which  the 
breakers,  as  they  fell  against  the  base  in  pon- 
derous hills,  darted  long,  flickering  tongues 
of  milk-white  spume,  which  streamed  down- 
wards again  like  mountain  torrents  among 
the  dark-green,  withe-like  herbage  which 
covers  those  cliffs  in  places." 

Another  is  the  approach  of  a  hurricane 
off  the  coast  of  Africa  : 

"The  darkness  was  equal  to  midnight: 
indeed,  it  was  like  being  in  a  vault ;  but  the 
storm  made  itself  visible  by  an  amazing  ap- 
pearance in  the  corner  of  the  heavens  out  of 
which  it  was  rushing.  The  clouds  appeared 
to  have  divided  and  left  a  narrow,  sharply 
arched  aperture,  illuminated  by  a  constant 
play  of  pale  sheet-lightning,  that  irradiated 
the  orifice  without  penetrating  the  ponderous 


1883.] 


Hecent  Fiction. 


213 


masses  of  cloud  on  either  hand  of  it;  but 
what  most  impressed  me  was  the  surface  of 
dull,  gloomy,  phosphoric  light  immediately 
under  the  aperture — a  faint,  wild-looking 
radiance,  similar  in  character  to  the  light 
that  would  be  thrown  by  oiled  paper  sur- 
rounding the  globe  of  a  lamp,  as  though 
the  hurricane  were  sweeping  through  the 
orifice  in  the  clouds  and  tearing  up  the  sea 

beneath  it 

"I    heard  the  thunder  of  the  hurricane 
and   the   seething  of  the   crushed   sea,   as 
though  half  the  ocean  were  boiling,  long  be- 
fore its  fury  struck  us.     It  was  one  of  those 
moments  which  can  never  be  forgotten  by 
those  who  have  lived  through  the  like  of  it : 
first,    the  overpowering  blackness   over   us, 
and    in  the  southeast  a  very  sea  of  liquid 
pitch  overhead,  in  which  the  spars  vanished 
at  the  height  of  a  few  feet  from  the  deck;  a 
breathless  calm  on  one  side — so  breathless 
that  the   very  swing   of  the   pendulum-like 
swell  seemed  to  have  come  to  an  end,  as  if 
the  onward-rushing  storm  had  paralyzed  the 
life  of  the  deep  for  leagues  before  it;  and 
then  in  the  northwest  the  pale  sheet-lightning, 
that  seems  to  open  and  shut  like  the  winking 
of  an  eye;  the  wild  and  dreadful  light  that 
swept  outwards  from  the  base  of  the  cloud- 
opening,  and   the  white   water   glimmering 
like  wool  in  the  blackness,  and  advancing 
towards  us  with  frightful  rapidity ;  and  above 
all,  the  roar  of  the  approaching  tempest,  that 
boomed  through  the  stillness  with  the  fast- 
growing  thunder  of  artillery,  bearing  down 
upon  us  with  the  speed  of  an  express  train." 
We  might  add  to  these  two  storm  pictures 
many  a  one  of  sunny,  windy  weather,  when 
"though  the  sea  was  smooth  it  was  merry, 
curling    in   silver-crested,     dark-blue   lines, 
which  the  whistling  wind  would  sometimes 
catch   and  blow  up  in  little  bursts  of  pris- 
matic smoke";  of  calms  when  "there   was 
a  faint   swell  upon  the   sea,  but  the  water 
was  like  polished  steel — of  that  very  color, 
indeed;  an  ashen  gray,  shot  with  a  bluish 
light — not    the   merest  film   of  a  cat's-paw 
darkened  it,«  not  the  least  wrinkle  or  fiber  of 
motion  tarnished  the  breathless  quicksilver 
of  the    huge,   faintly  breathing  circle";   of 


dawn  and  the  "greenish  daylight  spreading 
like  a  mist  borne  onwards  by  the  wind  into 
the  west";  of  "the  dark  vision  of  the  bark, 
rushing  like  a  phantom  over  the  black  coils 
of  water,  ....  the  mystery  of  the  bound- 
less, desolate  ocean  leaning  its  vast  shadow 
toward  the  twinkling  stars  of  the  horizon,  its 
hollow  surges  echoing  back  the  wailing  voices 
of  the  wind,  ....  the  resonant,  visionary 
spaces  of  canvas  melting  in  the  darkness 
as  they  soared  towards  and  seemed  to  be- 
come a  portion  of  the  driving  clouds";  of  an 
approaching  "ship  in  full  career;  her  sails 
echoing  in  thunder;  her  iron-stiff  weather- 
shrouds  and  backstays  ringing  out  a  hun- 
dred clear  notes,  as  though  bells  were  hung 
all  over  her;  her  sharp  iron  stern  hissing  as 
though  it  were  red-hot,  as  it  crashed  through 
the  green  transparency  of  the  surge  crests, 
hurling  them  into  foam  for  many  feet  ahead 
of  her,  and  turning  them  over  into  two  steel- 
bright  combers,  which  leaned  like  standing 
columns  of  glass  under  each  cat-head,  while 
from  them  there  broke  a  roaring  torrent  of 
brilliant  foam."  But  even  though  we  far 
exceeded  any  pardonable  limits  of  quotation, 
we  should  still  leave  unexhausted  the  de- 
scriptive wealth  of  this  book.  Much  of  its 
nautical  language,  of  course,  is  unintelligible 
to  a  landsman;  yet  even  to  him  it  sounds 
appropriate  and  unostentatious. 

We  pass  at  once  to  the  antipodes  of  A 
Sea-  Queen  in  taking  up  Miss  Woolson's  For 
the  Major}'  Nothing  could  be  more  con- 
scious, finished,  modern,  than  this  work: 
and,  moreover,  nothing  could  be  more  fem- 
inine. We  do  not  mean  feminine  in  lan- 
guage: the  fine  precision  of  that  suggests 
Mr.  James  far  more  than  it  does  any  lady 
writer;  but  we  mean  feminine  in  everything 
else — both  in  general  traits  and  in  details. 
It  is  a  tribute  to  the  abundance  of  Miss 
Woolson's  resources  that  she  is  able  to 
swing  round  so  wide  an  arc  as  intervenes 
between  this  story  and  "Anne."  Unques- 
tionably "Anne"  was  the  greater  work;  as 
unquestionably  this  is  the  more  perfect. 
The  character  of  Anne  herself  was  worthy 

1  For  the  Major.  By  Constance  Fenimore  Wool- 
son.  New  York:  Harper  &  Brothers.  For  sale  by  A.  L. 
Bancroft  &  Co. 


214 


Eecent  Fiction. 


[August, 


of  George  Eliot,  and  touches  that  not  faintly 
suggested  George  Eliot  were  scattered  here 
and  there  through  the  story.  Nothing  as 
good  can  be  found  in  for  the  Major.  Yet 
there  was  much  room  for  criticism  in  "Anne"; 
while  the  critic  will  really  have  to  search  his 
brain  to  find  anything  to  allege  against  the 
present  novelette.  Nevertheless,  no  one 
will  care  very  much  for  it.  It  is  certainly 
ingenious — most  ingenious — and  very  pic- 
turesque; when  one  thinks  about  it  he  will 
see  that  it  is  deeply  pathetic ;  it  is  intelligent 
and  in  excellent  good  taste;  but,  after  all  is 
said,  it  remains  cold  and  unsatisfying — un- 
satisfying, we  say,  and  we  do  not  mean  dis- 
satisfying. It  was  worth  writing  and  is 
worth  reading,  and  it  constitutes  another 
good  reason  for  continuing  to  look  to  Miss 
Woolson  for  something  better  than  she  has 
yet  done. 

Yolande  *  is  about  as  near  being  the  same 
type  of  novel  as  "For  the  Major,"  as  an 
English  novel  could  be.  Mr.  Black  is  more 
American  in  spirit  than  any  other  English 
novelist,  and — one  may  notice — he  betrays  a 
bit  of  Americanism  by  representing  several  of 
his  loveliest  unconventional  girls  as  having 
been  to  America.  These  girls  of  Mr.  Black — 
Sheila,  Wenna,  Violet,  Nan,  Gertrude  White, 
Natalie,  and  all  the  rest — are  much  more  like 
American  girls  in  standards  of  behavior  than 
like  the  English  girl  of  literature.  It  is  prob- 
ably in  order  to  give  them  the  full  advantages 
of  unconventionality  that  Mr.  Black  chooses 
them  from  among  circumstances  that  set 
them  apart  from  convention — from  the  stage, 
from  the  Hebrides  or  Welsh  nooks,  from  the 
circle  of  scientific  social  reformers  in  London, 
from  the  companionship  of  eccentric  fathers 
given  to  travel.  Yolande  is  American,  too, 
in  its  especially  modern  effect,  and  in  this, 
too,  it  is  like  all  Mr.  Black's;  and  it  is  like 
them  all  in  being  unique  in  plot  and  color- 
ing and  details.  Mr.  Black,  prolific  as  he  is, 
does  not  intend  ever  to  let  the  machine  get 
hold  of  his  novel-writing  faculty.  It  is  really 
admirable  to  see  so  constant  a  writer  making 
fresh  studies,  and  careful  ones  at  that,  for 

1  Yolande.  By  William  Black.  New  York  :  Harper 
ft  Brothers.  1883.  For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  & 
Co. 


each  novel.  In  only  one  thing  does  he  re- 
peat himself,  and  that  is  in  a  certain  trick  of 
diction — a  playful  simplicity  that  grows 
wearisome  by  this  time,  pretty  as  it  was  at 
first.  Yet  it  is  saying  much  for  a  writer 
that  this  diction  has  become  wearisome 
simply  by  repetition,  not  because  he  has  in- 
tensified it,  as  almost  all  writers  of  fiction  or 
verse  do  intensify  their  tricks  of  manner  till 
what  was  pleasing  at  first  becomes  offensive. 
We  may  feel  sure  that,  if  Mr.  Black  has  any 
human  nature  in  him,  it  has  cost  him  much 
intelligent  watchfulness  to  keep  his  style  fully 
up  to  its  earliest  standard  of  simplicity. 
There  is  perhaps  no  fiction  printed  that  gives 
more  impression  of  intelligent  views  of  the 
art  and  of  conscientious  work  than  his. 
With  a  realism  almost  American,  he  never 
loses  sight  of  the  ideal;  his  novels  are  evi- 
dently planned  with  a  careful  consideration 
of  their  unity,  and  an  eye  to  the  impression 
they  will  leave  as  a  whole  on  the  mind;  his 
backgrounds,  his  figures,  his  incidents  and 
conversations,  are  all  carefully  harmonious. 
His  lovely  girls,  who  seem  as  lifelike  and 
true  to  nature  as  if  they  were  making  their 
pretty  speeches  in  your  own  garden,  are 
seen  on  a  literal  comparison  with  your  ac- 
quaintance to  be  idealized,  much  like  Du 
Maurier's  ladies.  In  fact,  Mr.  Black's  work  is 
evidently  much  influenced  by  correct  canons 
of  pictorial  art. 

We  have  said  that  Yolande  is  unique ; 
and  yet  so  much  have  all  Mr.  Black's  novels 
in  common,  that  we  have  for  the  most  part 
described  it  in  describing  the  usual  quali- 
ties of  the  author's  work.  Of  this  it  is  a 
good  specimen,  adding  one  more  to  his  gal- 
lery of  lovely  women  and  picturesque  situ- 
ations. With  every  book  from  Mr.  Black 
that  simply  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  au- 
thor's work,  however,  the  chance  becomes 
fainter  of  his  writing  a  great  novel  some 
day. 

Another  novel  of  the  refined  and  agreeable 
sort,  though  of  nothing  like  the  rank  of  "Yo- 
lande," is  Beyond  Recall?  a  recent  issue  of 
the  Leisure-Hour  Series.  It  h*s  eminently 

2  Beyond  Recall.  By  Adeline  Sergeant.  New  York  : 
Henry  Holt  &  Co.  1883.  For  sale  by  Billings,  Har- 
bourne  &  Co. 


1883.] 


Recent  fiction. 


215 


the  air  of  unaffectedly  good  society  that  the 
Leisure-Hour  Series   preserves  better   than 
any  other  American  novels  except  the  best 
magazine  serials  (which  are  usually  profess- 
edly social  studies).     Its  ladies  are  all  more 
or  less  winning,  its  gentlemen  are  gentlemen 
in  spite  of  the  weaknesses  of  the  lover.    The 
renunciation,  which  forms  the  point  of  the 
narrative — a  favorite  point,  by  the  way,  with 
exactly   this   sort  of  novel — is    brought    in 
without  undue  sentimentality;  and  the  death 
of  the  renounced  man,  though  it  occurs  in 
the  Alexandrian  massacre,  is  managed  so  as 
to  give  no  effect  of    sensationalism,  but  of 
grave  and  appropriate  pathos.    The  two  lead- 
ing characters,  the  renouncing  woman  and  the 
renounced  man,  however,  have  not  much  life, 
and  no  originality;  and  however  much  pas- 
sion is  asserted  to  have  been  in  their  emo- 
tions, one  does  not  feel  any  there.     In  the 
minor  story,  however,  of  Michelle's  love,  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  genuine  human  interest, 
weakened  in  the  process  of  bringing  it  out  all 
right.    To  some  one  looking  for  a  fairly  light 
novel  to  read,  and  sure  to  read  some  novel 
in  any  case,  Beyond  Recall  might  well  be 
recommended ;    but    there   would    be    no 
reason   for    recommending   it   to   any   one 
else,  were  it  not  for  one  feature:  that  is,  its 
very  pretty  frame  of  Egyptian  scenery  and 
life.     The  locality  of  the  story  is  Ramleh,  a 
suburban  village  a  few  miles  from  Alexandria, 
whither  the  gentlemen  go  to  business  and 
the  ladies  shopping,  by  a  little  local  train. 
There  is  something  really  fascinating  in  the 
little  English  colony,  with  its  social  gayeties, 
its  friendly,  informal  spirit,  its  sensible  busi- 
ness men,  its  tropical  gardens,  and  its  desert 
— more   beautiful    than   dreary — stretching 
around  it.     The  inexhaustible  quaintness  of 
the  contrasting  life  of  business  England  and 
of  ancient   Egypt,  so  harmoniously  flowing 
together,  supplies  one  source  of  unfailing  in- 
terest throughout  the  book ;   however  other 
points  fail  to  interest,  one  feels  that  he  knows 
Ramleh;  it  remains  among  his  mental  pic- 
tures ;   he  even  feels  attached  to  the  village, 
as  its  people  did.    The  Egyptian  politics,  too, 
and  the  culmination  of  the  narrative  in  the 
Alexandrian  massacre,  are  interesting,  and  free 


from  the  sensational — as  also,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, from  the  thrilling. 

One  cannot  take  up  such  a  book  as  The 
Ladies  Lindores 1  without  a  wondering  sense 
that  it  must  be  very  easy  work  for  the  pro- 
fessional English  novelist  to  write  his  books, 
once  he  has  caught  the  trick  of  it.  So  to- 
tally without  individuality  of  diction,  so  entire- 
ly composed  of  the  same  material,  are  .all 
the  books  of  the  class  to  which  The  Ladies 
Lindores  belongs,  that  any  one  who  is  famil- 
iar with  them  would  know  about  all  that  is 
to  be  said  of  one  when  he  was  told  that  it 
was  a  good,  an  average,  or  a  poor  specimen 
of  its  class.  The  exhaustless  appetite  of  the 
English  and  American  public  for  this  sort  of 
thing  is  surprising — more  surprising  than  de- 
plorable, for  there  is  no  harm  at  all  in  them : 
nay,  except  in  the  worst  of  them,  a  certain 
good  breeding  and  middle-class  intelligence 
that  must  have  some  refining  influence  on  all 
such  readers  as  would  not  be  doing  anything 
better  if  they  were  not  reading  these  novels. 
And  on  any  who  would  be  doing  something 
better,  they  are  altogether  too  mild  a  tempta- 
tion to  have  much  hold.  In  view  of  their 
habitual  refinement,  we,  for  our  part,  stand 
ready  to  give  the  welcome  of  indifferent 
friendliness  to  each  successive  one  as  the 
endless  procession  leaves  the  presses — 
friendliness  tempered  according  to  the  rank 
in  its  class  held  by  the  particular  specimen. 

The  Ladies  Lindores  we  call  one  of -the 
best  of  the  class.  It  is  by  no  means  without 
elements  of  originality.  For  that  matter, 
however,  all  of  the  better  sort  of  them  do 
have  elements  of  originality,  so  that  one  won- 
ders how  so  much  that  is  good  can  have  gone 
to  produce  so  unimportant  a  total.  The 
best  thing  in  The  Ladies  Lindores  is  the 
somewhat  powerful  situation  of  Lady  Caroline 
and  her  hatred  for  her  compulsory  husband. 
Really,  one  may  suspect  that  if  the  pressure 
on  the  English  novelist  were  not  from  the 
circulating  libraries,  with  their  demand  of 
extension  to  three-volume  length,  but,  as  in 
America,  from  the  magazines  and  general 
purchasers,  with  their  demand  of  compres- 

1  The  Ladies  Lindores.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.  New 
York:  Harper  &  Brothers.  1883.  For  sale  by  A.  L. 
Bancroft  &  Co. 


216 


Recent  Fiction. 


[August, 


sion  to  novelette  length,  there  would  be  a 
crop  of  remarkably  good  stories. 

That  we  ought  not  to  undervalue  the 
quality  of  Mrs.  Oliphant's  easy,  well-bred, 
intelligent  work  is  made  painfully  evident  by 
such  books  on  this  side  the  ocean  as  A 
Fair  Plebeian.1  It  would  perhaps  be  suffi- 
cient to  dismiss  this  crude  piece  of  work 
with  the  remark  that  it  is  shallow  and  foolish, 
and  suggests  extreme  youth  in  the  author, 
were  it  not  for  some  curious  suggestions  of 
ability  about  it.  That  such  suggestions 
seem  hardly  at  home  between  these  covers 
will  be  readily  seen  from  the  following  sum- 
mary of  the  narrative:  Kitty,  the  orphan  of 
a  wandering  artist  and  his  disinherited  but 
blue-blooded  New  England  wife  (variously  re- 
ferred to  as  Rebecca  and  Rachel),  is  taken 
in  charge  by  that  mother's  sister,  a  most 
grotesque  and  impossible  specimen  of  an 
aristocratic  New  England  spinster.  The 
jumble  of  the  tyrant  school-mistress  of  a  dime- 
novel,  the  haughty  dame  of  English  romance, 
and  of  some  faint  hints  of  the  genuine  New 
England  aristocrat  that  goes  to  make  up  this 
lady  may  be  judged  from  the  fact  that  she 
keeps  concealed  —  but  not  destroyed  —  a 
will  that  entitles  Kitty  to  half  her  estate, 
dwells  in  great  seclusion  in  a  castle  sur- 
rounded by  fine  grounds,  reads  the  prayer- 
book  as  a  habitual  occupation,  boasts  that 
her  ancestors  came  over  in  the  Mayflower, 
and  has  the  language  and  manners  of  a 
kitchen-maid.  In  defiance  of  this  consistent 
guardian,  Kitty  makes  the  acquaintance  of 
another  strolling  artist,  and  of  his  cousin,  who 
proves  to  be  an  English  lord;  engages  her- 
self to  the  lord,  and  discovers  the  original 
strolling  artist,  her  papa,  to  have  been  "an 
English  count,"  who  had  also  yielded  to  the 
well-known  habit  of  the  English  nobility,  and 
was  frequenting  American  villages  in  dis- 
guise. This  discovery  constitutes  Kitty  a 
countess;  and  though  some  further  compli- 
cations prove  the  lord  to  be  a  commoner 
and  the  cousin  the  real  lord,  the  fair  plebeian 
ultimately  finds  herself  married  and  sharing 
her  estates  (and  we  believe  her  title)  with  her 

1  A   Fair   Plebeian.     By   May    E.   Stone.     Chicago : 
Henry  A.  Sumner  &  Co.    1883. 


denobilized  but  highly  magnanimous  hus- 
band. All  this  rigmarole  and  more  is  devel- 
oped in  the  crudest  fashion.  It  is,  therefore, 
surprising  that  we  must  add  that  the  language 
of  the  book  is  educated,  its  narrative  flows 
easy,  and  Kitty  herself  a  likable  girl,  whose 
chatter  is  really  bright  and  amusing,  and 
who,  even  in  her  contests  with  her  aunt,  is 
guilty  of  only  the  faintest  shade  of  vulgarity. 
We  incline  to  think  that  the  misguided  per- 
son who  wrote  A  Fair  Plebeian  might,  by 
studying  life  and  abjuring  the  reading  of 
trash,  write  a  really  good  book  some  day. 

Such  novels  as  "A  Fair  Plebeian"  usual- 
ly visit  our  reading  public  in  quantity  only 
once  a  year,  at  the  beginning  of  the  vacation 
season.  It  shows  how 'far  less  prolific  we 
are  in  novel-writing  that  it  is  only  when 
the  annual  installment  of  "summer  novels'' 
comes  out  that  any  such  number  of  Ameri- 
can novels  is  on  the  market  as  appears  the 
year  round  of  English  novels.  Even  these 
summer  novels  are  by  no  means  strictly 
American.  The  "Transatlantic  Series"  of 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  has  added  another 
steady  source  of  cheap  reprinted  foreign 
fiction.  This  series  has  so  far  kept  out  of 
the  way  of  the  ordinary  middle-class  English 
novel,  and  reprinted  things  that  were  a  little 
out  of  the  usual  way.  Its  last  issue,  how- 
ever, Her  Sailor  Love?  is  more  distinctly 
ordinary  than  any  that  have  preceded  it. 
Nevertheless,  it  has  more  individuality  than 
most  of  our  reprinted  fiction,  without  being  in- 
trinsically better.  With  far  more  brains  and 
breeding  than  "A  Fair  Plebeian,"  it  really 
shows  less  of  some  kinds  of  ability.  Neither 
of  them  fairly  represent  the  summer-vacation 
literature,  except  in  that  both  are  easy 
reading.  A  more  typical  specimen  is  the 
novelette,  X  Y  Z  ;z  a  mere  slip  of  a  story, 
pleasant  enough,  and  the  easiest  of  easy 
reading;  a  detective  story,  but  not  of  a  high- 
ly exciting  character;  altogether  well  adapt- 
ed for  trains  and  unemployed  half-hours. 
All  the  conditions  of  American  novel-read- 
ing afford  a  healthy  influence  toward  brevity. 

2  Her  Sailor  Love.  By  Katherine  S.  Macquoid 
New  York  :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

8  X  Y  Z.  By  Anna  Katherine  Green.  New  York  : 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883. 


1883.] 


Current   Comment. 


217 


CURRENT   COMMENT. 


THE  Harvard  and  Yale  examinations  on  this  coast, 
and  several  other  similar  actual  or  projected  efforts 
to  get  California  students  to  attend  Eastern  colleges, 
have  been  a  subject  of  some  curious  comment  on  the 
part  of  journalists  and  other  leaders  of  public  opinion 
among  us.  "The  Eastern  colleges  are  sending  out 
drummers,"  people  say.  "Once  they  were  content 
to  wait  at  home  for  applicants  ;  now"  they  trespass  on 
the  rightful  domain  of  other  colleges,  and  use  doubt- 
ful means  to  entice  our  good  young  men  away  from 
us."  And  so,  "Patronize  home  industry  and  shun 
the  foreigners" — this  is  the  advice  of  the  sober  and 
shorted-sighted  people  to  whom  the  love  of  ex- 
cellence means  the  love  of  such  excellence  as  we  can 
get  for  ourselves  in  our  own  community  without 
"sending  money  out  of  the  country"  to  get  it.  Now 
all  this  fashion  of  speech  is  the  outcome  of  ignorance 
or  of  thoughtlessness.  Surely,  if  higher  education  is 
useful  to  a  community,  whoever  offers  to  the  com- 
munity new  opportunities  for  higher  education  offers 
once  for  all  a  good  thing,  and  does  good.  No  one 
institution  or  method  of  training,  no  one  community 
even,  can  offer  what  shall  supply  the  needs  of  all  the 
students  who  are  growing  up  in  any  country.  The 
more  opportunities,  the  more  courses  new  and  vari- 
ous in  character,  are  offered  to  the  young  men  of  the 
coast,  the  greater  is  the  chance  that  mental  life  will 
be  quickened  in  all  directions  and  for  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men.  There  are  young  men  who 
especially  need  education  away  from  home.  It  is 
for  them  and  their  parents  to  judge  in  each  case 
when  and  why  they  need  such  training.  But  when 
every  opportunity  is  offered  to  such  students,  and 
when  in  consequence  they  are  encouraged  to  follow 
their  bent  and  get  the  best  that  they  can,  the  young 
men  so  benefited  will  in  most  cases  return  to  their 
own  land  and  will  remain  there,  and  will  be  of  far 
more  use  than,  with  their  needs  and  ambitions,  they 
could  possibly  have  been  had  they  remained  at  home 
all  the  time.  And  above  all,  they  at  least  of  all  our 
young  men  will  have  been  freed  from  that  dangerous 
Philistinism  that  hates  and  fears  whatever  comes 
from  beyond  the  mountains.  The  worst  sort  of 
patriotism  is  the  sort  traditionally  ascribed  to  cats  : 
the  love  of  things,  not  because  they  are  good  or  beau- 
tiful, but  because  they  happen  to  have  been  a  good 
while  in  the  familiar  place ;  the  hatred  of  things,  not 
because  they  are  bad,  but  because  they  have  the 
foreign  smell  about  them.  Young  men  educated 
elsewhere  have  no  doubt  their  very  evident  weak- 
nesses, but  their  influence  is  once  for  all  in  healthy 
opposition  to  the  patriotism  of  the  cats. 

AND  our  own  State  University  (God  save  her  !)  is 
not  hurt  but  helped  by  this  so-called  opposition.  Al- 
ways her  authorities  have  been  trying  to  raise  the 
standard  of  admission  and  of  college  work.  Always 


they  have  been  opposed  in  their  efforts.  "The  State 
does  not  need  this  high  standard,"  people  have  said. 
"Our  young  men  cannot  and  will  not  prepare  for 
such  examinations."  Well,  here  is  an  answer  to 
such  arguments.  Eastern  colleges,  anxious  for  the 
best  students  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  go  to 
some  expense  to  offer  their  examinations  here.  And 
they  find  that  such  offers  do  pay,  and  that  young  men 
are  willing  and  anxious  to  prepare  for  such  exami- 
nations. And  so  our  own  institution  is  strengthened 
in  raising  its  standards,  and  its  usefulness  is  increased. 
In  short,  universities  if  they  are  strong  enough  to 
deserve  life  at  all,  cannot  be  hurt,  but  must  be 
helped,  by  what  people  call  the  opposition  of  other 
universities.  For  the  business  of  colleges  is  not 
wholly  like  the  shoe  trade,  or  even  like  the  conduct 
of  railroads.  So  that  it  is  not  necessary  for  colleges 
to  fear  opposition,  or  to  desire  either  to  form  a  pool 
or  to  agree  upon  a  division  of  territory;  but  the 
work  of  each  university  is  best  done  when  it  works 
in  the  presence  and  under  the  direct  influence  of  all 
the  other  universities. 

IN  these  latter  days  we  are  made  often  to  hear 
and  to  read  the  complaint  that  "the  people"  are 
defrauded  of  their  rights  by  wicked  rich  men,  or 
bodies  of  men,  who  buy  elections,  legislation,  and 
press,  thus  making  the  forms  of  representative  gov- 
ernment as  hollow  a  pretense  as  in  the  Roman 
empire,  and  a  moneyed  oligarchy  the  real  govern- 
ment. The  curiously  naive  thing  in  the  complaint 
is  that  it  should  be  a  complaint  at  all,  and  not  a 
confession.  It  assumes,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that 
the  voter,  legislator,  or  proprietor  of  a  journal  who 
is  asked  to  sell  his  convictions  has  no  option  at  all 
in  the  matter;  and  having  sold  them,  is  to  be  re- 
garded the  innocent  victim  of  the  unprincipled  pur- 
chaser. The  political  economist  may  find  in  this 
another  instance  of  the  popular  inability  to  under- 
stand that  a  pair  of  shoes  buys  five  dollars  as  truly 
as  five  dollars  buys  a  pair  of  shoes.  The  first  party 
has  money  which  the  other  wants;  the  second  has 
influence  which  the  first  wants;  and  each  sells  the 
commodity  he  has  for  the  commodity  he  wants. 
Yet  Demos  says  to  Croesus— clamors  to  Croesus 
with  genuine  wrath  and  sense  of  injury — "Sir,  you 
have  defrauded  me;  you  have  bought  my  vote  away 
from  me."  Small  wonder  that  Croesus  shrugs  his 
shoulders  and  says,  "  What  did  you  sell  it  for,  then? 
this  is  a  free  country." 

WE  shall,  of  course,  be  met  with  the  reminder 
that  Jacob  might  well  have  answered  to  Esau's  re- 
sentment, "Nobody  compelled  you  to  sell  your 
birthright  for  my  pottage"  ;  but  that  if  Esau  did  not 
exaggerate  the  immediate  need  he  was  in  of  pottage, 
to  have  refused  the  bargain  would  have  required 


218 


Current   Comment. 


[August, 


heroism,  and  amounted  to  martyrdom — things  which 
are  not  required  of  the  rank  and  file  of  men.  That 
the  voter  is  compelled  to  sell  his  birthright  (or  nat- 
uralization right)  of  an  honest  voice  in  government, 
by  the  fear  of  loss  of  employment,  is  a  belief  very 
widely  asserted — probably  more  widely  than  the 
facts  in  the  least  bear  out.  Whatever  the  extent, 
however,  of  this  compulsory  influence  over  votes,  no 
one  will  claim  that,  except  in  a  few  peculiar  cases,  it 
is  by  threatening  employees  with  dismissal  that 
money  wins  elections.  Even  in  this  case,  when  one 
remembers  that  employees  will  throw  themselves  out 
of  employment  for  six  months  to  get  an  increase  of 
wages  that  would  not  cover  the  expense  of  the  strike 
within  six  years,  one  may,  at  the  risk  of  seeming 
uncharitable,  suspect  that  anything  like  the  sensi- 
tiveness about  their  honor  as  citizens  which  they  have 
about  the  rate  of  wages  would  make  this  sort  of 
control  of  votes  a  more  difficult  matter.  But  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  if  a  man  wins  an  election  by  money, 
he  does  not  do  it  merely  by  threats  of  dismissal  to 
all  those  employees  whom  his  money  has  already 
enabled  him  to  have,  but  by  purchase  of  all  salable 
votes;  and  the  most  indignant  of  the  "people"  will 
admit  that  his  money  would  very  rarely  win  him  an 
election  if  such  votes  were  to  be  found  nowhere  but 
among  his  own  employees.  The  fact  is,  that  either 
elections  are  not  bought  or  else  "the  people"  are 
— some  by  free  choice,  some  under  more  or  less 
pressure — sharers  in  the  fraud  and  in  the  attack  upon 
their  own  rights;  and  that,  moreover,  at  the  rate  of 
(even  counting  out  all  who  sell  under  pressure)  many 
sellers  of  votes  to  each  buyer  of  votes;  many,  that  is, 
conspiring  against  the  "  people's  rights  "  for  private 
gain,  among  the  people  themselves,  to  every  one 
among  those  whom  we  will  regard,  for  the  present, 
as  not  part  of  the  people,  but  lifted  outside  the 
common  lot  by  their  wealth. 

BUT  in  fact,  the  oligarchy  of  wealth  are  of  the 
people.  They  learned  their  morals  among  us,  got 
their  notions  of  patriotism  and  honor  from  the  pub- 
lic sentiment  they  found  among  us.  If  Jack  Smith 
ten  years  ago  would  sell  his  vote  for  a  bottle  of 
whisky,  and  find  that  the  public  regarded  it  as  a 
matter  of  course  that  votes  would  be  sold,  if  only 
any  one  was  found  wicked  enough  to  buy  them,  you 
may  be  sure  that  John  Smith,  who  has  been  lucky 
in  the  ten  years,  now  finds  it  very  easy  to  shift  the 
brunt  of  the  moral  responsibility  to  the  other  side, 
and  to  feel  that  if  voters  are  wicked  enough  to  have 
their  votes  in  market,  it  is  inevitable  that  purchasers 
should  appear.  To  put  it  plainly:  if  representative 
government  has  become  a  pretense  anywhere  through 
the  use  of  money,  it  is  because  a  large  enough  number 
to  hold  a  balance  of  power  among  us — the  people — 
who  are  poor  have  combined  with  others  of  us — the 
people — who  are  rich  to  defraud  the  rest  of  us  of  our 
political  rights.  To  this  state  of  affairs,  the  lan- 
guage of  indignant  victims  of  outside  oppression  is 
hardly  applicable. 


THE  purchase  of  actual  votes  at  the  ballot-box  is, 
of  course,  the  smallest  way  in  which  money  in- 
fluences government  ;  but  we  have  spoken  of  it  at 
most  length  because  it  is  the  simplest  case,  and 
illustrates  the  others.  It  is  not  an  uncommon  say- 
ing among  us — with  that  air  of  having  no  responsi- 
bility in  the  matter  that  we  so  much  affect — "  O  no, 
he" — or  "they,"  or  whatever  the  moneyed  interest  at 
stake  maybe — "will  not  buy  the  election:  it  is  much 
cheaper  to  let  us  elect  our  man,  and  then  buy  him." 
Now,  the  amount  either  of  indifference  to  the  moral 
character  of  our  candidate  or  of  stupidity  in  dis- 
crimination of  character  that  we  bespeak  for  our- 
selves in  this  sentiment  is  enough  to  make  us  forever 
modest  about  declaiming  against  the  tyranny  of  capi- 
tal; for  it  sets  us  down  either  as  too  stupid  to  govern 
ourselves  any  better  than  the  most  self-interested  cap- 
ital would  govern  us,  or  as — just  as  in  the  case  of  cor- 
rupt election — -ourselves  the  defrauders  of  ourselves. 
And  a  moment's  reflection  that  the  journals  likewise 
are  owned  and  edited  by  men  of  "the  people,"  bought 
and  read  and  in  all  wise  supported  by  "the  people," 
will  put  us  into  the  same  position  of  either  stupidity 
or  part  in  the  fraud,  if  we  are  defrauded  by  them. 

LAST  month  we  noticed  as  a  curious  phenomenon 
the  disproportionate  tendency  of  our  Berkeley  grad- 
uates to  the  study  of  law.  •  The  statistics  of  the 
graduating  class  of  Yale  set  down  as  intending  to 
study  law  exactly  the  same  per  cent,  as  have  been 
actually  found  to  study  that  profession  among  our 
Pacific  graduates.  This  seems  to  indicate  that  no 
special  conditions  are  working  here,  but  that  it  is  a 
very  wide-spread  desire  among  the  American  youth 
of  to-day  to  study  law.  Probably  the  reason  of  this 
is  not  to  be  found  entirely  in  any  superior  attrac- 
tions of  the  profession,  but  also  in  the  fact  that  it  is 
the  only  one  through  which  a  man  can  pass  to  other 
occupations  without  any  loss.  It  is  the  natural  road 
into  politics;  it  is  a  valuable  preparation  for  busi- 
ness; it  does  not  in  the  least  stand  in  the  way  of 
journalism  or  literature  or  scholarship.  A  minister 
may  not  leave  his  profession  without  discredit,  ex- 
cept for  the  higher  grades  of  teaching,  and  certain 
limited  lines  of  journalistic  and  literary  work;  a 
physician  is  even  more  limited.  A  still  more  potent 
force  is  found  in  the  fact  that  the  law  is  left  almost 
entirely  to  college-bred  men,  while  in  almost  every 
other  calling  there  is  much  competition  from  out- 
siders. It  would  not  do,  therefore,  to  jump  to  the 
generalization  that  there  must  be  more  demand  for 
lawyers  than  for  men  of  any  other  occupation,  since 
college  graduates  always  find  room  for  them  in  that; 
and  we  may  spare  ourselves  the  painful  suspicion 
that  men's  property  is  dearer  to  them  than  either 
their  souls,  brains,  or  bodies. 

WE  were  somewhat  startled  the  other  day  to  meet 
in  a  country  paper  an  appeal  to  the  county  board  of 
education  to  "mark  up"  the  papers  received  at  the 
examinations  for  teachers'  certificates,  in  order  that 


1883.] 


Book  Reviews. 


219 


their  county  might  "compare  well  with  other  coun- 
ties in  the  showing  made."  We  knew  too  much  of 
teachers'  examinations  to  be  at  all  surprised  at  the 
idea  the  editor  had  about  them;  but  we  were  sur- 
prised at  the  extreme  frankness  with  which  he  ex- 
pressed it.  He  did  not  pretend  to  consider  the  ex- 
aminations too  severe,  or  the  marking  in  that 
county  stricter  than  in  others.  He  simply  wished 
the  marking  to  be  so  done  as  to  show  a  large  num- 
ber of  successful  candidates,  regardless  of  their  qual- 
ity. It  opens  an  unpleasant  field  of  speculation  to 
wonder  if  the  teachers'  examinations  are  to  any 
great  extent  conducted  in  the  back  counties  in  this 
spirit  of  emulousness,  each  county  striving  to  put 
more  teachers  into  the  field  than  its  neighbors.  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  the  field  is  at  present  badly 
overcrowded,  this  emulation  would  be  quite  to  be 
lamented.  It  is  the  approved  thing  to  say  the  occu- 
pation cannot  be  overcrowded  because  salaries  are 
still  high.  Salaries  are  high,  if  you  choose  to  look 
at  it  so.  They  are  high  for  make-shift,  good-for- 
little  teachers.  They  are  so  low  for  people  of  mar- 
ket value  as  to  be  rapidly  driving  them  out  of  teach- 
ing altogether.  Sixty  dollars  a  month  is  a  great 
deal  of  money  for  a  twenty-year-old  girl,  with  noth- 
ing well-learned  in  her  head,  to  earn — a  girl  who 
would  not  be  able  to  show  a  single  trained  faculty 
or  capacity  to  do  anything  worth  money  in  the  open 
market;  a  girl  who  has  no  scholarly  tastes,  no  plans, 
no  education  to  speak  of,  but  who  simply  teaches  to 
increase  her  spenJing-money  until  she  marries.  But 
sixty  dollars  is  a  ludicrously  small  sum  for  any  one 
to  earn  who  has  any  trained  ability  to  offer,  and  who 
does  so  hard  and  exhausting  work  as  honest  teach- 
ing is.  It  cannot  be  too  often  reiterated:  "  A  good 
teacher  is  worth  almost  any  price;  a  poor  one  is  dear 
at  any  money."  Unquestionably,  all  the  worse 
class  of  teachers  should  be  forced  out  of  the  em- 
ployment, and  made  to  support  themselves  in  some 
way  more  within  their  capacity — dress-making  or 
farming  or  copying.  If  it  were  shoe-making  they 
were  occupied  in  instead  of  bringing  up  children, 


they  would  soon  be  forced  to  try  something  else; 
because  any  man  knows  when  he  gets  a  good  shoe. 
But  the  great  trouble  with  teaching  is  that  bad 
teaching  is  as  likely  to  satisfy  the  purchasers  as 
good;  and  therefore  the  good  teacher  comes  into 
competition  with  the  poor,  and  without  having  any 
advantage  from  her  superiority.  Our  own  obser- 
vation of  "the  condition  of  the  profession"  is  a 
clamor  of  applicants  for  every  vacant  position,  out  of 
which  the  best  man  usually  detaches  himself,  feeling 
humiliated  at  the  keenness  of  the  chase  that  seems' to 
be  necessary  in  order  to  obtain  the  position,  and 
gives  up  teaching,  finding  that  honest  ability  to  do  a 
thing  will  get  him  work  in  other  lines,  without  any 
need  of  humiliating  importunacy.  By  this  process, 
most  of  those  who  can  earn  something  in  other  ways 
leave  the  struggle  of  school-teaching  and  school-get- 
ting. The  chief  exception  to  the  principle  of  free 
competition  is  that  where  the  commodity  to  be  sold 
is  one  of  which  the  purchaser  is  not  in  a  position  to 
judge,  but  is  one  that  seriously  affects  his  welfare, 
the  law  may  shut  out  from  competition  that  which  is 
judged  unworthy.  It  does  so  in  its  chemical  tests  of 
foods;  it  admits  the  principle  by  examining  teachers 
at  all;  and  the  humiliating  difficulties  experienced  by 
really  good  teachers  in  securing  positions,  on  ac- 
count of  the  number  of  applicants  less  qualified  than 
they,  but  just  as  satisfactory  to  the  employers,  show 
that  authority  should  move  in  the  direction  of  still 
more  exclusion  from  competition,  by  tests  as  ration- 
ally devised  and  applied  as  may  be  practicable. 
Once  admitted  to  competition,  there  is  no  way  of 
securing  success  to  the  best  and  failure  to  the 
worst,  unless  all  employers  could  be  made  wise.  In 
short,  it  is  more  reasonable  to  «xpect  judgment  from 
one  board  of  examiners  to  a  county  than  from  one 
board  of  trustees  to  a  district — from  ten  men  than 
from  a  hundred  men.  Therefore,  so  far  as  the  ex- 
aminers can  forestall  the  judgment  of  the  trustees, 
prevent  their  making  bad  selections  by  keeping  out 
as  much  bad  material  as  possible  from  what  they  are 
to  select  among,  it  is  well  they  should  rigidly  do  so. 


BOOK   REVIEWS. 


Daniel  Webster.1 


THE  latest  issue  of  the  American  Statesmen  series 
is  Daniel  Webster?-  by  Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  and  it 
sustains  the  high  standard  aimed  at  from  the  outset. 
At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  said  that  there  are  indi- 
cations that  the  work  was  written  with  too  much 
haste.  Passing  over  occasional  slips  of  the  pen,  the 
more  serious  defect  is  the  repetition  of  ideas,  and 
frequently  of  expressions.  This  is  especially  notice- 
able in  the  criticism  on  the  7th  of  March  speech, 

1  American  Statesmen — Daniel  Webster.  By  Henry 
Cabot  Lodge.  Boston :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
For  sale  by  Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 


where  there  is  a  painful  reiteration  of  the  same  re- 
flections. The  occasion  of  praise  of  the  work  of  Mr. 
Lodge  lies  in  the  well-sustained  proportions  of  the 
sketch  of  the  career  of  the  great  statesman,  which 
at  the  end  leaves  the  reader  with  a  just  perception  of 
Webster  as  a  lawyer,  as  an  orator,  as  a  politician, 
and  as  a  statesman,  without  encumbering  the  mem- 
ory with  unnecessary  details. 

The  author  brings  out  clearly  the  significance  of 
Webster  in  the  history  of  the  country  between  the 
War  of  1812  and  the  days  when  the  slavery  contro- 
versy was  absorbing  all  other  questions.  All  the 
forces  in  our  American  life  since  the  Revolution  have 


220 


Book  Jteviews. 


[August, 


been  irresistibly  converging  towards  the  formation 
of  a  homogeneous  nation.  In  the  earlier  days, 
especially  during  the  first  thirty  years  of  the  century, 
the  sentiment  of  nationality  was  growing  throughout 
the  North,  and  to  a  limited  degree  in  the  South. 
Men  were  not  fully  conscious  that  they  had  it. 
They  were  afraid  of  it.  At  least,  it  had  to  be  dis- 
guised under  vague  phrases  and  platitudes,  and 
naturally  there  was  continual  argument  as  to  the 
meaning  of  the  Constitution.  The  same  circle  of 
debate  was  incessantly  traveled  over,  and  at  this 
day  to  go  back  and  look  at  its  prolix  details  is  like 
attempting  to  feast  on  ashes.  The  one  fruit  of  sur- 
passing richness  in  this  dead  sea  of  words  is  Web- 
ster's rejoinder  to  Hayne.  It  is  one  of  the  few  great 
orations  of  our  age.  Its  inestimable  service  was  to 
voice  the  before  inarticulate  aspirations  of  the  North 
towards  a  strong  nationality.  It  is  a  pity  that  we 
have  to  set  off  against  it  the  7th  of  March  speech.  We 
may  concede  that  Webster  was  at  this  later  day  as 
much  a  nationalist  as  ever;  but  there  was  at  the  time, 
and  always  has  been  since,  the  painful  suspicion  that 
the  hope  to  gain  over  the  South  to  carry  him  into 
the  presidency  was  the  moving  cause.  He  learned 
to  his  surprise  and  deep  chagrin,  when  the  Whig 
convention  met,  that  the  South  had  used  him,  and 
then  rejected  him. 

The  public  judgment  has  not  yet  settled  upon  its 
estimate  of  the  great  New  Englander.  That  he 
was  one  of  the  few  pre-eminent  orators  of  any 
age,  none  will  deny;  that  he  was  a  lawyer  of 
wonderful  powers,  is  common  tradition;  that  he  had 
the  stateman's  ability  to  grasp  and  handle  intricate 
questions  of  foreign  policy,  must  be  conceded;  but 
that  he  had  the  quality  of  the  politician — of  the 
politician  in  the  higher  sense — must  be  denied. 
This  quality  makes  leaders  of  men,  fashioners  of 
policies,  and  winners  of  victories  for  them  before  the 
people.  Jefferson  had  it  in  an  extraordinary  degree. 
Gladstone  has  it.  It  is  perhaps  a  mistake  to  charge 
Webster  with  a  change  of  front  on  the  slavery  ques- 
tion. If  for  the  sake  of  his  moral  honesty  we  admit 
this,  then  we  cannot  help  but  confess,  what  is  prob- 
ably nearer  the  truth,  that  Webster  totally  failed  to 
perceive  the  true  state  of  public  sentiment  on  the  sub- 
ject; at  least,  hefailed  tomeasureitsstrengthand depth. 

No  doubt  he  was  sincere  when  he  said  to  the 
citizens  of  Boston,  after  the  7th  of  March  speech, 
that  slavery  had  then  become  "an  unreal,  ghostly 
abstraction."  But  in  conceding  this,  we  condemn 
him  most  emphatically  as  wanting  in  the  first  re- 
quisite of  the  great  statesman  the  ability  to  know 
what  is  going  on  about  him. 

This  book  of  Mr.  Lodge  compares  favorably  with 
his  able  life  of  Hamilton  in  the  same  series,  and 
carries  out  very  well  the  main  object  of  the  series, 
which  is  to  furnish  sketches  of  the  lives  of  our  prin- 
cipal statesmen  which  shall  not  be  loaded  with 
petty  details,  but  show  the  relation  and  importance 
of  the  men  to  the  events  of  our  history. 


Briefer  Notice. 

IN  this  collection  of  essays  by  Dr.  Holmes— Pages 
from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life  1— his  old  readers  and 
friends  will  recognize  papers  which,  at  sundry  times 
during  the  last  twenty-five  years,  they  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  reading  as  they  have  come  from  the  press 
Among  them  are  "My  Hunt  'After  the  Captain,'" 
first  published  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  in  1862; 
"The  Inevitable  Trial,"  an  oration  delivered  before 
the  city  authorities  of  Boston  on  the  Fourth  of  July, 
1863 ;  "Talk  Concerning  the  Human  Body  and 
its  Management,"  first  printed  in  the  "Atlantic 
Almanac";  "Cinders  from  the  Ashes,"  from 
the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  1869;  "Mechanism  in 
Thought  and  Morals,"  an  address  'before  the 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  of  Harvard,  June  2oth,  1870; 
"Crime  and  Automatism,"  from  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly,"  1875;  and  "Jonathan  Edwards,"  which 
appeared  in  the  "  International  Review,"  1880. 
These  and  some  other  papers  are  made  into  a  hand- 
some volume,  and  are  very  welcome  and  valuable, 
as  is  everything  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Holmes,  as  con- 
tributions to  the  permanent  literature  of  the  country. 

Pedro  Carolino  in  sober  earnest  wrote  a  little 

book  entitled  English  as  She  is  Spoke?  which  he 
intended  should  be  a  guide  to  conversation  in  Portu- 
guese and  English.  It  was  arranged  in  three  col- 
umns, alternately,  of,  firstly,  Portuguese  ;  secondly, 
the  supposed  English  equivalent ;  and  thirdly,  the 
said  equivalent  phonetically  spelled.  The  object  was 
to  make  certain  to  the  Portuguese  student  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  English  language  and  its  pronunciation. 
The  result  was  Judicious  to  the  English  student  who, 
however  perfect  might  be  the  Portuguese,  scarce  ever 
before  read  such  English  words  singly  or  so  combined. 
The  author's  ignorance  of  the  English  language  made 
it  valueless  to  the  Portuguese  scholar,  and  amused 
the  English  reader  by  its  very  blunders  and  by  the 
apparent  absence  of  a  single  correct  combination  of 
English  words.  The  author  of  this  little  book  has — 
omitting  the  Portuguese  equivalents — published,  as  a 
jest  book,  the  so-called  "English  of  Senhor  Caro- 
lino," whose  ignorant  blunders  excel  almost  anything 
likely  to  be  attained  by  the  most  ingenious  attempts 
to  blunder. The  second  mumber  of  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's "Topics  of  the  Time"  passes  to  a  field  quite 
different  from  the  first,  and  under  the  title  of  Studies 
in  Biography  z  includes  seven  essays  from  English 
reviews,  as  follows:  Leon  Gambetta:  A  Positivist 
Discourse,  by  Frederic  Harrison:  The  Contempo- 

1  Pages  from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life .     A  Collection  of 
Essays,  1857-1881.     By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.     Bos- 
ton :  Houghton,   Mifflin  &  Co.     For  sale  by   Billings, 
Harbourne  &  Co. 

2  English  as  She  is  Spoke  ;  or,  A  Test  in  Sober  Earnest. 
With  an  Introduction  by  James  Millington.     New  York  : 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.     For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft   & 
Co. 

»  Studies  in  Biography.  Edited  by  Titus  Munson 
Coan.  New  York  :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883.  For 
sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 


1883.] 


Outcrop-pings. 


221 


rary  Review. — Jonathan  Swift:  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine.— Miss  Burney's  Own  Story,  by  Mary  Elizabeth 
Christie:  The  Contemporary  Review.— Samuel  Wil- 
berforce,  by  Sir  G.  W.  Dasent:  The  Fortnightly 
Review. — Lord  Westbury  and  Bishop  Wilberforce: 
A  Lucianic  Dialogue:  The  Fortnightly  Review. — 
Correspondance  de  George  Sand,  1812-1847:  The 
Edinburgh  Review. — Literary  Bohemians:  Black- 
wood's  Magazine.  It  is  perhaps  straining  a  point  to 
call  these  "  topics  of  the  time,"  but  the  essays  are  very 
recent — none,  we  believe,  earlier  than  the  present 
year;  the  leading  one,  Mr.  Harrison's  address  on 
Gambetta,  was  delivered  last  February.  In  the  "Lu- 
cianic Dialogue  (on  the  other  side  of  Styx,  after  ten 
years'  habitation  there,  which  has  done  surprisingly 
little  toward  affecting  the  points  of  view  of  either  of 
the  distinguished  interlocutors),  and  in  the  paper  on 
"  Literary  Bohemians,"  the  biographical  element  is 
very  shadowy;  but  the  other  five  are  clearly  biographi- 
cal studies,  and  very  interesting  ones. The  Reading 

of  Books 'l  (which,  curiously  enough,  while  it  bears  on 
cover  and  title-page  the  title  we  have  given,  calls 
itself  everywhere  else  "The  Best  Books")  adds  an- 
other to  the  rapidly  increasing  number  of  books 
about  reading.  While  this  little  manual  is  less  bril- 
liant and  suggestive  than  Mr.  Van  Dyke's,  it  is  more 
sound  and  far  safer  as  a  guide  to  the  unsophisticated. 
In  its  recommendations  of  books  it  is  a  little  conven- 
tional, but  that  is  the  safe  side  to  be  in  error  on  ; 
and  no  one  of  good  judgment  will  find  any  point  of 
importance  on  which  he  will  dissent  from  the  advice 
here  given.  The  most  important  point  of  the  sort 
that  we  notice  is  the  recommendation — even  though 
qualified — of  Muhlbach's  and  G.  P.  R.  James's  his- 


torical novels.  The  point  that  makes  us  hesitate  as 
to  the  value,  not  so  much  of  this  particular  manual, 
but  of  the  whole  class,  is  that  they  cannot  be  of 
much  use  to  any  but  those  without  habits  of  reading 
or  knowledge  of  books ;  and  such  people,  even  the 
young,  much  more  the  mature,  are  slow  to  get  hold 
of  and  read  as  serious  a  book  as  this.  It  seems 
likely  to  be  most  read  by  those  who  need  it  least. 
However,  one  must  not  overlook  the  army  of 
teachers,  who  are  in  a  position  to  meet  with  such 
books,  and  pass  them  on,  not  only  to  the  inquiring 
youth,  but  to  the  flighty  and  indifferent.  To  the 
inquiring  youth,  who  are  all  that  we,  on  our  part, 
may  hope  to  reach,  we  cheerfully  recommend  the 
little  treatise,  both  for  reading  and  for  reference  ; 
and  also  to  the  teacher,  whether  he  be  teacher  of 

his   own  children  or  other  people's. A  Popular 

History  of  California,'*  first  issued  some  sixteen  years 
ago,  is  now  brought  out  in  a  second  edition,  in 
which  the  history  is  brought  down  to  date.  The 
whole  subject  is  covered  in  two  hundred  and  sixteen 
pages,  and  brevity  is  evidently  made  a  leading  aim. 
About  two-thirds  of  this  space  is  devoted  to  the 
period  of  exploration  and  Spanish  rule,  the  cession 
to  the  United  States  and  discovery  of  gold  being 
reached  on  page  140.  The  frontispiece  is  from  a 
photograph  of  Nahl's  painting  of  Suiter's  Mill  in 

1851. Mrs.    Lillie's   Nan*   is    a    pleasant  story, 

which  children  will  like,  especially  little  girls,  and 
about  which  there  is  nothing  to  be  objected  to,  and 
perhaps  little  of  very  special  merit.  Servants  in 
livery  in  New  Haven  (for  New  Haven  is  apparently 
the  original  of  the  college  town  described)  are  rather 
odd. 


OUTCROPPINGS. 


An  Invitation. 


AN  atom  drifting  on  the  air, 

Scarce  seen — it  is  a  tiny  feather; — 

A  riddle  from  the  birds  to  me 

About  the  season  or  the  weather? 

I  cannot  say — I'm  such  a  dunce 

I  seldom  guess  these  things  at  once. 

How  stupid!     Bless  me,  what  a  head! 
'Twas  nothing — really  nothing  hard — 
No,  nothing  but  the  birdie's  card  ; 

And  this  is  simply  what  it  said  : 

"At  home !    Come  'round  -when  out  a-resting. 

We're  mated,  and  we're  now  a-nesting 

In  yonder  eucalyptus  tree. 

Our  compliments  to  thine  and  thee." 

R.  E.  C.  S. 

1  The  Reading  of  Books.  By  Charles  F.  Thwing. 
Boston  :  Lee  &  Shepard.  1883.  For  sale  by  A.  L. 
Bancroft  &  Co. 


A  Photographic  Negative. 

1  WENT  in  to  see  Adonis  the  other  night.     He  was 
not  at  home — at  least,  in  the  flesh;  but  his  invisible 
presence — his  alter  ego— had  so  touched  every  part  of 
the  place  that  I  scarcely  missed  Adonis  himself.     A 
rose-silk  shade  hung  over  the  drop-light,   a  rose-leaf 
glow  filled  the  room,  the  fresh  odor  of  a  fine  cigar 
came  out  to  meet  me  as  I  entered,  a  creamy   silk 
kerchief  flung  on   a   chair,  an  overturned  bottle  of 
"heliotrope,"  a  pair  of   fur-lined  slippers  evident- 
ly kicked  off  in  haste,  the  contents  of  an  ivory  toilet 
case  in  picturesque  confusion — all  told  me  that  Adonis 
had  gone  forth  armed  for  conquest.     I  was  a  privi- 
leged guest;  so,  instead  of  lamenting  my  friend's  ab- 

2  A  Popular  History  of  California.     By  Lucia  Nor- 
man.    Second  Edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged  by  T.  E. 
San  Francisco:  A.  Roman,  Publisher.     1883. 

3  Nan.     By  Lucy  C.  Lillie.     New  York  :  Harper  & 
Brothers.    1883.     For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 


222 


Outcroppings. 


[August, 


sence,  I  flung  myself  on  the  cushioned  Chinese 
lounge,  whose  pillows  still  bore  the  impress  of 
Adonis's  handsome  head,  and  gave  myself  up  to 
lazy  speculations.  Adonis  has  always  had  the 
photomania,  if  I  may  call  it  so.  His  brackets,  his 
wall-pockets,  every  possible  niche  is  bursting  out  like 
deciduous  trees  in  spring.  I  got  up  at  last  and  wan- 
dered about,  looking  at  them  with  a  new  interest  in- 
duced by  my  thread  of  thought.  That  there  was  a 
strong  predominance  of  feminine  faces  goes  without 
saying;  Adonis  is  so  decidedly  a  "ladies'  man."  A 
motley  assemblage  it  was,  to  be  sure.  A  muscular 
member  of  the  ballet  jostled  a  demure  lady  who 
looked  like  the  traditional  wife  and  mother  of  a  tem- 
perance novel — the  resemblance  heightened  by  a 
smaller  edition  of  herself  stuck  just  above  her.  A 
Spanish  damsel  from  the  shadow  of  a  lace  veil  ogled 
her  vis-a-vis,  a  female  Romeo  in  doublet  and  hose. 
They  were  all  moths  which  had  from  time  to  time 
fluttered  into  the  blaze  of  my  friend's  fascinations. 
Adonis  himself  figured  in  various  attitudes  more  or 
less  picturesque.  I  notice  that  while  we  fling  our 
friends  aside,  we  manage  to  preserve  a  copy  of  every 
picture  of  our  own.  Adonis's  gallery  consisted 
mostly  of  new  friends.  I  did  not  know  many  of 
them.  I  looked  in  vain  for  Lesbia  with  her  charm- 
ing eyes;  for  the  gentle  Emily,  whose  heart  our 
gay  moth-scorcher  had  shriveled  up  so  long  ago;  for 
Theresa,  the  warm-hearted;  and  Frances — bewitch- 
ing, imperious  Fanny.  I  grew  curious.  I  went  on 
a  search  after  these  old-time  companions  of  ours. 
At  last  I  exhumed  from  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
lowest  drawer  of  the  book-case  an  unhinged,  faded 
album,  and  behold  !  a  bevy  of  them  leered  at  me  with 
the  stereotyped  photographic  smile  we  all  know  so 
well.  The  cards  were  yellow  and  fly-specked. 
Time  had  made  almost  as  much  havoc  with  the 
counterparts  as  with  the  originals.  Their  day  was 
done;  they  had  come  to  the  seclusion  of  the  book- 
case drawer.  It  was  sad,  but  it  was  inevitable. 

I  remembered  with  a  pang  of  mortified  vanity  how  I 
had  found  one  of  my  own  highly-finished  "full -lengths" 
among  the  stage  properties  of  Master  Charley  Rob- 
inson, when  I  was  invited  to  inspect  his  toy  theater 
in  the  attic.  Yielding  to  Mrs.  Robinson's  entreaties, 
I  had  sent  back  for  an  extra  half-dozen  to  give  her 
that  particular  photograph;  and  look  now  at  my 
reward ! 

I  bethought  me  of  Thistledown,  whom  I  found 
the  last  rainy  day  making  a  holocaust  of  his  overplus 
before  he  left  us  for  New  York — just  as  the  farmer 
clears  the  ground  for  his  new  harvest. 

"I  have  to  weed  'em  out  now  and  then,"  said 
Thistledown,  jocularly,  as  he  tossed  a  pretty  girl  into 
the  grate.  "  Here's  the  widow  I  met  at  Monterey. 
Jove  !  how  she's  gone  off  since  that  was  taken.  This 
is  what  you'd  call  a  suttee,  I  suppose.  'Member 
Jones  ?  Good  fellow,  wasn't  he  ?  Never  had  a  bet- 
ter friend  than  Jones  ";  and  then  the  good  fellow  and 
the  good  friend  struck  the  red  coal-bed  and  curled 


up  with  a  ghastly  shiver.  During  these  crematory 
exercises,  Thistledown's  retriever  pup  Dan  was  tear- 
ing something  in  a  corner,  and  I  ventured  to  call 
his  attention  to  it.  "  Come  here,  you  young  Satan," 
and  he  pulled  a  pulpy  mass  away  from  the  excited 
brute.  "  O,  that's  the  remains  of  the  gentle  Phyllis 
I  found  in  the  redwoods  when  I  was  out  hunting — 
hunting  deer,"  added  Thistledown  with  a  smirk. 
"She  was  awfully  pretty,  don't  you  know?  and  aw- 
fully gone  on  your  humble  servant;  a  sweet,  trusting 
little  thing,  but  she  didn't  know  how  to  dress:  these 
country  girls  never  do.  Do  you  suppose  that  photo 
will  make  Dan  sick?"  he  asked,  naively.  "I 
wouldn't  lose  that  dog,  sir,  for  a  thousand  dollars." 

Thistledown  calls  me  a  sentimental  old  donkey; 
at  any  rate,  I  got  sick  at  heart  and  slipped  away  long 
before  he  finished  his  "clearing  out."  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  be  sentimental,  or  anything  but  cynical, 
about  these  things,  for  I  do  not  myself  always  cherish 
the  counterfeit  presentment  of  my  friends.  I,  too, 
have  holocausts:  everybody  has,  I  presume — unless, 
like  Adonis,  they  let  their  friends  drift  into  oblivion. 
After  all,  that  is  the  most  popular  plan.  But  it  is 
rather  pitiful  to  think  with  what  a  flush  of  conscious 
pride  Lesbia  and  Fanny,  and  all  the  Harvard  set 
which  grace  the  album  of  Adonis,  prinked  and  posed 
for  these  same  pictures,  and  with  what  fatal  gener- 
osity they  were  distributed  right  and  left.  But  the 
piquant  side  glance  which  made  Fanny  so  irresistible 
then  looks  absurd  now,  because  our  mind's  eye  has 
kept  pace  with  time;  whereas,  the  side  glance  be- 
longed to  the  youth  of  which  Fanny  was  a  part. 

Those  festive  Bohemians,  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry, 
who  looked  so  rakish  with  their  eccentric  hats  atilt, 
with  their  long  pipes  and  their  dogs  at  their  feet,  are 
portly  old  fellows  now — maybe  Bohemians  still,  but 
with  their  enthusiasms  and  eccentricities  dimmed  and 
put  away  in  obscure  corners,  like  their  youthful  pic- 
tures. And  Adonis  doesn't  care  for  them  any  more ; 
in  fact,  he  quarreled  with  all  three,  and  sent  them 
to  Coventry  with  most  energetic  apostrophes  long 
and  long  ago. 

"  I  never  give  away  a  photograph,"  said  Laurance 
when  somebody  asked  him  for  one.  "  I  did  once,  but 
age  has  brought  wisdom." 

"  But  I  want  it  so  awfully  badly, "  pleaded  Cherry- 
cheek. 

Laurance  smiled  down  on  her  in  his  benignant 
way.  "  I  know  you  do,  and  if  I  should  have  my  phiz 
taken  to  present  to  you,  you  would  be  enraptured 
for  five  minutes,  you  would  show  it  to  all  the  girls,  and 
possibly  keep  it  on  your  chiffonier  or  dressing-table 
for  a  week  or  so,  and  then  it  would  fill  the  one  vacant 
place  in  your  album  left  by  Smith,  whose  picture  has 
been  returned;  and  after  a  while  some  newer  fellow 
would  come  along,  and  I'd  be  tossed  into  an  odd 
corner,  and  when  your  sister  Jemima  ran  over  with 
the  children,  you  would  give  them  my  lack-luster 
visage  to  play  with;  I  would  be  torn  in  two  by  the 
baby,  thrown  into  the  waste-basket  by  your  method- 


1883.] 


Outcroppings. 


223 


ical  mother,  and — last  scene  of  all  that  ends  this 
strange,  eventful  history — the  house-maid  would  emp- 
ty me,  along  with  scraps  of  love  letters  and  the 
debris  of  your  decorative-art  efforts,  into  the  kitchen 
range  or  the  cellar  ash-barrel." 

Cherry-cheek  began  an  indignant  protest. 

"  But  you  will  admit  that  you've  seen  these  seven 
ages  of  man  on  card -board,"  said  Laurance,  sardoni- 
cally. 

"We — 11,  yes,"  she  admitted;  "but  I  would  never 
serve yoii  that  way." 

"My  young  friends,"  quoth  Laurance,  in  his  most 
didactic  manner,  and  with  a  comprehensive  wave  of 
his  hand,  "never  give  away  your  photograph;  bet- 
ter still,  never  have  it  taken.  Give  Chloe  or  Phyllis 
sugar-plums  and  valentines,  and  even  write  her  bad 
verses  if  you  must,  but  don't  pose  for  her  in  a  senti- 
mental attitude  and  your  best  clothes.  It's  not  your 
fault  that  you  look  idiotic,  even  after  the  most  skill- 
ful retouching  of  the  artist:  it's  the  fault  of  nature, 
who  refuses  to  let  herself  be  duplicated.  And,  my 
dear  Cherry-cheek,  think  twice  before  you  send 
Daphnis  that  last  sweet  thing  of  yours  with  your 
hands  clasped  over  your  head,  and  in  which  the  dimple 
in  your  chin  comes  out  so  prettily. 

"A  photograph  is  not  a  key  to  character,  any- 
how. Adonis  here  looks  like  a  new  Sir  Galahad, 
en  carte.  Flossy  R.,  who  has  the  most  piquant  face 
in  the  world,  turns  by  the  necromancy  of  sun  and 
acids  to  a  sour-visaged,  homely  woman;  while  her 
friend,  who  is  coarse  and  expressionless,  is  trans- 
formed into  one  of  the  graces.  The  dough-faced 
baby,  labeled  'Johnny  at  six  months,'  'Sammy  at 
two  years,'  is  a  peripatetic  grievance  to  the  world 
at  large,  and  a  sorrowful  evidence  of  the  young 
mother's  opthalmia.  What  do  you  suppose  Jones 
cares  about  Brown's  baby  ?  Why  should  the  crude 
lineaments  of  these  unconscious  infants  be  strewn 
broadcast  over  the  land?  To  do  them  justice," 
added  this  cynical  orator,  with  a  grin,  "  they  mostly 
protest  against  the  operation,  which  is,  or  ought  to 
be,  painful  to  anybody. 

"As  perhaps  you  know,  my  dear  friends,  in  the 
provinces  the  parlor  is  also  an  art  gallery,  where 
hang,  in  imitation  rosewood  frames,  the  friends  living 
and  deceased  of  the  whole  family,  from  '  Araminta's 
beau'  to  'Gran'ma  Ellis,'  who  'died  last  fall.' 
If  you  want  to  avenge  yourself  on  the  friend  who 
has  '  a  dozen  '  struck  off  now  and  then,  frame  and 
hang  him  on  the  wall.  There  he  is  helpless  and  hope- 
less. He  lacks  the  dignity  of  a  painted  portrait, 
however  badly  painted;  he  is  on  a  lower  level  than  a 
crayon;  he  is  less  noticeable  than  a  chromo;  he  is 
'  about  at  a  par  with  the  wall  paper. ' "  Here  Laurance 
paused  for  breath,  and  a  chorus  of  indignant  voices 
filled  the  niche  of  silence;  but  with  a  true  missionary 
spirit  he  went  on,  unheeding  the  clamor:  "You  will 
not  take  warning  ?"  he  said  solemnly.  "Let  me  tell 
you  a  story. 

"  Once,  in  my  salad  days,  I  sat  for  a  picture,  but  it 


wasn't  handsome  enough  to  suit  me,  I  suppose;  at 
any  rate,  I  complained  of  this  or  that  defect  to  the 
photographer,  until  at  last  he  raised  his  eyebrows 
deprecatingly.  '  I  assure  you,'  he  murmured,  with 
crushing  sarcasm,  'I  did  the  best  I  could  with  the 
material  you  gave  me.'  That  simple  episode  has 
embittered  my  life,  has  made  me  the  blighted  being 
you  know.  Beware  of  the  alluring  camera.  If  you 
love  your  fellow-men,  refuse  to  be  grouped;  deny 
yourself  the  temptation  of  a  front  or  a  three-quarter 
view,  a  full  length,  or  any  kind  of  a  length  " — and 
with  a  benevolent  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  Laurance 
seized  his  hat  and  was  gone  before  anybody  could 
retort,  remonstrate,  or  confute  his  argument. 

K.  M.  B. 
Fate. 

NOR  MAS  three,  the  sagas  say, 
Tend  the  fates  of  men  for  aye  ; 
Mightier  than  the  gods  are  they. 
From  the  random  songs  we  sing 
To  the  deeds  that  damning  bring, 
Lo!  their  hands  hold  everything. 

Still  we  know  them.     What  was  done 
In  the  fathers'  days  is  one  ; 
Deeds  of  ours  affect  us  still  ; 
And  the  third  is  present  will. 

E.  C.  San  ford. 

Out  of  the  World. 

THE  lady  of  fashion,  who  "dearly  loved  country 
pleasures  for  a  time,"  was  sensible  only  of  the 
novelties  of  the  country.  It  is  all  very  nice,  so 
long  as  she  is  not  asked  to  live  among  the  giants  of 
the  forest  or  on  the  wide  and  lonely  plain.  The 
country  as  it  is  in  the  main — the  agricultural  land 
divided  into  "places,"  and  dotted  with  halls  and 
school-houses — except  to  ride  through  on  the  cars  and 
see  its  miles  and  miles  of  flowers,  is  simply  odious 
to  her.  This  metropolitan  lady  is  reproduced  in 
that  same  rural  district,  in  a  calico  figure  less  trimly 
bodiced,  and  sighing  wearily  in  the  low  doorway  of 
her  unpainted  dwelling.  Her  possessions  and  loved 
ones  are  bounded  by  four  fence  lines ;  her  postal  ad- 
dress is  at  the  distant  red  building  on  the  railroad. 
She  lives  in  the  country,  yet  she  is  not  there,  neither 
heart  nor  soul.  She  has  governed  herself  with  stoi- 
cism till  she  has  lost  her  heart.  She  is  stolid,  com- 
monplace, unemotional,  and  silent.  She  came  to 
the  country  to  make  something,  not  to  love  the  dull 
farm.  There  is  nothing  to  love;  her  violets  will 
not  flourish,  and  her  house  has  neither  bay-window 
nor  double  parlors.  Prosperity  drags  on  slowly,  and 
she  has  surrendered  her  youth,  that  could  only  live  on 
excitement. 

Yet  out  on  the  wide  plains  of  the  San  Joaquin, 
far  from  fashionable  customs,  far  from  operas  and  lit- 
erary sermons  and  grand  organs  fate  has  said  to  many, 
"  Go  and  live"  ;  they  have  gone  and  lived  full  and 
perfect  lives — lives  as  fine  and  pure  as  existence  ever 
furnished.  Out  of  the  world,  not  with  an  annual 


224 


Outcroppings. 


[August. 


season  in  the  city,  not  within  call  of  educated 
friends,  not  with  frequent  visits  from  the  gay  city, 
without  inspiration  from  grand  speakers.  Living  in 
houses  that  would  appear  in  novels  as  "humble  cot- 
tages," in  unfashionable  attire,  original  and  unre- 
strained as  to  habits  and  customs.  Out  of  the  world 
— the  proud-stepping,  progressive  world,  the  artifi- 
cial, false  world,  the  overwrought,  tear-shedding 
world — into  a  home-made  world  shaped  of  every-day 
life  and  lit  and  shadowed  with  the  morn  and  night 
of  trifling  occurrences  and  quiet  thought. 

She  is  delicate  also — my  mistress  of  the  grange. 
The  daily  annals  of  crime,  that  my  Lady  Velvet  reads 
with  complacency,  she  puts  away  with  a  shudder. 
Her  "Daily  Sun"  is  the  pure  white  light  of  morn- 
ing, and  her  "  Morning  Call  "  is  the  ecstatic  note  of 
the  wild  bird.  She  has  no  moods  for  petty  vices, 
and  the  processes  of  great  frauds  are  to  her  a  foreign 
language.  She  is  forced  into  a  line  of  pure  if  not  in- 
tellectual musings.  The  master  also  finds  nothing  in 
the  weekly  agricultural  and  the  monthly  review 
to  whet  an  appetite  for  secret  crimes  and  ghastly 
particulars.  If  his  hardy  plain-life  does  not  tend  to 
make  him  an  emotional  disciple  of  religion,  neither 
does  it  tend  to  give  him  an  insatiable  longing  for  ex- 
citements. What  largeness  of  thought,  judgment, 
and  purpose  remain  to  lie  between  the  two  extremes 
to  dignify  and  ennoble  life! 

Out  of  the  world,  yet  holding  great  estates  in  the 
world  of  soul-life ;  out  of  fashion,  yet  wearing 
daintily  the  garments  of  peace  and  contentment ; 
out  of  date,  yet  ever  young  with  the  youth  nature  af- 
fords to  a  direct  and  simple  life.  A  spring  to  flow 
perennially  in  a  dry  region  must  have  its  sources  in 
the  deep  and  silent  reservoirs  of  the  under  world. 
It  is  the  soul  like  the  perennial  spring  that  can  live 
in  the  "out  of  the  way"  "places  without  the  spar- 
kling waters  of  society,  and  never  lie  dry  and  exhaust- 
ed under  the  sun  of  loneliness.  This  soul  has  life  we 
know  not  of,  and  its  recesses  go  down  into  the  deeps 
of  reflection  and  take  hold  of  the  unfailing  foun- 
tains. 

So  it  happens,  that  if  you  ride  over  the  plains, 
where  the  houses  are  widely  separated,  and  ask  the 
woman  at  her  window-garden  and  the  husband  at 
his  plow,  "  Are  you  not  mad  with  loneliness?"  many 
who  are  there  from  choice  will  say,  "Sirs,  we  are 
glad  with  peacefulness,  and  contented  with  the  pros- 
perity that  comes  with  good  judgment  and  industry." 

It  canndt  be  a  sterile  life  when  the  hearts  thrills 
to  the  sound  of  rain  as  to  the  touch  of  a  loving  hand  ; 
when  the  trade-wind,  breathing  its  invisible  clouds  of 
humidity  from  the  ocean,  is  like  a  message  of  great 
gladness ;  when  the  lingering  of  the  dew  in  the 
spring  is  like  the  tarrying  of  loved  ones  before  a  long 
voyage ;  when  all  the  powers  of  heaven  that  give  a 
growing  life  to  vegetation  are  as  presiding  deities  to 
be  loved,  watched,  and  worshiped.  The  man  who 
lives  out  of  the  world  looks  upon  the  dewdrops 
hanging  from  the  thirsty  wheat-blades  and  sees, 


not  alone  the  beauty  of  them,  but  bows  in  his 
heart  to  the  power  that  lives  in  the  drop,  that  enters 
into  the  leaf,  that  trickles  down  the  stalk,  and  in  the 
warm  earth  makes  known  its  wonderful  mission. 
The  mission  of  the  south  wind,  of  the  cool  night 
and  dewy  morning,  is  to  work  with  him  and  for  him 
the  perfection  of  the  plant,  the  flower,  the  fruit ;  and 
he  personifies  them  as  his  fellow-laborers.  The  south 
wind  is  the  prophet  and  priest  of  this  great  copart- 
nership. He  comes  cloaked  and  hooded  in  cloud, 
and  spreads  his  arms  of  benediction  over  all.  When 
he  tarries  at  his  appointed  time,  his  subjects  uplift 
white  faces  to  feel  the  first  motion  of  his  breath, 
looking  for  him  at  sunset,  and  watching  at  the  early 
dawn  for  his  footsteps. 

A  growing  day  makes  the  out-of-the-world  heart 
glad.  No  fete  day  is  so  bright  and  joyous,  so  filled 
with  harmony.  There  is  moisture,  warmth,  light  ; 
every  green  thing  makes  a  rejoicing  before  the  per- 
fect union  of  these  powers.  It  is  the  hymn  of  na- 
ture, passionate  as  a  love  song.  The  old  oak  gives 
out  his  rapture,  and  a  new  life  appears  on  his  topmost 
boughs. 

The  linnet  feels  the  thought  of  the  oak,  and  makes 
a  new  song  for  the  promise  of  his  coming  joy. 
There  will  be  leafy  trysting  places  very  soon  ;  so  he 
flits  among  the  branches  and  makes  the  air  sweet 
with  his  songs — careless,  merry  little  trills — as  if  he 
made  a  happy  jest  of  everything.  Far  in  the  fields 
sounds  all  day  the  statelier  melody  of  the  lark,  ringing 
up  through  the  air,  clear-toned  and  distinct.  His 
song  is  rapturous  and  short,  like  the  highest  joy  of 
the  soul.  You  cannot  be  empty-hearted  and  lonely 
when  the  every-day  joy  of  the  lark  keeps  you 
thinking  of  the  sweetest  things  on  earth.  He 
brings  down  the  heart  to  take  high  joy  in  lowly 
things.  Down  among  the  grasses  and  the  flowers 
he  sings  his  sweetest  notes.  It  is  not  among  the 
high  places  of  exaltation  and  pride  that  the  heart 
finds  life  the  rarest,  but  down  among  the  more  nat- 
ural impulses  of  an  humbler  station,  where  the  flow- 
ers of  unpurchased  affection  shield  it  from  the  hot 
white  light  of  emulation.  With  the  sweet  odor  of 
these  blossoms  in  the  heart,  a  still  spring  day  has 
wonderful  loveliness.  Walk  down  the  fields  and 
realize  their  beauty.  Peace  will  lie  down  with  you 
among  the  flowers,  and  you  will  see  what  a  wide 
world  is  there.  The  grass  is  noticeably  higher  than 
it  was  yesterday;  there  is  another  eschscholtzia  nod- 
ding at  your  elbow ;  it  is  greener  down  the  slopes  of 
the  hills,  and  the  air  trembles  along  over  hollow  and 
ridge,  so  undulating  and  so  even  you  could  weave  it 
into  rhyme.  It  lies  soft  and  lazy  before  the  hills, 
and  wraps  the  mountains  till  they  are  pale  and  dis- 
tant as  the  sky.  Overhead  stretches  the  wide  blue 
ceiling  of  our  temple  of  peace.  Its  unpainted  can- 
vas is  ever  ready  to  take  on  the  pictures  of  the 
imagination — figures  wonderful  and  vast,  such  as  one 
makes  lying  alone  with  an  active  mind  on  the  warm 
grasses  of  the  wheat  field.  E.  £. 


THE 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


DEVOTED   TO 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF   THE   COUNTRY. 


VOL.  II.  (SECOND  SERIES.)— SEPTEMBER,   1883.— No.  9. 


THE   PAST   AND   THE   PRESENT   OF   POLITICAL   ECONOMY. 


"THE  Wealth  of  Nations"  was  published 
in  1776.  Its  centennial  was  celebrated  in 
1876  with  more  or  less  formality  in  various 
countries.  In  England  prominent  politicians 
and  economists  held  a  symposium  to  do  hom- 
age to  the  memory  of  Adam  Smith,  its  author. 
The  occasion  was  remarkable  on  more  than 
one  account.  At  that  time  it  was  the  only 
book  to  which  had  ever  been  awarded 
the  honor  of  a  centenary  commemoration ; 
though  since  then,  in  1881,  the  centennial 
of  Kant's  "Critique  of  Pure  Reason"  has 
been  celebrated  both  at  Concord  and  K6- 
nigsberg.  But  the  chief  significance  of  the 
event,  taken  in  connection  with  the  discus- 
sion thereby  evoked,  consisted  in  the  fact 
that,  while  it  brought  to  light  dissatisfaction 
on  the  part  of  political  economists  themselves 
with  previous  economic  methods  and  con- 
clusions, it  was  at  the  same  time  the  herald 
of  a  new  era  in  political  economy.  It  an- 
nounced to  the  world  that  a  revolution  in 
political,  social,  and  economical  sciences  had 
already  begun,  and  in  various  countries  had 
met  with  no  inconsiderable  success. 

Nevertheless,  in  1876,  as  at  present,  there 

were  not  lacking   ardent  defenders  of  past 

learning.      Upon    the    occasion    to   which 

we  have  referred,  a  distinguished   speaker 

VOL.  LI.— 15. 


claimed- for  Adam  Smith  "the  power  of  hav- 
ing raised  political  economy  to  the  dignity 
of  a  true  science;  the  merit,  the  unique 
merit  among  all  men  who  ever  lived  in  the 
world,  of  having  founded  a  deductive  and 
demonstrative  science  of  human  actions  and 
conduct;  the  merit,  in  which  no  man  can  ap- 
proach him,  that  he  was  able  to  treat  subjects 
of  this  kind  with  which  political  economists 
deal,  by  the  deductive  method."  In  the  same 
year,  Mr.  Bagehot,  an  equally  faithful  follow- 
er of  the  older  English  school  of  political 
economy,  wrote  as  follows :  "The  position  of 
political  economy  is  not  altogether  satisfac- 
tory. It  lies  rather  dead  in  the  public  mind. 
Not  only  does  it  not  excite  the  same  inter- 
est as  formerly,  but  there  is  not  exactly  the 
same  confidence  in  it."  And  at  the  Adam 
Smith  banquet  itself,  Emile  de  Laveleye,  the 
distinguished  Belgian  professor,  described  a 
younger,  rising  school  of  political  economists 
investigating  economic  problems  with  anoth- 
er spirit  and  different  methods.  Thus  were 
brought  together  representatives  of  two 
schools :  the  older  school  proud  of  the  age 
and  respectability  of  their  doctrines,  but  dis- 
heartened at  the  loss  of  public  confidence; 
the  younger  school  hopeful  because  con- 
vinced that  the  future  belonged  to  them. 


226 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


[Sept. 


What,  then,  has  political  economy  been  in 
the  past?  and  what  is  it  to-day  as  represented 
by  the  teachings  of  the  most  advanced  in- 
vestigators in  England,  Germany,  Italy,  and 
America? 

The  English  political  economy  of  Malthus, 
Ricardo,  and  James  Mill  reigned  almost  su- 
preme in  England  and  in  literary  circles  in 
all  Christendom  until  within  twenty  or  thirty 
years.  It  acquired  the  reputation  of  ortho- 
doxy; and  to  be  a  heretic  in  political  econ- 
omy became  worse  than  to  be  an  apostate 
in  religion.  The  teachings  of  these  men 
and  their  adherents  were  comparatively  sim- 
ple. They  were  deductive,  and  flowed  nat- 
urally from  a  few  a  priori  hypotheses. 
Universal  selfishness  was  the  leading  assump- 
tion of  this  English  or  Manchester  school 
of  political  economy.  "The  Wealth  of  Na- 
tions," says  Buckle,  one  of  the  Manchester 
men,  "is  entirely  deductive,  since  in  it  Smith 
generalizes  the  laws  of  wealth,  not  from  the 
phenomena  of  wealth,  nor  from  statistical 
statements,  but  from  the  phenomena  of  self- 
ishness." While  it  is  possible  to  maintain 
with  considerable  show  of  plausibility  that 
this  is  far  from  being  a  correct  interpretation 
of  Adam  Smith,  it  most  undoubtedly  repre- 
sents truly  the  teachings  of  followers  who 
pushed  their  tendencies  in  method  and  doc- 
trine to  an  extreme.  Smith,  indeed,  made 
use  of  history  and  statistics,  but  Ricardo,  his 
most  distinguished  disciple,  did  not.  The 
latter  opens  his  work  on  "  Political  Economy 
and  Taxation"  with  a  discussion  of  "value." 
In  all  that  he  says  concerning  it — and  that 
means  twenty-five  large  octavo  pages — he 
does  not  adduce  one  single  illustration  from 
actual  life.  Not  even  one  historical  or  sta- 
tistical fact  is  brought  forward  to  support 
his  conclusions.  No  mention  is  made  of 
a  single  event  which  ever  occurred.  It  is 
really  astounding  when  one  thinks  of  it.  The 
whole  discourse  is  hypothetical.  Inside  of 
two  pages  he  introduces  no  fewer  than  thir- 
teen distinct  suppositions,  all  of  them  purely 
imaginary.  A  second  leading  hypothesis  of 
this  older  school  was  that  a  love  of  ease  and 
aversion  to  exertion  was  a  universal  charac- 
teristic of  mankind.  This  antagonized  the 


desire  of  wealth,  which  was  one  of  the  mani- 
festations of  self-interest.  Then  it  was  fur- 
ther assumed  that  the  beneficent  powers  of 
nature,  or  the  "  free  play  of  natural  forces," 
arranged  things  so  that  the  best  good  of 
all  was  attained  by  the  unrestrained  action 
of  these  two  fundamental  principles.  Equal- 
ity of  wages  and  equality  of  profits  flowed 
naturally  from  these  same  original  assump- 
tions. A  further  deduction,  perfectly  logical, 
was  that  government  should  abstain  from 
all  interference  in  industrial  life.  Laissez 
faire,  laissez  passer — let  things  alone,  let 
them  take  care  of  themselves — was  the  oft- 
repeated  maxim  of  a  priori  economists. 

The  attractions  of  these  doctrines  were 
numerous  and  evident.  For  the  perplexing, 
the  bewildering  complexity  of  the  economic 
phenomena  surrounding  us,  they  substituted 
an  enticing  unity  and  an  alluring  simplicity. 
They  appealed  irresistibly  to  the  vanity  of 
the  average' man,  as  they  provided  him  with 
a  few  easily  managed  formulas,  which  enabled 
him  to  solve  all  social  problems  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  and  at  any  time  to  point  out 
the  only  true  and  correct  policy  for  all  gov- 
ernments, whether  in  the  present  or  the  past, 
whether  in  Europe  or  Asia,  Africa  or  Amer- 
ica. It  required,  indeed,  but  a  few  hours' 
study  to  make  of  the  village  schoolmaster 
both  a  statesman  and  a  political  economist. 
Neither  high  attainments  nor  previous  study 
and  investigation  were  required  even  in  a 
professor  of  the  science.  "Although  desir- 
able that  the  instructor  should  be  familiar 
with  the  subject  himself,"  writes  Mr.  Amasa 
Walker  in  the  preface  to  his  "Science  of 
Wealth,"  "  it  is  by  no  means  indispensable. 
With  a  well-arranged  text-book  in  the  hands 
of  both  teacher  and  pupil,  with  suitable  ef- 
fort on  the  part  of  the  former  and  attention 
on  the  part  of  the  latter,  the  study  may 
be  profitably  pursued.  We  have  known 
many  instances  where  this  has  been  done  in 
colleges  and  other  institutions,  highly  to  the 
satisfaction  and  advantage  of  all  parties 
concerned." 

Another  attractive  feature  of  this  eco- 
nomic system  was  the  favor  it  gained  for 
its  adherents  with  existing  powers  in  state 


1883.] 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


227 


and  society.  No  exertion,  no  sacrifice,  was 
required  on  their  part  to  alleviate  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  lower  classes.  They  were  simply 
to  let  them  alone  and  go  their  way,  con- 
vinced that  they  were  most  truly  benefiting 
others  in  pursuing  their  own  egotistic  de- 
signs. The  capital  of  the  country  was 
divided  according  to  fixed  and  unalterable 
laws  into  two  parts:  the  one  designed  for 
laborers,  and  called  the  wage-fund;  the  other 
destined  for  the  capitalists,  and  called  prof- 
its. So  far,  nothing  was  to  be  done,  be- 
cause nothing  could  be  done.  It  was  im- 
possible to  contend  against  nature.  If  you 
should  thrust  her  out  with  a  pitchfork,  she 
would  return.  Moreover,  competition  dis- 
tributed the  two  portions  of  capital  justly 
among  the  members  of  the  classes  for  whom 
they  were  destined:  the  wage-fund  equally 
and  equitably  among  the  laborers,  the  profits 
equally  and  equitably  among  the  capitalists. 
Such  bright,  rose-colored  views  so  influenced 
some  that  they  began  to  talk  about  the 
"so-called  poor  man,"  and  at  times  appeared 
to  think  an  economic  millennium  about  to 
dawn  upon  us.  It  is  only  necessary  to  pull 
down  a  few  more  barriers  and  allow  still 
freer  play  to  natural  forces. 

Whatever  views  we  may  entertain  of  the 
correctness  of  the  doctrines  described,  we 
should  not  fail  to  recognize  the  merits  of 
the  orthodox  English  school  of  political 
economy — the  classical  political  enonomy, 
as  it  is  called.  It  separated  the  phenomena 
of  wealth  from  other  social  phenomena 
for  special  and  separate  study.  It  called  at- 
tention to  their  importance  in  national  life. 
It  convinced  people  that  it  was  folly  to  at- 
tempt to  understand  society  without  exam- 
ining and  investigating  the  conditions,  the 
processes,  and  the  consequences  of  the  pro- 
duction and  distribution  of  economic  goods. 
Even  if  it  was  an  error  to  attempt  to  study 
these  economic  phenomena  by  themselves, 
entirely  apart  from  law  and  other  social  in- 
stitutions, the  effort  was  of  importance  as 
bringing  out  this  very  impossibility.  If  it 
was  an  error  to  assume  simplicity  of  economic 
phenomena,  the  error  itself  led  to  an  inves- 
tigation of  them,  from  which  people  might 


have  been  deterred,  if  their  complexity  and 
difficulty  had  been  sufficiently  realized. 

The  services  rendered  by  economists  of 
this  school  in  practical  life  were  not  less  im- 
portant. They  were  instrumental  in  tearing 
down  institutions  which,  having  outlived 
their  day  and  usefulness,  were  simply  ob- 
structions  to  the  development  of  national 
economic  life.  This  happened  in  many 
lands,  but  it  is  necessary  to  enumerate  only 
a  few  examples.  The  Baron  von  Stein  was 
the  man  of  all  others  who  ushered  in  the 
era  of  modern  political  institutions  in  Prussia. 
He  began  his  career  as  minister  by  demoli- 
tion. As  Seeley,  in  his  "Life  and  Times  of 
Stein,"  admits  with  more  good  sense  than 
usually  characterizes  English  writers  on  free 
trade'and  protection,  international  free  trade 
could  not  be  contemplated  in  the  countries 
of  continental  Europe.  It  is  only  to  be 
thought  of  in  countries  like  England — 
"shielded  comparatively  from  war,  and  de- 
pending upon  foreign  countries  for  its 
wealth."  But  internal  free  trade,  i.  e.,  free 
trade  within  the  nation  itself,  was  both  prac- 
ticable and  advisable.  Stein  accordingly 
abolished,  early  in  the  century,  the  internal 
customs  which  had  proved  a  great  hindrance 
to  trade  and  industry,  while  yielding  the  state 
the  insignificant  sum  of  some  $140,000  per 
annum  (Part  I.  Chap.  V.  p.  loo1).  Restric- 
tions on  the  transfer  of  land  and  serfdom  were 
institutions  which  stood  in  the  way  of  a  desir- 
able national  development,  and  both  were 
abolished  by  Stein's  celebrated  Emancipat- 
ing Edict  of  1807  (Part  III.  Chap.  IV.). 
While  he  was  influenced  considerably  by  Tur- 
got's  writings  and  practical  activity  as  govern- 
or of  a  province  and  Minister  of  Finance, 
he  expressly  acknowledges  that  he  studied 
Adam  Smith's  "Wealth  of  Nations,"  and  was 
guided  by  it  in  his  policy  (Part  I.  Chap.  V. 
p.  99).  I  have  mentioned  only  three  cases 
where  English  political  economy  influenced 
German  national  life.  These  would  be  impor- 
tant enough  to  attract  attention  if  they  were 
the  only  instances,  whereas  its  influence  has 
ndt  ceased  at  the  present  time.  There  still 
exists  in  Germany  a  society  of  men  called 

1  Seeley's  Life  of  Stein.     Boston.     1879. 


228 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


[Sept. 


the  Economic  Congress,  and  founded  in 
1858.  They  represent  the  extreme  econom- 
ic views  of  the  old  school,  and  endeavor  to 
bring  legislation  into  harmony  with  their 
ideas;  and  their  efforts  in  the  past  have 
been  by  no  means  altogether  fruitless. 

It  is  less  necessary  to  describe  the  prac- 
tical effects  of  the  orthodox  political  econ- 
omy in  England.  It  began  by  influencing 
the  younger  Pitt,  and  reached  its  culmina- 
tion, perhaps,  in  the  introduction  of  interna- 
tional free  trade  under  Cobden  and  Bright. 

But  it  must  be  noticed  that  its  whole  spirit 
and  activity  were  negative.  It  was  power- 
ful to  tear  down,  but  it  did  not  even  make 
an  attempt  to  build  up.  In  this  respect  it 
resembled  the  French  Revolution,  and  was 
hailed  with  joy  for  the  same  reason.  -They 
both  represented  the  negative  side  of  a  great 
reform,  and  as  such  answered  the  needs  of 
the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  and  the 
earlier  part  of  the  nineteenth  centuries.  The 
ground  had  to  be  cleared  away  to  make 
room  for  new  formations;  and  the  system  of 
political  economy  described  could  not  en- 
dure permanently  because  it  was  only  nega- 
tive. It  was  obliged  to  give  way  to  a  school 
which  should  attempt  the  positive  work  of 
reconstruction. 

But  apart  from  not  presenting  the  whole 
truth,  like  all  purely  negative  teachers,  they 
taught  much  that  was  positively  false  in  its 
one-sided  aspect.  Indeed,  their  leading  as- 
sumptions tally  so  little  with  the  realities  of 
the  world,  that  it  is  strange  they  can  be  be- 
lieved by  any  one  whose  knowledge  of  life  is 
not  bounded  by  the  four  walls  of  his  study. 
Is  man  entirely  selfish?  entirely  desirous  of 
his  own  welfare?  Our  every-day  experience 
teaches  us  that  he  is  not.  All  men  may  be 
more  or  less  selfish,  but  he  who  is  thorough- 
ly so,  even  in  business  transactions,  is  so 
rare  as  to  be  despised  by  the  vast  majority 
of  mankind.  During  the  late  "hard  times," 
hundreds  of  manufacturers  continued  busi- 
ness chiefly  for  the  sake  of  their  employees. 
Even  great  corporations,  with  their  proverbial 
lack  of  feeling,  are  far  from  utterly  disregard- 
ing the  welfare  of  those  in  their  employ,  as 
is  evinced  by  numerous  institutions  for  the 


benefit  of  their  laborers;  as  reading-rooms, 
schools,  insurance  societies,  and  the  like. 
It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  policy  on  the  part 
of  employers  is  a  co-operating  factor  in  es- 
tablishing such  concerns,  but  it  is  unfair  to 
attribute  deeds  of  this  character  to  self-in- 
terest alone. 

As  to  wages,  it  is  idle  to  ignore  that  com- 
petition has  a  powerful  influence  in  regulat- 
ing them.  Experience  teaches  that  it  has. 
But  it  teaches  us  at  the  same  time  that  it 
does  not  reduce  wages  to  the  lowest  possible 
point  in  a  great  number — possibly  the  major- 
ity— of  cases,  and  that  it  does  not  equalize 
them  in  the  same  employment.  While  car- 
penters are  receiving  $2.50  in  one  place, 
they  receive  $33  day  in  another  locality  not 
a  day's  journey  distant.  Farm  laborers  in 
England,  in  1873,  received  wages  which 
varied  from  an  average  of  i2s.  a  week,  in 
the  southern  counties,  to  an  average  of  18^. 
a  week,  in  the  northern — a  difference  of  fifty 
per  cent;1  and  this  difference  was  no  tem- 
porary phenomenon,  but  appears  to  have 
lasted  for  years. 

The  difference  in  special  localities  in  the 
north  (Yorkshire)  and  south  (Dorsetshire)  of 
England  was  still  greater,  amounting  to  be- 
tween two  and  three  hundred  per  cent. 
Look  hap-hazard  where  one  will,  one  finds 
that  unequal  wages  for  similar  services  are 
not  only  paid  in  places  not  remote  from  one 
another,  but  even  in  the  same  city  or  town. 
Appleton's  Annual  Cyclopaedia  for  1877, 
for  example,  gives  the  following  table  of 
wages  paid  to  engineers  and  firemen  at  the 
time  of  the  celebrated  strike  in  1877  : 

Line  of  Railroad,  Daily  Wages.        Monthly  Wages. 

Engineer!.    Firemen.        fngineeri.        Firemen 

N.  Y.  Central $315  $158  $8190  $4108 

Erie 3  60  2  13  97  12  58  12 

Pennsylvania  (longer  trips 

— passenger) 3  15  i  80  92  78  51  23 

Pennsylvania  (shorter  trips 

— freight) 2  34  i  65  83  66  48  03 

Illinois  Central  (passenger) 11500  5700 

"  "  (freight) 100  oo  5400 

Burlington  &  Quincy 2  oc  8100  52  oo 

Lake  Shore 2  93  i  47  94  64  47  32 

Employers  could  reduce  wages,  if  they 
would,  in  cases  not  by  any  means  rare.  All 

1  The  Movements  of  Agricultural  Wages  in  Europe, 
by  Prof.'Leslie,  in[Fo'rtnightly  Review,  June  i,  18741 


1883.] 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


2-29 


sorts  of  motives  come  into  play  in  employ- 
ing laborers  and  servants — generosity,  love 
of  mankind,  a  desire  to  see  those  about  one 
happy,  pride,  sentiment,  etc.  When  a  gen- 
tleman hires  a  boy  to  carry  a  parcel,  he  does 
not  haggle  with  him  for  five  cents ;  pride  re- 
strains him  if  nothing  else.  A  gentleman  in 
New  York  pays  his  coachman  $50  a  month 
for  no  better  reason  than  the  purely  senti- 
mental one  that  his  deceased  father,  to 
whom  this  servant  had  been  kind,  had  paid 
him  the  same  amount. 

The  wealthy  proprietor  of  a  widely  circu- 
lated journal  is  said  to  have  refused  to  reduce 
the  wages  of  his  compositors,  although  the 
Typographical  Union  had  approved  a  reduc- 
tion. He  said:  "My  business  is  prosperous; 
why  should  not  my  men  share  in  my  pros- 
perity?" 

Nor  is  selfishness  always  the  force  which 
moves  great  masses.  It  is  often  national 
honor,  devotion  to  a  principle,  an  unselfish 
desire  to  better  one's  kind.  Twice  have  we 
Americans  disappointed  in  marked  manner 
those  who  hoped  that  our  national  conduct 
would  be  governed  by  our  desire  of  wealth, 
or  the  almighty  dollar.  Early  in  the  struggle 
between  America  and  England,  the  British 
Parliament  passed  the  act  for  changing  the 
government  of  Massachusetts,  and  for  closing 
the  port  of  Boston,  which  took  effect  June  i, 
1774.  This  gave  the  other  seaports,  and  es- 
pecially Salem,  a  rare  opportunity  to  take 
possession  of  Boston's  trade.  Did  they  im- 
prove it?  We  will  let  Webster  reply.  "Noth- 
ing sheds  more  honor  on  our  early  history," 
says  he,  in  his  speech  at  the  laying  of  the 
corner-stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument, 
"and  nothing  better  shows  how  little  the 
feelings  and  sentiments  of  the  colonies  were 
known  or  regarded  in  England,  than  the  im- 
pression which  these  measures  everywhere 
produced  in  America.  It  had  been  antici- 
pated that  while  the  other  colonies  would  be 
terrified  by  the  severity  of  the  punishment 
inflicted  on  Massachusetts,  the  other  seaports 
would  be  governed  by  a  mere  spirit  of  gain ; 
and  that  as  Boston  was  now  cut  off  from  all 
commerce,  the  unexpected  advantage  which 
this  blow  on  her  was  calculated  to  confer  on 


other  towns  would  be  greedily  enjoyed. 
How  little  they  knew  of  the  depth  and  the 
strength  and  the  intenseness  of  that  feeling  of 
resistance  to  illegal  acts  of  power  which  pos- 
sessed the  whole  American  people !  .  .  .  . 
The  temptation  to  profit  by  the  punishment 
of  Boston  was  strongest  to  our  neighbors  of 
Salem.  Yet  Salem  was  precisely  the  place 
where  this  miserable  proffer  was  spurned  in 
a  tone  of  the  most  lofty  self-respect  and  the 
most  indignant  patriotism." 

When  our  civil  war  broke  out,  our  ene- 
mies declared  that  it  would  be  ruinous  to 
our  prosperity;  if  it  were  continued,  grass 
would  grow  in  the  streets  of  New  York;  and 
the  Yankees,  ever  greedy  of  wealth,  would 
lay  down  their  arms  rather  than  suffer  such 
material  losses  as  this  would  involve.  But 
the  American  people  again  showed  their  de- 
tractors that  there  was  that  which  they  val- 
ued more  highly  than  commercial  gain. 

These  instances  might  be  multiplied  ad 
libitum.  Any  scientific  method  must  strive 
to  take  into  account  all  of  men's  motives 
and  all  the  conditions  of  time  and  place  in 
framing  economic  laws  concerning  men's  ac- 
tions. The  nearer  it  comes  to  this  "all," 
the  more  precise  it  is,  the  nearer  it  attains 
to  its  ideal.  To  neglect  other  motives,  and 
consider  self-interest  alone,  is  as  absurd  as  in 
mechanics  to  "abstract"  from  the  force  which 
propels  the  cannon  ball,  because  it  is  finally 
overcome  by  the  attraction  of  gravitation. 

Nor  is  the  love  of  ease,  the  aversion  to  la- 
bor, more  than  one  economic  motive  among 
a  multitude  of  others.  The  love  of  labor, 
of  activity,  is  also  an  economic  motive.  In 
his  correspondence,  Frederick  the  Great  de- 
scribes how  he  felt  about  work.  "You  are 
quite  right,"  he  writes  to  a  friend,  "in  believ- 
ing that  I  work  hard.  I  do  so  to  enable  me 
to  live,  for  nothing  so  nearly  approaches  the 
likeness  of  death  as  the  half-slumbering,  list- 
less state  of  idleness."  At  another  time  he 
writes:  "I  still  feel,  as  formerly,  the  same 
anxiety  for  action;  as  then,  I  now  still  long 

to  work  and  be  busy It  is  no  longer 

requisite  that  I  should  live,  unless  I  can  live 
and  work."1 

1  Macaulay's  Life  of  Frederick  the  Great. 


230 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


[Sept. 


Other  assumptions  of  the  English  school 
stand  no  better  the  test  of  experience. 
Every  business  man  knows  that  profits  are 
not  equal — are  not  nearly  equal — in  different 
branches  of  business.  It  is  not  ordinarily 
possible  for  men  to  change  their  business 
because  it  may  happen  to  be  less  profitable 
than  some  other.  A  man  usually  takes  up 
with  a  business  as  with  a  wife — "for  better  or 
for  worse."  He  understands  one  business  or 
profession,  and  when  fairly  started  in  that, 
is  too  old  to  learn  another.  The  transfers 
of  capital  made  through  bankers,  and  the 
changes  in  pursuit  actually  effected  by  some, 
are  not  sufficient  to  equalize  natural  inequal- 
ities. In  his  "Study  of  Sociology,"  Herbert 
Spencer  has  finely  illustrated  the  difficulty 
of  estimating  probable  profits  of  an  under- 
taking directly  in  one's  own  line,  by  enumer- 
ating the  many  factors  "which  determine 
one  single  phenomenon,  the  price  of  a  com- 
modity " — as  cotton. 

And  then  the  doctrine  of  identity  of  inter- 
est of  laborer  and  labor-giver!  If  it  only 
held  in  real  life,  the  solution  of  the  Social 
Problem  would  indeed  be  an  easy  task. 
Business  men  know,  however,  that  the  share 
of  the  produce  of  labor  and  capital  received 
by  labor  diminishes  by  so  much  the  profits 
of  capital,  and  that  the  larger  the  proportion 
of  profits  received  by  capital,  the  smaller  the 
proportion  received  by  labor.  That  there  is 
a  harmony  of  interests  between  the  different 
classes  of  society,  "is  at  best  a  dream  of 
human  happiness  as  it  presents  itself  to  a 
millionaire."  i  It  is  possible  to  reconcile 
the  different  classes  of  society  only  by  a 
higher  moral  development.  The  element 
of  self-sacrifice  must  yet  play  a  more  im- 
portant role  in  business  transactions,  or 
peace  and  good-will  can  never  reign  on  earth. 

Still  another  favorite  notion  of  the  older 
economists,  and  one  which  leads  to  great  hard- 
ship in  real  life,  is  that  taxes  are  shifted  so  as 
to  be  divided  fairly  between  different  em- 
ployments. However  convinced  any  one 
might  be  theoretically  of  his  ability  to  shift 
his  own  tax  upon  his  neighbor,  he  would 

1  Gustav  Cohn,  on  Political  Economy  in  Germany. 
Fortnightly  Review,  Sept.  i,  1873. 


undoubtedly  prefer  practically  to  have  i  t  laid 
in  the  first  place  upon  the  neighbor.  "  Pos- 
session is  nine  points  of  the  law."  This  also 
applies,  in  a  negative  sense,  to  the  possession 
of  an  exemption.  If  landlords  are  taxed 
directly,  they  must  first  pay  the  .money  out 
of  their  pockets;  at  first,  the  tenants  are  free, 
and  the  whole  burden  of  transferring  the  tax 
to  them  rests  on  the  landlords.  But  as  the 
tax  is  imposed  in  all  cases  at  the  same  time, 
there  is  a  united  effort  to  resist  all  along  the 
line,  and  it  is  almost  certain  that  the  land- 
lords will  be  obliged  to  bear  at  least  a  part 
of  it.  Besides  this,  in  the  case  of  long  leases 
they  bear  the  entire  burden  for  years,  while 
the  lessees  become  accustomed  to  the  ex- 
emption, and  expect  it.  It  is  problemati- 
cal whether  a  person  ever  gets  a  tax  back 
after  he  has  once  paid  it.  Taxes  ought  never 
to  be  imposed  on  the  poorer  classes  with  the 
idea  that  they  will  eventually  free  themselves 
from  them.  To  speak  of  taxation  finally 
righting  itself,  or  of  population  in  the  end 
accommodating  itself  to  the  demand  for  it, 
and  to  follow  this  out  practically,  would  be 
like  the  conduct  of  a  general  who  should 
choose  a  busy  street  in  a  great  capital  as  a 
place  for  his  soldiers  to  practice  shooting, 
and  set  them  to  work  at  once.  Some  one 
remonstrates:  "But,  General,  your  soldiers 
will  kill  people  riding  and  walking  in  the 
street."  "Very  likely,"  replies  he;  "at  first, 
some  may  be  killed  and  some  wounded,  but 
in  the  course  of  time  these  matters  regulate 
themselves.  People  will  finally  learn  to 
avoid  this  street.  Shoot  away,  boys!"  No, 
taxes  are  not  paid  out  of  the  "  hypotheses  or 
abstractions"  of  the  economist. 

No  doctrine — to  take  up  one  more  point 
in  our  criticism  of  the  classical  political 
economy — ever  made  a  more  complete  fiasco 
than  the  maxim,  Laissez  faire,  laissez  passer, 
when  the  attempt  was  seriously  made  to 
apply  it  in  the  state.  The  truth  is,  the  stern 
necessities  of  political  life  compelled  states- 
men to  violate  it  in  England  itself,  even 
when  proclaiming  it  with  their  lips.  This 
was  at  first  done  apologetically,  and  each  in- 
terference was  regarded  by  the  "school"  as 
an  exception  to  the  rule;  but  it  finally  began 


1883.] 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


231 


to  look  as  if  it  were  all  exception  and  no 
rule.  Interference  was  found  necessary  in 
every  time  of  distress,  as  during  our  late 
civil  war,  when  government  borrowed  money 
for  public  works  to  give  employment  to  the 
Lancashire  operatives,  at  the  time  of  the 
cotton  famine.  Every  reform  in  the  social 
and  economic  institutions  of  Great  Britain 
has  been  accomplished  only  by  the  direct, 
active  interference  of  government  in  eco- 
nomic affairs.  When  Gladstone  began  his 
work  of  conciliating  Ireland  in  1869,  he 
found  it  expedient  to  grant  loans  of  public 
money  to  occupiers  who  wished  to  improve 
their  holdings,  and  to  proprietors  to  reclaim 
waste  lands  or  to  make  roads  and  erect 
buildings,  enabling  them  thereby  to  employ 
labor.  In  1880  the  government  of  Ireland 
again  decided  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of 
the  Irish,  by  making  an  advance  of  .£250,- 
ooo  out  of  the  surplus  of  the  church  funds, 
for  public  works  of  various  kinds,  in  order  to 
provide  employment  for  those  needing  it. 
The  recent  Irish  acts  interfering  between 
tenant  and  landlord  in  the  matter  of  rent, 
and  offering  the  assistance  of  the  state  to 
tenants  in  arrears,  violate  all  the  principles 
of  laissezfaire  economists,  and  are  neverthe- 
less applauded  by  the  wisest  and  best  men 
of  all  lands.  Laissezfaire  was  tried  in  the 
early  part  of  this  century  in  English  facto- 
ries, with  results  ruinous  to  the  morality  of 
women  and  destructive  of  the  health  of  chil- 
dren. Robert  Owen,  himself  a  large  and 
successful  manufacturer,  declared  that  he 
had  seen  American  slavery,  and  though  he 
considered  it  bad  and  unwise,  he  regarded  the 
white  slavery  in  the  manufactories  of  Eng- 
land as  far  worse.  Children  were  then — that 
is,  about  1820 — employed  in  cotton,  wool, 
silk,  and  flax  establishments  at  six  and  even 
five  years  of  age.  The  time  of  labor  was  not 
limited  by  law,  and  was  generally  fourteen, 
sometimes  fifteen,  and  in  the  case  of  the 
most  avaricious  employers  even  sixteen, 
hours  a  day;  and  this  in  mills  sometimes 
heated  to  such  a  degree  as  to  be  injurious 
to  health.  I  know  of  no  sadder  reading 
and  no  more  heart-rending  tales  than  ap- 
pear in  the  government  reports  on  the  con- 


dition of  the  laboring  classes  previous  to 
state  interference  in  their  behalf  in  England. 
The  moral  and  physical  degradation  of  large 
classes  was  shown,  by  undisputed  testimony, 
to  be  such  as  to  put  to  shame  any  country 
calling  itself  civilized  and  Christian.  It 
could  scarcely  be  surpassed",  even  if  paral- 
leled, by  the  records  of  savage  and  heathen 
nations. 

Government  began  to  interfere  actively  in 
behalf  of  the  laborers  in  1833,  and  since 
1848  has  largely  extended  its  protection. 
The  time  of  labor  has  been  limited,  and 
the  employment  of  women  and  children 
regulated  by  a  Factory  Act,  which  is  regarded 
as  a  triumph  of  civilization;  if  the  "London 
Times,"  and  Mackenzie's  work,  "  The  Nine- 
teenth Century,"  can  be  trusted,  investiga- 
tions show  that  the  act  has  proved  an 
"unrningled  good."  Sanitary  legislation 
has  improved  the  dwellings,  health,  and 
morality  of  the  poorer  city  population.  Gov- 
ernment spent,  e.  g.,  some  $7,000,000  in 
repairing  and  rebuilding  three  thousand  tene- 
ments in  Glasgow,  with  such  good  effect  that 
the  death-rate  fell  from  fifty-four  to  twenty- 
nine  per  thousand,  and  crime  diminished 
proportionately. 

After  laissez  faire  had  been  allowed  cen- 
turies to  test  its  practical  effects  in  educating 
the  masses  and  had  left  them  in  continued 
ignorance,  government  began  to  take  the 
matter  in  hand.  It  appropriated  ,£20,000 
annually  for  the  education  of  the  poor  from 
about  1830  to  1839,  when  this  pittance  was 
increased  to  ,£30,000.  The  work  has  gone 
on  until  in  the  present  decade  the  final 
triumph  of  universal  and  compulsory  educa- 
tion has  been  assured.  Hon.  J.  M.  Curry, 
agent  of  the  Peabody  Fund,  recently  made 
the  following  emphatic  statement:  "I  am 
only  stating  a  truism  when  I  say  there  is 
not  a  single  instance  in  all  educational  his- 
tory where  there  has  been  anything  approx- 
imating universal  education  unless  that 
education  has  been  furnished  by  govern- 
ment." England  has  had  no  experience 
which  can  prove  Dr.  Curry's  assertion  an 
over-statement. 

In  our  own  country  it  is  curious  to  note 


232 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


[Sept, 


how  the  advocates  of  the/aissezfaire  abandon 
position  after  position.  First,  tenements 
are  exempted  from  what  is  considered  the 
general  law,  because  experience  has  shown 
that  "  nothing  short  of  compulsion  will  purify 
our  tenement  districts."  Then  it  is  discov- 
ered that  the  ordinary  laws  of  supply  and 
demand  are  not  preserving  our  forests ;  con- 
sequently, that  individual  and  general  inter- 
ests do  not  harmonize.  The  inadequate 
action  of  competition  in  regulating  and  con- 
trolling great  corporations  gives  another 
excuse  for  governmental  interference.  "Cor- 
ners" in  necessaries  of  life  call  for  a  further 
abandonment  of  the  laissez  faire  dogma,  as 
does  also  the  success  attendant  on  the  es- 
tablishment of  government  fisheries.  The 
list  might  be  extended  almost  ad  libitum,  and 
every  day  adds  to  it.  Thus  has  laissez  faire, 
one  of  the  strongholds  of  past  political  econ- 
omy, been  definitely  abandoned.  Justin  Mc- 
Carthy has  described,  as  one  of  the  most 
curious  phenomena  of  these  later  times, 
"the  reaction  that  has  apparently  taken 
place  towards  that  system  of  paternal  gov- 
ernment which  Macaulay  detested,  and 
which  not  long  ago  the  Manchester  School 
seemed  in  good  hopes  of  being  able  to 
supersede  by  the  virtue  of  individual  action, 
private  enterprise,  and  voluntary  benevolence" 
(Chap.  LIV.).  Legislation  is  now  based  to 
greater  extent  on  the  principle  of  humanity. 
Women  and  children  are  protected,  not  only 
against  the  greed  of  employers,  but  even 
against  themselves.  Individual  freedom 
is  limited  both  for  individual  good  and  the 
general  welfare.  And  as  McCarthy  has  said 
in  another  chapter  (LXVII.)  of  his  "His- 
tory of  our  Own  Times":  "We  are  perhaps  at 
the  beginning  of  a  movement  of  legislation 
which  is  about  to  try  to  the  very  utmost  that 
right  of  state  interference  with  individual 
action  which  at  one  time  it  was  the  object  of 
most  of  our  legislators  to  reduce  to  its  very 
narrowest  proportions." 

It  would  be  easy  to  extend  our  criticism 
of  past  political  economy,  but  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  in  a  paper  of  this  character.  It 
is  plain  that  it  does  hot  answer  the  needs 
of  to-day.  But  there  is  fortunately  a  live, 


vigorous  political  economy  which  is  grap- 
pling with  the  problems  of  our  own  time.  It 
looks  without,  not  within;  it  observes  ex- 
ternal phenomena,  but  concerns  itself  little 
with  the  movements  of  internal  conscious- 
ness. It  does  not  attach  much  importance 
to  finely  drawn  metaphysical  distinctions  or 
verbal  quibblings  about  definitions,  as  it  finds 
its  entire  strength  and  energy  absorbed  in 
studying  great  social  and  financial  questions. 
But  before  examining  further  this  newer 
political  economy,  let  us  trace  briefly  its  de- 
velopment. 

Protest  against  the  harsh  doctrines  of 
Ricardo  and  his  followers  was  early  entered 
by  those  who  were  not  professional  political 
economists.  Dickens's  works  are  full  of  such 
protests.  Nothing,  for  example,  could  be 
more  cutting  than  the  irony  with  which  he 
describes  the  principles  of  the  Gradgrind 
school  in  his  "  Hard  Times."  Early  in  the 
story  poor  Sissy  Jupe  fills  them  with  despair 
at  her  stupidity  by  returning  to  the  question, 
"'What  is  the  first  principle  of  political 
economy?'  the  absurd  answer,  'To  do  unto 
others  as  I  would  that  they  should  do  unto 
me."'  Farther  on,  when  poor  Gradgrind  ap- 
peals to  his  too  apt  scholar,  Bitzer,  to  admit 
some  higher  motive  than  self-interest,  he  is 
told  that  "the  whole  social  system  is  a 
question  of  self-interest.  What  you  must 
always  appeal  to  is  a  person's  self-interest. 
It's  your  only  hold."  Then  our  author  adds  : 
"It  was  a  fundamental  principle  of  the 
Gradgrind  philosophy  that  everything  was  to 
be  paid  for.  Nobody  was  ever,  on  any  ac- 
count, to  give  anybody  anything,  or  render 
anybody  any  help  without  purchase.  Grati- 
tude was  to  be  abolished,  and  the  virtues 
springing  from  it  were  not  to  be.  Every 
inch  of  the  existence  of  mankind,  from 
birth  to  death,  was  to  be  a  bargain  across  a 
counter.  And  if  we  didn't  get  to  heaven 
that  way,  it  was  not  a  politico-economical 
place,  and  we  had  no  business  there." 
Frederick  Maurice,  the  English  Christian 
socialist,  Ruskin,  and  Carlyle  have  all  con- 
demned in  unmeasured  terms  the  "Cobden 
and  Bright"  political  economy  as  detestable. 
Such  expressions,  even,  as  "  bestial  idiotism  " 


1883.] 


The  Past  and  the  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


238 


are  used  in  speaking  of  free  competition  as 
a  measure  of  wages. 

Such  attacks  naturally  formed  no  basis 
for  a  reconstruction  of  the  science,  nor  was 
such  a  basis  found  in  the  writings  of. politi- 
cal economists  like  Adam  Miiller  and  Sis- 
mondi.  They  repudiated  the  Adam  Smith 
school,  and  gave  many  good  grounds  for 
their  opposition,  but  they  failed  to  dig  deep 
and  lay  broad,  solid  foundations  for  the 
future  growth  of  political  economy.  This 
was  also  the  case  with  men  like  Frederick 
List  and  our .  own  Carey.  The  younger 
Mill — John  Stuart — occupies  a  peculiar  po- 
sition. He  adhered  nominally  all  his  life  to 
the  political  economy  of  his  father,  James 
Mill,  and  his  father's  friend,  Ricardo.  Yet 
he  confesses  in  his  autobiography  that  the 
criticism  of  the  St.  Simonians  with  other 
causes  early  opened  his  eyes  "to  the  very 
limited  and  temporary  value  of  the  old  po- 
litical economy,  which  assumes  private  prop- 
erty and  inheritance  as  indefeasible  facts, 
and  freedom  of  production  and  exchange, 
as  the  dernier  mot  of  social  improvement." 
The  truth  is,  when  Mill  became  dissatisfied 
with  numerous  deductions  drawn  by  the 
leaders  of  his  school,  he  obtained  others,  not 
by  investigating  and  altering  the  foundation 
upon  which  he  was  building,  but  by  intro- 
ducing new  material,  i.  e.  new  motives  and 
considerations,  into  the  superstructure. 
Mill  stood  between  an  old  and  a  new  school, 
having  never  been  able  to  decide  to  leave 
the  one  or  join  the  other  once  for  all.  In 
political  economy  he  was  a  "trimmer." 
This,  of  course,  unfitted  him  to  found  a  new 
school  himself. 

About  1850,  three  young  German  profes- 
sors of  political  economy,  Bruno  Hildebrand, 
Wilhelm  Roscher,  and  Carl  Knies,  began 
to  attract  attention  by  their  writings.  The 
Germans  had  previously  done  comparatively 
little  for  economic  science,  having  been  con- 
tent for  the  most  part  to  follow  where  others 
led,  but  men  soon  perceived  that  a  new 
creative  power  had  arisen.  These  young 
professors  rejected,  not  merely  a  few  inci- 
dental conclusions  of  the  English  school, 
but  its  method  and  assumptions,  or  major 


premises — that  is  to  say,  its  very  foundation. 
They  took  the  name  Historical  School,  in 
order  to  ally  themselves  with  the  great  re- 
formers in  Politics,  in  Jurisprudence,  and  in 
Theology.  They  studied  the  present  in  the 
light  of  the  past.  They  adopted  experience 
as  a  guide,  and  judged  of  what  was  to  come 
by  what  had  been.  Their  method  may  also 
be  called  experimental.  It  is  the  same 
which  has  borne  such  excellent  fruit  in  phys- 
ical science.  They  did  not  claim  that  ex- 
periments could  be  made  in  the  same  way 
as  in  physics  or  chemistry.  It  is  not  pos- 
sible to  separate  and  combine  the  various 
factors  at  pleasure.  Experiments  are  both 
difficult  and  dangerous  in  the  field  of  politi- 
cal economy,  and  can  never  be  made  as  ex- 
periments, because  they  involve  the  welfare 
of  nations.  But  these  men  claimed  that  the 
whole  life  of  the  world  had  necessarily  been 
a  series  of  grand  economic  experiments, 
which,  having  been  described  with  more  or 
less  accuracy  and  completeness,  it  was  pos- 
sible to  examine.  The  observation  of  the 
present  life  of  the  world  was  aided  by  the 
use  of  statistics,  which  recorded  present 
economic  experience.  Here  they  were  as- 
sisted by  the  greatest  of  living  statisticians, 
Dr.  Edward  Engel,  late  head  of  the  most  ad- 
mirable of  all  statistical  bureaus,  the  Prus- 
sian. Hence  their  method  has  also  been 
called  the  Statistical  Method.1  Economic 
phenomena  from  various  lands  and  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  same  land  are  gathered, 
classified,  and  compared,  and  thus  the  name 
Comparative  Method  may  be  assigned  to 
their  manner  of  work.  It  is  essentially  the 
same  as  the  comparative  method  in  politics, 
the  establishment  of  which  Mr.  Edward  A. 
Freeman  regards  as  one  of  the  greatest 
achievements  of  our  times.  Account  is  tak- 
en of  time  and  place;  historical  surround- 
ings and  historical  development  are  ex- 
amined. Political  economy  is  regarded  as 
only  one  branch  of  social  science,  dealing 
with  social  phenomena  from  one  special 
standpoint,  the  economic.  It  is  not  re- 

1  This  name  has  been  sometimes  reserved  for  one 
wing  of  the  Historical  School  without  sufficient  reason. 
The  difference  between  its  various  members  is  simply 
one  of  degree. 


234 


The  Past  and  ike  Present  of  Political  Economy. 


[Sept. 


garded  as  something  fixed  and  unalterable, 
but  as  a  growth  and  development,  changing 
with  society.     It  is  found  that  the  political 
economy  of  to-day  is  not  the  political  econ- 
omy of  yesterday;  while  the  political  econo- 
my of  Germany  is  not  identical  with  that  of 
England  or  America.     All  a  priori  doctrines 
or   assumptions  are  cast  aside,  or   at  least 
their  acceptance  is  postponed,  until  external 
observation  has  proved  them  correct.     The 
first  thing  is  to  gather  facts.     It  has,  indeed, 
been  claimed  that  for  an  entire  generation 
no  attempt  should  be  made  to  discover  laws, 
but  this  is  an  extreme  position.     We  must 
arrange  and  classify  the  facts  as  gathered,  at 
least  provisionally,  to  assist  us  in  our  obser- 
vation.    We  must  observe  in  order  to  theo- 
rize, and  theorize  in  order  to  observe.     But 
all  generalizations  must  be  continually  tested 
by  new  facts  gathered  from  new  experience. 
It  is  not,  then,  pretended  that  grand  dis- 
coveries of  laws  have  been  made.     It  is,  in- 
deed, claimed  by  an  adherent  of  this  school, 
as  one  of  their  particular  merits,  that  they 
know  better  than  others  what  they  do  not 
know.     But  it  must  not,  therefore,  be  sup- 
posed that  their  services  have  been  unimpor- 
tant.     The   very  determination    to   accept 
hypotheses  with  caution,  and  to  test  them 
continually  by  comparing    them  with  facts 
unceasingly  gathered,  is  a  weighty  one,  and 
promises  good  things  for  our  future  economic 
development.     And  in  gathering  facts,  they 
have  been  unwearied.     Their  contributions 
to  our  positive  knowledge  of  the  economic  in- 
stitutions and  customs  of  the  different  parts 
of  the  world  have  been  wonderful.     They 
have,  too,  infused  a  new  spirit  and.  purpose 
into  our  science.    They  have  placed  man  as 
man,  and  not  wealth,  in  the  foreground,  and 
subordinated  everything  to  his  true  welfare. 
They  give,  moreover,  special  prominence  to 
the   social   factor   which     they  discover   in 
man's    nature.      In   opposition    to   individ- 
ualism,  they  emphasize   Aristotle's   maxim, 
on  avSpooTToS  cpvaei  TtoXirinov  2,coov, 
or,  as  Blackstone  has  it,  "  Man  was  formed 
for  society."     They  recognize,  therefore,  the 
divine  element   in  the  associations  we  call 
towns,   cities,   states,   nations,   and  are  in- 


clined to  allot  to  them  whatever  economic 
activity  nature  seems  to  have  designed  for 
them,  as  shown  by  careful  experience.  They 
are  further  animated  by  a  fixed  purpose  to 
elevate  mankind,  and  in  particular  the  great 
masses,  as  far  as  this  can  be  done  by  hu- 
man contrivances  of  an  economic  nature. 
They  lay,  consequently,  stress  on  the  dis- 
tribution as  well  as  on  the  production  of 
wealth. 

They  watch  the  growing  power  of  corpo- 
rations; they  study  the  tendency  of  wealth 
to  accumulate  in  a  few  hands ;  they  observe 
the  development  of  evil  tendencies  in  certain 
classes  of  the  population — in  short,  they  fol- 
low the  progress  of  the  entire  national  eco- 
nomic life,  not  with  any  rash  purposes,  but 
with  the  intention  of  preparing  themselves 
to  sound  a  note  of  warning  when  necessary. 
If  it  becomes  desirable  for  a  central  authority 
to  limit  the  power  of  corporations,  or  to  take 
upon  itself  the  discharge  of  new  functions,  as 
the  care  of  the  telegraph,  they  will  not  hes- 
itate to  counsel  it.  They  make  no  profession 
of  an  ability  to  solve  economic  problems  in 
advance,  but  they  endeavor  to  train  people 
to  an  intelligent  understanding  of  economic 
phenomena,  so  that  they  may  be  able  to 
solve  concrete  problems  as  they  arise. 

The  methods  and  principles  of  the  Histor- 
ical School  have  been  continually  gaining 
ground.  In  Germany  they  have  carried  the 
day.  The  Manchester  School  may  be  con- 
sidered as  practically  an  obsolete  affair — ein 
uberwundener  Standpunkt — in  that  country. 
Emile  de  Laveleye,  the  Belgian  economist, 
may  be  named  as  the  most  prominent  adhe- 
rent of  the  school  among  writers  who  use 
the  French  language,  but  he  has  followers  of 
more  or  less  note  in  France,  though  the 
older  political  economy  is  stronger  there  than 
.elsewhere — stronger  than  in  England,  its 
home.  Nearly  all  of  the  younger  and  more 
active  Italian  economists,  as  Luzzati,  Cusu- 
mano,  and  Lampertico,  are  adherents  of  the 
Historical  School. 

T.  E.  Cliffe  Leslie  has  led  this  school  in 
England,  and  contributed  largely  to  its 
growth.  The  most  noteworthy  English 
scholars  who  have  openly  supported  it  to  a 


1883.] 


The  Freedom  of  Teaching. 


235 


greater  or  less  extent  are  Stanley  Jevons  and 
Prof.  Thorold  Rogers,  whose  monumental 
work  on  Agriculture  and  Prices,  written  in 
the  spirit  of  that  school,  has  excited  world- 
wide admiration.  The  younger  men  in 
America  are  clearly  abandoning  the  dry 
bones  of  orthodox  English  political  economy 
for  the  live  methods  of  the  German  school. 
We  may  mention  the  name  of  Francis  A. 
Walker,  the  distinguished  son  of  Amasa 
Walker,  as  an  American  whose  economic 
works  are  fresh,  vigorous,  and  independent. 
Essentially  inductive  and  historical  in  meth- 
od, they  have  attracted  wide  attention  and 
favorable  notice  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 
This  entire  change  in  the  spirit  of  political 
economy  is  an  event  which  gives  occasion 
for  rejoicing.  In  the  first  place,  the  histor- 
ical method  of  pursuing  political  economy 
can  lead  to  no  doctrinaire  extremes.  Ex- 
periment is  the  basis ;  and  should  an  adhe- 
rent of  this  school  even  believe  in  socialism 
as  the  ultimate  form  of  society,  he  would 
advocate  a  slow  approach  to  what  he 
deemed  the  best  organization  of  mankind. 
If  experience  showed  him  that  the  realiza- 


tion of  his  ideas  was  leading  to  harm,  he 
would  call  for  a  halt.  For  he  desires  that 
advance  should  be  made  step  by  step,  and 
opportunity  given  for  careful  observation 
of  the  effects  of  a  given  course  of  action. 
Again:  this  younger  political  economy  no 
longer  permits  the  science  to  be  used  as  a  tool 
in  the  hands  of  the  greedy  and  the  avaricious 
for  keeping  down  and  oppressing  the  laboring 
classes.  It  does  not  acknowledge  laissez 
faire  as  an  excuse  for  doing  nothing  while 
people  starve,  nor  allow  the  all-sufficiency  of 
competition  as  a  plea  for  grinding  the  poor. 
It  denotes  a  return  to  the  grand  principle 
of  common  sense  and  Christian  precept. 
Love,  generosity,  nobility  of  character,  self- 
sacrifice,  and  all  that  is  best  and  truest  in 
our  nature  have  their  place  in  economic  life. 
For  economists  of  the  Historical  School,  the 
political  economy  of  the  present,  recognize  with 
Thomas  Hughes  that  "we  have  all  to  learn 
somehow  or  other  that  the  first  duty  of  man 
in  trade,  as  in  other  departments  of  human 
employment,  is  to  follow  the  Golden  Rule — 
'Do  unto  others  as  ye  would  that  others 
should  do  unto  you.'" 

Richard  T.  Ely. 


THE   FREEDOM   OF   TEACHING. 


THE  higher  education  will  always  be  de- 
spised and  rejected  by  many,  will  be  feared 
by  others,  and  will  not  be  without  foes 
among  those  of  its  own  household.  To  re- 
ceive such  treatment  is  the  fate,  and  in  fact 
the  duty,  of  everything  that  represents  true 
progress.  But  the  cause  of  higher  educa- 
tion is  like  the  cause  of  higher  morality  in 
one  notable  respect;  viz.,  in  that  it  is  at  a 
disadvantage  in  argument,  by  reason  of  its 
inability  to  bring  forward  for  each  new  at- 
tack a  new  reply.  It  must  repeat  very  often 
an  old  story.  Duty  is  one,  and  sin  is  mani- 
fold; hence,  sin  always  has  the  charm  of 
novelty — at  least,  until  one  is  its  slave.  Even 
so  the  higher  education  pursues  on  the 
whole  one  great  ideal;  while  the  foes  of 
higher  education  alter  their  ideals  with  the 


whim  of  the  hour,  and  so  have  resources 
that  their  opponents  of  the  closet  and  the 
lecture-room  must  despair  of  equaling. 

There  is  one  battle  that  the  friends  of 
higher  education  have  often  had  to  fight 
anew,  and  that  well  illustrates  their  difficul- 
ties. This  is  the  battle  for  the  freedom  of 
higher  teaching.  The  story  is  an  old  one; 
the  plea  foV  the  freedom  of  teaching  is  a  bare, 
simple,  commonplace  plea,  based  on  the 
moral  law,  and  in  fact  on  the  most  com- 
monplace and  tedious  article  of  the  moral 
law — that  which  treats  of  the  duty  called 
honesty.  On  the  other  hand,  the  enemies 
of  the  freedom  of  teaching  are  numberless. 
Passive  tendencies,  such  as  simple  conserva- 
tism, or  reverence  for  old  age,  or  respect  for 
the  letter  of  ancient  bequests,  or  desire  for 


236 


The  Freedom  of  Teaching. 


[Sept. 


peace,  may  be  found  united  with  some 
theological  bias  or  with  a  love  of  strict  dis- 
cipline, or  with  some  other  active  tendency 
in  opposition  to  the  cause  of  free  instruction. 
Personal  prejudices  and  quarrels  may  add 
their  warmth  to  the  assault.  The  ambition 
of  meddlesome  and  ignorant  busybodies  is 
stimulated  by  such  opportunities.  The  public 
are  apt,  as  usual,  to  take  part  against  the  ex- 
perts and  in  favor  of  restricting  their  liberty. 
And  all  these  influences  can  easily  be  made 
more  effective  in  a  popular  discussion  than 
the  opposing  view  dare  hope  to  become. 
But  still,  hard  as  it  may  be  to  make  interest- 
ing any  plea  that  in  the  end  rests  solely  upon 
common  honesty,  some  one  ever  and  anon 
must  venture  anew  to  sum  up  the  case  that 
in  its  earliest  form  was  first  summed  up  in 
the  Defense  of  Socrates,  that  has  so  often 
since  then  needed  defense,  and  that  so  much 
needs  defense  just  now,  and  in  this  country. 
But  to  understand  the  matter  it  is  needful 
first  to  look  at  the  nature  of  higher  educa- 
tion. 

Higher  education,  then,  is  distinguished 
from  elementary  education  partly  by  the 
fact  that  its  subject-matter  and  the  scope  of 
its  various  departments  are  subject  to  more, 
and  to  more  important,  disputes  than  are  the 
subject-matter  and  scope  of  elementary  edu- 
cation. Nowhere,  indeed,  is  the  educator 
'on  wholly  undisputed  ground.  But  primary- 
school  teachers  dispute  more  about  the 
order  and  the  method  of  teaching  than 
about  the  truth  or  the  intrinsic  importance 
of  what  is  to  be  taught.  Some  may  think 
elementary  natural  science  an  essential  part 
of  the  training  of  children,  and  some  may 
dispute  this  opinion ;  but  all  admit  that  chil- 
dren must  be  taught  to  read,  write,  and 
cipher,  and  nobody  doubts  the  truths  of  the 
multiplication  table.  If  teachers  differ  about 
how  to  teach  these  truths,  the  difference  is 
one  of  less  moment;  it  is  a  difference  of  a 
few  months'  time  or  of  a  little  mental  train- 
ing to  a  child;  it  is  not  a  difference  that  in- 
volves a  lifetime  or  a  life's  creed.  Religious 
instruction  involves,  indeed,  even  for  chil- 
dren, very  much  that  is  disputed;  but  the 
religious  instruction  of  children  is  once  for 


all  a  matter  of  individual  caprice,  hopelessly 
beyond  the  control  of  our  present  educa- 
tional methods.  Outside  of  the  limits  of 
religious  instruction,  primary  education  in- 
volves for  the  most  part  indubitable  facts  of 
no  small  importance,  the  method  of  teach- 
ing being  the  chief  point  of  dispute.  The 
higher  education  undertakes  a  different  task. 
The  territory  of  all  the  sciences  is  a  more  or 
less  disputed  territory. 

The  exact  sciences  themselves  are  no  ex- 
ceptions to  the  rule.  Their  fundamental 
concepts  are  disputed  problems.  Men  do 
not  agree  as  to  the  definitions  of  space,  of 
force,  of  infinitesimals.  More  than  that, 
the  exact  sciences  are  progressive,  and  pos- 
sess an  enormous  wealth  of  material. 
There  is  room  for  dispute,  and  there  ac- 
tually are  endless  disputes,  not  only  as  to 
the  method  of  instruction  in  these  sciences, 
but  as  to  the  portions  of  them  that  are  most 
important  to  a  given  special  student,  and  as 
to  the  actual  comparative  value,  more  ab- 
stractly considered,  of  various  very  elabor- 
ately developed  investigations.  What  is  true 
of  the  exact  sciences  is  still  more  marked 
in  case  of  all  other  branches  of  study.  To 
study  the  advance  portions  of  any  science 
or  of  any  would-be  science  is  to  enter  into 
a  scene  of  warfare.  An  advanced  student 
cannot  be  taught  a  set  of  dogmas  to  put  in 
his  note-book  and  take  home  with  him ;  he 
must  be  taught  to  choose  with  such  light  as 
he  has  among  conflicting  views  when  such 
choice  is  possible  and  needful,  and  otherwise 
to  keep  his  judgment  suspended  until  he  has 
light  enough  to  choose  fairly.  A  student 
of  law  or  of  Greek  or  of  physiology  or  of 
theology  must  be  taught  this  power  of  judg- 
ing and  this  need  of  investigating  before  he 
judges.  Unless  the  teacher  teaches  these 
essentials,  he  gives  no  real  help,  and  is  not 
fit  for  advanced  work  with  rational  students, 
however  successful  he  might  be  as  a  dog- 
trainer  or  as  a  drill-sergeant.  The  higher 
the  study,  the  greater  must  be  the  need  of 
such  guidance  on  the  teacher's  part.  It  is 
not  the  facts  taught,  nor  even  the  theories 
expounded,  nor  even  their  practical  applica- 
tions, that  will  be  so  important  to  the  ad 


1883.] 


The  Freedom  of  Teaching. 


237 


vanced  student  as  the  spirit  and  the  method 
of  research,  the  power  to  be  himself  a  truth- 
seeker.  "I  suppose  that  you  will  forget  the 
facts  of  the  science,  but  I  want  you  to  un- 
derstand the  way  in  which  the  science  gets 
its  results,  the  method  of  scientific  thought": 
such  used  to  be  the  remark  of  a  teacher  of 
mine  to  whom  many  young  men  of  my  ac- 
quaintance owe  as  much  as  they  ever  can  owe 
to  any  one  teacher  for  real  mental  power  re- 
ceived and  cultivated.  Such  a  teacher  has 
in  mind  his  highest  task,  which  is  not  to 
make  mere  receivers  of  foreign  doctrines 
that  may  be  false,  but  independent  workers 
ready  to  prove  all  things  that  they  are  called 
upon  to  accept.  In  fine,  then,  advanced 
.  teaching  is  a  field  full  of  disputed  questions 
of  principle,  of  method,  of  scope,  and  of 
result.  No  closed  system  of  dogmas  is  as 
yet  attainable.  And  in  consequence,  the 
advanced  instructor  must  aim  to  make  in- 
vestigators rather  than  believers.  And  as 
another  consequence,  he  must  himself  be,  as 
far  as  in  him  lies,  an  investigator. 

Such  being  the  nature  of  the  field  covered 
by  the  higher  education,  what  shall  be  the 
freedom  allowed  to  the  educator?  Shall  we 
presume  to  dictate  to  him  what  or  how  he 
shall  teach?  or  to  predetermine  for  him  what 
he  shall  find  out  as  the  result  of  his  investi- 
gations? Or  does  one,  having  chosen  one's 
doctor,  presume  to  tell  him  what  medicines 
he  shall  give?  or  having  hired  a  captain  for 
one's  ship,  presume,  being  a  landsman,  to 
teach  how  to  navigate?  Does  not  one  in 
every  doubtful  case  need  first  to  find  a  com- 
petent man,  and  then  to  submit  one's  self  to 
his  care  in  so  far  forth  as  concerns  this  case, 
not  hampering  him  with  impertinent  de- 
mands? Must  not  one  therefore  choose  an 
instructor  in  any  subject  on  the  ground  of 
his  ability,  his  devotion  to  his  work,  his 
learning,  and  his  experience,  and  then  leave 
him  wholly  free  to  do  what  he  can  ? 

The  affirmative  answer  to  this  question 
will  appear  natural  if  we  look  more  carefully 
at  the  considerations  just  presented.  First, 
then,  as  we  have  seen,  instruction  in  ele- 
mentary studies  aims  rather  to  teach  well- 
known  facts,  and  the  question  there  is  as 


to  the  method.  But  advanced  instruction 
aims  to  teach  the  opinions  of  an  honest  and 
competent  man  upon  more  or  less  doubtful 
questions.  And  therefore  whatever  be  the 
position  of  the  elementary  instructor,  the 
advanced  instructor  at  all  events  has  to  be 
responsible  for  much  more  than  his  co- 
worker.  He  has  to  be  responsible  not  only 
for  his  manner  of  presenting  his  doctrines, 
but  for  the  doctrines  themselves,  which  are 
not  admitted  dogmas,  but  ought  to  be  his 
personal  opinions.  But  responsibility  and 
freedom  are  correlatives.  If  you  force  me 
to  teach  such  and  such  dogmas,  then  you 
must  be  responsible  for  them,  not  I.  I  am 
your  mouthpiece.  But  if  I  am  to  be  re- 
sponsible for  what  I  say,  then  I  must  be  free 
to  say  just  what  I  think  best.  If  therefore 
you  hire  any  one  to  teach  any  advanced 
science,  you  must  hire  either  a  mouthpiece 
or  a  man ;  and  if  you  hire  a  man,  you  must 
ask  him  to  be  dishonest,  or  else  you  must 
let  him  alone  in  his  work.  Just  so  would  it 
be  with  the  physician  or  with  the  sea-captain. 
If  you  hire  the  physician,  you  make  him  re- 
sponsible. But  if  you  dictate  the  medicines, 
then  he  is  no  longer  the  physician,  but  you 
are,  and  take  all  the  responsibility  of  what 
you  order,  making  of  him,  if  he  continues 
to  serve  you,  not  your  physician,  but  your 
body-servant. 

Secondly,  regarding  the  subject  in  the 
other  light  above  suggested,  the  advanced 
teacher  does  nothing  of  importance  unless 
he  aids  his  pupil  to  be  in  some  way,  how- 
ever humble,  a  fellow-investigator.  Where 
there  is  properly  doubt,  the  instructor  fails 
if  his  student  does  not  come  to  share,  or 
at  least  to  understand,  the  doubt.  Where 
truth  is  not  boxed  up  in  some  multiplication 
table,  or  similar  storing  place  for  useful  and 
obvious  truisms,  where,  on  the  contrary, 
truth  is  to  be  found  by  hard  work,  the  teach- 
er is  wholly  incompetent  who  gives  only  the 
supposed  truth  and  none  of  the  activity  of 
research.  Mind  is  activity.  Dead  state- 
ments remain  dead  till  a  student  is  taught  to 
discover  them  afresh  for  himself  under  the 
guidance  of  the  instructor.  Or  again :  with 
equal  truth  one  may  say  a  mind  is  a  bundle 


238 


The  Freedom  of  Teaching. 


[Sept. 


of  interests  in  things.  Investigation  is  the  ef- 
fort to  satisfy  the  interests.  Only  by  investi- 
gation are  they  satisfied.  The  very  dogs 
investigate,  and  their  minds  live  by  research. 
The  children  in  the  primary  schools,  as  Dr. 
Stanley  Hall's  researches  have  lately  illus- 
trated for  us  in  detail,  are  busied  in  their 
little  minds  with  theories  on  the  nature  and 
connections  of  things  in  the  universe — theo- 
ries that  indicate  amid  all  their  crudeness 
the  very  mental  processes  that  are  concerned 
in  the  scientific  studies  of  the  most  mature 
and  erudite  of  mankind;  and  it  is  such  ac- 
tivity that  the  teacher  appeals  to,  hoping  to 
develop  its  interests.  But  everywhere  the 
satisfaction  of  these  mental  interests  consists 
for  any  one's  mind  in  not  merely  finding, 
but  putting  this  and  that  together.  Every- 
where higher  consciousness  is  measured,  like 
energy  in  the  physical  world,  not  merely  by 
the  mass  of  material  in  mind,  but  by  the 
space  over  which  the  mind  moves  with  this 
material  in  doing  its  work.  Stuff  a  mind 
with  facts,  were  they  never  so  indubitable, 
with  formulas,  were  they  never  so  far  reach- 
ing and  complete,  and  the  mind  might  still 
be  the  mind  of  an  idiot.  It  is  what  the 
mind  does  with  the  facts  and  the  formulas 
that  makes  it  the  mind  of  a  wise  man. 

If  such  is  the  business  of  the  teacher,  viz., 
not  merely  to  state  his  opinions,  but  to  treat 
his  pupils  as  embryo  investigators,  to  be 
made  into  mature  investigators  as  far  as  is 
possible,  then  surely  the  teacher  must  show 
himself  as  already  an  investigator.  He  need 
not  be  a  great  discoverer.  Investigation  is 
not  usually  discovery,  save  for  the  individual 
investigating.  But  to  teach  activity,  the 
teacher  must  show  activity.  And  of  what 
use  is  the  show  unless  the  activity  is  certain- 
ly free?  What  shame  to  pose  before  the 
student  as  an  independent  worker,  when  the 
result  of  the  work  is  once  for  all  predeter- 
minded  for  the  worker  by  the  man  that  pays 
him,  or  by  some  superior  in  academic  rank. 
What  scorn  awaits  the  man  that  struts  about 
as  a  genuine  investigator,  while  all  the  time 
he  knows  that  there  are  certain  matters  lying 
within  his  province  that  he  dare  not  openly 
investigate,  and  may  have  to  lie  about. 


Yet  such  has  been  and  is  precisely  the  po- 
sition of  numerous  teachers  in  places  where 
the  freedom  of  teaching  has  not  come  to  be 
a  recognized  necessity.  The  very  air  of  in- 
vestigation is  freedom.  It  dies  stifled  in 
rooms  where  the  air  of  perfect  fearless  free- 
dom does  not  come.  The  only  demand  you 
may  make  of  any  investigator  is  that  he 
shall  stick  to  his  work  and  do  it  thoroughly. 
And  that  is  the  only  demand  that  the  ad- 
vanced teacher  may  make  of  his  students. 
But  they  must  see  that  he  too  is  faithful  to 
the  spirit  that  he  expects  to  find  in  them. 
They  must  see,  therefore,  that  he  is  really  a 
free  man,  who  teaches  what  he  teaches  be- 
cause that  is  the  best  result  that  his  method 
can  just  now  reach,  and  not  because  he  is 
hired  to  make  a  certain  view  appear  plausi- 
ble whatever  the  facts  may  be. 

Honesty,  then,  requires  that  as  a  teacher 
of  doctrines  the  instructor  should  be  free  to 
teach  what  doctrines  he  has  been  led  freely 
to  accept,  and  that  as  a  model  investigator 
of  his  subject  he  should  set  the  example  of 
untrammeled  investigation.  And  conse- 
quently we  may  say  that  all  one  can  demand 
of  a  teacher  of  any  advanced  branch  of  study 
is  knowledge,  joined  with  experience  pro- 
portioned to  his  rank,  with  a  clear  head, 
with  personal  power  over  his  students,  with 
industry  and  ingenuity  as  an  investigator,  and 
above  all,  with  absolute  personal  honesty. 
Given  these  requirements,  your  instructors 
must  then  be  left  to  do  their  work  so  long 
as  they  continue  to  give  evidence  of  possess- 
ing these  qualities.  To  interfere  with  them 
is  simply  impertinence,  and  the  result  of 
continued  interference  must  be  a  calamity 
to  the  institution  that  they  serve. 

Now  these  simple  considerations,  old,  flat, 
and  commonplace  as  they  are,  may  read  al- 
most like  revolutionary  speeches  when  com- 
pared with  the  common  practices  of  a  vast 
number  of  our  institutions  of  higher  learning 
in  this  land  of  "home  industry"  colleges. 
For  the  patronage  of  home  industry  in  this 
happy  country  is  interpreted  as  meaning,  in 
regard  to  higher  education,  that  every  sect 
in  every  State  should  have  at  least  one  repre- 
sentative "university"  to  teach  its  own  doc- 


1883.] 


The  Freedom  of  Teaching. 


239 


trines,  or  nothing  to  the  prejudice  thereof. 
In  consequence,  we  have  colleges  founded  to 
teach  that  the  moon  is  not  made  of  green 
cheese,    and    equally    flourishing   colleges 
founded  to  teach  that  the  moon  is  made  of 
green  cheese;  and  all  the  professors  in  such 
colleges  are  pledged,  or  at  least  required,  to 
discover  nothing  in  any  branch  of  learning 
that  might  be  interpreted  as  out  of  harmony 
with  the  founder's  view  about  green  cheese 
in  the  college  in  question.     And  all  this  is 
considered   laudable,    and  much    money  is 
subscribed  and  bequeathed  for  such  institu- 
tions.    Furthermore,  the  managers  of  such 
colleges  have  a  very  unfortunate  tendency  to 
consider  themselves  responsible,  not  merely 
for   the   original   choice,    but   also   for  the 
methods  of  the  instructors.     It  is  in  some 
places  not  so  much  that  the  managers  of 
such  institutions  do  actually  often  interfere 
with  an  instructor's  work,  as  that  they  think 
themselves  competent  to  interfere  whenever 
they  wish  and  however  they  wish ;  this  it  is 
which  cripples  the  honest  instructor.     He 
knows  not  when  he  will  be  accused  of  athe- 
ism for  having  mentioned  in  his  class-room 
Voltaire,  without  warning  his  pupils  against 
Voltaire's  books.    Or  he  knows  not  when  he 
will  be  accused  of  wicked  rebellion  against 
established  custom  for  having  made  use  of 
a  new  way  of  teaching  that  seems  to  him 
the   best   possible  way,  or  for  having   laid 
stress  upon   some  part  of  his  subject  that 
tradition  has   been  accustomed  stupidly  to 
neglect.     Or  in  some  places  he  may  find  of 
a  sudden  that  his  non-attendance  at  church, 
or  the  fact  that  he  drinks  beer  with  his  lunch, 
or   rides  a  bicycle,   is  considered  of  more 
moment   than   his  power   to  instruct.     Or 
finally,  he  may  be  subject  to  the  worst  of  all 
forms  of  terrorism,  namely,  perfect  uncertain- 
ty about  when  or  why  the  storks  in  his  board 
of  managers  will  interfere  with  his  duties, 
joined  with  good  reason  to  believe  that  they 
may  interfere  at  any  time  and  for  any  reason. 
The  last  condition  of  things  is  especially  apt 
to  be  the  case  in  the  colleges  of  semi-polit- 
ical organization.     In  such  places  good  men 
may  be  bound  hand   and  foot,  or  at  best 
they  may  be  forced  to  follow  a  dull  routine 


without  the  power  to  progress,  or  to  assume 
the  initiative  in  anything,  without  the  right 
to  earn  their  bread  honestly  save  by  ceasing 
to  make  any  pretense  of  living  and  teaching 
as  they  think  men  ought  to  live  and  teach, 
and  by  confessing  openly  that  they  can  take 
no  serious  responsibility  for  what  they  do  or 
how  they  do  it.     Take  away  the  sense  of 
security  in  his  work  from   the  college   in- 
structor, and  what  is  left  him?    The  freedom 
of  honest  and  laborious  study  ought  to  be  as 
secure  and  sacred  as  the  offices  of  a  priest- 
hood.    Yet  what  security  is  there  in  a  state 
of  affairs  like  the  following :  There  was  once 
a  board  of  managers.     It  may  have  been  in 
Babylon  or  in  Nineveh,  and  its  minutes  may 
have  been  kept  in  cuneiform  hieroglyphics; 
but,  if  we  remember  rightly,  it  was  not  so 
ancient   a   body   as    that.      However,    this 
board,  in  its  own  day  and  generation,  was 
capable  of  sending  a  written  order  to  the  in- 
structors in  its  institution,  telling  them  in 
effect  that  some  of  them  were  too  often  seen 
out  of  their  class-rooms,  that   this  seemed 
suspicious,  and  that  it  desired  them  to  stay 
each  in  his  own  class-room  from  nine  to  five 
daily,  saving  when  called  away  on  absolutely 
necessary   business.     In  other   words,    this 
board  had   never  conceived  the  difference 
between  a  university  instructor  and  an  office 
clerk,  and  actually  imagined  that  an  instruct- 
or was  doing  his  business,  then  and  only 
then,  when  he  was  in  his  class-room.    Yet  the 
body  that  could  send  this  unspeakable  order 
(it  existed  a  long  time  ago,  and  things  have 
much  changed  since  then,  we  may  hope  for 
the  better)  was  often  very  busy  in  deciding 
upon   courses  of  study,  in  interfering  with 
matters  of  special  interest  to  instructors,  and 
in  causing  delight  to  a  curious  and  impartial 
public  that  was  always  amused  by  anything 
of  the  nature  of  vigorous  action.     In  such 
an   environment   has  the   higher  education 
sometimes  to  grow.    May  the  world  in  which 
it  has  grown  so  nobly  thus  far  not  be  able  to 
crush  it  forever  before   it  has   grown  into 
more  freedom  and  has  led  us   into   more 
truth. 

In  conclusion,  then,  the  writer  wishes  to 
urge   upon  the  lovers  of  higher  education 


240  Across  the  Plains.  [Sept. 

this  thought,  not  in  the  least  his  own,  but  ticular  church,  or  promise  beforehand  to 
the  thought  of  our  time,  the  thought  that  all  avoid  or  oppose  some  particular  view,  or  to 
our  best  educators  are  insisting  upon :  high-  doctor  the  minds  of  students  in  some  partic- 
er  teaching  must  be  free.  Not  otherwise  can  ular  traditional  way.  Many  other  institu- 
it  do  the  work  that  is  needed  in  this  day  and  tions  are  still  halting  between  two  opinions, 
generation.  The  institutions  that  are  doing  On  which  side  true  progress  finds  help  is 
the  great  work  of  the  day  are  institutions  plain  at  a  glance.  This  note  has  tried  to 
where  competent  teachers  are  chosen  and  point  out,  in  the  simplest  way,  on  which  side 
are  not  interfered  with  in  their  work.  The  stands  true  morality.  The  end  in  view  can 
weak  and  useless  institutions  of  the  country  be  accomplished  only  through  an  enlight- 
are  all  of  them  institutions  where  instructors  ened  public  sentiment,  which  boards  of  man- 
are  chosen  because  they  attend  some  par-  agers  will  always  sooner  or  later  represent. 

Josiah  Royce. 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

THE  plains  were  wide  and  vast  and  drear, 
The  mountain  peaks  seemed  cool  and  near, 
The  sun  hung  low  toward  the  west, 
"So  near,"  we  sighed,  "are  we  to  rest." 

But  journeying  through  the  closing  day, 
Our  feet  are  weary  of  the  way; 
Far,  far  before  our  aching  sight 
The  plains  lie  in  the  waning  light. 

The  mountain  peaks  that  seemed  so  near, 
And  hold  our  rest  forever  there, 
Are  far  across  the  desert  lands — 
We  vainly  cry  with  lifted  hands. 

O  hills  that  stand  against  the  sky, 
We  may  not  reach  you  ere  we  die; 
Our  hearts  are  broken  with  the  pain, 
For  rest  and  peace  we  may  not  gain. 

Upon  the  plains  we  faint  and  fall, 
Our  faces  toward  the  mountains  tall; 
Our  palms  are  clasped,  but  not  to  pray; — 
So  die  we  with  the  dying  day. 

Emily  H.  Baker. 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


241 


PERICLES   AND   KALOMIRA:    A   STORY   OF   GREEK   ISLAND   LIFE.1 

ON  the  occasion  of  a  certain  festival  of       The  general  belief  that  the  little  creature 
the  Holy  Trinity  at  Gasturi,  in  the  island  of    would  have  a  specially  gifted  existence  was 


Corcyra,  there  was  brought  to  good  Father 
Panagiotis  Chrysikopulos,  for  baptism,  a  little 
maiden  who  was  regarded  by  her  parents, 
and  by  the  numerous  spectators  who  were 
present,  with  extraordinary  interest.  The 
parents,  who  were  simple  peasant  folk,  had 


soon  seen  to  be  fully  justified.  She  grew  up 
in  the  soundest  health,  lithe,  graceful,  and 
delicate,  and  with  a  beauty  that  excited  sur- 
prise even  in  Gasturi,  a  place  noted  far  and 
wide  for  its  beautiful  women.  And  the  gifts 
of  heaven  were  not  showered  upon  her  alone ; 


been  childless   during  the  twelve  years  of   a  marked  change  for  the  better  was  noted  in 


their  married  life,  and  the  birth  of  the  child 
on  a  Whitsunday,  at  the  very  moment  of  the 
pealing  of  the  church  bells,  was  a  joyful 
event  in  their  lonely  life.  On  the  very  day, 
and  probably  at  the  very  hour,  of  the  little 


the  parents.  They  had  up  to  this  time  been 
known  as  a  pretty  slovenly,  lazy,  untidy 
couple;  for  they  had  nothing  to  stimulate 
their  ambition  and  pride.  But  now  that 
there  was  a  new  little  mouth  to  feed,  it  was 


one's  advent,  a  neighbor  who  .was  lying  ill  of    surprising  to  see  how  thrifty  and  well-to-do 


a  fever  had  perceived  a  noteworthy  change 
for  the  better  in  his  condition;  a  woman 
had  discovered  at  the  bottom  of  a  stocking 
a  lost  ear-ring  which  she  had  never  expected 
to  see  again ;  a  donkey  had  fallen  from  a 
high  cliff  without  receiving  serious  injury 
(those  who  maintained  that  this  accident  had 
occurred  on  the  previous  day  were  speedily 
talked  down);  and  finally,  certain  persons 
skillful  in  reading  the  heavens  had  foretold 
disagreeable  weather  for  Whitsuntide ;  but, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  most  glorious  sun- 
shine flooded  the  earth.  On  the  way  to  the 
christening,  a  low,  majestic  peal  of  thunder 
was  heard  far  up  in  the  sky,  like  the  ringing 
of  heavenly  bells;  close  by  the  door  of  the 
house  a  snake  with  glowing,  changeable 
colors  crept  slowly  across  the  road,  and  the 
act  of  baptism  itself  was  a  little  disturbed  by 
the  loud  whispers  of  the  midwife,  as  she  im- 
parted to  those  who  sat  near  her  the  news 
that  she  had  heard  in  the  silent  night  a 
friendly  whispering  going  on  over  the  cradle 
of  the  child,  and  that,  in  her  opinion,  it  could 
have  been  nothing  less  than  the  voices  of  the 
Moirai,  or  Fates. 

The  child  was  named  Kalomira,  and  from 
that  time  forth  became  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes  in  the  community. 


they  became.  They  were  seen  going  about 
neatly  clad  even  on  work-days;  the  house 
was  kept  in  fine  order,  they  set  a  good  table, 
and  yet  were  able  to  lay  by  a  little  sum  every 
year  after  the  olive  harvest.  Above  all,  they 
were  now  continually  in  good  spirits,  al- 
though formerly  they  had  too  often  been 
snarlish  and  peevish  toward  each  other  and 
toward  their  neighbors. 

The  keen  glance  of  the  priest  took  note  of 
all  this.  He  had  in  former  years  labored  in 
the  neighboring  island  of  Cephalonia,  and 
found  that  his  present  parishioners  suffered 
by  contrast  with  the  inhabitants  of  that  island. 
The  Cephalonians  are  industrious  and  thrifty, 
and  know  how  to  draw  rich  harvests  from 
their  craggy  landscapes ;  but  the  Corcyraeans, 
living  on  more  fertile  land,  are  enervated 
by  the  rich  bounty  of  nature.  They  live 
from  hand  to  mouth,  taking  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,  beyond  gathering  from  time 
to  time  the  fruit  that  falls  from  their  mag- 
nificent olive-trees,  pasturing  their  lambs  on 
the  thick  green  grass  that  grows  beneath, 
and  cultivating  a  few  patches  and  garden- 
plots;  the  two  latter  employments  they  shirk 
as  much  as  possible,  because  they  require 
unusual  exertion.  But  they  know  very  well 
when  the  festivals  and  holidays  occur,  and 


1  From  the  German  of  Franz  Hoffmann. 


VOL.  II.  — 16. 


242 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


know  how  to  extract  the  greatest  amount  of 
innocent  pleasure  from  them.  In  this  re- 
spect they  are  true  descendants  of  Homer's 
happy  Phseacians,  who  inhabited  these  islands 
before  them.  There  is  very  little  bitter  pov- 
erty among  them,  and  they  live  in  careless 
ease  from  day  to  day. 

Still  Panagiotis  could  not  but  wish  them 
a  little  different — a  little  more  industrious 
and  a  little  more  cleanly;  but' all  his  sermons 
on  this  point  had  proved  of  no  avail. 

One  day,  as  he  was  passing  by  the  house 
of  Kalomira's  parents,  and  observed  the 
wonderful  change  for  the  better  that  had 
been  wrought  in  them,  he  conceived  the 
idea  of  improving  the  whole  community  by 
the  same  means.  To  this  end  he  began  to 
artfully  stimulate  the  belief  of  the  people  in 
the  miraculous  gifts  of  his  foster-child,  and 
caused  her  to  perform  in  his  presence  all 
sorts  of  cures.  He  gave  out  that  secret 
wrong-doers  would  be  known  from  the  fact 
that  the  blessing-child  would  have  no  in- 
fluence over  them  to  cure  them.  After  this 
it  is  needless  to  say  that  there  was  no  one 
whose  toothache,  headache,  rheumatism,  or 
cough  did  not  disappear  the  moment  Kalo- 
mira appeared.  The  more  dangerous  dis- 
eases Panagiotis  of  course  avoided,  since  he 
knew  that  nothing  could  avail  against  death. 

When  thus  the  general  belief  had  been 
sufficiently  strengthened,  the  priest  began  to 
impress  upon  the  members  of  his  flock  that 
it  would  be  seemly  for  each  to  show  his  grat- 
itude to  the  good  Kalomira  by  laying  by  for 
her  out  of  his  earnings  a  little  tribute  from 
time  to  time.  This  bit  of  a  tax  need  not 
injure  their  interests  in  the  least;  for,  in  or- 
der to  pay  it,  they  had  only  to  labor  each 
day  a  few  minutes  longer  than  usual. 

This  was  a  very  plain  proposition,  and 
everybody  understood  it ;  and  no  one  dared 
to  refuse  the  slight  tithe  lest  he  should  lose 
his  share  of  the  common  blessing.  And  so 
it  came  to  pass  that  habits  of  industry  were 
formed  by  everybody;  the  welfare  of  the 
village  waxed  visibly  from  year  to  year ; 
the  tillage  of  the  fields  increased ;  and  the 
houses  acquired  a  neater  appearance,  as  did 
also  the  people  themselves.  And  all  this 


without  anybody  losing  a  particle  of  the  old 
gayety  or  foregoing  any  holiday  enjoyment. 

The  good  Father  often  smiled  with  pardon- 
able pride  at  his  success.  As  for  Kalomira, 
she  became  more  and  more  the  idol  of  the 
whole  village.  Wherever  she  appeared  in 
her  young  beauty,  the  faces  of  the  people 
brightened.  When  they  sat  under  the  trees 
gathering  olives,  and  Kalomira  went  skip- 
ping by,  the  hands  flew  twice  as  fast  as  be- 
fore; and  when,  as  the  priest  had  taught 
her,  she  kindly  took  hold  with  them  for  a 
moment,  then  it  appeared  as  if  a  good  spirit 
or  fairy  were  filling  the  baskets,  so  quickly 
were  they  loaded  to  bursting  with  the  noble 
fruit.  Then,  out  of  gratitude,  the  people 
would  kiss  her  hands — a  thing  far  from  dis- 
pleasing to  her.  Even  from  her  little  play- 
fellows she  was  not  ashamed  graciously  to 
receive  the  like  honor — nay,  even  grew  to 
longing  more  and  more  for  it. 

One  day  a  boy  who  had  dirty  clothes  and 
a  dirty  face  was  going  to  kiss  her  hand,  but 
she  cried  out,  "  O  my !  how  dare  such  a  little 
pig  kiss  my  hand?"  This  frightened  the 
children,  and  thereafter  none  of  them  dared 
to  come  into  her  presence  without  clean 
clothes  and  face.  And  the  grown-up  folks 
followed  the  example  of  the  children. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that  with  hap- 
py faces  all  around  her,  Kalomira  could  not 
but  reflect  happiness  from  her  own  face. 
Nor  was  it  to  be  wondered  at  that,  under 
the  circumstances,  pride  should  take  root  in 
her  heart.  She  carried  her  head  pretty  high, 
it  must  be  confessed,  and  her  childish  fea- 
tures had  a  very  funny  expression  of  dignity. 

She  had  only  one  misfortune  during  her 
whole  childhood:  both  of  her  parents  died 
nearly  at  the  same  time,  and  when  in  the 
height  of  their  happiness  and  prosperity. 
Yet  this  sad  event  was  all  for  the  best,  for 
the  priest  Chrysikopulos,  who  had  no  chil- 
dren, took  little  Kalomira  home  to  live  with 
him,  and  paid  the  closest  attention  to  her 
further  education. 

One  day  the  little  ten-year-old  child  was 
sitting  quietly  in  the  grass  watching  her 
lambs  feed  under  the  olive-trees.  She  had 
beside  her  a  little  basket  full  of  oranges, 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


243 


which  she  designed  as  gifts  for  her  pious  ad- 
mirers. While  she  was  thus  sitting,  a  strange 
boy  drew  near.  He  was  a  few  years  older 
than  she,  and  came  from  the  neighboring 
village  of  Benizze,  down  on  the  seashore. 
She  did  not  know  him,  but  he  knew  of  her, 
for  her  fame  had  spread  to  other  towns.  He 
came  up  with  the  most  respectful  looks  and 
gestures  in  order  to  kiss  her  hand;  but  at 
heart  he  was  a  roguish  fellow,  and  cared  not 
a  snap  for  her  gracious  gifts — or  at  least,  con- 
sidered them  good  only  for  Gasturi.  So  his 
errand  to  her  was  one  of  pure  roguery. 
While  he  was  apparently  humbh'ng  himself 
with  much  emotion,  and  placing  his  left 
hand  reverently  against  his  breast  and  his 
forehead,  he  was  using  his  right  hand  to  sly- 
ly filch  orange  after  orange  from  her  little 
basket,  and  stuff  them  into  the  wide  pock- 
et of  his  blue  trousers.  When  he  had 
finished  this  little  trick,  he  sprang  up  with  a 
loud  laugh  and  ran  down  the  mountain  side; 
and  only  when  he  was  at  a  safe  distance  did 
he  turn  to  cast  a  mocking  and  defiant  look 
back  at  the  little  one  whom  he  had  robbed. 

He  felt  sure  that  the  little  saint  would  fall 
into  a  violent  passion,  and  thus  afford  him 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  in  a  very  human 
state  of  mind.  But  he  found  he  was  mis- 
taken ;  the  child  was  so  shocked  and  stunned 
by  the  deed  that  she  could  not  gather 
strength  for  an  outburst  of  wrath,  but  sat 
there  dumb  with  amazement,  and  gazed 
after  the  retreating  form  of  the  boy  thief 
with  a  disturbed  and  accusing  look  in  her 
deep  eyes— just  as  a  female  martyr  ought  to 
deport  herself  in  presence  of  her  tormentors. 

This  filled  him  with  wonder,  and  he  ran 
away  as  fast  as  he  could  in  order  to  get  rid 
of  those  terrible  eyes,  and  never  stopped 
until  he  had  reached  his  father's  house. 

Here  he  sat  down  a-straddle  of  an  up- 
turned fishing-boat,  and  drawing  forth  the 
oranges,  ate  them  one  by  one,  as  though 
trying  to  swallow  along  with  them  the  remorse 
that  he  felt.  Before  he  had  quite  finished 
his  feast,  his  father  suddenly  appeared  on 
the  scene,  and  seeing  the  peelings  scattered 
around  he  had  a  misgiving  that  all  was  not 
right,  for  he  knew  his  man  pretty  well. 


"Pericles,  you  rascal,  where  did  you  steal 
these  oranges?"  he  said. 

Such  a  rebuke  from  his  father  had  always 
made  him  sorry;  but  this  time  it  stung  his 
already  half-awakened  conscience  most  deep- 
ly; and  although  he  confessed  nothing,  he 
secretly  resolved  to  do  all  he  could  to  repair 
the  wrong  he  had  done  to  the  child. 

Of  course  the  first  thing  to  be  done  was 
to  at  least  restore  the  oranges.  And  that 
would  not  be  difficult;  he  had  only  to  climb 
the  orchard  wall  of  some  neighbor  and 
gather  as  many  as  he  wanted.  If  caught,  he 
would  get  a  thrashing,  to  be  sure;  but  that 
was  not  such  a  very  serious  matter,  as  a  wide 
basis  of  experience  had  taught  him.  Only 
he  wanted  to  do  something  more — to  pay  an 
additional  penalty;  but  he  did  not  yet  know 
what  it  would  be. 

In  such  a  state  of  anxiety,  he  set  out  alone 
the  next  day  on  the  broad  road  to  the  city 
of  Corcyra,  thinking  that  he  would  surely 
hit  upon  some  shrewd  thought  or  plan  while 
looking  at  all  the  good  things  gathered  to- 
gether there.  He  had  by  nature  an  invent- 
ive turn  of  mind,  and  knew  that  he  had  it. 
He  knew  that  he  had  not  been  named  Peri- 
cles at  hap-hazard;  for  were  not  the  words 
which  he  had  learned  at  school  stamped  in 
burning  lines  upon  his  memory?  "Pericles, 
son  of  Xanthippos,  was  distinguished  above 
all  the  other  Greeks  by  his  wisdom,  elo- 
quence, and  numerous  civic  virtues."  Now 
if  he  was  to  be  a  Pericles,  his  father  must 
be  Xanthippos,  and  so  he  persisted  in  call- 
ing him,  although  his  real  name  was  plain 
Spiro — one  of  the  most  common  surnames 
on  the  island. 

While  Pericles  was  strolling  along  through 
the  narrow  streets  of  the  city,  and  looking 
in  at  the  shop  windows,  his  eye  was  caught 
by  a  pretty  red  ribbon,  of  the  kind  which  the 
women  of  Corcyra  use  in  tying  up  their  hair. 
Oh,  how  he  longed  to  own  the  pretty  orna- 
ment, that  he  might  give  it  to  Kalomira  in 
expiation  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  her! 
But  he  had  no  money,  and  could  only  stand 
and  stand  and  look  up  at  the  window  with 
longing  eyes. 

He  was  so  possessed  by  his  idea  that  he 


244 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


did  not  see  a  man  in  European  dress  who 
stood  near  by  with  a  pleased  expression  on 
his  face,  and  seemed  as  deeply  absorbed  in 
his  earnest,  upward  gaze  as  he  himself  was 
in  the  little  red  ribjbon.  At  last  the  gentle- 
man stepped  up  to  him,  and  tapping  him 
kindly  on  the  shoulder,  asked  him  what  he 
was  looking  at  in  the  window.  Pericles  told 
him,  and  unhesitatingly  asked  him  to  buy 
the  ribbon.  The  gentleman  said  he  was  will- 
ing, and  would  only  ask  of  him  one  little 
service  in  return,  namely,  to  let  him  take 
his  picture.  He  told  him  that  he  was  an 
Italian  photographer,  who  knew  how  to  pre- 
pare both  ordinary  portraits  and  pictures  of 
the  saints.  For  the  latter,  he  said  he  em- 
ployed living  models,  making  use  of  this 
person  for  one  saint,  and  that  person  for  an- 
other, according  to  the  figure  and  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face.  Thus  Pericles,  for  example, 
as  he  stood  looking  upward  at  the  shop  win- 
dow, had  seemed  to  him  a  grand  model  for 
a-  Saint  John  the  Baptist.  He  was  just  at  the 
right  age,  being  still  a  boy,  and  yet  not  too 
far  removed  from  the  state  of  youth. 

Pericles  had  not  the  least  objection  in  the 
world  to  urge  against  such  a  flattering  use  of 
his  person,  and  after  the  Italian  had  bought 
the  ribbon  for  him,  followed  him  through 
certain  streets  and  up  a  pair  of  stairs  to  his 
working  rooms.  Here  he  had  to  divest  him- 
self of  his  Levantine  costume — from  the  fez 
to  the  shoes  with  pointed  toes — and  was  then 
girded  with  a  sheepskin,  and  furnished  with  a 
pointed  staff.  The  photographer  also  rumpled 
the  lad's  hair  up  pretty  violently,  but  still 
knew  how,  by  a  few  subtle  artistic  touches, 
to  give  a  charming  appearance  of  order  to 
this  capricious  and  splendid  dishevelment. 
Behind  the  head  he  fastened  an  old  cask-top 
covered  with  gilt  paper,  the  glory  of  which 
had  become  somewhat  dimmed  by  its  long 
use  as  an  aureole.  Finally  he  bade  him  look 
upward,  and  fix  his  gaze  upon  a  spot  in  the 
glass  skylight.  In  this  way  he  obtained  a 
fine,  rapt  expression,  the  effect  of  which  was 
much  heightened  by  the  violent  trepidation 
of  the  boy  when  he  saw  the  dark  mouth  of 
the  wonderful  instrument  pointed  right  at 
him,  like  the  threatening  muzzle  of  a  cannon, 


and  heard  the  master  whispering  to  it  mys- 
tical numbers. 

After  he  had  endured  this  silent  torture 
for  a  moment  or  so,  he  was  released,  and  as 
a  reward  for  his  good  nature  and  aptitude, 
was  promised  a  copy  of  the  photograph  as 
soon  as  it  was  finished.  When  after  a  few 
days  of  anxious  expectancy  the  boy  returned 
for  his  picture,  he  was  simply  filled  with  joy 
and  amazement  as  he  looked  at  the  glorious 
Saint  John  he  held  in  his  hands. 

Early  the  next  morning,  when  Kalomira 
opened  the  front  door,  she  found  upon  the 
threshold  a  little  mountain  of  oranges  artis- 
tically constructed,  and  upon  the  summit  lay 
a  pretty  picture  with  a  red  ribbon  wound 
around  it.  Judging  by  the  attributes  and 
other  tokens,  the  picture  represented  Saint 
John  the  Baptist.  But  upon  the  reverse 
side  was  written  a  short,  mysterious  sentence : 
"Pericles,  son  of  Xanthippos,  was  distin- 
guished above  all  the  other  Greeks  by  his 
wisdom,  eloquence,  and  numerous  civic 
virtues." 

Now  Kalomira  had  wholly  forgotten  the 
adventure  of  the  oranges;  and  even  if  she 
had  not  done  so,  she  would  not  have  recog- 
nized Pericles  in  his  John  the  Baptist  cos- 
tume; nor  did  she  know  anything  whatever 
about  his  name.  So  she  simply  took  Pericles 
to  be  the  name  of  the  saint,  and  thought 
that  probably  he  had  been  a  missionary 
preacher  in  the  dark  age  of  paganism,  and 
had  attained  to  such  high  desert,  even  in  his 
youth,  that  he  became  in  all  points  like 
Saint  John  the  Baptist,  and  received  canon- 
ization. The  beautiful  face,  too,  bore  very 
plain  testimony  to  the  personal  endowments 
mentioned  on  the  reverse  of  the  picture. 
Upon  these  finely-curved  lips  "wisdom  "was 
evidently  at  home,  and  the  great  upward-gaz- 
ing eyes  spoke  volumes  for  the  "eloquence" 
of  his  fiery  soul;  and  that  he  possessed 
divers  kinds  of  "civic  virtues,"  Kalomira 
found  not  the  least  reason  for  doubting. 

Hence  she  confidently  placed  her  Saint 
Pericles  on  the  wall  of  her  little  chamber. 
The  inscription  of  course  was  not  visible, 
and  she  allowed  others  to  think  that  it  was 
a  Saint  John.  To  her,  however,  it  seemed 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


245 


quite  flattering  to  have  all  to  herself  a  saint 
whom  no  one  else  seemed  to  know  anything 
about,  and  who  had  come  to  her  as  if  by  a 
special  providence.  Besides,  she  felt  that 
this  saint  had  a  sweeter,  more  human,  more 
vivacious  nature  than  the  others,  with  their 
expressionless  faces  and  lack-luster  eyes;  so 
that  with  her  saint  one  could  be  confidential 
and  comfort  one's  self  by  praying  to  him  in 
a  somewhat  more  familiar  and  feeling  style 
than  usual.  Indeed,  from  this  time  on,  her 
piety  and  her  faith  in  prayer  greatly  increased, 
whereas  previously  her  religion  had  been 
rather  passive,  and  she  had  liked  better  to 
receive  devotion  than  offer  it. 

After  this  Kalomira  lived  a  number  of 
years  without  any  unusual  interruption  of  her 
quiet  life,  and  her  beauty  grew  every  day 
more  striking. 

When  now  she  began  to  approach  the 
marriageable  age,  she  became  to  her  foster- 
mother,  Paraskevula,  the  wife  of  Panagiotis, 
an  object  of  serious  concern.  Paraskevula 
had  all  along  clearly  seen  and  known  what  a 
rich  treasure  of  earthly  blessing  she  and  her 
house  possessed  in  this  heaven-child.  But 
she  saw  that  this  good  fortune  would  come 
to  an  end  as  soon  as  their  daughter  should, 
like  other  maidens,  become  engrossed  with 
the  powerful  passion  of  love,  and  marrying, 
carry  with  her  into  her  husband's  house 
those  tributes  of  respect  and  honor  which 
were  now  flowing  into  the  house  of  her 
foster-parents. 

The  more  she  thought  over  this  possibil- 
ity, the  deeper  grew  her  perplexity ;  for  she 
was  a  thrifty  housekeeper,  and  loved  with  all 
her  heart  to  lay  by  provision  against  a  rainy 
day.  So  she  determined  to  meet  the  threat- 
ening danger  in  time,  by  striving  in  every 
possible  way  to  make  marriage  distasteful  to 
the  beautiful  maiden. 

Paraskevula  did  not  like  to  resort  to  the 
cloister,  but  hit  upon  an  ingenious  expedient 
for  inducing  the  inexperienced  girl  to  quietly 
and  voluntarily  take  upon  herself  a  vow  of 
celibacy.  She  one  day  pretended  that  she 
was  tormented  with  apprehensions  of  evil, 
and  announced  her  intention  of  passing  the 
night  in  the  church,  since,  as  is  well  known, 


a  person  sleeping  in  such  a  place  is  likely  to 
be  blessed  with  prophetic  dreams  or  revela- 
tions. What  Paraskevula's  dream  was,  she 
announced  the  next  morning  after  her  sacred 
sleep.  She  averred  that  Spyridon,  the  tutel- 
ary divinity  of  the 'island,  had  appeared  to 
her  and  informed  her  that  the  divine  gifts  of 
Kalomira  were  strictly  dependent  upon  her 
remaining  a  maid,  and  would  depart  from 
her  whenever  she  should  enter  into  the  re- 
lation of  love  with  a  man. 

In  consequence  of  this  oracle,  everybody 
was  interested  in  carefully  protecting  the 
virgin  isolation  of  the  blessing-child;  and 
Kalomira  herself  was  easily  persuaded  to  be- 
lieve that  her  duty  as  well  as  her  pride  and 
her  honor  were  bound  up  with  voluntary 
celibacy,  since  otherwise  she  could  not  main- 
tain her  brilliant  position  before  the  people; 
and  to  forego  that  was  something  which  her 
imperious  little  mind  could  not  think  of  for 
a  moment.  So  she  prepared  to  step  over 
the  threshold  of  mature  maidenhood  with 
serene  deportment,  and  with  disdainful  in- 
difference to  all  young  men  and  their  amor- 
ous approaches.  She  wandered  among  men 
cold  and  chaste  as  Diana,  and  her  eye  never 
rested  with  partiality  upon  the  form  of  any 
youth,  however  noble. 

After  two  or  three  years  of  such  self-con- 
trol, she  considered  herself  proof  against 
attacks  of  the  god  of  love.  And  the  danger 
diminished  with  every  year;  for  such  was 
the  uniform  coldness  of  her  demeanor  that 
the  young  men  never  dared  to  look  on  her 
except  with  silent  religious  admiration,  and 
without  that  expression  in  their  eyes  of  hope 
and  sweet  desire  which  so  easily  awakens  a 
tender  response  in  the  unguarded  heart  of  a 
young  girl. 

But  so  much  the  stronger  waxed  the  be- 
lief of  the  people  in  the  fair  young  saint ;  and 
day  by  day  the  glowing  fire  of  love  grew 
weaker  in  her  proud  and  solitary  heart,  and 
day  by  day  her  face  lost  more  and  more  of 
its  childlike  freshness  and  gayety.  Even  her 
life-work  of  healing  and  blessing  grew  to  be 
not  a  spontaneous  outflow  of  the  heart's  love, 
as  formerly ;  but  was  performed  for  the  most 
part  perfunctorily,  and  from  a  love  of  display. 


246 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


And  yet  there  was  one  place  where  she 
was  always  humble,  and  that  was  before  her 
picture  of  Saint  Pericles.  The  other  saints 
she  gradually  came  to  slight,  as  being  herself 
pretty  nearly  of  equal  rank  with  them. 

Once  it  happened  that  a  heavy  failure  of 
the  grape  crop  threatened  the  neighboring 
village  of  Benizze,  and  the  people,  in  their 
great  distress,  decided  to  ask  the  Gasturians 
to  lend  them  their  wonder-child,  and  to  pay 
them  both  money  and  thanks  for  the  favor. 
The  negotiations  were  successful.  Benizze 
paid  Gasturi  a  hundred  drachmas  ($18), 
and  had  Kalomira  delivered  to  them  for  a 
single  day,  with  stipulations  that  she  should 
be  sternly  guarded  from  indiscretions  on 
the  part  of  the  young  men  of  Benizze. 

On  the  day  appointed  for  the  festival,  the 
citizens  of  Benizze  drew  out  upon  the  road 
and  moved  up  to  Gasturi  in  long  and  wind- 
ing march,  with  as  much  pomp  and  state  as 
if  they  were  going  to  carry  in  procession  the 
body  of  the  holy  Spyridon  himself.  Kalo- 
mira was  brought  out  to  me6t  them,  accom- 
panied by  a  body-guard  of  the  eminent  men 
and  women  of  Gasturi.  She  was  clad  in 
snow-white  garments,  all  richly  decorated 
with  green  leaves  and  garlands.  A  saffron- 
colored  veil  floated  like  a  consecrated  flame 
around  her  face,  which  shone  as  if  with  su- 
pernatural beauty.  Her  eyes  were  lifted  up, 
and  her  glance  seemed  fixed  on  vacancy, 
yet  glided  here  and  there  over  the  throng 
which  seemed  to  her  only  an  indistinguish- 
able crowd  of  moving  shapes. 

When  the  procession  reached  Benizze,  a 
miscellaneous  crowd  of  women  and  children 
and  young  people  thronged  around,  and, 
pressing  up  to  the  sacred  maiden  on  this 
side  and  on  that,  strove  to  grasp  at  least  her 
white  robe,  and  impress  a  kiss  upon  it.  The 
more  fortunate  pressed  their  lips  reverently 
upon  her  hands,  that  kept  dispensing  freely 
rich  largess  of  blessing  to  all,  and  especially 
to  the  infants  whom  the  mothers  held  out 
from  both  sides  of  the  way  that  she  might 
lay  her  hand  upon  their  heads. 

Here  and  there  were  young  fellows  who 
had  waited  with  a  somewhat  more  daring 
fancy  for  the  first  sight  of  the  famous  beauty. 


But  when  they  saw  her  cold  and  immobile 
face,  they  felt  only  a  thrill  of  devout  emotion, 
and  were  glad  if  her  pure  eyes  did  not  rest 
upon  them.  Among  these  youths  was  Peri- 
cles. Contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  he  stood 
somewhat  shyly  apart,  for  the  long-forgotten 
sin  of  his  boyhood  was  secretly  weighing 
upon  his  mind.  Now,  since  the  eyes  of 
Kalomira  had  all  along  been  directed  more 
upon  the  people  at  a  distance  than  upon 
those  immediately  around  her,  it  chanced, 
naturally  enough,  that  her  glance  met  that 
of  Pericles,  who  stood  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd. 

He  noticed  at  once  a  startled  look  in  her 
passionless  eyes — a  look  not  of  joyous  greet- 
ing, but  of  astonishment  and  terrified  ques- 
tioning. Who  was  this  stranger  youth? 
Could  she  believe  her  eyes?  Had  she  really 
ever  seen  him  before,  or  had  she  simply 
dreamed  of  him  long  ago? 

It  is  probable  that  Pericles  had  a  woful 
consciousness  that  he  could  explain  the  mat- 
ter to  her  if  he  dared.  However,  at  the  first 
sign  of  human  interest  in  her  glance,  the  cold 
and  unreal  mist  of  saintly  isolation  melted 
away  from  around  her,  and,  thrilling  with 
tender  emotion,  he  rushed  violently  through 
the  crowd,  seized  her  hand,  and  imprinted 
upon  it  more  than  one  burning  kiss.  Kalo- 
mira, inexperienced  as  she  was  in  these  mat- 
ters, immediately  perceived  that  these  kisses 
were  not  those  of  religious  devoutness,  as  the 
others  had  been.  A  shudder  of  terror  ran 
through  her,  and  with  a  loud  cry  she  buried 
her  blushing  face  deep  in  her  veil. 

The  Gasturians  at  once  divined  what  must 
have  happened,  and  a  furious  tumult  arose, 
which  spread  rapidly  through  the  crowd, 
and  before  Pericles  had  fully  collected  his 
thoughts,  heavy  fist-blows  began  to  rain  down 
upon  him  from  all  sides,  and  to  these  the 
emphasis  of  clubs  and  sticks  was  soon  added. 
Doubtless  this  latest  trespass  was  not  the  only 
one  his  fellow-townsmen  were  avenging  so 
thoroughly  upon  him,  for  he  had  by  no  means 
taken  the  precaution  to  lead  a  blameless  life 
among  them.  But  it  was  a  fine  sight  to  see 
with  what  energy  and  dexterity  he  now  de- 
fended himself;  here  knocked  down  one  of 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


247 


his  pursuers,  and  there  dodged  a  heavy  blow, 
until  he  was  at  last  enabled  to  break  through 
the  crowd  that  encircled  him  and  disappear 
from  sight  in  the  olive  forest  that  stretches 
upward  from  the  sea  and  covers  the  hill  ad- 
joining Gasturi.  The  few  who  had  followed 
him  thus  far  soon  turned  back,  bleeding  and 
out  of  breath,  and  spreading  very  contradic- 
tory reports  as  to  his  whereabouts.  A  com- 
parison of  their  different  statements,  however, 
made  it  rather  probable  that  the  Devil  him- 
self, or  possibly  a  demon  of  inferior  rank,  had 
finally  grabbed  him  and  borne  him  off  out  of 
human  sight. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Gasturians  carried 
back  their  tutelary  saint,  still  veiled,  to  the 
protecting  shelter  of  her  home.  As  soon  as 
they  arrived,  Kalomira  hastened  to  her  little 
chamber  to  think  over  the  strange  occur- 
rence of  the  day  in  silent  devotion  before  the 
picture  of  her  own  beloved  saint.  But  she 
saw  at  a  glance  the  striking  resemblance 
there  was  between  the  picture  and  the  bold 
youth  of  Benizze,  and  at  first  experienced 
something  like  a  feeling  of  dismay;  but  this 
soon  yielded  to  remorse  when  she  con- 
sidered her  thoughtless  behavior,  and  how  it 
had  involved  a  poor  young  man  in  deep  mis- 
fortune, and  that  for  no  fault  of  his  own,  but 
owing  to  a  circumstance  which  should  have 
plead  strongly  in  his  favor,  namely,  that  he 
bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  a  most  excel- 
lent saint. 

As  she  looked  more  intently  at  the  pic- 
ture, this  consideration  troubled  her  mind 
more  and  more;  so  that  finally,  unable  to 
endure  any  longer  the  oppressive  air  of  her 
room,  she  set  out  for  a  meditative  walk  in 
the  olive  forest  on  the  hill.  There  she  could 
cool  her  feverish  brow  in  the  freshness  of 
the  open  air,  and  try  to  recover  from  her 
perplexity  and  surprise. 

After  she  had  gone  a  good  piece,  she 
came  to  one  of  those  ruined  houses  which 
are  often  found  on  this  island,  surrounded 
with  blooming  vines  and  flowers.  The  walls 
were  all  covered  with  ivy,  and  many  a  sturdy 
wild  plant  flourished  in  the  rifts  of  the  loose- 
jointed  stones.  She  thought  she  would  rest 
here  for  a  few  moments,  and  gaze  down  the 


mountain  at  the  blue  sea  shimmering 
through  the  network  of  interlacing  boughs 
and  grayish  leaves.  She  was  just  on  the 
point  of  sinking  down  in  the  grass  when  she 
heard  behind  her  a  low  groan.  A  cold  shiv- 
er ran  through  her.  ,  Perhaps  it  was  the 
mournful  voice  of  the  genius  of  the  ruin. 
But  personally  she  felt  that  she  was  proof 
against  the  influences  of  evil  demons;  and 
after  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  two  or 
three  times,  her  courage  increased,  as  did 
also  her  curiosity.  She  ventured  to  take  a 
step  forward,  and  cast  a  searching  look  into 
the  bewildering  tangle  of  plants  and  vines. 
She  saw  she  had  nothing  worse  to  fear  than 
a  man  who  was  lying  there  motionless,  and 
giving  evidence  that  he  was  alive  by  sighs 
and  groans  alone.  By  cautiously  parting 
the  grass  a  little  with  her  hand,  she  recog- 
nized the  face  of  the  very  youth  about  whom 
her  thoughts  were  so  strangely  busied. 

Her  heart  beat  violently  in  her  breast,  and 
her  first  impulse  was  to  retire  as  quickly  as 
possible  from  the  presence  of  one  whose 
identity  so  perplexed  her.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment it  occurred  to  her  that  he  had  probably 
received  serious  injuries  from  the  mob,  and 
was  lying  here  in  the  unconsciousness  of 
fever  and  suffering,  far  from  human  sympa- 
thy and  assistance.  And  she  knew  that  to 
call  in  others  to  his  aid  would  only  increase 
his  danger  and  misfortune.  These  thoughts 
softened  her  heart  a  little — the  first  time  for 
years;  and  so  out  of  pure  womanly  compas- 
sion, she  decided  that  she  would  do  what 
her  duty  did  not  strictly  require,  and  what 
was  hardly  consistent  with  her  severe  sanc- 
tity, for  she  would  be  compelled  this  once 
to  practice  concealment — a  thing  which  her 
proud  nature  had  never  stooped  to  before. 
She  stepped  softly  out  from  the  walls,  and 
hastened  home  by  the  nearest  route.  Here 
she  quietly  filled  a  little  basket  with  wine, 
olive  oil,  fruits,  and  other  kinds  of  refresh- 
ment, and  walked  calmly  through  the  village 
with  it,  as  if  on  one  of  her  usual  errands  of 
mercy  to  the  sick.  Watching  her  opportuni- 
ty, she  soon  glided  aside  between  two  houses 
and  disappeared  among  the  high  olive-trees. 

In  the  mean  while,  Pericles   awoke  from 


248 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


his  sleep  or  stupor,  and  after  slowly  turning 
over  in  his  mind  the  untoward  occurrences 
of  the  day,  he  began  to  feel  of  his  limbs  one 
by  one,  to  see  how  many  of  them  were 
bruised  or  crushed. 

The  result  of  his  examination  was  at  once 
a  surprise  and  a  gratification.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  scarcely  a  spot  on  his  body  wholly 
free  from  cuts  or  bruises;  but  then,  none  of 
them  were  very  serious,  and  he  had  not 
much  difficulty  in  moving  about  and  raising 
himself  up,  though  the  least  exertion  sent  a 
dull  aching  pain  through  every  part  of  him. 
The  most  intolerable  thing  was  his  raging 
thirst.  He  suffered  so  much  from  this 
source,  that  he  was  just  on  the  point  of  leav- 
ing the  shelter  of  the  ruin,  and  dragging 
himself  as  best  he  could  to  some  spring  or 
fountain,  when  his  sharp  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  light  footsteps  coming  up  the 
mountain  in  his  direction.  He  could  scarce- 
ly repress  a  cry  of  joyful  surprise  as  he  rec- 
ognized Kalomira. 

But  just  as  an  experienced  general  takes 
in  at  a  single  glance  the  position  of  the  ene- 
my, unravels  his  motives  and  purposes,  and 
deduces  therefrom  his  own  plan  of  battle 
and  his  various  counterplots,  so,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  did  the  quick-witted 
youth  divine  the  happy  accidents  and  coin- 
cidences of  the  situation.  Noticing  the  hesi- 
tation and  uneasiness  of  the  girl,  he  dropped 
back  quick  as  thought  into  the  grass,  and, 
stretching  himself  out,  began  to  groan  and 
writhe  as  though  he  were  completely  ex- 
hausted by  pain  and  suffering.  This  cun- 
ning artifice  of  his  increased  the  confidence 
of  the  maiden,  and  at  the  same  time  stimu- 
lated her  desire  to  render  some  gracious  as- 
sistance. 

When  she  had  approached,  and  was  lean- 
ing cautiously  and  timidly  over  him,  he  slow- 
ly opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  up  at  her  with 
a  most  pathetic  expression  of  helpless  appeal. 
But  he  neither  moved  nor  spoke  a  single 
word;  for  he  saw  that  he  must  first  gain  her 
confidence  by  an  appearance  of  weakness 
and  prostration. 

His  appealing  look  gave  to  his  eyes  ex- 
actly the  expression  of  a  Saint  John  the 


Baptist,  and  this  only  increased  the  compas- 
sion of  his  Good  Samaritan,  who  at  once  set 
about  her  ministrations  with  spirit  and  zeal. 
She  poured  a  few  drops  of  wine  on  his  lips, 
peeled  and  quartered  some  oranges  and  gave 
them  to  him  piece  by  piece,  until  she  thought 
she  had  strengthened  him  sufficiently  to  en- 
able him  to  help  himself  to  anything  further. 
Then  she  rose  up  quietly,  took  her  little 
basket  (after  she  had  placed  its  contents 
within  easy  reach  of  his  hand),  and  prepared 
to  leave  him  to  himself  and  to  the  healing 
influences  of  nature. 

As  soon  as  he  understood  her  intention,  he 
closed  his  eyes  wearily,  as  if  he  were  swoon- 
ing anew.  She  staid  her  steps,  and  lean- 
ing against  the  wall,  looked  down  at  him. 
And  he  in  turn  peeped  at  her  through  a  tiny 
crevice  between  his  eyelids.  Thus  for  some 
time  they  gazed  at  each  other  in  silent  ad- 
miration. 

Suddenly  Kalomira  remembered  with  as- 
tonishment that  she  had  forgotten  to  make 
use  of  her  gift  of  healing  by  touch.  The 
genuineness  of  her  healing  power  had  often 
been  confirmed  in  the  case  of  other .  sick 
persons,  and  why  might  it  not  avail  in  the 
present  case  also  ?  She  set  down  her  basket, 
and  bending  once  more  over  the  youth, 
laid  her  soft  hand  gently  on  his  forehead, 
and  repeated  a  low  but  earnest  prayer. 

The  sick  man  did  not  rise  ;  but  the  touch 
effected  an  instantaneous  change  in  herself, 
sending  through  her  limbs  a  strange  thrill,  or 
glow,  which  seemed  to  her  both  sweet  and 
painful  in  a  breath — frightening  her,  and  yet 
ensnaring  her  by  its  silent  enchantment. 
She  felt  the  feverish  blood  throbbing  in  his 
temples,  and  seemed  to  feel  it  welling  through 
into  her  own  veins,  and  streaming  up  along 
her  tremulous  hand  into  her  glowing  cheeks. 
At  length  she  tore  herself  violently  away, 
and  rushed  down  the  mountain  side  as  if 
pursued  by  an  enemy. 

Pericles  was  now  once  more  alone  and 
given  up  to  the  companionship  of  his  own 
thoughts.  He  was  strong  enough  now  to 
wander  off  when  and  where  it  pleased  him. 
But  it  pleased  him  to  remain  precisely  where 
he  was,  and  play  the  poor  invalid  a  little 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


249 


longer.  In  this  old  ruin  he  felt  tolerably 
safe  from  the  wrath  of  his  townsmen,  and 
the  place  was  withal  as  pleasant  as  one's 
heart  could  wish.  It  was  spring,  and  the 
nights  were  not  too  cold.  And  how  deli- 
cious it  was  to  bask  in  the  midday  sun,  al- 
ready hot  and  glowing,  but  tempered  and 
subdued  by  the  high  olive-trees  and  by  the 
moist  breath  of  the  sea,  whose  husky  whisper 
reached  even  to  that  high  spot !  No  wonder 
he  decided  to  remain  where  he  was,  and 
felt  that  he  would  reluctantly  have  exchanged 
his  dilapidated  cottage  for  a  splendid  palace. 

The  next  day  and  the  day  following  Kalo- 
mira brought  new  gifts,  and  ministered  to 
him  as  before  with  quiet  assiduity.  It  seemed 
to  her  as  though  she  were  caring  for  a 
motherless  child,  that  was  so  much  the  dearer 
to  her  the  more  completely  its  forsaken  life 
was  intrusted  to  her  hands. 

But  after  the  third  day  of  silent  service,  a 
feeling  of  wonder  began  to  creep  into  her 
mind.  She  could  not  understand  how  it 
was  that  this  sickness  had  such  a  stubborn 
persistence.  The  suspicion  that  her  patient 
might  be  playing  a  part  did  not  even  enter 
her  mind  ;  and  she  was  too  magnanimous  to 
entertain  it  if  it  had.  Accordingly,  her  sym- 
pathy and  grief  increased  to  such  an  extent, 
that  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day  she 
resolved  to  question  him  about  his  sufferings 
when  she  went  again,  thinking  that  in  this 
way  she  could  treat  his  case  more  intelli- 
gently. 

But  when  she  stood  before  him  next  day 
and  was  going  to  speak,  he  opened  his  great 
eyes  and  gazed  full  into  her  face,  which  so 
disconcerted  her  that  she  suddenly  forgot 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  stood  there 
in  confusion,  until,  pitying  her  distress,  Peri- 
cles himself  spoke : 

"Thanks,  fair  saint,"  he  said,  in  a  modest 
voice. 

She  put  up  a  brief  petition  to  her  holy 
Pericles,  and  said,  in  gentle  tones: 

"  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you 
to  relieve  your  suffering?" 

He  thought  for  a  moment;  then  a  cun- 
ning smile  hovered  for  a  moment  about  his 
mouth  as  he  said : 


"They  wounded  my  soul  still  more  than 
my  body  when  they  drove  me  from  your 
sweet  and  saintly  presence.  I  felt  for  you 
only  the  deepest  respect  and  esteem,  and 
when  they  separated  me  from  you  my  soul 
was  so  stricken  that  I  have  become  as  help- 
less as  a  child,  and  cannot  even  move  my 
limbs.  I  can  think  of  only  one  way  to  cure 
me,  and  that  is  for  you  to  really  consider  me 
as  a  child,  if  you  will,  and  treat  me  as  you 
have  so  often  treated  little  children  when 
they  were  sick  and  their  mothers  were  un- 
able to  quiet  them." 

"Then  I  will  lay  my  hands  once  more  on 
your  head  and  bless  you,  and  perhaps  you 
will  recover,"  she  said  quickly,  and  with  a 
beating  heart. 

"No,"  said  Pericles,  "that  is  the  way  you 
do  with  grown  people;  but  you  know  I  am 
only  a  child  now,  and  I  have  heard  that  you 
cure  children  by  lightly  kissing  them  on  the 
mouth." 

The  daring  word  made  Kalomira's  little 
heart  quake,  for  what  he  said  about  the 
children  was  true.  She  thought  she  ought 
to  show  that  she  was  angry,  and  in  all  pious 
sincerity  reprove  so  unbecoming  a  wish. 
But  when  she  saw  how  his  innocent  and  ap- 
pealing eyes  looked  up  at  her,  just  like  those 
of  a  real  child,  and  saw  how  defenseless  he 
lay  there  before  her,  pity  and  sympathy 
again  got  the  upper  hand,  and  she  was  sure 
she  heard  very  plainly  a  sweet  inner  voice 
urging  her  to  grant  his  wish.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  these  inward  spiritual  revelations, 
and  believed  that  they  were  vouchsafed  to 
her  by  the  special  favor  of  heaven.  So  in 
this  instance,  as  in  others,  she  resolved  to 
obey  the  inner  voice.  Besides,  she  consid- 
ered" that  there  in  the  solitude  of  the  forest 
no  one  would  see  what  took  place,  and  final- 
ly reached  this  prudent  decision : 

"Swear  to  me,"  she  said,  "that  if  you 
are  cured  you  will  leave  this  island  to-day 
and  never  return.  If  you  promise  this,  I 
may  perhaps  grant  your  request  and  cure 
you." 

At  first  Pericles  only  shook  his  head  sor- 
rowfully. Soon,  however,  a  sly  smile  quiv- 
ered about  the  rogue's  mouth,  but  was  gone 


250 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


before  Kalomira  perceived  it.  Then  he 
said,  in  a  loud  voice  and  with  earnest  looks: 

"  It  is  too  hard  to  exile  me  for  life  on  ac- 
count of  a  kiss;  but  I  will  consent,  to  go 
away  for  a  year;  and  thus  do  I  swear  by 
Saint  Nicholas,  the  guardian  divinity  of  sea- 
men, that  if  you  cure  me  I  will  sail  to-day 
from  this  island  of  Corcyra,  and  will  not  rest 
my  head  upon  its  soil  for  a  whole  year,  un- 
less you  yourself,  of  your  own  free  will,  re- 
lease me  from  my  vow." 

"I  shall  take  care  not  to  do  that,"  said 
Kalomira  to  herself;  "and  besides,  a  year 
is  a  long  time — long  enough,  at  any  rate,  to 
let  a  little  matter  like  this  be  forgotten." 
And  so  she  prepared  to  perform  the  act  of 
mercy,  her  only  thought  being  how  to  get 
the  disagreeable  thing  over  and  done  with 
as  quickly  as  possible.  She  kneeled  down 
in  the  grass  beside  her  patient,  drew  back 
the  veil  from  her  mouth,  leaned  gently  and 
timidly  over  him,  and  pursing  up  her  lips, 
let  them  rest  upon  his  mouth  with  a  lighter 
and  daintier  touch  than  that  of  a  little  bird 
that  dips  its  bill  in  the  water. 

But  she  could  surely  never  have  dreamed 
what  a  prodigious  healing  power  resided  in 
this  super-delicate  kiss.  On  the  instant,  up 
sprang  the  fiery  youth,  all  his  sickness  gone, 
and  his  limbs  filled  with  fresh  strength, 
threw  his  arms  around  the  terrified  maiden, 
and  paid  her  back  in  kind  by  kissing  her 
more  than  once  on  the  mouth;  and  that  in 
no  bird  fashion,  but  with  the  warmth  of  a 
genuine  man  who  holds  a  beautiful  woman 
in  his  arms.  She  stood  stunned  and  help- 
less for  a  few  seconds;  then  the  saint  in  her 
reasserted  itself.  Collecting  all  her  strength, 
she  hurled  from  her  the  only  too  thoroughly 
cured  patient,  so  that  he  struck  against 
the  wall  with  considerable  force.  Then  with 
clenched  fists  and  flushed  face  she  stood 
there  and  gasped  for  words  with  which  to 
smite  the  conscience  of  the  traitor.  But  she 
was  so  bewildered  that  nothing  else  occurred 
to  her  at  the  moment  except  a  stammering 
question  which  had  long  been  in  her 
thought,  but  which  she  could  scarcely  have 
selected  a  more  inopportune  moment  than 
the  present  for  asking : 


"Who  are  you?"  she  cried  vehemently, 
but  still  with  some  hesitation  and  uncer- 
tainty. 

"Pericles,  son  of  Xanthippos,"  he  said; 
and  recovering  from  his  confusion,  he 
straightened  himself  up  with  a  flush  of  pride. 

This  announcement  destroyed  at  one 
blow  the  last  remnant  of  her  self-possession; 
she  looked  as  if  the  earth  were  going  to 
open  and  swallow  her  up,  and  without  say- 
ing a  word,  but  with  gestures  of  deep  de- 
spair, she  fled  precipitately  from  the  spot. 

Pericles  stood  for  a  moment  lost  in  amaze- 
ment at  the  effect  produced  by  his  name. 
Then  he  raised  his  head  with  a  knowing 
smile,  and  looking  in  the  direction  of  the 
retreating  girl,  said: 

"Pericles,  son  of  Xanthippos,  was  dis- 
tinguished above  all  other  Greeks  for  his 
wisdom,  eloquence,  and  numerous  civic 
virtues." 

When  Kalomira  reached  her  room  she 
hastily  tore  down  the  traitorous  picture  from 
the  wall,  having  resolved  to  destroy  it,  and 
in  so  doing  present  it  as  a  sin-offering  to 
John  the  Baptist,  whom,  as  she  now  saw, 
she  had  for  years  been  defrauding  of  his 
rightful  service  by  offering  her  vows  and 
prayers  to  a  false  prophet,  though  as  yet  her 
artless  mind  could  not  quite  clearly  under- 
stand how  the  sorry  jest  had  come  about. 

She  kindled  in  the  brazier  some  charcoal 
that  had  remained  over  from  last  winter,  and 
then  with  trembling  hand  threw  in  the  bit  of 
paper,  which  instantly  disappeared  in  flame, 
but  not  before  she  had  read  once  more  in 
the  glowing  fire  the  neatly  penned  words, 
"Pericles,  son  of  Xanthippos." 

When  the  fire  had  done  its  work  and  the 
paper  had  wholly  disappeared,  she  detected 
a  gnawing  pain  in  her  heart,  as  if  the  fire 
were  burning  there  too;  and  by  this  she 
knew  that  she  had  done  right,  and  that  it  was 
high  time  for  her  to  act.  But  she  found  that, 
in  part  at  least,  the  sacrifice  had  been  in 
vain;  for  the  form  of  the  living  original  of 
the  picture  stood  before  her  eyes  only  the 
fresher  and  brighter,  as  if  by  some  palingen- 
esis it  had  risen  from  the  ashes  of  the  per- 
ished image;  and  the  closer  she  shut  her 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


251 


eyes  and  covered  them  with  her  hands,  the 
plainer  did  she  see  what  she  was  trying  to 
forget. 

By  chafing  and  fretting  over  this,  she 
worked  herself  into  a  perfect  heat  of  anxiety 
and  bewilderment;  she  was  sure  she  would 
never  dare  to  show  herself  again  to  the 
people  and  exercise  her  healing  .power 
among  them;  for  she  felt  that  her  maiden 
austerity  had  received  a  severe  blow.  In 
her  veins  burned  a  hidden  fire  that  was  any- 
thing but  a  sacred  censer-flame. 

She  thought  of  confessing  everything  to 
Chrysikopulos,  but  she  seemed  to  see  a  sub- 
tle and  mocking  smile  on  his  face,  and  to 
hear  his  quiet  voice  saying: 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  try  any  longer  to  lead  a 
peculiar  life.  You  have  done  your  duty  and 
received  your  reward;  now  be  willing  to  lead 
a  quiet  and  contented  life  like.other  women." 
But  this  was  just  what  she  could  not  bear  to 
do;  she  was  unwilling  to  fall  from  her  heaven 
of  privilege,  and  become  a  discrowned 
queen.  She  wanted  to  fulfill  her  mission. 

So  she  finally  came  to  the  resolution  to 
quietly  leave  the  house  and  the  village,  and 
confide  her  secret  to  the  hermit-nun  Anasta- 
sia,  at  whose  house,  as  she  well  knew,  many  a 
poor  maiden  had  found  consolation  and  ad- 
vice. She  got  together  a  few  simple  gifts  for 
the  nun,  and  then  wandered  down  through 
the  olive  forest  to  the  little  gulf  of  Kaliopulos 
— once  the  famous  harbor  of  the  Corcy- 
rseans,  but  now  choked  up  with  mud  and 
reeds.  At  the  mouth  of  this  small  gulf  stand 
two  rocky  islets,  or  crags,  each  of  which  has 
its  sanctuary,  namely,  a  chapel,  and  a  di- 
minutive monastic  building  for  the  use  of 
those  who  look  after  the  chapel  and  ad- 
minister its  sacred  rites.  The  smaller  of 
these  islands  is  distant  scarcely  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  farther  shore,  and  a  minute's 
leisurely  walk  will  take  one  around  it :  here 
in  pious  seclusion  dwelt  the  good  nun  Ana- 
stasia,  as  guardian  and  priestess  of  her  little 
church. 

Kalomira  was  rowed  over  by  a  boatman, 
and  warmly  welcomed  by  the  nun,  to  whom 
she  at  once  made  confession,  sobbing  and 
sighing  as  she  told  her  story,  and  expressed 


the  fear  that  her  divine  gift  had  departed 
from  her;  for  she  said  that  since  she  had  re- 
ceived those  burning  kisses  on  her  mouth, 
she  no  longer  took  any  pleasure  in  the  exer- 
cise of  her  sacred  office. 

As  she  finished  her  confession,  Anastasia 
stripped  the  veil  from  her  face,  and  gave  her 
such  a  stern  and  searching  look  that  she 
blushed  still  deeper  than  before,  and  ended' 
by  bursting  into  tears.  But  the  old  nun  said : 

"Many  a  pure  maiden  has  suffered  a 
wrong  like  this,  and  no  harm  come  of  it, 
provided  the  matter  was  hushed  up  in  time. 
And  so  in  this  case,  it  will  not  be  so  very 
difficult  to  effect  a  speedy  and  thorough  puri- 
fication by  means  of  moderate  penance — 
especially  since  the  sin  was  committed 
against  your  will.  But  if  you  prefer  to  be 
alone  for  a  short  time,  and  make  proof  of 
your  agitated  heart,  then  remain  with  me 
for  a  few  days,  or  even  weeks  if  necessary. 
I  will  give  you  a  chamber  over  mine;  re- 
main quietly  there,  and  soothe  your  soul  by 
prayer  and  by  the  contemplation  of  the  sea. 
If  your  peace  of  mind  is  not  re-established 
by  these  means,  then  we  must  employ  more 
serious  measures." 

The  nun  smiled  a  little  as  she  thus  spoke. 
Kalomira  kissed  her  hands,  and  humbly 
begged  permission  to  remain  with  her  for  a 
short  space  of  time.  Anastasia  replied  by 
pressing  her  hand  warmly,  and  leading  her 
up  a  little  stairway  to  a  lowly  room,  the  only 
furniture  of  which  consisted  of  a  poor  cot- 
bed  and  a  prayer-stool.  Leaving  her  guest 
in  this  little  eyrie,  she  descended  the  stairs, 
and  betook  herself  to  the  waiting  boatman, 
whom  she  enjoined  to  hasten  to  Gasturi, 
and  there  inform  the  priest  of  the  where- 
abouts of  his  daughter,  so  that  nobody  need 
.feel  any  anxiety  about  her. 

As  Kalomira  was  watching  the  returning 
boatman  from  her  little  window,  she  saw 
another  boat  put  off  from  the  island  of  Pan- 
tokrator  (sometimes  styled  "The  Ship  of 
Odysseus").  This  second  boat  made  directly 
for  the  other,  and  when  it  came  within  speak- 
ing distance,  the  man  who  sat  in  it  exchanged  a 
few  words  with  the  ferryman.  Then  he  rowed 
back  with  slower  strokes  to  the  island,  and  in 


252 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


such  a  way  that  Kalomira  could  not  see  his 
face.  Now  she  knew  that  the  sole  dwellers  in 
the  little  monastery  were  the  two  monks,  for 
she  had  often  seen  them  walking  meditatively 
beneath  the  high  cypress  trees ;  and  she  won- 
dered not  a  little  that  these  quiet  hermits 
should  exhibit  so  great  a  curiosity  to  know 
who  was  visiting  their  neighbor  the  nun,  for 
it  did  not  seem  to  her  that  the  brief  exchange 
of  words  could  have  had  any  other  motive. 

When  dusk  melted  into  night  the  stars 
hung  trembling  in  the  blue  heaven,  and  be- 
neath in  the  infinite  silence  stretched  the 
shining  sea;  and  ever  and  anon  a  fish  leaped 
into  the  air,  scattering  around  him  a  shower 
of  golden  sparks,  and  leaving  as  he  sank  a 
series  of  rippling  rings  to  widen  outward 
into  evanescence.  As  the  quiet  and  beauty 
of  this  scene  stole  into  her  soul,  Kalomira 
felt  how  wise  had  been  the  advice  of  the 
nun  that  she  should  look  out  over  the  sea. 
Already  a  gentle  peace  filled  her  heart.  And 
soon  after,  when  the  moon  rose  above  the 
sea,  she  retired  from  the  window  and  knelt 
down  in  the  deeper  shadow  of  the  room  to 
pray;  for  her  heart  was  still  too  excited  to 
permit  her  to  sleep. 

Suddenly,  to  her  terror,  she  heard  the  clear 
notes  of  a  song  floating  up  from  the  sea. 
She  thought  she  recognized  the  voice;  the 
tune  and  the  words  she  knew  very  well :  they 
formed  glowing  little  love-songs,  such  as  are 
common  among  the  young  folks  of  the  isl- 
and. She  had  often  heard  these  love-ditties 
sung  beneath  neighbors'  windows,  but  never, 
it  seemed  to  her,  in  such  soft  and  tremu- 
lous, passionate  tones.  Formerly  such  love- 
songs  had  only  excited  her  scorn ;  now  they 
filled  her  heart  with  fear.  She  could  only 
hope  that  her  senses  had  deceived  her,  or 
that  the  singing  was  that  of  the  nereids 
sporting  in  the  water  below,  and  trying  by 
their  arts  to  tantalize  and  befool  her  and 
make  her  forget  her  holy  duties;  for  she  had 
heard  it  said  that  the  nereids  were  beautiful 
indeed,  and  were  for  the  most  part  friendly 
to  people,  but  that  they  were  not  any  too 
well  disposed  toward  Christianity.  Her 
mind  was  distracted  by  the  most  conflicting 
emotions  ;  she  did  not  dare  to  go  to  the 


window,  but  remained  upon  her  knees  until 
she  could  endure  the  inner  unrest  no  longer, 
and  hastened  down-stairs  to  the  nun. 

Anastasia  was  nodding  a  little  over  her 
rosary,  and  had  heard  nothing  of  the  singing 
outside.  Kalomira  aroused  her  and  hastily 
told  her  of  the  new  dangers  that  threatened 
her.  But  the  nun  shook  her  head,  and 
said: 

"What  do  you  mean  by  telling  me  that 
such  singing  comes  from  the  nereids?  Why 
should  they  imitate  a  man's  voice?  It  seems 
much  more  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
young  fellow  from  whom  you  are  fleeing  is 
out  yonder,  singing  his  love-songs." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  Kalomira;  "you 
know  he  has  sworn  not  to  lay  his  head  on 
the  island  for  a  year." 

"Then  he  has  broken  his  oath,"  said  the 
nun  quietly. 

"No,  no! "cried  the  girl  impetuously,  "he 
has  not  done  that;  he  cannot  do  that;  that 
is  impossible." 

"Who  told  you  to  be  so  sure?  Many  a 
man  has  broken  faith  when  goaded  on  by 
his  passions." 

"But  not  this  one.  This  one  cannot  be 
a  perjurer.  I  am  sure  of  it.  My  heart  tells 
me  so  in  such  loud  tones  that  I  must  obey 
it.  It  is  impossible  that  this  young  man 
should  sin  against  the  most  sacred  things." 

Here  Anastasia  nodded  thrice  in  a  know- 
ing manner,  and  said: 

"Alas  for  the  maiden  who  listens  to  what 
her  heart  tells  her.!  But  very  well;  remain 
here  and  consult  a  little  further  with  that 
heart  of  yours,  which  I  sadly  fear  will  cause 
you  a  good  deal  of  trouble  yet.  In  the 
mean  time  I  will,  for  your  sake,  take  my  boat 
and  row  out  a  little  into  the  cool  dusk,  to 
take  a  bit  of  a  peep  at  what  you  call  your 
nereids." 

So  said,  so  done.  The  old  woman  cov- 
ered her  face  with  a  white  veil,  stepped  out 
into  the  moonlight,  unfastened  her  skiff,  and 
propelling  it  with  vigorous  strokes,  began  to 
fetch  a  wide  circle  about  her  little  island. 
She  had  no  need  to  exert  herself,  however, 
for  in  a  moment  she  saw  another  boat  mak- 
ing rapidly  for  her,  and  when  it  was  quite 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


253 


near,  the  occupant  drew  in  his  oars,  and 
opened  his  arms  in  a  passionate  manner,  as 
if  longing  to  embrace  her  whom  he  was  ap- 
proaching. 

But  the  valiant  Anastasia  brandished  her 
single  oar  in  a  threatening  and  energetic 
manner,  at  the  same  time  throwing  back  her 
veil  and  letting  the  moon  shine  full  upon 
her  face.  It  was  a  face  to  win  respect,  and 
one  possessed  of  beauty  withal,  but  by  no 
means  young  or  fascinating;  and  just  at  that 
moment  it  was  almost  frightful  in  its  expres- 
sion of  righteous  wrath. 

"Perjurer!"  she  cried.  And  Pericles 
dropped  his  arms  and  drew  back  as  hastily 
as  if  her  heavy  paddle  had  really  struck  him. 
Yet  almost  instantly  he  took  in  the  situation, 
and  seeing  that  the  nun  knew  his  secret,  he 
burst  out  impetuously  with: 

"Not  so,  mother :  you  are  wrong ;  my  oath 
is  still  unbroken.  I  swore  not  to  rest  my 
head  upon  our  island  of  Corcyra  within  the 
space  of  a  year,  and  I  am  keeping  my  oath. 
For  every  night  I  sleep  in  the  monastery  on 
the  island  of  Pantokrator  (which  is  not 
Corcyra),  and  if  I  choose  to  roam  over  the 
main  island  in  the  daytime,  why,  I  am  not 
in  the  least  hindered  by  my  oath." 

Anastasia  saw  that  she  had  to  do  with  a 
cunning  fellow,  and  she  felt  very  anxious 
about  her  protege.  But  since  she  could  not 
now  reproach  him  with  perjury,  she  only  said, 
in  a  stern  voice : 

"Why  do  you  haunt  the  steps  of  our  holy 
maiden,  and  disturb  her  peace?  She  utterly 
scorns  you,  and  wants  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  you." 

Pericles  took  a  moment  to  think  of  his 
answer,  and  then  calmly  replied : 

"If  Kalomira  cares  nothing  for  me,  how 
can  I  disturb  her  peace  by  singing  my  songs 
on  the  free  and  open  sea?  And  more: 
how  does  she  know  that  they  are  meant  for 
her  and  not  for  you,  mother  Anastasia? 
You  stand  high  in  the  thoughts  of  all  the 
people,  and  not  least  so  in  my  own.  But  I 
see  very  well  that  my  singing  has  gained 
some  entrance  to  her  heart,  and  I  take  it  as 
a  good  omen.  I  understand  her  struggling 
and  rebellious  mind:  she  wants  to  keep  the 


prestige  of  her  sacred  office,  and  not  lose  her 
honors ;  so  she  hardens  herself  against  love, 
and  against  me,  who  alone  have  dared  to 
woo  her,  in  spite  of  the  people  of  both  vil- 
lages. And  it  is  on  her  account  that  I  am 
bitterly  persecuted  and  hunted  down  like  a 
wild  beast.  Now  I  am  tired  of  this  sort  of 
thing.  Listen  to  what  I  will  do.  I  will 
make  this  proud  girl  a  new  offer,  which  will 
free  her  from  me  as  soon  as  she  pleases; 
and  I  will  take  a  new  oath,  clearer  and  more 
binding  than  the  old  one.  Tell  her,  please, 
what  I  say,  and  let  her  know  that  neither 
here  nor  wherever  else  she  may  be  will  I 
cease  my  singing  until  she  accepts  the  new 
compact.  My  life  is  of  no  value  without 
her  and  her  love,  and  I  will  not  go  from 
here  until  I  have  enjoyed  a  single  moment 
of  blessedness.  Tell  her  that  if  she  will 
give  me  one  more  kiss  it  shall  be  the  last  I 
will  ever  ask.  For  I  swear  by  the  All-Holy 
One  that  I  will  never  again  set  my  foot  on 
land  that  holds  her,  nor  will  I  linger  in  the 
neighborhood  of  such  land,  but  as  long  as 
she  lives  I  will  be  as  far  from  her  as  a  ghost 
in  Hades — unless  she  herself  comes,  and  of 
her  own  free  will  brings  me  back,  and  so  re- 
leases me  from  my  oath.  Thus  will  I  swear ; 
and  do  you  lay  before  her  the  terms  of  the 
compact.  But  they  must  be  agreed  to  this 
very  night,  for  my  heart  so  burns  for  love  of 
her  that  I  can  find  rest  neither  on  land  nor 
sea  until  my  wish  is  fulfilled." 

The  nun  looked  suspiciously  into  his  face 
while  he  was  making  this  strange  proposal, 
hesitating  and  asking  herself  whether  she 
dared  to  grant  his  request.  But  at  last  she 
said  to  herself  that,  in  a  strange  situation,  it 
is  always  most  prudent  to  come*  to  a  quick 
decision,  and  look  things  straight  in  the 
face.  "Besides,"  she  thought,  "if  this 
young  girl  is  serious  in  her  refusal  of  him  a 
single  kiss  more  will  not  do  her  any  great 
injury — provided  the  boy  keeps  his  oath, 
and  never  sees  her  again.  But  if  he  breaks 
his  vow  he  will  in  any  case  become  so 
mean  and  despicable  in  her  eyes  that  her 
heart  will  turn  from  him  with  shuddering, 
and  he  will  never  dare,  for  very  shame,  to 
come  into  her  presence  again.  Hence  it  is 


254 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


best  to  grant  his  wish,  although  I  still  have 
little  faith  in  him." 

So  she  nodded  her  assent,  rowed  side  by 
side  with  him  to  the  island,  and  permitted 
him  to  land  there,  stipulating  that  he  must 
wait  without  while  she  went  into  the  house 
to  speak  with  Kalomira. 

He  remained  alone  for  some  time,  agitated 
and  anxious.  Upon  sea  and  mountain 
rested  a  silence  as  deep  as  if  he  were  the 
only  living  man  in  a  deserted  world ;  yet  he 
carried  in  his  breast  a  resolution  which  in  a 
few  hours  might  be  the  means  of  number- 
ing him  with  the  dead. 

When  the  nun  at  last  appeared  she  was 
leading  Kalomira  by  the  hand.  When  Peri- 
cles saw  that  she  had  hidden  her  face  deep 
in  her  veil,  he  said : 

"If  you  are  going  to  grant  my  request,  re- 
move the  veil  from  your  head  so  that  I  can 
take  my  vow  before  your  open  countenance." 

She  complied  without  a  word,  and  as  she 
threw  back  the  veil  over  her  shoulder,  Peri- 
cles saw  that  she  was  as  pale  as  death. 
Then  in  a  trembling  voice  he  uttered  his 
vow  in  the  way  he  had  promised  Anastasia. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  threw  his  arms 
around  the  fair  girl,  who  was  powerless  to 
forbid  him,  and  kissed  her  mouth  and  her 
eyes.  Her  eyelashes  were  wet  with  tears, 
and  she  secretly  returned  his  kiss,  for  she 
thought  she  should  never  see  him  on  earth 
again,  and  yet  knew  at  this  moment  that  she 
had  acquired  an  ardent  affection  for  him, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  pride  and  her 
duty  she  would  have  liked  to  hold  him  fast 
in  her  arms  forever. 

After  Pericles  had  enjoyed  for  a  brief 
moment  such  sweet  bliss,  he  suddenly  raised 
his  head  and  said  in  a  loud  and  firm  voice: 

"Now  I  will  not  only  explain  the  vow  I 
have  taken,  but  I  will  make  an  addition  to 
it.  I  have  promised  not  again  to  set  foot 
upon  land  that  holds  you,  Kalomira.  I  will 
go  farther,  and  swear  by  all  the  saints  that  I 
will  never  set  foot  again  on  any  ground  what- 
soever, neither  upon  the  mainland,  nor  upon 
an  island,  nor  a  rock,  nor  even  a  ship,  but 
the  water  alone  shall  bear  me  up  as  long  as 
it  can.  For  if  you  value  your  sacred  name 


more  than  my  love,  then  I  will  sooner  die 
than  forego  your  love.  Therefore  I  now 
depart  forever  from  you  and  from  the  earth 
— unless  you  yourself  shall  fetch  me  back, 
and  by  your  own  act  annul  my  oath." 

So  saying,  he  sprang  just  as  he  was  from 
the  rock  into  the  sea,  and  began  to  swim 
away  from  the  island  with  strong  and  steady 
strokes. 

Both  women  gave  a  loud  shriek  as  they 
divined  the  meaning  of  his  wild  vow,  and 
Kalomira  sank  down  upon  her  knees.  But 
Anastasia  said : 

"Now  indeed  I  feel  compassion  for  this 
bold  and  faithful  youth,  whom  every  stroke 
of  his  arm  is  bringing  nearer  to  death.  Yet 
I  cannot  help  him,  for  his  oath  binds  me 
also.  I  will  go  into  my  little  chapel  and 
pray  for  his  soul  and  for  yours." 

Kalomira  remained  upon  her  knees;  her 
whole  soul  was  filled  with  shuddering  and 
dismay,  and  she  stared  after  the  swimmer 
with  a  fixed,  mechanical  gaze.  She  well 
knew  that  he  was  terribly  in  earnest,  as  she 
saw  him  throwing  arm  over  arm  in  steady 
stroke,  and  swimming  as  though  he  were 
striving  toward  some  splendid  goal.  But 
she  lay  there  in  helpless  agony  while  the 
minutes  flew  by.  She  knew  that  she  could 
save  him,  she  alone  of  all  persons  in  the 
world,  and  that  there  was  yet  time;  but 
then  he  would  be  released  from  his  oath; 
then  he  would  be  possessed  of  all  power 
over  her;  for  she  felt  that  she  would  no 
longer  be  able  to  resist  him.  And  then  ever 
afterward  she  would  be  looked  upon  by  the 
people  as  one  who  had  been  false  to  her 
duty,  almost  an  apostate.  And  shorn  of 
her  splendid  endowment,  she  would  have  to 
cast  down  her  eyes  -in  the  presence  of  those 
before  whom  she  had  once  carried  her  head 
so  high. 

Moreover,  he*r  heart  was  filled  with  a 
vague  dread  of  some  divine  punishment  im- 
pending over  her,  just  as  before  a  thunder- 
storm the  wind  is  oppressed  with  heavy 
foreboding  of  coming  evil.  And  this  tempest 
of  anxiety,  this  dread  uncertainty  as  to  the 
will  of  the  omnipotent  Being  above  the 
clouds,  drove  all  other  thoughts  out  of  her 


1883.] 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


255 


mind.  A  greater  burden  than  she  could 
bear  had  been  laid  upon  her  shoulders ;  her 
sacred  office  had  in  a  moment  become  a 
crushing  incubus,  and  she  would  gladly  have 
exchanged  all  her  glory  and  all  her  honors 
for  a  single  word  or  sign  from  heaven  assuring 
her  of  pardon — bare  pardon  and  no  more — 
incase  she  broke  her  unspoken  vow  of  virgin 
consecration. 

She  shut  her  eyes  convulsively  so  as  not 
to  see  the  tragedy  that  was  soon  to  be  en- 
acted out  yonder  on  the  sea;  she  pressed 
both  hands  to  her  face,  sank  upon  the 
ground,  and  bowed  her  forehead  to  the  cold 
rock,  when  suddenly  her  ear  seemed  to  catch 
a  low  gasping  sound,  like  the  sigh  of  a  dying 
person;  it  was  really  only  a  sigh  from  her 
own  breast,  but  seemed  so  foreign  to  her 
that  she  thought  it  must  have  come  from  a 
distance.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stared 
wildly  out  over  the  sea  toward  the  hapless 
swimmer. 

He  was  already  so  far  from  land  that  he 
could  hardly  get  back  again,  even  if  he  had 
wanted  to  do  so;  according  to  all  human 
calculation  his  strength  would  have  failed 
long  before  he  reached  the  shore.  And  yet 
farther  and  farther  he  swam;  she  saw  the 
quiet,  measured  movement  of  his  arms,  and 
knew  that  every  stroke  was  bringing  him 
with  unerring  certainty  nearer  to  a  dreadful 
end.  And  there  in  the  gleaming  moonlight 
lay  the  silent  and  inexorable  sea;  far  and 
wide  no  ship,  no  boat,  was  to  be  seen.  And 
still  the  head  of  the  swimmer  was  held 
barely  above  the  water ;  yet  look !  merciful 
heaven,  he  has  disappeared!  but  no,  he 
again  emerges,  and  strikes  out  with  greater 
energy  than  before.  His  head  had  gone 
under  but  for  a  moment,  and  perhaps  in  the 
attempt  to  voluntarily  cut  short  the  pain  and 
agony  of  the  weary  struggle.  But  that  sin- 
gle moment  had  sufficed  to  decide  the  long 
struggle  in  the  heart  of  Kalomira. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  she  prayed,  in  low  but 
passionate  tones,  "punish  me,  torture  me, 
slay  me,  only  let  me  save  him !  For  thou 
seest  that  without  me  he  is  utterly  lost ! " 

So  saying  she  leaped  into'  the  skiff,  and 
bending  to  the  oars  with  the  energy  of 


despair,  flew  like  an  arrow  over  the  water  in 
the  direction  of  the  distant  swimmer.  Grad- 
ually the  space  between  them  lessened,  and 
Kalomira  loudly  called  to  him  by  name;  he 
turned  his  head,  but  kept  swimming  on, 
although  with  slower  and  fainter  strokes,  for 
he  was  determined  to  carry  out  the  very  let- 
ter of  his  vow,  even  to  the  uttermost.  Yet 
nearer  and  nearer  came  the  boat,  and  ever 
lighter  grew  the  spirits  of  the  brave  girl;  and 
now  at  last,  thank  God !  she  is  at  his  side, 
and  reaches  out  her  hands  to  save  him.  He 
had  strength  enough  left  to  seize  them  and 
to  raise  himself  over  the  side  of  the  boat, 
then  fainted  away  and  lay  stretched  out  pale 
and  inanimate  at  the  feet  of  his  preserver. 
Kalomira  kissed  him  passionately  on  the 
mouth,  hoping  that  her  kisses  might  now  be 
as  potent  to  restore  him  to  strength  as  they 
had  recently  been  when  he  lay  ill  in  the 
olive  forest.  But  it  was  evident  that  now, 
in  good  sooth,  her  divine  gift  had  departed 
from  her. 

She  rowed  back  to  the  island  with  as  much 
haste  as  possible,  and  called  to  the  nun  to 
come  at  once  and  help  her.  "  O  Anastasia," 
she  said  apologetically,  "I  couldn't  help  it; 
I  have  brought  him  back." 

The  nun  only  smiled  approvingly,  and  to- 
gether they  lifted  up  the  inanimate  youth, 
carried  him  into  the  chapel,  and  laid  him 
down  under  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mother, 
to  implore  her  help  in  his  behalf.  But  while 
they  prayed  they  also  worked,  and  that  right 
valiantly,  employing  for  restoratives  such 
remedies  as  were  within  their  power — wine, 
friction,  warmth,  etc. — until  at  length  their 
prayers  and  their  efforts  were  rewarded,  and 
fresh  life  animated  the  limbs  of  the  spent 
swimmer. 

Early  the  next  morning  Anastasia  sent 
the  ferryman  to  fetch  Chrysikopulus;  for 
during  the  night  Kalomira  had  fallen  into 
such  a  state  of  despondency  that  nothing 
could  arouse  her.  When  Chrysikopulus 
came  and  saw  how  things  had  gone,  and 
at  the  same  time  Teamed  how  heavily  the 
consciousness  of  her  lapse  from  duty  bore 
upon  his  daughter's  mind,  he  smiled  kindly, 
and  said  as  he  caressed  her: 


256 


Pericles  and  Kalomira. 


[Sept. 


"All  may  yet  be  well,  if  we  will  only  have 
patience  with  our  good  people,  and  give 
them  time  to  gradually  disabuse  their  minds 
of  a  long-cherished  delusion.  As  for  you 
two,  I  will  at  once  unite  you  in  legal  mar- 
riage-bonds, here  in  this  sacred  retreat.  I 
may  be  slightly  censured  for  it;  but  no  mat- 
ter. You  had  better  live  together  a  month 
here  in  concealment,  and  under  the  care  of 
Sister  Anastasia;  at  the  end  of  that  time,. 
Kalomira  shall  return  to  my  house,  and  live 
there  as  before,  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. And  when  a  fitting  time  comes,  I 
will  reveal  all  to  our  good  people." 

Everything  took  place  as  he  had  advised. 
After  a  month  of  secret  happiness,  Pericles 
went  into  -voluntary  banishment  with  the 
monks  on  their  island,  serving  them  in  the 
capacity  of  fisher,  and  keeping  his  marriage- 
troth  through  long  months  of  self-denial. 
The  young  wife  went  back  to  Gasturi,  and 
exercised  her  gift  of  blessing,  and  received 
her  tithes  as  before.  No  one  got  the  least 
inkling  of  what  had  happened,  though  there 
were  some  who  wondered  not  a  little  to  see 
again  in  Kalomira's  face  the  sparkle  and 
freshness  and  vivacity  of  childhood. 

But  they  were  far  from  being  displeased 
at  it,  for  the  good  fortune  and  prosperity  of 
the  land  seemed  to  grow  only  the  greater, 
and  in  all  their  labors  the  people  were 
blessed. 

One  day  at  the  priest's  house  a  little  child 
came  into  the  world.  It  was  Kalomira's 
best  gift  to  the  people.  When  the  christen- 
ing day  came,  Chrysikopulos  called  together 
the  whole  parish,  showed  them  the  infant, 
and  said : 

"As  you  know,  our  daughter  was  endowed 
by  heaven  with  special  gifts,  which  she  exer- 
cised for  the  advantage  of  us  all.  But  it 
would  be  an  error  if  you  supposed  that 
heaven  meant  at  the  same  time  to  deprive 
Kalomira  herself  of  the  sweet  joys  of  domes- 
tic life,  and  compel  her  to  live  for  your  wel- 
fare alone.  No,  the  powers  above  do  not 
make  such  conditions  and  restrictions. 
Upon  him  whom  they  wish  to  bless,  they 
freely  shower  down  the  fullness  of  their  love, 
expecting  no  return  therefor.  And  of  the 


truth  of  this  you  shall  now  have  valid  proof. 
Can  anybody  say  that  during  the  past  year 
the  land  has  been  less  fruitful  than  before? 
Have  not  your  autumnal  vines  and  your 
winter  olives  yielded  bountiful  harvests? 
Has  any  general  calamity  befallen  you? 
Have  there  been  more  sick  people  and  more 
deaths  among  us  this  year  than  before?  If 
so,  I  have  not  heard  of  them ;  on  the  con- 
trary, our  community  is  flourishing  more  vig- 
orously than  any  other  on  the  island.  And 
yet,  you  are  now  to  learn  that  for  nearly  a 
year  our  blessing-child  has  been  a  lawful 
wife.  And  as  a  token  that  no  saint  is  angry 
with  you,  this  infant  has  been  bestowed  upon 
you,  and  you  are  to  hold  it  in  the  same  hon- 
or as  you  did  its  mother.  For  the  child  is 
destined  to  bring  you  new  happiness  and 
blessing.  And  so  I  require  of  you  that  you 
all  now  publicly  confirm  the  secret  marriage 
of  my  dear  daughter  Kalomira,  and  give  her 
your  good  wishes.  And  whoever  refuses 
this  shall  not  partake  of  the  new  blessing." 

When  Chrysikopulos  ceased  speaking,  a 
buzz  of  amazement  at  first  ran  through  the 
crowd,  but  it  soon  swelled  to  loud  shouts  of 
approbation  and  ever-increasing  j ubilee.  And 
so  between  the  recreant  Kalomira  and  her 
protectors  peace  was  declared  before  war 
was  begun.  And  fortune  continued  to  smile 
upon  the  people,  and  not  least  upon  the  new 
house  which  Pericles,  son  of  Xanthippos, 
founded  in  Gasturi. 

In  later  years  people  spoke  with  pride  of 
his  numerous  civic  virtues;  as  for  wisdom 
and  eloquence,  Chrysikopulos  used  to  declare 
that  he  had  always  had  a  trifle  too  much  of 
these. 

NOTE. — Hans  Hoffmann,  the  author  of  the  preced- 
ing dainty  little  love-tale,  is  a  rising  young  German 
scholar,  who  for  the  past  year  or  two  has  been  travel- 
ing and  studying  in  Greece.  He  has  published  other 
works,  including  a  volume  of  charming  poems.  The 
translator's  attention  was  called  to  the  present  story 
of  Greek  island  life  by  a  German  friend  and  author, 
resident  in  Trieste.  The  piece  has  already  found 
many  admirers,  and  is  destined  to  find  many  more. 
In  artlessness  and  sweet  simplicity,  it  resembles 
nothing  so  much  as  Fouqu^'s  "Undine";  and  yet,  as 
a  whole,  it  is  unique— the  work  of  an  artist  who  knows 
how  to  conceal  his  art,  and  stamp  upon  his  work  the 
freshness  and  charm  of  nature  herself. 

William  Sloane  Kennedy. 


1883.]  Mistaken.  257 


MISTAKEN. 

TOGETHER  through  the  afternoon's  sweet  hours 
They  sat  upon  the  porch;  the  grape-vine  turned 
To  cooling  shade  the  sultry  heat  that  burned 

The  distant  meadows.     Red  geranium  flowers 

Flamed  down  the  path.     No  beauty  of  the  scene 

Was  lost  to  him  :   he  saw  the  yellowing  grain, 

The  little  cloud  that  promised  gift  of  rain, 
The  purple  bloom  amid  the  vines'  dark  green, 

And  all  the  queenly  summer's  glow  and  grace; 

He  heard  the  fine  small  sounds  dull  ears  do  miss — 

The  while  he  spoke  or  read  of  that  or  this. 
And  she — she  heard  his  voice,  she  saw  his  face. 

She  listened  with  her  soul  the  while  he  read; 

Never  before  was  poet's  song  so  dear, 

Never  was  subtle  reasoning  so  clear; 
And  so — and  so  the  happy  moments  sped. 

He  closed  the  book ;   the  day  was  dying ;  in 
The  west  the  sky  was  one  great  bank  of  gold, 
As  though  a  world's  pure  sunshine  all  were  rolled 

Into  one  mass ;  he  said,  "This  day  has  been 

"Most  perfect  and  most  dear;  I  grieve  that  I 

Shall  see  its  like  no  more,  because  I  go 

Away  to-morrow.     Ah !  you  did  not  know  ? 
To-morrow,  friend;  and  this,  this  is  good  by." 

Saying  good  by  again,  he  turned  away, 

Pausing  to  look  out  to  the  west:    no  flaw 

Was  in  the  perfect  sunset  that  he  saw; 
To  her  its  gold  had  turned  to  dullest  gray. 

What  was  amiss,  that  she  should  seek  her  room, 
And  thrust  the  book  of  poems  from  her  sight ; 
And  from  her  breast,  as  though  it  were  a  blight, 

Tear  angrily  his  gift  of  fragrant  bloom? 

What  was  amiss?     Let  any  woman  tell, 

Who  for  true  love  has  read  love's  every  token ; 
Nor  dreamed  that  cautious  lips  could  leave  unspoken 
All  that  the  truthless  eyes  had  told  so  well. 

Carlotta  Perry. 
VOL.  II.— 17. 


258 


Our  New  Bell. 


[Sept. 


PIONEER   SKETCHES.— III.     OUR   NEW   BELL. 


TWICE  within  three  months  had  our  little 
mountain  town  been  literally  swept  out  of 
existence  by  the  flames,  and  as  the  general 
opinion  seemed  to  be  that  a  good  fire-bell, 
to  carry  the  alarm  up  and  down  the  gulches 
and  canons  amongst  which  the  town  was 
situated,  would  have  prevented  the  general 
devastation  which  had  occurred,  a  collection 
had  been  taken  up  for  that  purpose,  the  bell 
had  arrived  from  'Frisco  and  had  been  prop- 
erly hung,  and  we  were  all  looking  forward 
with  much  anxiety  to  the  time  when  its  first 
alarm  should  be  sounded.  Numerous  wagers 
would  then  be  decided  as  to  who  would  be 
the  most  prompt  in  responding  to  its  call. 

How  well  I  remember  when  that  first 
alarm  came!  The  town  had  been  deserted 
much  earlier  than  usual  that  night,  as  the 
first  rain  of  the  season  had  just  begun;  be- 
fore the  night  was  far  advanced  all  the  lights 
had  been  extinguished  and  the  miners  had 
repaired  to  their  cabins,  when  suddenly  the 
loud  and  rapid  clanging  of  the  bell  awoke 
the  echoes  of  the  hills,  startling  every  one 
who  heard  it  with  its  fierce  and  terrible  cry 
for  help.  A  moment  afterwards  cabin  doors 
flew  open  in  every  direction,  and  all  eyes 
were  turned  towards  the  town,  expecting  to 
see  the  flames  once  more  lighting  up  the 
heavens  as  they  rushed  onward  in  their  work 
of  destruction. 

But  no  such  sight  met  our  gaze ;  instead 
of  that,  our  little  town  lay  shrouded  in  total 
darkness;  but  out  of  that  darkness  still  came 
the  ceaseless  clamor  of  the  bell,  its  mysteri- 
ous and  piercing  cry  causing  the  blood  to 
fairly  tingle  in  our  veins  and  our  hearts  to 
throb  with  unwonted  energy.  It  took  us 
but  a  moment  to  realize  that  it  was  not  fire 
we  were  this  time  called  upon  to  battle ;  we 
all  felt  that  some  great  and  terrible  trouble 
was  threatening  our  camp,  and  that  the  bell 
was  saying,  as  plainly  as  though  its  iron 
tongue  were  gifted  with  human  speech: 
'  Come  forward,  all  good  men  and  true,  and 


linger  not;  I  need  you  all;  bring  with  you  iron 
nerves  and  unconquerable  will,  and  come 
prepared  to  do  or  die ;  above  all,  hurry ! " 

Instead  of  rushing  hastily  to  the  town,  as 
most  of  those  who  emerged  from  their  cabins 
on  the  first  alarm  intended  doing,  hurried 
consultations  were  held  with  partners  and 
neighbors,  and  the  men  returned  to  their 
cabins;  belts  from  which  pistols  and  knife 
were  pendent  were  securely  buckled  on,  and 
then  closing  their  cabin  doors  with  the 
thought  that  quite  likely  they  might  never 
open  them  again,  they  hastened  through  the 
darkness  towards  the  town,  eager  to  respond 
to  this  mysterious  cry  for  help,  not  caring 
into  what  danger  it  might  lead  them. 

On  reaching  the  town  we  found  a  crowd 
rapidly  collecting  in  the  postoffice,  where 
on  a  hastily  improvised  platform  one  of  our 
leading  lawyers  was  standing,  awaiting  silence 
before  announcing  to  his  audience  the  ob- 
ject of  this  unusual  alarm;  while  seated  by 
his  side  was  a  care-worn,  starved-looking 
stranger,  whose  arrival  in  the  town  but  a  lit- 
tle while  before  had  caused  our  bell  to  send 
out  its  wild  cry  for  help.  For  this  stranger 
had  brought  the  startling  news  that  far  up 
towards  the  summit  of  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains  a  company  of  belated  emigrants, 
amongst  whom  were  a  number  of  women 
and  children,  were  snowed  in,  and  would 
all  inevitably  perish  if  prompt  and  efficient 
aid  was  not  at  once  rendered  them ;  their 
provisions  were  entirely  exhausted,  their 
horses  were  starving  and  unable  to  travel, 
and  all  hopes  of  reaching  the  settlements 
had  been  abandoned  on  the  previous  day, 
when  a  blinding  snow-storm  had  set  in. 

The  man  before  us  had  determined,  how- 
ever, to  make  one  last  desperate  effort  to 
save  the  lives  of  his  companions.  Not  one 
of  them  had  the  least  idea  how  far  it  was  to 
the  nearest  settlement,  nor  in  what  direction 
it  might  be  from  them.  When  their  com- 
panion that  morning  announced  his  determi- 


1883.] 


Our  New  Bell. 


259 


nation  to  make  the  attempt  to  reach  some 
mining  camp  and  send  them  aid,  his  an- 
nouncement did  not  awaken  within  them  the 
least  glimmer  of  hope ;  they  felt  that  his  no- 
ble attempt  would  result  in  nothing  but  fail- 
ure, and  they  bade  him  good  by  with  the 
conviction  that  he  was  sacrificing  his  life 
uselessly  for  them. 

But  our  visitor  had  struggled  on  manfully 
all  day,  and  as  he  found  less  and  less  snow 
to  impede  his  progress  as  he  descended  the 
western  slope  of  the  Sierras,  his  hopes  of 
success  buoyed  him  up  to  continued  effort; 
he  had  got  below  the  snow-line,  and  night 
was  just  about  setting  in,  when  he  had  the 
good  fortune  to  come  upon  a  solitary  pros- 
pector who  was  about  camping  for  the  night; 
in  a  few  minutes  he  had  told  his  story,  had 
been  refreshed  with  such  food  as  the  miner 
had  prepared,  and  seated  on  his  mule  was 
making  good  time  for  our  camp,  his  guide 
running  along  by  his  side. 

As  I  listened  to  the  story  as  told  to  us,  I 
felt  how  unfortunate  it  was  that  one  of  our 
best  mountaineers,  and  one  whose  aid  in 
rescuing  the  emigrants  would  have  been  in- 
valuable, was  not  in  condition  to  join  the  re- 
lief party.  For  Kentucky  Bill,  as  we  called 
him,  the  hunter  of  our  camp  (who  found 
a  ready  sale  with  us  for  the  game  he  invari- 
ably brought  back  with  him  from  his  expe- 
ditions) knew  every  foot  of  the  mountains, 
and  I  was  sure  that,  after  two  minutes' 
talk  with  the  emigrant,  he  could  lead  a  relief 
party  direct  to  their  camp.  But  he  had  that 
afternoon  been  drinking  too  freely,  had  had 
a  fight  with  Texas  Jack,  with  whom  a  long- 
standing trouble  had  existed,  and  had  been 
taken  away  by  his  friends  to  sober  off. 
Even  while  I  was  regretting  his  absence  and 
incapacity,  he  came  staggering  into  the 
room,  and  was  intercepted  by  his  two  part- 
ners.' They  had  a  short  conversation  with 
him,  which  seemed  to  greatly  sober  him ;  he 
was  then  taken  up  and  introduced  to  the 
stranger,  and  in  a  few  minutes  left  the  room. 
On  my  saying  to  one  of  his  partners  that  it 
was  such  a  pity  Bill  was  not  in  a  condition  to 
go  with  them,  he  electrified  me  by  replying : 

"Go  with  us?    He  will  be  on  the  trail  in 


fifteen  minutes;  he  told  us  to  get  some  fancy 
grub  together,  and  he  would  go  and  saddle 
the  mules." 

By  this  time  our  little  town  had  awakened 
into  new  life.  The  stores  were  all  open, 
and  everywhere  hurry  and  bustle  prevailed. 
The  traders  were  all  busy  putting  provisions 
of  different  kinds  into  portable  shape.  No 
goods  were  priced  nor  scales  brought  into 
use  on  this  occasion,  but  everything  was 
free  that  could  possibly  be  of  use  in  saving 
the  lives  of  that  little  band  of  entrapped 
emigrants,  whose  fate  we  feared  would  be 
sealed  before  we  should  be  able  to  reach 
them;  besides,  the  traders  knew  the  "boys" 
would  settle  their  bills  undisputed  when 
they  returned — but  the  main  thing  now  was 
to  lose  as  little  time  as  possible  in  the  start. 

While  I  was  watching  our  worthy  doctor, 
all  muffled  up  for  a  long  ride,  busily  packing 
his  saddle-bags,  the  clatter  of  hoofs  outside 
told  me  that  the  mules  had  arrived.  I 
could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw 
Bill,  apparently  perfectly  sober,  dismount 
from  one  of  them,  and  assist  in  adjusting 
the  packs  on  the  saddles.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  they  were  off,  Bill  calling  out  as  he 
mounted  his  mule,  "We'll  tell  them  you're 
coming;  climb  the  ridge  at  the  head  of  the 
creek,  then  follow  our  trail." 

In  a  few  minutes  other  mounted  parties 
were  on  their  way,  some  with  packs  fastened 
behind  them,  and  others  driving  loaded  ani- 
mals. It  was  a  full  hour  after  Bill  had  left 
us  before  the  last  of  the  relief  train  started 
and  filed  away  in  the  darkness.  Gradually 
the  lights  were  extinguished,  and  silence 
again  brooded  over  our  little  town.  Our 
new  bell,  having  done  its  work  nobly  and 
well,  was  now  silent  in  its  tower,  but  it  was 
hours  before  we  who  remained  behind  were 
able  to  sleep:  our  thoughts  were  with  our 
companions,  now  far  on  their  way  up  there 
towards  the  regions  of  perpetual  snow,  strain- 
ing every  nerve  and  doing  all  that  man  could 
do  to  snatch  from  the  grasp  of  the  storm  its 
expected  prey. 

As  day  dawned  upon  the  camp  of  the  be- 
leaguered emigrants,  they  were  surprised  to 


260 


Our  New  Bell 


[Sept. 


find  that  but  little  snow  had  fallen  during 
the  night,  and  believing  the  storm  was  over, 
they  were  for  a  while  inspired  with  hope  that 
they  might  be  able  to  extricate  themselves 
from  the  terrible  trap  in  which  they  had 
been  caught;  but  when  the  sky  again  be- 
came overcast  and  the  storm  recommenced, 
threatening  soon  to  bury  them  in  its  white 
folds — the  snow  literally  hid  from  sight  trees 
not  twenty  yards  away — they  fully  realized 
that  their  case  was  hopeless,  and  resigned 
themselves  to  their  inevitable  fate. 

It  was  nearly  noon  on  that  eventful  day 
when  a  loud  hurrah,  and  the  cry,  "  Here  they 
are,"  made  them  all  spring  to  their  feet  and 
crowd  out  of  their  now  almost  buried  wag- 
ons and  tents.  The  voice  sounded  to  them 
like  a  voice  from  heaven,  though  its  owner 
was  no  other  than  our  friend  Bill.  Waving 
his  hat  by  way  of  salute,  he  called  out :  "Jim 
struck  our  camp  last  night,  all  right.  There'll 
be  a  swarm  of  the  boys  in  here  in  a  little 
while  with  lots  of  grub,  and  we've  brought 
along  a  sample  with  us.  Here,  Sam,"  he 
continued  to  one  of  his  partners  who  had 
already  dismounted  and  was  opening  their 
packs,  "get  at  the  inside  of  two  or  three 
cans  of  that  meat-biscuit.  We'll  give  you 
some  hot  soup  all  round  inside  of  ten  min- 
utes," said  he,  addressing  one  of  the  emi- 
grants, "and  that'll  give  you  an  appetite  for 
something  to  eat  as  soon  as  we  can  get  it 
cooked." 

In  a  little  while  the  doctor  and  his  party 
arrived,  but  fortunately  he  had  little  use  for 
the  contents  of  his  saddle-bags.  It  was 
many  a  day  before  he  heard  the  last  of  the 
only  regular  prescription  he  gave  on  that 
occasion.  A  little  child  was  brought  to  him 
by  one  of  our  men,  who  in  a  very  anxious 
voice  inquired: 

"What  had  we  better  give  this  little  fellow, 
Doctor?  He  seems  pretty  bad  off." 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  said  the  doctor, 
taking  one  glance  at  his  patient  and  reach- 
ing out  for  a  dipper  of  soup,  "give  him  a 
spoon,  sir,  give  him  a  spoon." 

As  the  men  came  shouting  and  hurraing 
into  camp,  the  scene  was  one  never  to  be 
forgotten.  All  alike  were  overcome  with 


joy.  No  introductions  were  needed.  Shout- 
ing, laughing,  hand-shakings,  and,  last  though 
not  least,  the  savory  smell  of  food  cooking, 
on  all  sides  pervaded  the  camp.  Nor  had 
the  starving  animals  by  any  means  been  for- 
gotten; they  were  all  soon  busy  at  the  grain 
and  meal  that  had  been  brought  for  their 
especial  benefit.  As  if  by  magic,  what  a 
little  while  before  might  properly  have  been 
called  "Famine  Camp"  had  suddenly  been 
transformed  into  a  scene  of  unusual  feasting 
and  happiness. 

There  had  been  neither  time  nor  necessity 
for  the  organization  of  this  little  relief  party ; 
by  tacit  consent  Bill  was  looked  upon  as  the 
captain  of  the  expedition ;  so  when  he  stated 
the  necessity  of  breaking  camp  as  soon  as 
possible,  no  one  disputed  the  wisdom  of  his 
decision. 

"This  storm,"  said  he,  "means  business; 
there  will  be  two  feet  of  fresh  «snow  right 
here  before  daybreak  to-morrow  morning,  so 
we  must  put  twenty-five  miles  of  this  ridge 
behind  us  before  we  sleep." 

Preparations  were  therefore  made  as  soon 
as  possible  for  the  march,  but  the  afternoon 
was  well  advanced  before  the  last  wagon  of 
the  train  got  started  down  the  ridge.  The 
animals  of  the  emigrants  were  traveling  along 
behind,  and  their  places  were  usurped  by 
their  newly  arrived  four-footed  cousins. 

Bless  me,  how  that  bell  startled  me  that 
afternoon !  I  was  expecting  to  hear  from  it 
too,  but  somehow  the  suddenness  with  which 
it  burst  out  in  its  song  of  joy  completely 
upset  me.  And  who  ever  heard  such  a  jolly, 
rollicking  tune  from  a  bell  before?  It  must 
have  been  some  new  kind  of  a  dancing  tune, 
too,  for  it  brought  every  one  to  his  feet  the 
moment  it  struck  in,  and  started  him  to 
prancing  around  madly.  "  They're  coming,' 
was  the  burden  of  each  man's  song;  every 
available  flag  was  floating  from  some  point 
of  vantage;  the  street  was  soon  thronged 
with  people,  and  still  the  bell  kept  at  it,  live- 
lier than  ever.  And  well  might  it  ring,  for 
at  the  upper  end  of  our  only  street  the  travel- 
stained  covered  wagons  of  the  rescued  emi- 
grants were  seen  slowly  approaching  us.  As 


1883.] 


Our  New  Bell. 


261 


they  filed  through  the  town  they  received  as 
hearty  an  ovation  as  ever  was  given  to  any 
conqueror.  "  Peace  hath  its  victories  as  well 
as  war";  and  we  all  felt  that  this  was  a  glori- 
ous victory.  But  it  was  when  the  last  three 
wagons  came  along,  and  the  rough-bearded 
men  gazed  as  in  a  vision  at  their  contents, 
that  the  excitement  of  the  day  attained  its 
height;  instinctively  every  man  uncovered, 
for  there  in  the  fronts  of  the  wagons  were 
seen  the  tired,  worn,  but  still  happy  faces  of 
the  first  white  women  who  had  ever  favored 
our  town  with  their  presence;  and  fully  as 
strange  and  delightful  to  us  was  a  sight  of 
the  little  surprised  faces  that  were  peering 
out  under  the  edges  of  the  partly  raised 
wagon-covers.  Under  the  influence  of  that 
scene  more  than  one  of  our  rough  charac- 
ters became  for  a  while  entirely  oblivious  of 
his  surroundings;  the  wheel  of  time  had  been 
suddenly  reversed  for  him,  and  he  was  once 
more  living  over  his  early  life,  and  was  sur- 
rounded by  the  dear  faces  of,  his  childhood. 
Men  who  would  hurl  back  with  scorn  the 
insinuation  that  anything  could  cause  them 
to  shed  a  tear,  as  though  by  so  doing  their 
manhood  would  be  impeached,  were  that 
afternoon  seen  standing  bareheaded,  shout- 
ing and  hurraing  like  veritable  maniacs, 
while  the  tears  were  fairly  streaming  down 
their  cheeks. 

But  while  I  was  in  the  height  of  my  en- 
joyment of  the  scene  before  me,  a  sudden 
pang  of  fear  seized  me  as  I  saw  Texas  Jack 
approaching  a  point  where  his  late  antago- 
nist Bill  was  standing.  I  knew  that  words 
had  passed  between  them  at  their  last  meet- 
ing that  only  blood  could  erase.  Why  could 
not  their  meeting  have  been  put  off  another 
day  at  least,  and  not  mar  this  happy  one 
with  what  I  felt  sure  would  be  a  tragedy? 
They  were  both  brave  men;  there  was  no 
back  down  about  either;  yet  there  they  were 
within  a  few  feet  of  each  other,  each  uncon- 
scious of  the  other's  presence,  and  in  another 
moment  their  eyes  would  meet,  and  then — 


Jack  had  been  absent  ever  since  his  last 
quarrel  with  Bill,  on  business  connected  with 
the  sheriffs  office;  he  had  only  returned  a 
few  minutes  before,  and  heard  for  the  first 
time  what  had  been  taking  place  in  camp 
during  his  absence,  and  the  earnest  part  Bill 
had  taken  in  the  matter.  He  had  evidently 
had  a  look  into  the  emigrants'  wagons,  for 
he  was  still  carrying  his  hat  in  h'is  hand,  and 
some  pleasant,  long-forgotten  home  memo- 
ries must  have  had  possession  of  him  as  he 
found  himself  suddenly  standing  face  to  face 
with  his  late  enemy.  But  such  men  are 
never  taken  by  surprise;  they  always  know 
just  what  they  want  to  do,  and  are  very 
prompt  about  doing  it.  Instantly  his  open 
hand  was  extended  as  he  said  : 

"Put  it  there,  Bill." 

As  those  two  men  stood  thus  for  a  mo- 
ment with  clasped  hands,  a  prayer  of  thank- 
fulness ascended  from  the  hearts  of  all  who 
witnessed  it,  for  we  knew  that  the  long- 
standing trouble  between  them  was  now 
buried  beyond  all  possibility  of  resurrection ; 
surely,  the  coming  of  the  emigrants  had 
already  brought  a  blessing  on  our  camp. 

And  now  once  more  quiet  reigned  in  our 
little  town.  The  emigrants  were  all  well 
cared  for,  and  were  having  their  first  good 
rest  for  many  a  weary  month.  Scattering 
snow-flakes  were  slowly  descending  upon  the 
covers  of  their  deserted  wagons,  as  if  the 
storm,  vexed  at  their  escape  from  him,  had 
crossed  his  usual  boundary,  andwas  reaching 
out  his  long  white  fingers  in  his  desperate 
effort  to  grasp  them  once  more.  Singly  and 
in  small  groups  our  tired  men  passed  out  of 
town  to  their  cabins  on  the  surrounding  hill- 
sides, soon  to  be  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
pleasant  dreams  that  all  had  a  share  of  that 
night.  But  none  passed  our  new  bell,  now 
resting  after  its  unwonted  exertions,  without 
looking  up  at  it  kindly  and  with  an  affection- 
ate feeling;  for  we  were  glad  to  include  it 
in  our  gratitude  over  the  happy  termination 
of  its  first  alarm. 


262 


A  Visit. 


[Sept. 


A  VISIT. 


Miss  VAN  GRABEN  was  gifted,  happily  or 
otherwise,  with  a  romantic  and  imaginative 
temperament.  She  was  sure  to  clothe  with 
roseate  hues  any  triviality  susceptible  of  such 
endowment;  she  was  given  to  idealizing  even 
the  most  commonplace  of  her  acquaintance. 
"Freddy's  geese  are  all  swans,"  Miss  Van 
Graben's  elder  sister  was  wont  to  say,  half  in 
deprecation,  half  in  admiration;  for  Freder- 
ica  was  a  perpetual  source  of  marvel  to  her 
kin,  they  possessing  excessive  phlegm  and 
stolidity,  so  that  her  enthusiasm  awakened  in 
them  the  liveliest  sentiments  of  wonder  not 
unmixed  with  dismay. 

Miss  Van  Graben  had  a  letter  one  morn- 
ing when  its  receipt  was  most  opportune; 
for  life  at  the  moment  was  a  burden  to  the 
young  woman, .  who  had  exhausted  every 
available  resource  of  diversion.  The  missive, 
from  a  friend  and  schoolmate,  conveyed  to 
Miss  Van  Graben  an  urgent  invitation  to 
visit  the  frontier  military  post  where  Ethel 
Dunning's  husband  was  stationed.  It  was 
natural  and  consistent  that  Frederica  should 
hail  with  delight  and  intense  appreciation  the 
opportunity  to  take  flight  for  the  remote  fort; 
but  that  the  clan  Van  Graben  should  have 
consented  to  a  step  so  uncertain,  so  irregu- 
lar, and  so  heterodox  was  altogether  out  of 
the  natural  order  of  things,  and  even  to  Fred- 
erica  herself  well  nigh  incomprehensible. 

"I  have  to  thank  nothing  else  in  the  world 
but  my  own  force  of  will  and  determination," 
Miss  Van  Graben  said,  with  complacent  self- 
gratulation,  sweeping  out  upon  the  narrow 
porch  of  Lieutenant  Dunning's  quarters ; 
"Charlotte  would  say,  my  pig-headed  Dutch 
obstinacy ;  for  Charlotte  despises  the  Dutch 
blood  I  am  so  proud  of  possessing.  My  love 
she  is  a  prig.  I  hate  prigs." 

"  Still  the  same  impetuous  Freddy." 

"And  why  not,  pray?  You  don't  mean  to 
say  one  could  improve  on  the  original  article? 
What  a  hideous,  barren  parade-ground! 
Ethel,  why  don't  you  make  Everett  decorate 


it?  Present  your  commanding  officer — what 
did  you  say  his  name  is? — and  I'll  beguile 
him  until  this  desert  waste  shall  blossom  like 
the  rose." 

"For  once  you  can  find  no  words  to  ex- 
press your  raptures,"  satirized  Everett  Dun- 
ning, coming  in  from  first  guard-mount. 
"Now,  what  a  shame!  I  made  sure  you'd 
like  our  picturesque  position." 

"Like  it !  I  do  like  it.  This  is  the  apoth- 
eosis of  desolation.  The  place  is  like  the 
preacher's  hunchback — perfect,  of  its  kind. 
It  reminds  me  of  some  graphic  lines  on  the 
Australian  desert : 

"  'And  never  a  man  and  never  a  beast  they  met  on 

their  desolate  way, 

But  the  bleaching  bones  in  the  hungry  sand  said 
all  that  the  tongue  could  say.'  " 

In  very  truth,  Miss  Van  Graben  did  enjoy 
most  keenly  the  situation;  she  had  a  queer 
trick  of  putting  herself,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
outside  of  her  experiences,  and  regarding 
them  with  all  the  dispassionate,  judicial  con- 
templation of  a  critical  spectator.  She  was 
charmed  with  the  topography  of  the  country ; 
habited  as  she  was  to  the  careful  cultivation 
and  prolific  yield  of  the  Eastern  States,  the 
dry  ingratitude  of  the  soil  here  had  all  the 
charm  of  novelty.  The  monotonous  mech- 
anism of  the  post  was  grateful  to  her  over- 
wrought nerves  and  senses,  yet  she  grasped 
with  avidity  at  any  excitement  that  offered. 
Now  and  then  a  party  rode  out  from  the 
post,  bound  for  some  one  of  the  neighbor- 
ing small  towns  or  mining  camps ;  sometimes 
they  scaled  the  heights  of  Pinos  Altos,  or 
roamed  among  the  deserted  landmarks  of  the 
ancient  copper  mines.  The  country  was  full 
of  pseudo  traces  of  the  Aztec  and  Toltec 
tribes.  Miss  Van  Graben  reveled  in  eager 
exploration  and  speculative  research  into 
such  meager  and  dubious  historical  records 
as  were  accessible.  Much  to  her  regret, 
these  excursions  were  restricted,  both  as  to 
frequency  and  extent,  by  the  danger  of  attack 


1883.] 


A  Visit. 


263 


from  Indians.  Bands  of  hostile  Apaches 
scoured  the  plains,  and  lurked  in  the  fast- 
nesses of  the  low  mountain  ranges,  ever 
ready  to  cut  off  miner  or  wayfarer..  But  the 
fact  of  danger  brought  some  compensatory 
satisfaction;  Miss  Van  Graben  felt  almost 
indemnified  for  her  curtailed  expeditions, 
did  she  but  encounter  a  little  band  of  scouts, 
swinging  along  at  their  own  peculiar,  dog- 
trot gait,  to  a  rendezvous  under  orders.  This 
branch  of  the  service  enlisted  her  most 
earnest  attention;  she  provided  herself  with 
a  stock  of  bows,  quivers,  and  moccasins  not 
to  be  disdained  by  Pocahontas  herself;  and 
she  became  so  sage  upon  the  details  of  In- 
dian warfare,  that  Everett  Dunning  more 
than  once  suggested  her  alliance,  offensive 
and  defensive,  with  the  stern  old  colonel. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  enlighten  myself  on 
tactics  as  well  as  on  South  Kensington  em- 
broidery and  ceramics?  Is  not  it  as  sensible 
to  collect  Indian  trophies  as  to  rake  together 
dozens  of  varnished  mustard-pots  or  pecks 
of  shabby  postage-stamps?  Bah,  Ethel  i  In 
one  shape  or  another,  I  must  have  excite- 
ment. I  cannot  live  without  it.  If  excite- 
ment do  not  exist,  I  must  create  it  for 
myself.  My  dear,  'let  me  alone,  the  dream's 
my  own,  and  my  heart  is  full  of  rest.'" 

Among  the  ores,  fossils,  and  miscellaneous 
bric-a-brac  which  Mrs.  Dunning  had  accu- 
mulated was  a  picture  which  came  to  have 
for  Miss  Van  Graben  a  wonderful  fascination ; 
it  was  a  stereoscopic  view,  the  mediocre 
work  of  an  itinerant  photographer.  Indif- 
ferent as  it  was  viewed  as  a  work  of  art,  it 
bore  in  a  marked  degree  the  characteristic 
stamp  of  the  section.  Against  a  background 
of  far,  sterile  hills,  spiked  here  and  there 
with  ungainly  cactus  and  bristling  soap-weed, 
a  party  of  scouts  was  grouped,  in  attitudes 
easy  yet  wary,  rifles  in  hand,  blankets 
unfurled,  kerchiefs  binding  swarthy  brows 
scarce  unbent  from  the  tension  of  chase  and 
slaughter.  In  the  foreground,  the  figure  of 
a  man  in  semi-military  garb  was  stretched  in 
the  carelessness  of  repose  and  relaxation. 

"Who  is  this,  Everett?  Evidently  a  white 
— is  not  he?"  Frederica  was  scanning  the 
picture,  glass  in  hand. 


"Well,  yes,    rather;  that  is  Wells  of  the 
-th,  officer  of  the  scouts." 


"He  is  not  half  ill-looking.    Good  officer?" 

"Fair,"  said  Lieutenant   Dunning,  dryly, 

somewhat    piqued   by   the   faint   praise  in 

Miss  Van  Graben's   temperately  expressed 

approval  of  his  dearest  friend. 

Three  days  after,  carelessly  turning  the 
leaves  of  Frederica's  sketch-book  —  Miss 
Van  Graben  drew — he  came  upon  a  spir- 
ited copy  of  the  reclining  figure,  elaborated 
to  an  ideal  of  chivalrous,  manly  beauty.  A 
week  later,  in  a  book  the  girl  was  fond  of 
reading,  he  found  a  sheet  of  clever  verses — 
Miss  Van  Graben  had  a  pretty  talent  for 
writing  verses — theme,  "The  Captain  of  the 
Scouts." 

Lieutenant  Dunning  was  not  devoid  of  an 
average  share  of  penetration.  Clearly,  the 
young  officer  had  taken  a  firm  hold  on  the 
ardent  imagination  of  Miss  Van  Graben. 
Watching  her  closely  for  some  days,  he  ob- 
served that  the  girl  continually  took  up  the 
photograph,  regarding  it  with  intent  and 
wistful  gaze. 

"I  think  I'll  write  down  to  Cummings  for 
Wells  to  pay  us  a  visit,"  quoth  Lieutenant 
Dunning,  meditatively  puffing  a  fragrant 
Trabuco,  as  he  returned  from  the  post  hos- 
pital, whither  Mrs.  Dunning — gentle  soul  that 
she  was — daily  accompanied  her  husband. 
How  many  suffering  souls  were  comforted 
and  soothed  by  the  mere  presence  of  that 
sweet  womanly  power,  the  recording  angel 
hath  written. 

"  Y por  que  ?"  queried  Ethel. 

Then  Lieutenant  Dunning,  impressive 
with  an  unwonted  burst  of  romantic  senti- 
ment, imparted  the  substance  of  his  obser- 
vations upon  their  guest  and  the  impression 
she  appeared  to  have  received. 

"It  would  be  worth  while  to  bring  these 
two  in  contact,  thinkest  not  thou,  little 
woman?" 

"I — don't — know.  Freddy  is  a  peculiar 
girl— very.  I  have  qualms  of  conscience 
about  assuming  such  responsibility.  Those 
matters  require  very  delicate  manipulation, 
Everett." 

"I'll  risk  it,"  he  returned,  in  the  lordliness 


264 


A  Visit. 


[Sept. 


of  masculine  complacency.  When  her  hus- 
band adopted  that  decisive  tone  of  superior- 
ity, Ethel  Dunning  acquiesced  without  demur, 
leaving  him  to  reap  the  reward  of  his  own 
devices. 

"Freddy,  you  will  meet  your  Bayard  the 
Second.  I'm  writing  for  Wells  to  come  up." 

"Everett  Dunning,"said  Miss  Van  Graben, 
solemnly,  "don't  do  it.  O,  I  mean  what  I 
say.  A  tender  halo  of  sentiment  lingers 
about  that  picture;  it  suggests  all  manner  of 
poetic  possibilities  and  sweet  fancies.  Now, 
if  the  man  come,  the  chances  are  that  he 
will  be  a  callow  youth,  fresh  from  his  mil- 
itary school,  full  of  fine  theories  and  phrases, 
supercilious — don't  frown  at  me,  sir! — all 
soldiers  are  supercilious.  In  short,  I  don't 
want  my  pretty  romance  dispelled;  I  cannot 
survive  such  a  shock — I,  who  have  suffered 
already  from  disillusionments  most  heart- 
rending." 

Familiar  as  he  was  with  her  turn  of 
speech,  Lieutenant  Dunning  was  at  a  loss 
to  know  if  this  was  an  ebullition  of  her  usual 
inconsequent,  grim  humor,  affecting  intense 
earnestness,  or  a  sincere  avowal  of  her 
desires. 

A  week,  perhaps,  elapsed;  the  fair  fore- 
noon was  full  of  a  glad  reaction  after  a 
storm  that  had  purged  all  impurity  from  the 
air.  A  bustle  of  unwonted  activity  stirred 
about  the  little  fort;  in  lieu  of  lounging 
about  the  steps  of  the  barracks,  the  negro 
soldiers  off  duty  took  frequent  strolling  turns 
to  the  sally-port,  looking  down  the  road  of 
the  southeastern  approach.  Finally  one 
beaming  orderly  hastened  to  Lieutenant 
Dunning's  quarters. 

•"Transpo'tation  in  from  Fo't  Cummings, 
sih,"  and  the  trio  went  forth  to  welcome  the 
new  arrival. 

Whatever  had  been  Mrs.  Dunning's  actual 
sentiments  regarding  Lieutenant  Wells's  in- 
troduction upon  the  scene,  she,  of  course, 
lent  herself  thoroughly  to  the  promotion  of 
his  comfort.  The  young  man  dropped  into 
their  daily  life  with  the  perfection  of  ease. 
He  and  Freddy  took  up  the  thread  of  con- 
stant communion,  "as  naturally  as  if  they 
meant  it,"  said  Mrs.  Dunning. 


"It's  as  good  as  a  play — or  our  own  court- 
ship over  again,"  whispered  Everett  Dun- 
ning to  his  wife,  sitting  a  little  away  from 
the  two  in  the  moonlighted,  narrow  porch. 
"See  what  picturesque  attitudes  they  assume 
— all  unconsciously,  too.  Wells  is  not  a  man 
to  posture,  and  Freddy — well,  Freddy  is  his 
complement,  as  I  told  you  all  along.  No 
misgivings  now,  eh?" 

"We  shall  see,"  returned  Ethel,  dubiously, 
contemplating  with  pleasure  none  the  less 
the  picture  before  her.  A  radiance  of  moon- 
light was  flooding  the  parade-ground,  toning 
its  ugly  bareness  to  the  beauty  of  a  fairy 
pleasance.  Against  that  background  Lieu- 
tenant Wells  stood,  erect,  soldierly,  the  wind 
faintly  stirring  the  short  rings  of  his  close-cut 
dark  hair,  every  line  of  his  figure  showing 
vigor  and  pride.  His  dark  eyes  were  bent 
upon  Miss  Van  Graben's  pale  face,  full  of 
the  wistful,  wondering  petulance  that  was 
its  characteristic  expression.  Frederica's 
head,  topped  with  its  mass  of  big  blonde 
braids,  drooped  forward;  she  looked  up 
from  under  her  brows  with  an  indecision 
that  was  charming — the  perfection  of  appeal. 

"They  look  like  your  engraving  of  Lance- 
lot and  Elaine,"  said  Everett  Dunning. 

Ethel  laughed,  teasingly,  "  O,-  Everett ! 
Since  when  are  you  given  to  such  flights  of 
fancy?  I'm  positive  it  is  Freddy's  presence 
that  inspires  you  to  all  these  poetic  expres- 
sions; lam  sure  to  be  jealous  if  this  shall 
continue." 

None  the  less  was  she  struck  by  the 
aptitude  of  his  comparison.  It  was  not 
only  in  the  one  instance  of  picturesque  pos- 
ing; but  from  the  moment  when  Miss  Van 
Graben,  first  meeting  the  young  officer, 
"lifted  her  eyes  and  read  his  lineaments," 
she,  like  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat,  "loved 
him  with  the  love  that  was  her  doom."  She 
could  not  have  fancied  a  gay,  rattling,  blithe- 
hearted  fellow  like  Everett  Dunning;  it  was 
his  gravity,  and  even  a  shade  of  melancholy 
in  his  temperament,  that  most  pleased  her 
in  Lieutenant  Wells.  Then,  about  him  clus- 
tered every  prestige  of  romance  and  adven- 
ture; ardent  as  he  was  in  his  profession, 
eager  as  he  was  to  be  foremost  in  every  post 


1883.] 


A  Visit. 


265 


of  danger,  the  gallant  young  man  had  borne 
a  charmed  life  through  the  perils  of  the 
times.  Like  Desdemona,  Frederica  loved 
him  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed.  So 
patent  was  the  reciprocity  of  sentiment  be- 
tween the  two,  that  any  failure  as  to  the  issue 
would  have  seemed  almost  a  personal  griev- 
ance defrauding  the  on-lookers.  Free  from 
pique,  from  coquetry,  and  from  calculation, 
never  was  courtship  less  guileful  or  more 
generous.  When  a  betrothal  was  announced, 
it  was  more  as  a  matter  of  form  than  of  ne- 
cessity. 

"  Never  talk  to  me  again  about  woman's 
tact  and  intuition!"  quoth  Everett  Dunning, 
one  morning  shortly  before  his  friend's  re- 
turn to  Cummings.  "Could  any  woman 
have  foreseen  better  than  I  the  desirability 
of  this  match?  Would  any  woman  have 
brought  them  together  more  skillfully? 
Could  any  woman  boast  of  a  more  suitable 
arrangement  altogether  of  her  own  devis- 
ing?" 

"All's  well  that  ends  well,"  deprecated 
Mrs.  Dunning,  perhaps  irritated  by  her  hus- 
band's fault  in  taste ;  for  Frederica  was  in  the 
room.  She  rose  hastily,  and  went  over  to 
Ethel. 

"  Oh,  Ethel !  do  you  believe  it  will  not  end 
well  ?  Do  you  think  it  will  not  ?  Reassure 
me,  if  you  can,  dear,  for  oh,  Ethel — oh,  Ev- 
erett— I  feel  just  so  about  it  myself." 

"Nonsense !"  cried  the  matter-of-fact  Lieu- 
tenant; "why  shouldn't  it  end  well?  What's 
to  hinder?  Freddy,  you're  not  well  this 
morning,  you're  hysterical  and  nervous. 
Wells  kept  you  up  talking  too  late  last  night. 
By  Jove!  it's  well  he's  soon  off,  or  we'd 
have  you  on  the  sick-list." 

But  from  that  day,  a  dash  of  bitterness 
was  in  the  sweet  wine  of  life  Frederica  had 
been  quaffing.  Mrs.  Dunning  bitterly  re- 
proached herself  for  the  hasty  speech  that 
had  poisoned  her  friend's  peace. 

"It  was  not  that  —  indeed,  it  was  not," 
Miss  Van  Graben  averred;  "  that  only  made 
me  speak  what  was  in  my  heart  before. 
For  a  while  I  was  so  happy — so  unspeakably 
content — I,  who  have  been  always  restless 
and  unsatisfied.  But  that  happiness  was  too 


perfect  to  last — the  doubt  crept  in.  Believe 
me,  Ethel,  nature  will  assert  itself.  One's 
temperament  cannot  be  made  over." 

Miss  Van  Graben  made  strenuous  efforts 
to  combat  and  resist  the  profound  melan- 
choly that  assailed  her.  She  never  failed  to 
present  to  her  lover's  gaze  a  cheerful  coun- 
tenance; for  Frederica  was  one  of  those 
women  who  opine  that  a  man  is  more  than 
sufficiently  harassed  by  the  cares  and  respon- 
sibilities of  his  business  and  the  outer  world, 
and  that  his  loyalty  deserves  the  reward  and 
encouragement  of  smiles  and  sweet  sympa- 
thy at  home. 

Only  once  her  self-possession  failed;  on 
the  day  before  Lieutenant  Wells's  departure 
for  his  own  post,  Frederica  came  to  him 
with  the  little  stereoscopic  picture  of  his 
scouts,  halved  in  her  hand. 

"Take  this  with  you,  Fulton  ;  it  was  a  tie 
between  us  ere  ever  we  met.  I  shall  like 
to  know  we  hold  it  in  common."  She 
looked  up  into  his  grave  face,  full  of  feeling, 
and  something  she  read  there  filled  her  eyes 
with  tears.  She  lifted  her  arms  to  him. 
"Oh,  Fulton! "she  cried  piteously,  "I  can- 
not let  you  go.  Stay  with  me,  dear  one, 
stay." 

But  in  the  early  morning,  the  little  group 
stood  in  the  sally-port,  watching  the  ambu- 
lance roll  along  the  rocky  road,  until  lost  to 
sight  among  the  gnarled  junipers  and  armed 
soap-weed.  Lieutenant  Wells  was  gone. 

"Oh,  the  silence  that  came  next!  The 
patience  and  long  waiting!" 

It  preyed  upon  them  all.  Ethel  Dunning, 
and  her  husband  himself,  grew  wan  with 
doubt  and  apprehension.  Frederica  wasted 
away  under  the  terrible  suspense,  like  one 
who  succumbs  to  a  swift  and  fatal  malady. 
All  her  pretty  fair  color  faded,  and  her  sup- 
ple, nymph-like  form  lost  its  graceful  con- 
tours. Her  great  gray  eyes  burned  like 
lamps,  with  an  eager,  anxious  light.  Her 
restlessness  was  intense;  it  seemed  that  she 
must  be  wearing  out  her  life. 

Day  by  day  the  Apache  raids  went  on. 
Every  post,  every  breathless  courier  gallop- 
ing in  from  the  outlying  settlements  with 
headlong  haste,  brought  dire  tidings  of 


266 


A  Visit 


[Sept. 


frightful  atrocities,  wreaked  by  their  hands 
upon  the  hapless  settlers  and  prospectors  of 
the  region.  Now  and  again  small  bodies 
of  the  pursuing  soldiery,  detached  from  their 
fellows,  were  ambushed  and  slain.  Now 
and  again  came  word  from  Lieutenant 
Wells,  doing  deadly  and  gallant  work  with 
his  little  command :  a  line  wired  when  the 
military  telegraph  could  be  bespoken,  a 
hastily  scrawled  note,  written  perhaps  in  the 
saddle.  Infrequent  and  precarious  of  re- 
ceipt, these  missives  carried  inestimable  com- 
fort and  reassurance. 

Lieutenant  Wells  had  left  the  post  a 
month,  perhaps,  and  the  waiting  ones,  their 
apprehensions  somewhat  dulled  by  custom, 
as  even  the  sharpest  of  pangs  will  be,  began 
to  speak,  half  hopefully,  of  the  time  when  a 
better  condition  of  things  should  enable  the 
young  man  to  retire  from  this  service  of  per- 
il. Frederica's  spirits,  long  depressed,  took 
on  a  certain  degree  of  buoyancy  in  the  an- 
ticipation of  her  lover's  constant  companion- 
ship, and  his  security,  well  earned  by  many 
an  exploit  of  courage  and  endurance. 

It  chanced  that  some  happening  to  the 
wires  had  temporarily  cut  off  the  isolated 
little  post  from  direct  telegraphic  communi- 
cation with  the  outer  world.  A  negro  or- 
derly, riding  to  the  adjacent  town,  returned 
with  a  confused  and  apparently  exaggerated 
account  of  an  affray  in  which,  falling  into  an 
ambuscade,  a  body  of  scouts  and  citizen 
volunteers  had  perished — miserably,  with  all 
the  revolting  accompaniments  of  these  bar- 
barian victories.  Lieutenant  Dunning,  has- 
tily preparing  to  ride  away  for  positive 
information,  was  summoned  to  conference 
with  one  who  refused  to  enter.  He  knew 
well  the  man — a  young  assayer  from  the 
neighboring  town — who  sat  his  horse  in  de- 
jected attitude,  elbow  on  pommel,  and  head 
on  hand.  The  young  man  looked  at  Dun- 
ning with  humid  eyes,  his  firm  lips  quivering 
with  distress. 

"  This  is  a  horrible  affair,  Dunning,"  he 
said  abruptly. 

"  Then  it  is  true?     And  Wells?  " 

"  Wells  was  the  first  man  who  fell.  That's 
what  brings  me  here.  I  thought — it  might 


come,  if  possible,  less  shockingly  from  one 
who  had  known  and  liked  him — but — good 
God  ! — when  I  think  of  the  happy  evenings 
we've  spent  here  together,  and  remember 
that  girl's  idolatrous  devotion,  I  hate  myself 
for  knowing  his  frightful  fate.  I  can't  tell 
her — I  can't  be  a  party  to  her  despair." 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  while;  then 
Lieutenant  Dunning  spoke:  "I  suppose 
there's  no  doubt  at  all?" 

"  Doubt !  no ;  we  were  riding  side  and 
side  when  he  fell.  I  caught -plain  sight  of 
his  face  as  the  others  closed  in  and  swept  me 
off  among  them.  He  was  quite  dead,  I 
think — I  hope — for — when  the  devilish  busi- 
ness was  over — and  we  came  back — Dun- 
ning, you  know  how  it  is — we  could  not  tell — 
his  own  mother  could  not  have  known 
him.  I  recognized  him  by  this— lying  close 
by." 

Averting  his  eyes,  he  held  out  a  bit  of 
cardboard,  torn,  sodden,  marked  with  a 
ghastly  stain.  It  was  the  little  picture  Fred- 
erica  had  given  her  lover. 

"  And  here  is  another  horrible  relic,"  said 
Will  Ford,  with  inexpressible  sadness  in  his 
voice;  "I  drew  that  arrow  from  Wells's 
heart — Dunning !  oh,  my  God ! " 

Silently  Miss  Van  Graben  had  followed, 
and  stood  behind  the  two.  Silently  she  took 
those  terrible  trophies  from  their  nerveless, 
unresisting  hands,  and  turned  away. 

"How — oh,  Ethel!  how  can  we  take  her 
home  like  this?" 

Frederica  sat,  clasping  the  severed  halves 
of  the  picture,  now  and  then  touching  with 
pallid  lips  the  arrow  that  had  drunk  the 
heart's  blood  of  her  lover.  Her  eyes  were 
blank  with  unreason;  the  madness  of  a  great 
horror  and  a  great  terror  was  over  her  va- 
cant face.  They  listened  to  hear  what  words 
she  uttered.  She  was  softly  chanting,  over 
and  over,  to  a  monotonous,  wailing  strain, 
fragments  from  the  song  of  her  prototype, 
the  dazed  Ophelia: 

"  He  is  dead  and  gonc^- 
They  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier, 
And  in  his  grave  rained  many  a  tear — 
He  never  will  come  again." 

Y.  H.  Addis. 


1883.] 


The  Migration  Problem. 


267 


THE   MIGRATION   PROBLEM. 


AMONG  the  problems  of  practical  and  im- 
mediate importance  with  which  political 
economy  must  deal  is  that  which  includes 
those  great  questions  always  inseparable  from 
an  acknowledgment  of  the  rights  of  the  in- 
dividual to  change  his  dwelling  place  and 
transfer  his  allegiance.  This  problem  has 
become  in  modern  times  a  serious  factor  in 
the  local  and  national  politics  of  many  coun- 
tries, requiring,  though  seldom  receiving, 
the  wisest  of  statesmanship  in  its  treatment. 
The  following  paper  discusses  the  rights, 
causes,  and  economic  effects  of  emigration 
and  immigration,  also  some  of  the  ethno- 
logical results,  but  is  chiefly  devoted  to  a 
consideration  of  the  policy  of  the  United 
States  on  this  subject.  The  chief  of  the 
statistical  bureau  at  Washington  has  kindly 
furnished  the  latest  publications  of  that  De- 
partment, completing  the  statistics  of  immi- 
gration to  February  i  of  the  current  year. 

Modern  migrations  are  essentially  peace- 
ful. But  western  Asia  and  Europe  are  wit- 
nesses to  the  fact  that  migration  once  meant 
invasion  and  conquest.  Viewed  in  its  broad- 
est aspect,  human  history  is  but  an  account 
of  successive  waves  of  migration  rolling  out- 
ward from  tribal  centers,  sometimes  as  scorch- 
ing lava-flows,  sometimes  as  broadening  and 
fertilizing  rivers,  dangerous  enough  in  times 
of  flood,  but  ultimately  tamed  to  the  uses  of 
civilization.  The  rule  of  Tartar  in  Russia, 
of  Turk  in  Roumania,  are  examples  of  the 
one,  as  that  of  Lombard  in  Italy,  of  Norman 
in  Sicily  and  England,  are  examples  of  the 
other.  De  Quincey  once  drew  upon  the  full- 
est resources  of  his  splendid  and  stately  dic- 
tion in  describing  with  graphic  magnificence 
the  forced  and  tragical  "  Flight  of  a  Tartar 
Tribe,"  similar  in  its  character  and  organiza- 
tion to  those  kindred  tribes  that  laid  Moscow 
and  Cracow  in  ashes,  wasted  Europe  from 
Bulgaria  to  the  Baltic,  ruled  in  ancient  Nov- 
gorod, and  levied  tribute  from  Silesian 
counts  and  Polish  palatines.  Freeman, 


Palgrave,  and  De  Thierry,  choosing  one  of 
the  most  important  periods  of  history,  have 
told  with  vividness  and  fidelity,  with  careful 
criticism  and  ripe  scholarship,  the  tale  of 
that  great  struggle  from  which  the  van- 
quished arose  as  victors,  and  the  spirit  of 
Alfred,  Cnut,  and  Harold  still  reigned  over 
the  conquered  land. 

But  the  Norman  Conquest,  even  though 
we  call  it  all  that  De  Thierry  says  it  was,  of- 
fers but  a  partial  parallel  to  the  prehistoric 
migrations  of  whole  communities.  We  must 
begin  farther  back,  with  the  successive 
human  waves  flowing  westward  from  the 
mountain  birth-land  of  the  Aryan  peoples. 
These,  and  the  new  languages,  governments, 
and  social  systems  thus  developed,  have  ever 
since  occupied  the  thoughts  of  men.  So  far, 
at  least,  this  "going  forth  to  conquer  the 
world  "  has  been  the  greatest  fact  in  secular 
history,  and  its  phases  and  episodes  are 
infinite  in  variety.  Phenician  merchants 
cultivated  wheat-fields  and  built  cities  on  the 
coasts  of  Spain  and  France;  Grecian  colo- 
nists took  with  them  the  fruitful  vine  and  the 
sacred  olive  of  Athene";  rebellious  Norwe- 
gians sought  refuge  in  Hecla-guarded  Iceland. 
Emigrants  founded,  as  emigrants  overthrew, 
the  Roman  Empire.  Refugees  made  Switz- 
erland the  champion  of  republican  institu- 
tions, and  Montenegro  the  bulwark  against 
Ottoman  aggression.  The  modern  states  of 
Europe  have  been  molded  by  the  conquer- 
ing hands  of  emigrants,  and  emigrants  bore 
to  the  new  continent  the  germs  of  free  gov- 
ernment in  the  local  institutions  of  an  im- 
memorial past.  To  some  of  the  ancient 
colonies  men  fled  with  their  naked  lives  from 
famines,  proscription,  tyranny,  and  imminent 
death.  Political  refugees  were  leaders  of 
some;  of  others,  religious  fervor  was  the 
moving  cause.  But  in  njodern  times,  men's 
chief  reason  for  changing  their  abode  is  the 
desire  of  bettering  their  social  and  financial 
condition.  Politics  and  religion,  though  still 


268 


The  Migration  Problem. 


[Sept. 


factors,  are  so  to  a   much  less  degree  than 
formerly. 

The  problems  connected  with  migration 
at  present  are  of  a  complex  nature,  and  mere 
phrases  cannot  satisfy  the  mind.  There  have 
been  too  many  writers  who  "darkened  coun- 
sel by  words  without  knowledge."  The  me- 
chanical economists  claim  to  be  furnished 
with  tested  and  accurate  sets  of  formulas, 
satisfactorily  and  permanently  explaining 
each  and  every  economical  phenomenon. 
Doubts  as  to  the  infallibility  of  these  phrases 
are  denounced  as  mischievous  and  heretical, 
tending  to  upset  things  generally.  When  we 
begin,  for  instance,  to  ask  about  the  causes 
and  effects  of  emigration,  some  writers  would 
have  our  inquiries  cease  with  such  replies  as, 
"Labor  and  supply,"  "private interest,"  "ag- 
gregate wage  fund."  These,  admittedly,  are 
useful  formulas.  But  it  often  occurs  in  polit- 
ical economy  and  elsewhere,  that  happy 
phrases  for  certain  tendencies  under  certain 
conditions  are  wrested  from  their  proper 
places,  and  endued  with  almost  magical 
properties ;  that  broad  and  useful  generaliza- 
tions, at  first  true  and  timely,  are  made  at 
last  to  involve  everything  in  obscurity.  In 
the  endeavor  to  render  political  science  ex- 
act, writers  of  this  order  have  come  at  last 
to  believe  in  their  own  omniscience,  simply 
from  an  exasperating  vassalage  to  those  con- 
venient symbols,  phrases,  and  expressions. 

Modern  society,  in  its  complex  develop- 
ments, is  based  upon  certain  legal  ideas, 
which  have  been  evolved  from  the  mighty 
conflict,  waste,  and  experiment  of  the  past. 
It  cannot  be  claimed  that  these  ideas  are 
ultimate,  for  evolution  of  thought  was  never 
more  active  than  now ;  but  the  tendency  of 
things  can  be  understood.  The  feudal  sys- 
tem, after  defining  and  separating  classes, 
bound  them  closely  together  with  military 
rigor.  Chiefly  through  outlawry  a  man  won 
the  right  to  leave  his  home  and  seek  other 
allegiance.  It  furnishes  a  curious  example 
of  the  difficulty  with  which  individuals  re- 
solved to  emigrate,  that  the  Norse  Sagas 
depict  the  futility  of  warning  even  outlaws, 
on  whose  head  a  price  was  set,  that  they 
should  depart  to  safer  lands.  They  would 


help  to  form  colonies,  but  that  individual 
migration,  which  is  a  leading  feature  of  mod- 
ern times,  was  almost  entirely  lacking  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  But  modern  life  recognizes,  as 
one  of  its  corner-stones,  the  right  of  personal 
independence  of  choice,  subject  only  to  those 
restrictions  which  the  rights  of  others  may 
require.  Liberty  of  choice  carries  with  it 
liberty  of  action.  The  highest  earthly  right 
a  man  possesses  is  the  right  to  abjure  the 
government  under  which  he  was  born,  and 
become  a  citizen  of  another  nation.  The 
cumbrous  restrictions  and  ceremonials  with 
which  the  transfer  of  tribal  allegiance  was 
formerly  attended  have  been  swept  away, 
and  the  American  naturalization  laws  crys- 
tallize the  simplest  and  fewest  requirements 
ever  made  of  would-be  citizens. 

The  modern  theory  is  that  each  man  shall 
be  free  to  choose  his  own  profession,  and 
exercise  it  when  he  chooses.  There  shall  be 
no  classes  based  on  law.  The  individual 
may  change  his  domicile  when  and  as  he 
wishes,  within  the  limits  of  his  own  country. 
In  this  acknowledgment  the  right  of  migra- 
tion began.  Labor  and  capital,  it  was  found, 
were  transferable  from  one  part  of  a  country 
to  another  part.  The  workman  went  where 
he  received  the  highest  wages ;  capital  where 
it  earned  the  best  returns.  The  advantage 
of  this  fluidity  of  motion,  unchecked  by  any 
official  interference,  was  long  ago  under- 
stood as  regards  any  one  country,  but  its 
universal  application  was  long  denied;  even 
when  it  was  admitted  that  surplus  labor  could 
safely  be  sent  abroad,  this  truth  was  denied 
as  regards  surplus  capital.  The  present  con- 
dition of  the  tacitly  understood  but  seldom 
formulated  right  is  that  any  one  upon  whom 
the  civil  or  military  authorities  have  no  legal 
claim  shall  be  free  to  leave  his  country,  tak- 
ing with  him  his  worldly  possessions. 

But  it  cannot  be  said  that  the  right  of  a 
person  to  change  his  abode  from  one  coun- 
try to  another  is  as  unlimited  as  his  right  to 
remove  from  one  part  to  another  of  his  own 
country.  Three  cases  of  emigration,  of  in- 
creasing degrees  of  complexity,  may  be  cited 
here  as  examples.  If  an  Englishman  con- 
cludes to  sell  his  hop-field  in  Kent,  remove 


1883.] 


The  Migration  Problem. 


269 


to  Yorkshire  and  engage  in  raising  sheep,  he 
only  transfers  a  local  allegiance;  he  is  still 
in  every  respect  an  English  citizen,  and  no 
question  as  to  his  acceptability  can  be  raised 
in  Yorkshire.  It  is  much  as  if  he  had  moved 
from  one  county  of  California  to  another, 
or  from  one  ward  to  another  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. The  different  local  usages  between 
Kent  and  Yorkshire  hardly  obscure  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  transaction.  But  a  case  con- 
siderably more  complex  arises,  if  within  the 
United  States  a  man  removes  from  Massa- 
chusetts to  Illinois  or  Oregon.  He  is  still 
an  American  citizen,  but  he  finds  the  re- 
quirements of  the  respective  State  laws  so 
different,  that  he  loses  some  rights  and 
privileges,  and  gains  others.  One  State  has 
given  him  up,  has  resigned  the  results  of  his 
future  labor  and  the  takes  on  his  productive 
capital;  the  other  has  gained  these,  and  has 
assumed  consequent  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities. These  cases  prepare  us  to  consider 
the  real  problem,  that  which  arises  when  a 
man  removes  from  one  country  to  another. 
With  this  form  of  the  question  the  United 
States  have  had  to  deal  on  an  unprecedented 
scale.  The  right  of  an  individual  to  remove 
from  his  native  country  is  absolute.  But 
the  country  to  which  he  offers  himself  has 
the  right  to  decide  by  general  laws  whether 
or  not  he  is  a  desirable  citizen,  or  even 
whether  immigration  of  any  sort  is  best. 
The  plain  duties  of  a  government  towards 
its  people  require  this,  and  the  fact  is  gen- 
erally recognized.  A  nation  must  make  laws 
against  the  entry  of  vagrants,  criminals,  and 
infectiously  diseased  persons,  just  as  it  must 
try  to  shut  out  the  rinderpest  and  the  lep- 
rosy. The  supremacy  of  the  individual  ends 
with  the  right  to  sever  his  allegiance  to  his 
own  government;  he  cannot  force  the  gift  of 
that  allegiance  on  any  other  nation. 

Sacred  are  the  responsibilities  and  severe 
the  duties  imposed  upon  the  nation  towards 
whom  the  yearnings  of  emigrants  turn. 
A  young,  free,  and  vigorous  community, 
with  unused  resources  to  draw  upon  and 
physically  justified  in  receiving  accessions, 
has  no  more  complex  social  and  political 
questions  demanding  solution  than  those 


connected  with  would-be  immigrants.  Their 
character  and  industrial  value  must  be  de- 
termined from  a  material  standpoint:  how 
much  cash  is  represented  by  the  bone  and 
brawn,  the  habits,  training,  and  acquired 
skill,  the  clothes,  household  goods,  and  ac- 
cumulated savings?  Of  greater  importance 
are  the  moral,  intellectual,  and  ethnological 
questions.  The  subject  may  be  summed  up 
by  saying  that  the  attitude  of  a  community 
towards  immigration  tacitly  formulates  its 
views  of  its  duties  towards  itself  and  towards 
humanity  at  large. 

The  general  causes  which  in  these  days 
lead  to  migration  are  easily  stated.  Popu- 
lation ever  presses  closely  on  the  means 
of  subsistence.  As  a  community  increases, 
the  struggle  for  the  mere  necessaries  of  life 
deepens  in  intensity.  If  there  once  were 
common  or  government  lands  they  become 
private  property;  the  practical  limits  of  cul- 
tivation and  of  pasturage  are  reached;  the 
rich  soils  have  been  manured  to  their  high- 
est capacity,  and  fail  to  respond  to  additional 
fertilizers;  pauperism  increases;  children  of 
poverty  are  forced  to  work  at  a  much  earlier 
age;  the  physical  stamina  and  moral  tone 
of  the  lower  classes  distinctly  lessen ;  crimes 
of  a  mean  type  and  vulgar  tragedies  increase ; 
the  battle  of  life  becomes  definitely  harder 
each  day.  The  reservoirs  are  full,  driblets  of 
migration  begin  to  trickle  over  the  banks 
and  flow  away  in  search  of  more  room. 
Then,  while  affairs  are  in  this  state,  an 
unexpected  failure  of  crops  or  fisheries, 
or  the  outbreak  of  the  cattle-plague,  or  any- 
thing that  lessens  the  food-supply,  forces 
thousands  away  to  other  lands.  With  almost 
the  exactitude  of  mathematics,  the  causes 
which  led  to  each  remarkable  migration 
of  the  last  half-century  can  be  discovered. 
It  was  the  potato  disease  in  Ireland,  the 
French  or  German  conscriptions,  it  was  fire, 
flood,  sickness,  famine,  horrors  of  great  wars, 
and  multitudinous  human  disasters  which 
loosened  the  strong  bonds  and  close  attach- 
ments of  men  and  women  to  their  child- 
hood's homes.  Few  scenes  are  so  pathetic 
as  that  of  the  helpless,  uneducated  peasants 
of  Europe,  so  often  thrown  like  flotsam  on 


270 


The  Migration  Problem. 


[Sept. 


our  shores,  with  their  worn  and  worthless 
household  goods  and  their  dull,  untrained 
faculties.  With  this  class  the  simple  instinct 
of  self-preservation  guides,  pushed  as  they 
are  from  the  overflowing  human  hives.  They 
have  heard  tales  of  cheap  lands,  of  high 
wages,  of  roast  beef  on  the  cottager's  table 
every  day;  but  these  stories  they  doubt 
greatly,  and  would  not,  without  more  press- 
ure, leave  their  homes.  Men  of  more 
means,  and  higher  in  the  social  scale,  are 
induced  to  emigrate  from  more  complex 
motives.  They  can  enter  upon  more  exten- 
sive schemes  with  their  capital;  they  can 
found  families  and  exercise  wider  social  in- 
fluence in  the  new  country.  The  desire  for 
greater  political  power,  better  religious  rights, 
and  various  such  motives,  moral  and  intel- 
lectual, enter  into  the  choice. 

But  even  when  we  give  the  fullest  weight 
to  the  tendencies  and  reasons  which  impel 
men  to  seek  a  change  of  abode,  the  centrip- 
etal force  is  still  found  to  be  the  strongest. 
The  natural  conservatism  of  mankind  is  so 
great  that  vast  and  fertile  territories  remain 
thinly  occupied  long  after  their  fitness  for 
prosperous  colonies  is  well  known.  Not  un- 
til the  evils  and  burdens  of  their  life  become 
nearly  unendurable  will  ordinary  individuals 
seek  new  homes.  It  is  almost  in  vain  that 
such  writers  as  Carlyle,  gazing  in  despair  on 
the  squalor,  misery,  and  crime  in  which  the 
lower  classes  dwell  in  the  more  populous 
parts  of  Europe,  cry  out  for  "some  new 
Hengist  or  Horsa,"  to  lead  forth  new  Saxon 
colonies — not  with  spear  and  sword,  but  with 
plow  and  reaping  machine.  Despite  all 
efforts,  the  current  of  emigration  will  not 
flow  out  evenly,  and  so  relieve  its  surplus. 
If  it  did,  the  natural  checks  to  population 
would  act  much  less  freely,  and  one  island, 
such  as  Great  Britain,  would  soon  populate 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Even  as  it  is,  Eng- 
land's colonial  empire  largely  affords  the 
explanation  of  her  steady  growth  and  con- 
centrated power.  Men  whose  brawn,  ability, 
or  capital  is  too  little  to  enter  safely  the 
struggle  at  home  seek  the  colonies  as  a 
fitter  field ;  and  this  sifting  process  has  made 
England  what  it  is  to-day.  It  often  happens, 


too,  that  active  and  ambitious  young  Eng- 
lishmen, who  have  prospered  in  the  colonies, 
return  with  full  hands  to  their  native  shores, 
restoring  ruined  family  fortunes  or  buying 
new  estates. 

For  every  emigrant  sent  out  from  a  coun- 
try the  pressure  on  the  food  supply  is  lessened 
by  just  that  much,  and  the  sensitive  social 
forces  operate  to  fill  up  the  deficiency. 
When  numbers  of  emigrants  depart,  more 
marriages,  or  marriages  at  an  earlier  age,  oc- 
cur among  those  left  behind,  the  food  sup- 
ply being  better,  and  wages  somewhat  higher, 
as  competition  is  less.  The  size  of  the  av- 
erage families  will  be  greater  than  before. 
The  chief  effect  of  migration  in  regard  to  the 
country  losing  inhabitants  is  therefore  visible 
in  a  corresponding  gain  in  the  ratio  of  in- 
creased population.  The  greater  tendency 
to  save  counteracts  whatever  outflow  of  cap- 
ital has  taken  place.  It  is  as  in  a  hive  of 
bees,  when  a  swarm  has  departed  all  ener- 
gies are  applied  to  repairing  the  loss.  Yet 
the  first  effect  of  emigration  may  often  be  to 
lower  wages  in  certain  departments  of  indus- 
try, by  reason  of  the  derangement  caused  by 
drawing  away  skilled  workmen  from  a  dis- 
trict, lowering  its  standard  of  excellence,  and 
necessarily  lessening  its  profits. 

The  country  which  gains  in  population  by 
immigration  gains  a  strength  both  in  labor 
and  capital,  but  this  we  are  seldom  in  dan- 
ger of  underestimating.  It  manages  to  get 
canals  dug,  railroads  built,  coal-mines 
worked,  forests  cleared,  and  virgin  soils 
broken  up  many  years  in  advance  of  the 
time  that  the  natural  increase  of  its  own  peo- 
ple would  have  permitted  these  things  to  be 
done.  But  these  employments  all  represent 
resources,  actual  or  potential.  Dormant  in 
the  unworked  coal-mine,  for  instance,  lies 
the  sustenance  of  a  thousand  men,  light  and 
warmth  for  a  metropolis,  profits  in  the  form 
of  Score's  vases,  Meissoniers,  and  rambles  in 
Europe  for  the  capitalist.  The  amount  of 
oxygen  imprisoned  in  the  coal  itself  is  not 
more  definite  and  limited  than  is  the  labor 
required  to  bring  it  to  market.  Society 
strives  to  utilize  the  highest  possible  percent- 
age of  the  stored-up  heat  force;  to  use  every 


1883.J 


The  Migration  Problem. 


271 


stroke  of  labor,  every  dollar  of  capital,  to  its 
best  advantage.  But  when  the  work  is  done, 
the  coal  burnt,  the  money  spent,  the  whole  ac- 
cumulation is  dissipated.  Reserves  of  force 
are  as  good  things  for  young  nations  as  for 
young  men.  It  is  only  a  restless  and  impa- 
tient nation  that  cries,  "Let  us  clear  with  all 
speed  our  forests,  exhaust  our  mines  to  their 
lowest  fissures,  occupy  our  vacant  lands  to 
the  last  available  mile." 

Migration  has  a  deeper  effect  on  the  re- 
cipient nation  than  the  mere  influence  on 
prices,  wages,  and  political  or  commercial 
centers  which  large  transfers  of  population 
produce.  Race  difference  cannot  be  ignored 
nor  wiped  out  by  an  act  of  naturalization. 
If  not  too  diverse,  the  natives  and  the  new- 
comers blend  at  last,  and  higher  national 
characteristics  may  be  evolved.  The  spirit- 
ual, intellectual,  and  ethnological  aspects  of 
the  migration  problem  are  ever  its  most  im- 
portant elements.  The  value  of  a  given 
class  of  immigrants  must  be  measured  chief- 
ly by  their  capacity  to  receive  the  national 
life,  adopt  the  national  spirit,  add  desirable 
elements  to  the  chemic  mixture  of  forces. 
Little  can  be  expected  from  the  first  gener- 
ation. The  Cornish  silver-miner  of  Nevada, 
the  Norwegian  settler  in  Idaho,  the  Portu- 
guese vine-dresser  from  the  Azores,  the 
Russian  Jew  from  the  Azof  Sea,  must  one 
and  all  be  content  to  look  to  their  children 
for  their  true  influence  on  America. 

When  migrations  result  in  the  mingling  of 
people  who  possess  the  same  civilization, 
good  is  certain  to  develop  in  the  struggle. 
Differences  in  language,  politics,  religion, 
habits  of  life,  melt  and  fuse  into  harmonious 
union.  We  can  say,  to  begin  with,  that  the 
great  colony-planting  Celt  and  Teuton  races 
combine  with  the  greatest  ease,  and  out  of 
the  union  a  better  strength  can  be  expected. 
In  portions  of  the  United  States  the  Latin 
elements,  Spanish,  Italians,  Portuguese, 
must  be  reckoned  with.  Africans  and  Asi- 
atics can  very  well  be  allowed  in  a  modern 
Christian  community  so'  long  as  Fetichism, 
Mohammedanism,  and  Confucianism  are  not 
recognized  as  legal  forms  of  worship,  and  so 
long  as  the  ideas  of  home,  self-thinking,  and 


local  government,  which  are  more  or  less 
the  common  heritage  of  all  Aryan  races,  are 
not  endangered.  This  is  the  essential  point 
as  between  immigrants  of  the  same  civiliza- 
tion and  immigrants  of  a  different  civiliza- 
tion. No  temporary  gam  in  labor  or  capital 
can  justify  any  people  in  accepting  either  as 
citizens  or  as  sojourners  a  dangerous  num- 
ber of  the  children  of  an  "alien  civilization." 
As  to  what  constitutes  a  "dangerous  num- 
ber," that  must  be  left  for  careful  statesman- 
ship to  decide. 

The  one  region  of  the  world  where  these 
huge  forces  of  migration  are  being  practical- 
ly compared  and  tested  is  in  the  United 
States.  They  exert  an  influence  on  our  so- 
cial and  industrial  systems,  on  our  material 
and  spiritual  welfare,  comparable  in  impor- 
tance to  the  results  produced  by  the  giant 
physical  agencies  that  carved  the  pointed 
peaks  of  the  Rockies,  lifted  the  vast  plateau 
of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  and  drove  glacier 
plows  where  vineyards  and  gardens  now 
thrive.  The  exact  meaning  of  the  immigra- 
tion question  to  America  is  best  shown  in  a 
study  of  the  statistics  of  the  subject.  Be- 
tween 1789  and  1820  only  about  250,000 
aliens  came  to  the  United  States;  but  in  the 
sixty  years  following,  the  total  number  was 
10,138,758.  Previous  to  1827,  the  annual 
inflow  was  less  than  20,000;  previous  to 
1840  it  was  less  than  80,000;  in  1854,  1872, 
1873,  and  1880,  it  was  over  400,000.  Dur- 
ing these  sixty  years  the  British  Isles  sent 
4,698,098  immigrants,  Germany  over  3,060,- 
ooo,  Sweden  and  Norway  300,000,  France 
313,000,  British  America  over  500,000, 
China  215,000,  many  of  whom  returned  to 
their  homes.  If  to  the  immigration  that 
occurred  previous  to  December,  1880,  we 
add  that  of  1 88 1,  1882,  and  of  January  of 
the  present  year,  we  reach  a  grand  total  of 
12,130,580  —  an  imposing  army,  and  well 
worth  study  in  its  separate  elements.  The 
arrivals  for  the  twelve  months  ending  June 
30,  1882,  reached  the  large  number  of 
788,992,  and  in  the  seven  months  follow- 
ing were  283,419.  It  is  not  likely  that  the 
total  for  the  current  fiscal  year  will  exceed 
600,000. 


272 


The  Migration  Problem. 


[Sept, 


The  report  for  1881  on  the  commerce 
and  navigation  of  the  United  States  con- 
tains full  statistics  of  the  immigration  of 
that  year,  numbering  669,431.  Let  us  first 
look  at  the  nationalities  of  the  new-comers. 
Europe  contributed  527,776,  distributed  as 
follows : 


Germany 210,485 

British  Isles 153,718 

Sweden 49>76o 

Norway 27,705 

Austria 21,107 

Italy 15,387 

Switzerland  ....    11,293 

Denmark 9, 1 17 

Netherlands 8, 595 

Hungary 6,826 

Poland 5,614 


France 5,227 

Russia 4, 865 

Belgium 1,766 

Spain 484 

Finland 176 

Portugal 171 

Turkey 72 

Roumania 30 

Greece 19 

Sicily,    Malta,    and 
Gibraltar  . .  20 


The  British  North  American  provinces 
sent  125,381  immigrants,  of  which  102,227 
were  from  Quebec  and  Ontario.  All  of  Asia 
contributed  but  11,982,  of  which  China  was 
responsible  for  11,890,  India  for  33,  Ar- 
menia for  15;  and  Japan,  Arabia,  Syria,  and 
Persia  for  the  rest.  Africa  sent  but  25,  Cen- 
tral America  29,  South  America  no,  the 
West  Indies  1,680,  and  the  islands  of  .the 
Atlantic  1,098.  The  immigrants  from  the 
Azores,  Bermudas,  Canaries,  and  Madeiras 
are  chiefly  Portuguese,  who  go  to  the  Pacific 
coast.  A  portion  of  the  immigration  from 
the  isles  of  the  Pacific,  numbering  1,191,  is 
of  the  same  nationality.  Greenland,  Iceland, 
and  miscellaneous  sources  are  credited  with 
sending  159  persons  to  this  country.  Space 
forbids  extended  comment  on  the  above 
figures.  Germany,  long  second,  now  heads 
the  list.  The  British  Isles  send  nearly  three 
times  as  many  emigrants  to  the  United  States 
as  to  all  the  English  colonies  combined. 
The  sturdy  Norse  element,  represented  by 
Sweden,  Norway,  and  Denmark,  is  the  third 
in  point  of  importance  and  is  steadily  in- 
creasing. Alaska  and  the  northern  portions 
of  the  newer  States  and  Territories  offer 
them  many  inducements.  It  is  remarkable 
that  Belgium,  France,  and  Holland,  though 
the  most  thickly  populated  portions  of  Eu- 
rope, furnish  a  very  small  proportion  of 
emigrants.  The  explanation  will  be  found 
in  social  habits  and  national  character. 


Belgians,  French,  and  Dutch  do  not  have 
the  migratory  impulse  and  fierce  land-hun- 
ger. They  are  not  pioneers  and  born  colo- 
nists. The  Swiss  immigrants  are  to  a  large 
extent  dairymen,  and  many  find  their  way 
to  the  Pacific  coast.  The  Italians  are  vine- 
growers,  field-laborers,  and  fishermen.  The 
Slav  element,  though  seeming  insignificant, 
is  that  from  which  the  greatest  increase  may 
be  expected  in  the  next  ten  or  twenty  years. 
A  clearer  knowledge  of  America  is  spread- 
ing among  the  Slavonic  races,  and  its  effects 
will  soon  be  manifest.  War  or  famine  in 
eastern  Europe  would  probably  cause  a 
remarkable  migration  to  these  shores. 

Valuable  results  are  obtained  from  a  study 
of  the  tables  relating  to  occupation.  Out  of 
the  669,431  immigrants  of  1881,  there  were 
but  2,812  who  had  received  professional 
training,  and  were  lawyers,  physicians, 
ministers,  authors,  teachers,  editors,  etc. 
Germany  furnished  the  greatest  number,  pro- 
portionately, of  these.  The  skilled  occupa- 
tions, trades,  and  mechanical  pursuits  were 
represented  by  66, 45  7  persons.  There  were 
58,028  farmers,  and  5,552  farm  laborers. 
The  other  unskilled  laborers  numbered  147,- 
8 1 6.  There  'were  19,342  house-servants. 
The  persons  "without  occupations"  num- 
bered 347,530,  chiefly  females  and  children, 
though  a  large  percentage  appears  to  consist 
of  men.  About  thirty  per  cent,  of  the  total 
emigration  consists  of  females. 

Returning  for  a  moment  to  the  question 
of  nationality,  we  observe  the  increasing 
preponderance  of  the  German  element.  In 
1882  it  rose  to  250,630,  as  against  179,423 
from  the  British  Isles,  and  98,275  from  Brit- 
ish North  America.  In  the  seven  months 
ending  with  January  of  this  year,  Germany 
sent  116,604,  as  against  about  80,000  from 
the  British  Isles.  This  remarkable  outpour- 
ing points  clearly  to  impoverishment  and 
over-population  in  Germany,  and  all  recent 
writers  bear  witness  to  the  fact.  The  ratio 
of  increase  is  too  great,  and  the  consequent 
economic  evils  have  grown  enormous.  The 
births  number  4  per  cent,  of  the  population, 
while  in  France  they  number  but  2.6  per 
cent.  In  some  districts,  such  as  Upper 


1883.] 


The  Migration  Problem. 


273 


Silesia,  the  limits  of  sustenance  are  so  nearly 
reached  that  the  slightest  failure  of  crops 
causes  great  distress,  and  brings  the  lower 
classes  to  the  verge  of  starvation.  Men 
search  in  vain  for  work  at  25  cents  a  day. 
There  are  almost  no  opportunities  for  young 
men.  Crimes  have  increased  over  200  per 
cent,  in  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years.  It  is 
also  to  be  remembered  that  each  adult  emi- 
grant from  Germany  represents  a  financial 
loss  to  his  fatherland  of  what  it  has  cost  to 
rear,  clothe,  and  educate  him.  For  a  peas- 
ant child  this  cost,  to  the  age  of  15,  is  about 
$750.  It  is  thought  that  each  adult  emigrant 
takes  with  him,  besides  his  passage  money, 
about  $100.  The  able-bodied  emigrant  is 
worth  about  $1,000  to  the  country  that  re- 
ceives him,  provided,  of  course,  that  he  is 
needed. 

We  have  seen  that  more  than  nine-tenths 
of  the  able-bodied  men  and  women  who 
come  to  the  United  States  can  only  contrib- 
ute unskilled  labor  to  the  national  sources. 
Many  of  them  go  West,  and  settle  as  soon  as 
possible  on  cheap  government  lands,  of  which 
over  eight  million  acres  are  annually  given 
away  under  homestead  laws  and  timber- 
culture  acts.  The  Comstock  mines  will  no 
more  surely  come  to  a  day  when  the  great 
lode  is  exhausted  and  its  workings  necessarily 
abandoned,  than  this  country  will  sometime 
discover  that  there  is  no  more  land  fit  to 
plow,  no  more  room  for  cattle  on  its  hill 
pastures.  The  direct  economic  effect  of  the 
class  of  immigration  we  have  been  receiving 
has  been  to  increase  the  ratio  of  advance  in 
values  of  real  property,  to  stimulate  trade, 
manufactures,  and  railroad  building,  and  to 
foster  everywhere  a  feeling  of  optimism — a 
belief  in  better  and  better  times  ahead. 
This  feeling  has  become  a  national  charac- 
teristic, and  at  times  is  positively  dangerous. 
So  long  as  industrious  though  uneducated 
men  can  become  their  own  landlords,  on 
their  own  farms,  wages  can  be  maintained 
at  a  comparatively  satisfactory  point.  But 
when  the  tide  turns,  and  cheap  food,  cheap 
land,  and  high  wages  are  no  longer  charac- 
teristics of  America,  she  will  be  unprepared 
to  meet  the  new  situation.  Should  popula- 
VOL.  II.— 18. 


tion  increase  at  the  present  rate,  the  changes 
which  the  next  quarter  of  a  century  will  force 
upon  us  must  be  enormous  in  their  scope 
and  effect.  Social,  industrial,  and  political 
revolution  may  be  expected,  and  reactions 
that  more  plodding  and  less  rapidly  de- 
veloped communities  escape.  Economic 
changes  which  are  spread  over  several  gen- 
erations are  much  more  readily  accepted 
than  those  which  fall  entirely  within  the 
limits  of  one  generation.  And  it  is  folly  to 
suppose  that  the  assimilative  powers  of  the 
nation  will  always  continue  to  be  as  great  as 
they  have  been  in  the  past. 

But  when  we  claim  the  right  to  limit,  if 
need  be,  the  immigration  to  our  shores,  there 
are  writers  who  reply  that  to  do  so  would  be 
to  seal  our  own  ruin.  In  1856  the  theory 
of  the  gradual  deterioration  of  the  Caucasian 
race  on  this  continent  found  supporters. 
Certainly,  if  the  climate  were,  as  claimed, 
so  unfavorable  that  the  national  vitality  is 
only  kept  up  by  constant  infusions  of  for- 
eign blood;  if  the  peasants  of  Europe  have 
indeed  more  manhood  than  the  descendants 
of  Revolutionary  heroes,  then  we  must  aban- 
don all  hope  of  a  permanent  civilization 
here.  A  theorem  of  such  destructive  se- 
quences can  only  be  accepted  on  evidence 
of  the  highest  order.  But  later  statistics 
and  more  fruitful  developments  of  national 
energy  justify  the  unshaken  confidence  of 
our  noblest  leaders  and  wisest  thinkers,  in 
the  fitness  of  this  continent  for  a  better 
humanity  than  Europe  has  known.  The 
forces  of  nature  are  really  working  with  us, 
not  against  us.  If  we  were  shut  out  from 
the  rest  of  the  world  we  should  not  sink 
into  barbarism.  Bryce,  Spencer,  Freeman, 
and  other  distinguished  visitors  predict  the 
highest  development  here.  No  writer  of  any 
importance  uses  this  climatic  terror  as  a 
working  theory. 

Race  problems  sufficient  have,  however, 
been  given  us  to  solve.  The  negroes,  which 
no  other  nation  on  earth  could  with  safety 
have  admitted  so  suddenly  to  citizenship, 
must  be  made  to  furnish  teachers  and  civil- 
ized colonists  to  aid  in  opening  Africa  to 
travel,  commerce,  and  education.  The  de- 


274 


The  Migration  Problem. 


[Sept. 


scendants  of  the  present  Indian  tribes,  losing 
their  tribal  organization,  must  make  Indian 
Territory  a  not  unworthy  member  of  the 
league  of  States.  Chinese,  Japanese,  Hin- 
doo, and  Turk  must  come  and  go,  wel- 
comed, sometimes  made  citizens,  but  lim- 
ited, in  point  of  numbers,  when  necessary. 
When  finally,  as  must  ultimately  happen, 
the  useful  limit  of  accretion  is  reached,  the 
national  hospitality  can  fitly  take  another 
form;  it  can  afford  the  starting  point  for 
well-organized  colonies  to  develop  with  ease 
and  profit  the  resources  of  Central  and 
South  America. 

If  it  be  asked  how  much  immigration  is 
best  for  the  United  States,  no  definite  reply 
can  yet  be  given.  A  few  general  consider- 
ations may  be  offered  with  propriety  on  this 
point.  Every  new  transatlantic  line  of 
steamships,  every  new  railroad  across  the 
frontier  lands  of  northwest  and  southwest, 
enter  as  factors  of  the  migration  problem, 
bringing  men  faster,  making  more  room  for 
them,  aiding  in  their  distribution.  The  two 
element  of  uncertainty  are :  (i)  the  trades- 
unions;  (2)  the  fluctuations  and  changes 
in  industrial  or  commercial  centers.  The 
trades-unions  abroad  sometimes  complicate 
affairs  by  furnishing  means  of  migration,  and 
forcing  what  they  deem  surplus  labor  to  de- 
part against  its  own  wish.  American  trades- 
unions  have  precipitated  unwise  conflicts, 
causing  useless  waste  of  productive  force. 
In  either  case,  the  normal  labor  demand  is 
interfered  with.  Another  economic  feature 
of  modern  life  is  in  the  rapidity  of  its  trans- 
fers of  power.  A  single  generation  sees  an 
agricultural  community  metamorphosed  into 
one  devoted  to  manufactures.  The  time 
may  be  comparatively  near  when  the  looms 
of  New  England  will  be  outnumbered  by 
those  of  the  South  ;  when  the  forges  of  Ohio 
and  Pennsylvania  will  be  fewer  than  thcfse 
of  Utah  and  Colorado;  when  the  lumber 
products  of  Puget  Sound  will  many  times 
surpass  in  value  those  of  Maine  and  Mich- 
igan. Nothing  is  crystallized.  Everything 
is  in  a  state  of  ebb  and  flow,  of  change, 


transfer,  and  development.  Minute  subdi- 
visions of  labor  increase;  an  entire  town 
devotes  itself  to  one  occupation.  The  ne- 
cessity for  the  immigrant  to  have  some 
definite  species  of  skill  was  never  before  so 
absolute.  The  day  for  hap  hazard  immi- 
gration ought  to  be  ended. 

It  seems  evident  that  the  world  is  on  the 
threshold  of  changes  in  the  form  and  char- 
acter of  notable  migration.  That  to  the 
United  States,  in  many  respects  the  most  re- 
markable in  history,  has  been  peaceful,  con- 
tinuous, unorganized,  steadily  increasing  in 
volume.  It  has  been  one  of  individuals 
and  of  families,  seldom  of  colonies,  except 
when  some  communal  or  social  scheme  was 
to'  be  tested  by  its  projectors.  But  every- 
thing points  to  well-systematized  agricultural 
and  industrial-agricultural  colonies,  perhaps 
on  a  co-operative  basis,  perhaps  organ- 
ized by  capitalists  and  large  companies, 
much  as  transcontinental  railroads  are  man- 
aged. Some  of  these  future  colonies  will 
doubtless  form  the  nucleus  of  free  Federal 
States.  But  the  rights  of  colonies  and  their 
relationships — commercial,  practical,  and  oth- 
erwise— with  the  mother  country  form  too 
extended  a  subject  to  be  treated  of  in  this 
connection.  The  reports  and  history  of 
England's  colonial  empire  afford  the  most 
important  information.  There  never  was  a 
time  more  prolific  in  schemes  for  colonies  and 
commercial  companies.  The  mere  outlines 
of  the  English,  French,  Belgian,  and  Ger- 
man plans  for  peaceful  conquests  of  the  rich 
lake  region  of  Central  Africa  seize  strong 
hold  of  the  imagination  and  awaken  public 
interest.  Russian  settlers  in  Saghalien,  French 
conquests  in  Anam,  the  efforts  to  explore 
Corea,  the  talk  of  purchasing  Palestine, 
American  colonies  forming  for  Mexico,  the 
Madagascar  question,  the  sudden  interest 
felt  in  Alaska; — these  are  premonitions  of  the 
times,  and  show  the  currents  of  thought. 
Renewed  colonization  on  a  large  scale  is 
everywhere  foreshadowed.  America  is  not 
to  be  the  only  haven  for  the  human  sur- 
plus of  Europe. 

Charles  Howard  Shinn. 


1883.]  The  Wood-Chopper  to  his  Ax.  275 


THE  WOOD-CHOPPER  TO  HIS   AX. 

MY  comrade  keen,  my  lawless  friend, 
When  will  your  savage  temper  mend? 
I  wield  you,  powerless  to  resist; 
I  feel  your  weight  bend  back  my  wrist, 

Straighten  the  corded  arm, 

Caress  the  hardened  palm. 

War  on  these  forest  tribes  they  made, 
The  men  who  forged  your  sapphire  blade; 
Its  very  substance  thus  renewed 
Tenacious  of  the  ancient  feud, 

In  crowding  ranks  uprose 

Your  ambushed,  waiting  foes. 

This  helve,  by  me  wrought  out  and  planned, 
By  long  use  suited  to  this  hand, 
Was  carved,  with  patient,  toilsome  art, 
From  stubborn  hickory's  milk-white  heart ; 

Its  satin  gloss  makes  plain 

The  fineness  of  the  grain. 

When  deeply  sunk,  an  entering  wedge, 
The  live  wood  tastes  your  shining  edge; 
When,  strongly  cleft  from  side  to  side, 
You  feel  its  shrinking  heart  divide, 

List  not  the  shuddering  sigh 

Of  that  dread  agony. 

Yon  gaping  mouth  you  need  not  miss, 
But  close  it  with  a  poignant  kiss; 
Nor  dread  to  search,  with  whetted  knife, 
The  naked  mystery  of  life, 

And  count  on  shining  rings 

The  ever-widening  springs. 

Hew,  trenchant  steel,  the  ivory  core, 
One  mellow,  resonant  stroke  the  more ! 
Loudly  the  cracking  sinews  start, 
Unwilling  members  wrenched  apart — 

Dear  ax,  your  'complice  I 

In  love  and  cruelty! 

Elaine  Goodale, 


276 


The  Old  Port  of  Trinidad. 


[Sept. 


THE   OLD    PORT   OF   TRINIDAD. 


IT  is  only  by  stage  or  on  horseback  or 
afoot  that  one  can  get  to  Trinidad,  over 
roads  not  always  passable.  When  he  does 
get  there,  but  for  a  small  Catholic  church, 
a  brick  store,  and  a  long  building,  the  inte- 
rior of  which  will  forcibly  remind  the  old  Cal- 
ifornian  of  many  a  "Long  Tom"  or  "Round 
Tent"  of  his  earlier  and  rougher  experiences, 
he  would  think  he  was  almost  at  the  ultima 
thule  of  progress  and  on  the  chosen  ground 
of  decadence.  Old  and  rickety  and  tum- 
ble-down and  unhabited  houses  are  too 
numerous  for  so  small  a  place.  Twenty- 
nine  years  ago  nearly  three  thousand  people 
made  Trinidad  "a  lively  camp."  Steamers 
and  schooners,  and  now  and  then  a  brig, 
kept  the  waters  of  the  snug  bight  in  com- 
motion. Twenty-five  or  thirty  miles  above 
the  town  were  the  "Gold  Bluffs."  Think 
how  eager,  how  frantic,  was  the  scramble 
for  a  slice  of  this,  then  the  latest  El  Dorado. 

The  man  who  stumbled  upon  the  shining 
sands  of  the  "Bluffs"  still  lives  at  Trinidad. 
Others  have  amassed  competences — nay,  for- 
tunes— on  the  very  fields  which  he  opened. 
He,  stricken  in  years  and  without  resource 
except  his  daily  labor,  waits  for  the  end — the 
type  of  a  '"forty-niner"  to  whom  the  fates 
have  been  unpropitious.  " 'Pauper  etexul"- 
for  he  was  born  where  the  Rhone  rushes 
past  smiling  fields  and  purpling  vineyards; 
he  watches  the  days  come  and  the  nights 
pass  and  the  seasons  change,  and,  suave  as 
becomes  a  Gaul,  merely  shrugs  his  shoulders 
as  you  speak  of  a  revival  of  trade  and  the 
repopulation  of  the  old  town,  and  says,  "  It 
may  be  so,  sir;  but  the  old  days  will  not 
return."  When  did  they,  or  how  could  they, 
return  to  a  stranded  '"forty-niner"?  The 
traveler  finds  him  always  courteously  willing 
to  tell  all  he  knows  of  the  early  history  of 
the  town — of  its  flush  days  and  mad,  hilari- 
ous nights,  of  the  rush  and  roar  and  swagger 
and  clatter  of  the  Argonauts  who,  numbering 
scores  and  hundreds  and  thousands,  de- 


parted thence  by  twos  and  in  platoons,  in 
single  file  and  long  procession,  for  the  Bluffs, 
the  Klamath,  the  Trinity,  for  unexplored 
and  imaginary  fields. 

But  neither  he  nor  any  whom  I  ques- 
tioned could  tell  me  who  named  the  place, 
or  how  it  came  to  bear  the  sacred  name  of 
the  Holy  Trinity.  Somewhere  near  the 
town  stands  an  aged  tree,  upon  whose 
gnarled  and  knotted  sides,  high  up,  is  rudely 
carved  a  cross.  Tradition  is  silent;  no 
legend  exists  as  to  whose  hand  placed  the 
emblem  of  our  redemption  in  the  keeping  of 
this  acolyte  of  the  forest.  Doubtless  long 
before.the  advent  of  the  adventurous  Yankee 
some  Spanish  galleon  had  crept  in  behind 
Trinidad  Head  while  a  stiff  northwester  was 
sweeping  all  before  it ;  and  in  pious  com- 
memoration of  deliverance  from  a  present 
evil,  had  left  a  name,  and  a  sign  of  its  pres- 
ence. Else  might  some  such  irreverent  ap- 
pellation have  been  affixed  to  this  romantic 
spot  as  now  disfigures,  and  ever  shall  dis- 
figure, many  a  lovely  glen  and  charming 
vale  in  that  portion  of  this  our  goodly  her- 
itage in  which  the  Gringo  has  had  the  ex- 
clusive privilege  of  choosing  names. 

Nobody  with  a  spark  of  sentiment  could 
visit  Trinidad  in  beautiful  weather  and  find 
it  otherwise  than  romantic.  There  is  the 
romance  of  reality  about  it,  too.  I  came 
upon  a  rare  instance  of  this.  The  region 
roundabout  Trinidad,  since  the  decline  of 
its  mining  and  the  birth  of  its  lumber  inter- 
ests, has  been  considered,  until  a  few  years 
past,  a  barren  waste.  Five  years  before  my 
visit  two  young  men  came  to  Trinidad,  own- 
ing nothing  but  a  horse  or  two.  They  made 
known  their  intention  of  endeavoring  to 
locate  and  build  up  a  farm  on  Redwood 
Creek,  about  eighteen  miles  above  the  old 
town.  The  kindly  disposed  merchants  in 
whom  they  thus  confided  let  them  have 
what  few  provisions  they  needed,  "on  time"; 
and  they  did  as  many  thousands  of  good 


1883.] 


The  Old  Port  of  Trinidad. 


277 


and  true  men  have  done  before  them, 
and  as  very  many  thousands  might  and 
should  do  after  them,  "took  to  the  brush"; 
located  a  bench  mining  claim  and  a  quarter- 
section  of  land  apiece.  Their  bench  claim 
now  pays  them  on  an  average  one  thousand 
dollars  a  year  in  gold-dust.  They  have 
added  to  their  original  farming  locations  by 
purchase.  They  made  over  a  ton  of  butter 
in  1878.  Their  landed  possessions  could 
change  hands  to-day,  if  they  so  willed  it,  for 
six  thousand  dollars.  They  have  paid  back 
advances  with  interest,  and  are  independent 
of  the  world.  Fifty  or  sixty  settlers  have 
followed  their  example.  They  are  forming 
a  hard-working,  self-supporting  community, 
the  trade  of  which  is  already  beginning  to 
make  a  noticeable  difference  in  Trinidad. 
They  say  that,  necessarily  tributary  to  Trini- 
dad, there  are  from  ten  thousand  to  twelve 
thousand  acres  of  land  on  which  other  par- 
ties can  work  out  the  same  romance  of 
reality  that  they  have  worked  out  since  they 
came  to  Trinidad  with  a  horse  or  two  and 
got  credit  for  "grub"  to  start  with.  But  the 
romance  will  have  a  sorry  ending  unless 
backed  by  stout  arms,  willing  hearts,  indus- 
try, and  economy. 

The  devout  son  of  the  church  who  carved 
the  cross  upon  the  tree  left  us  only  the 
dream  of  what  might  have  become  a  fact — 
the  phantasm  of  an  adventure  of  whose 
record  nothing  save  a  hieroglyph  remains. 
The  sturdy  pioneers  of  Redwood  Creek 
have  spread  out  an  open  page  of  accom- 
plishment. 

•  Few  more  noticeable  landmarks  than 
Trinidad  Head  grace  any  sea-coast.  Con- 
nected with  the  mainland  by  a  narrow 
isthmus  of  shifting  sand,  it  rises  to  a  height 
of  about  three  hundred  feet,  and  covers  a 
space  of  say  half  a  mile  square.  Granite, 
conglomerate,  and  hornblende  go  to  make 
up  its  geological  structure.  A  dense  growth 
of  chaparral  hides  and  to  some  extent  beau- 
tifies the  more  rugged  outlines  of  its  summit. 
At  the  northern  extremity  of  its  western 
face  (sheer,  precipitous,  iron-bound)  stands 
the  Pharos  of  the  Head.  A  gleam  of  white 
and  a  flash  of  crimson  light  serve  as  guides 


by  night  those  "who  go  down  into  the  sea 
in  ships,"  and  whose  course  leads  them  to- 
ward Oonalaska's  shore,  or  into  the  lordly 
Columbia,  or  along  the  picturesque  shores 
of  Puget  Sound.  It  is  a  pleasant  walk  to 
the  lighthouse,  around  the  Head,  over  the 
well-graded  road  built  by  the  government 
for  the  transportation  of  material  and  sup- 
plies. 

Long,  low,  level  reaches  of  shining  sand 
are  all  well  enough  in  their  way  in  some 
places,  such  as  Long  Branch,  Santa  Monica, 
and  similar  resorts.  In  fact,  they  are  climatic 
necessities:  else  how  would  the  dwellers  in 
our  semi-tropics  or  in  the  cities  of  the  At- 
lantic States  be  saved  from  melting  com- 
pletely in  warm  weather,  and  resolving  into 
probably  unwholesome  dews?  But  these 
long,  low,  shining  reaches  always  suggest 
Kingsley's  "cruel,  crawling  sands."  Instead 
thereof  give  me  what  you  will  find  at  Trini- 
dad, and  for  a  mile  or  more  above  and  be- 
low— a  rocky  shore  and  a,  pebbly  strand. 
Nerissa's  locks  will  show  far  more  like  spun 
gold  against  the  cold  and  passionless  gray  of 
that  granite  bowlder  than  against  the.  gleam 
and  glimmer  of  the  superheated  sand  at 
Long  Branch;  and,  if  one  must  toy  with 
Amaryllis  in  the  shade,  how  infinitely  more 
agreeable  is  the  cool  shadow  of  that  lordly 
spruce,  not  a  stone's  throw  from  the  ocean's 
rim,  than  the  uncertain,  half-revealing  mock- 
ery of  a  shadow  which  your  variegated  mar- 
kee  casts,  as  you  imagine  yourself  screened 
from  prying  eyes  at  Santa  Monica. 

Follow  the  curving  line  of  the  rocky  beach 
at  Trinidad  for  a  mile  or  more.  Limpet  and 
soldier-crab,  mussel  and  periwinkle,  cockle 
and  clam,  find  homes  here.  If  the  tide  is 
out,  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks  you  will  find 
aquariums  in  which  you  can  see  much  that 
is  rich  and  strange.  Many  of  them  are  very 
beautiful.  Sea- anemones,  the  mimosa  of 
the  deep,  spread  out  their  aster-like  calices 
and  rival  any  earth-born  flower  that  ever 
bloomed  in  brilliancy  of  hue  and  delicacy 
of  texture.  Even  the  placid  pools  left  by  the 
outgoing  tide  are  full  of  green  and  crimson 
dulse.  On  the  pebbly  strand,  if  you  have  good 
eyes  and  have  learned  to  distinguish  them 


278 


The  Old  Port  of  Trinidad. 


[Sept, 


from  the  coarser  stones,  you  will  find  good 
store  of  agates,  some  of  them  so  near  akin 
to  the  opal  that  the  dividing  line  cannot  be 
far  off.  Many  of  them  are  sent  to  the  lapi- 
dary to  be  fashioned  into  rings,  cuff-buttons, 
etc. 

Leave  the  beach  a  half-mile  or  so  below 
the  old  mill,  and  strike  across  lots  to  Luffen- 
holtz  Creek.  The  forty  or  fifty  rods  of  that 
rocky  stream  which  you  will  see  from  the 
bridge  across  it  will  leave  you  wondering 
whether  you  ever  have  seen  or  ever  will  see 
anything  lovelier  in  its  way.  Overarched 
by  black  alders,  through  the  thick  shade  of 
which  the  sunlight  falls  in  checkered  patches 
and  in  golden  flecks,  this  stream  rushes  down 
its  stony  channel,  over  such  a  grade  that 
there  is  a  miniature  waterfall  in  every  sepa- 
rate rod  of  the  distance. 

Almost  anywhere  in  the  deeper  places  you 
may  be  very  sure  the  gray  trout  lies :  none 
of  your  salmon-trout,  which  bear  about  the 
same  relation  to  the  true  mountain  variety 
as  an  underdone  veal  cutlet  does  to  a  prop- 
erly broiled  porter-house  steak;  but  firm, 
white-meated,  gamey,  speckled  fellows, 
whom,  if  you  are  at  all  cunning  with  the 
rod,  hook,  and  line,  you  can  lure  by  the  doz- 
en from  their  hiding  places. 

Here,  twenty-nine  years  ago,  to  this  ro- 
mantic spot  came  Baron  von  Luffenholtz 
(I  think  this  is  the  correct  orthography;  if 
not,.  I  ask  his  pardon),  an  enforced  emigrant 
from  Saxe  Coburg,  a  revolutionist  of  those 
stormy  times.  He  brought  with  him  money, 
culture,  courtly  manners,  and  perhaps  an 
imbittered  spirit.  He  built  a  comfortable 
residence.  Among  other  attractions  to  the 
country  side  which  it  possessed  was  a  col- 
lection of  arms  of  curious  devices,  rare  de- 
sign, and  exquisite  workmanship.  He  built 
also  a  fine  mill,  now  an  utter  ruin.  Scarce- 
ly more  than  a  trace  of  the  exile's  presence 
remains;  but  old  residents  are  full  of  kindly 
memories  of  him.  Amnesty  stepped  in  to 
his  relief,  and  he  returned  to  tTie  land  of  his 
fathers.  He  left  behind  him,  however,  I 
am  told,  a  son,  who  bears  or  did  bear  a  com- 
mission in  the  American  navy.  If  this 
should  meet  his  eye,  it  will  doubtless  be 


pleasant  to  know  that  among  his  old  friends 
and  neighbors  his  father  is  remembered  with 
admiration  after  so  long  an  interval. 

On  the  way  home  from  Luffenholtz  Creek 
it  is  interesting  to  call  casually  at  the  Indian 
rancheria  under  the  hill,  and  just  below 
town.  Here  is  the  remnant  of  the  tribe 
which  since  unrecorded  time  have  made 
their  habitat  in  the  neighborhood  of  Trini- 
dad. "Passing  away"  is  written  upon  the 
doorposts  of  their  dwellings,  the  lines  of 
their  faces;  upon  them  and  all -their  sur- 
roundings. They  will  give  you  kindly  wel- 
come, and  sell  you  agates  and  sea-mosses. 
But  do  not  undertake  to  tell  them — I  mean 
the  old  crones — any  marvelous  tales.  They 
will  give  your  stories  a  derisive  reception 
that  will  irresistibly  remind  you  of  the 
women  of  Hiawatha's  tribe  listening  to 
lagoo's :  " '  Kaw,'  they  said,  'what  lies  you  tell 
us!'"  The  same  spirit  of  incredulity  evi- 
dently lives  in  the  Trinidad  branch  of  the 
family — at  least,  in  the  female  portion  of  it. 

There,  surrounded  by  a  rude  imitation  of 
a  paling  fence,  is  the  Campo  Santo  of  the 
tribe.  Upon  these  shallow  graves  are  laid, 
or  over  them  are  hung,  all  that  their  dead 
possessed  when  they  departed  for  the  happy 
hunting  grounds.  Only  the  wind  and  rain 
and  falling  leaves  and  chance-blown  spume 
from  the  tumbled  sea  may  touch  these  mute 
memorials  of  the  vanished  children  of  a 
vanishing  race.  Nor  may  you  speak  to  them 
of  their  dead.  Ghostly  voices  may  whisper 
their  unforgotten  names  into  the  ears  of 
those  who  survive,  but  human  lips  are  not 
permitted  to  utter  them. 

Turn  towards  that  low  and  scarcely  sloping 
roof  which  covers  the  medicine-house  of  the 
tribe.  Tell  me,  is  that  a  blind  Bartimeus  in 
bronze,  a  Belisarius  stripped  of  his  rags  and 
turning  his  sightless  orbs  to  see  from  whence 
an  obolus  might  come?  To  me,  if  I  were  a 
sculptor,  it  would  seem  as  if  Scipio  Africa- 
nus  had  revisited  these  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
and  I  would  beseech  him  to  give  me  just  one 
cast  for  sweet  art's  sake.  And  yet  it  is  only 
an  old  and  blind  and  decrepit  Indian ;  but 
I  doubt  if  native  majesty  of  port  and  mien 
ever  showed  fairer  in  human  form. 


1883.] 


Science  and  Life. 


279 


Darkness  does  not  come  at  Trinidad  with 
sunset.  This  is  a  northern  clime,  remember — 
latitude  41°  and — something.  The  delicious 
twilights  of  Humboldt  County  would  supply 
enough  to  be  said  for  another  sketch.  But 
if  you  will  sit  upon  a  long  span  of  trestle- 
work  and  wait  until  the  moon  rises,  you  will 


find  realized  in  the  coming  on  of  nightfall 
at  Trinidad  Milton's  description  of  the  com- 
ing on  of  nightfall  in  Paradise;  nor  need  this 
ceaseless  thunder  of  surf  on  the  bar  mar 
the  perfection  of  the  description,  for  it  may 
well  answer  to  the  rushing  of  the  rivers  of 
Eden. 

A.  T.  Hawley. 


SCIENCE    AND    LIFE. 


SCIENCE  is  the  mother  of  all  sorts  of  inven- 
tions. But  inventions  are  by  no  means  all 
of  a  beneficent  order:  they  are  the  ministers 
of  vice  as  well  as  of  virtue.  Men  are  busy 
inventing  labor-saving  machines  for  the  de- 
struction of  life  as  well  as  for  its  preserva- 
tion. Indeed,  inventions  are  quite  as  likely 
to  minister  to  the  rapacity  of  the  powerful 
as  to  the  preservation  and  comfort  of  the 
weak.  In  evoking  for  man's  service  the 
powers  of  steam  and  electricity  from  the 
vasty  deep  of  natural  forces,  we  are  not  yet 
certain  whether  it  is  to  play  the  part  of  a 
guardian  angel  or  of  an  avenging  demon; 
for  we  cannot  yet  calculate  for  certainty 
what  effect  this  increased  power  over  nature 
is  to  have  upon  the  social  habits  and  moral 
character  of  the  race.  A  gun  is  a  good 
thing  if  it  is  in  a  good  man's  hands;  but  in 
the  hands  of  an  Indian  or  a  Zulu  it  is  likely' 
to  be  a  foe  to  civilization.  Dynamite  is  a 
good  thing  if  a  man  knows  how  to  use  it ; 
otherwise,  it  is  a  most  treacherous  ally. 

One  of  the  most  striking  results  of  modern 
invention  is  the  increased  power  given  to  the 
foes  of  civilization.  This  appears  not  only  in 
the  new  efficiency  given  to  all  the  ordinary 
instruments  of  warfare,  but  in  the  tremen- 
dous weapons  it  puts  into  the  hands  of  des- 
perate outlaws,  who  are  so  anxious  to  tear 
down  existing  institutions  that  they  are  will- 
ing themselves  to  perish  in  the  attempt.  A 
man  can  now  carry  enough  dynamite  in  his 
pocket  to  blow  up  a  regiment  or  make  a 
breach  in  the  walls  of  a  city.  It  is  not 
often  that  men  can  be  induced  to  set  about 
the  destruction  of  others  by  methods  which 


involve  certain  destruction  to  themselves. 
Recent  experience  with  the  Nihilists,  how- 
ever, shows  that  there  are  such  men,  and 
modern  science  has  armed  them  with  the 
power  which  makes  empires  tremble  in  their 
presence. 

In  forecasting  the  future  of  the  career 
upon  which  modern  society  is  entered,  we 
should  not  forget  how  short  is  the  experience 
we  have  had  with  modern  inventions,  and  it 
is  too  early  yet  to  determine  what  subtle  in- 
fluence they  may  have  upon  the  character  of 
men.  One  of  the  most  manifest  tendencies 
is  that  which  looks  to  the  restoration,  under 
a  new  form,  of  hereditary  and  despotic  rule 
to  a  small  minority.  The  growth  of  corpo- 
rations is  marvelously  accelerated  by  the 
conditions  of  society  which  have  recently 
come  into  existence.  Small  capitalists  can- 
not compete  with  great  ones.  To  him  who 
has  a  thousand  miles  of  railroad  it  is  given 
to  have  a  thousand  more.  The  owner  of 
five  coal  mines  is  in  fair  way  to  become  the 
possessor  of  ten  more.  On  every  hand  the 
facilities  of  modern  invention  tend  to  cen- 
tralization of  power. 

The  plea  of  those  political  economists  who 
take  a  rosy  view  of  the  future  is,  that  the 
capitalist  is  as  much  a  servant  as  a  master; 
that  in  order  to  make  his  capital  productive, 
he  must  keep  it  invested  in  active  business ; 
and  it  is  no  doubt  true  that  the  wisdom  ex- 
ercised by  a  skillful  capitalist  may  be  one  of 
the  most  productive  and  beneficent  forces  in 
modern  society.  The  danger  is  twofold: 
first,  that  the  trust  will  not  be  honestly  ad- 
ministered; and  second,  that  the  distribu- 


280 


Science  and  Life. 


[Sept. 


tion  of  profits  will  be  unsatisfactory  to  the 
laboring  class.  The  success  of  many  capi- 
talists and  corporations  is  due,  not  to  their 
influence  in  increasing  production,  or  to 
their  facilitating  commerce,  but  to  their 
power  of  diverting  trade  and  traffic  from 
other  established  channels.  The  satisfactory 
distribution  of  the  increased  products  of 
modern  invention  is  the  most  difficult  task 
imposed  upon  us.  It  was  fondly  hoped  that 
labor-saving  machinery  would  both  relieve 
the  burdens  of  the  laboring  class  and  great- 
ly reduce  their  relative  number.  This  seems, 
however,  to  have  been  no  more  than  a 
dream.  The  labor  market  is  at  first  always 
deranged  by  the  introduction  of  labor-saving 
machinery,  and  laborers  are  thereby  trans- 
ferred from  one  occupation  to  another;  but 
the  total  demand  for  labor  is  not  reduced. 
The  material  wants  of  men  increase  in  great- 
er ratio  than  the  power  of  production,  and 
it  seems  likely  to  be  always  necessary  for 
nine-tenths  of  the  world's  population  to  be- 
long to  the  laboring  class.  Their  leisure 
and  opportunity  for  mental  improvement  are 
not  likely  to  be  perceptibly  increased,  for  it 
is  difficult  to  see  how  they  are  going  to  get 
the  power  to  compel  an  equitable  distribu- 
tion of  increased  production,  or  even  to  de- 
termine what  is  perfectly  equitable. 

The  effect  of  modern  changes  in  modes 
of  production  and  distribution  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  the  absolute  improvement  of 
the  condition  of  the  masses  of  the  people, 
but  rather  by  the  relative  condition  in  which 
it  leaves  them.  Men  soon  get  so  accustomed 
to  slight  improvements  in  the  conditions  of 
their  life  that  they  forget  the  value  of  what 
they  have  in  their  longing  for  something  a 
little  better.  Discontent  is  the  child,  not  so 
much  of  poverty  and  want,  as  of  that  dispar- 
ity of  condition  which  forces  upon  the  atten- 
tion of  the  frugal  the  luxurious  vulgarity  of 
those  who  become  inordinately  rich.  It  is 
poor  consolation  to  a  laboring  man  that 
the  products  of  the  mine  or  the  factory 
in  which  he  works  are  increasing,  and  the 
profits  of  the  proprietor  enlarged,  if  his  own 
share  in  them  is  unsatisfactory.  The  volume 
of  traffic  that  rolls  past  his  house  on  the 


railroad  or  canal  is. of  little  account  to  him  if 
none  of  it  stops  at  his  door.  The  absolute 
necessities  of  life  are  few,  but  the  artificial 
wants  created  by  our  pride  and  vanity  and 
desire  of  distinction  are  clamorous  and  in- 
satiable. It  is  these  that  create  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  the  management  of  human  af- 
fairs, and  these  are  just  the  desires  which 
are  fostered  by  the  present  centralizing  ten- 
dencies of  business.  Only  a  prophet  can 
tell  just  how  human  nature  is  destined  to 
develop  under  these  new  and  untried  influ- 
ences. 

We  are  the  less  able  to  predict  what  the  ef- 
fect of  modern  inventions  upon  the  society  in 
this  country  will  be,  because  of  the  peculiar 
direction  which  business  energy  is  now  tak- 
ing. The  marvelous  development  of  material 
industries  in  the  United  States  is  due  in 
large  measure  to  the  fact  that  we  have  virgin 
forests  and  virgin  soil,  'and  that  we  have  in 
our  hands  unwonted  facilities  for  reaching 
out  and  absorbing  the  reserve  stores  of 
nature,  which  have  been  hundreds  and  thou- 
sands of  years  accumulating.  The  energy 
of  this  generation  of  Americans  is  directed, 
not  to  the  scientific  cultivation  of  the  soil 
and  the  scientific  propagation  and  preserva- 
tion of  the  forests,  but  to  the  scientific  rob- 
bery of  the  soil  and  the  scientific  spoliation 
of  the  forests.  The  capital  of  the  country 
is  largely  absorbed  in  running  new  railroads 
into  new  regions,  and  scattering  over  them  a 
sparse  population,  who  for  a  few  years  can 
raise  an  abundant  supply  of  wheat  and  corn 
in  utter  disregard  of  the  scientific  principles 
of  agriculture,  and  in  opening  rapid  commu- 
nication, which  shall  enable  us,  with  our 
greedy  saw-mills,  to  cheapen  a  little  to  the 
present  generation  the  price  of  lumber,  by 
bringing  into  market  in  a  single  decade  the 
forests  whose  growth  has  occupied  more  than 
a  century.  Who  can  measure  the  permanent 
detriment  to  the  agricultural  interests  of 
California  that  has  been  wrought  by  hy- 
draulic mining?  The  science  that  has  taught 
the  miner  how  to  use  streams  of  water  in 
the  removal  of  gravel  embankments  cover- 
ing gold  deposits  has  had  in  view  the  imme- 
diate profits  of  capital,  and  not  the  permanent 


1883.] 


Science  and  Life. 


281 


welfare  of  society.  The  extraction  of  a  little 
gold  from  beneath  a  river-terrace  is  of  doubt- 
ful advantage  to  the  world  if  it  permanently 
destroys  the  fertility  of  even  a  small  amount 
of  land. 

Under  the  stimulus  of  present  forces, 
marvelous  discoveries  have  already  been 
made.  On  every  hand  treasures  of  wealth 
are  found,  of  whose  existence  a  former  gen- 
eration had  scarcely  dreamed.  Science  has 
discovered  and  utilized  extensive  phosphate 
deposits,  from  which  the  Old  World  is  drawing 
to  increase  the  productiveness  of  its  exhaust- 
ed soil.  It  has  discerned  the  value  of  petro- 
leum, and  taught  us  how  to  go  down  thou- 
sands of  feet  to  extract  it  from  the  rocks 
beneath  us,  and  how  to  make  iron  burn  it- 
self into  steel.  It  hopes  soon  to  make  from 
clay  a  metal  as  bright  as  silver,  as  firm  as 
iron,  and  as  light  as  wood.  Nevertheless, 
the  world  is  limited,  and,  like  a  lemon,  can 
yield  only  a  definite  amount  of  juice. 
Science  may  increase  the  pressure,  and 
hasten  the  process  of  extraction,  but  cannot 
increase  to  an  unlimited  extent  the  quantity 
produced.  There  is  a  limit  to  the  capacity 
of  the  world,  which  science  even  cannot  ex- 
ceed. The  law  of  Malthus  is  irrevocable. 
The  capacity  of  population  to  increase  far 
exceeds  that  of  the  earth  to  supply  it  with 
food  and  clothing.  India  and  China  have 
already  reached  that  limit  where  famines 
seem  inevitable.  A  small  deficiency  in  the 
crops  makes  it  necessary  either  for  a  great 
many  people  to  eat  less,  or  for  some  to  go 
absolutely  hungry  and  starve.  It  seems 
difficult,  By  any  motives  which  can  now  be 
applied,  to  persuade  those  who  have  an 
abundance  to  share  it  equally  with  those 
who  have  nothing;  and  an  equal  distribu- 
tion might  serve  only  to  put  off  for  a  little 
the  dire  calamity,  and  to  increase  its  extent 
when  it  came.  For  the  denser  the  popula- 
tion, the  more  serious  are  the  consequences 
of  a  drought. 

In  the  earlier  years  of  my  life,  the  dread 
fear  of  famine  was  lifted  from  my  mind  by 
the  representation  that,  with  the  increased 
facilities  for  transmitting  news  and  transport- 
ing provisions,  it  would  be  easy  for  any  lo- 


cality to  foresee  the  evil  and  prepare  against 
it.  In  later  days,  these  visions  of  relief  have 
been  somewhat  rudely  disturbed.  In  the 
first  place,  famines  of  immense  extent  have 
occurred  in  India  and  China  within  a  few 
years,  and  it  has  been  impossible  to  apply 
the  motives  necessary  to  set  the  wheels  of 
commerce  moving  in  the  right  direction. 
The  hundreds  of  thousands  of  poor  laboring 
people  who  stood  most  in  need  of  food  had 
neither  money  nor  credit  to  offer  in  ex- 
change ;  and  right  in  the  face  of  famine,  the 
stores  of  rice  which  were  needed  to  feed  the 
starving  multitudes  at  home  were  pouring 
out  into  the  channels  of  English  commerce 
to  pay  for  the  gaudy  calico,  the  silk,  the 
rum,  the  reapers,  the  pianos,  and  the  jew's- 
harps  which  those  wanted  who  were  best  able 
to  pay  for  their  goods.  Meanwhile,  the 
government  could  not  undertake  to  supply 
all  the  wants  of  the  suffering,  lest  they 
should  encourage  improvidence,  and  lay 
foundations  for  a  greater  calamity  in  the  fu- 
ture. In  the  next  place,  when  to  the  best  of 
my  ability  I  work  out  the  problem  of  the  fu- 
ture, it  seems  to  me  that  science  must  fail  to 
relieve  the  world  from  the  calamities  inci- 
dent to  its  very  triumphs.  Science  is  has- 
tening the  time  when  the  whole  world  will 
be  over-populated.  Where,  then,  will  the 
food  come  from  when  crops  are  short? 
This  perplexity  will  be  considered  more  fully 
in  the  next  paragraph. 

The  pressure  of  population  in  the  Old 
World  has  been  greatly  relieved  by  the  facili- 
ties which  science  has  provided  both  for 
emigration  and  for  commerce.  But  this  ad- 
vantage can  last  only  so  long  as  there  are 
new  fields  open  to  emigrants,  and  countries 
whose  industries  are  limited  to  the  produc- 
tion of  raw  material.  England  prides  her- 
self on  being  the  workshop  of  the  world;  but 
it  is  essential  to  her  prosperity  that  she  have 
markets  open  in  which  she  can  exchange  the 
products  of  the  workshop  for  the  products 
of  the  soil.  Science  is  accelerating  beyond 
measure  the  conquest  of  nature.  The 
troublesome  question  is,  What  will  the  world 
do  when  it  has  accomplished  this  result,  and 
brought  nature  into  subjection?  In  a  few 


282 


Science  and  Life. 


[Sept. 


hundred  years  we  shall  have  subdued  the 
wildernesses  of  North  America,  shall  have 
conquered  the  noxious  animals  and  insects  of 
South  America,  and  shall  have  transformed 
the  malarial  regions  of  Africa  into  a  market- 
garden;  and  the  population  of  the  whole 
earth  will  be  as  dense  as  that  of  India  or 
China  at  the  present  day.  The  question  is, 
What  can  science  do  for  the  world  when  the 
world  is  full  of  people? 

It  seem  inevitable  that  in  the  juncture  to 
which  our  line  of  thought  has  now  led  us, 
science  will  be  compelled  to  retrace  its  steps, 
and  both  invent  checks  to  the  increase  of 
population,  and  lead  the  race  gradually  back 
to  its  native  simplicity.  It  is  a  common  say- 
ing, that  he  is  the  greatest  benefactor  of 
humanity  who  causes  two  spears  of  grass  to 
grow  where  only  one  grew  before.  But  there 
will  come  a  time  when  the  limit  has  been 
reached,  and  when  the  grass  will  be  as 
thick  and  stout  as  it  can  be  made  to  stand. 
Then  science  will  have  only  these  two  ave- 
nues of  philanthropic  invention  open  to  it. 
For  a  season  the  wisdom  of  the  race  will  be 
directed  towards  eliminating  from  the  pro- 
duction of  the  world  the  things  which  are 
less  essential,  and  stimulating  the  product  of 
what  is  most  essential.  This  will,  in  fact,  be 
only  a  continuation  of  the  process  now  going 
on.  It  requires  an  immense  amount  of  land 
to  support  a  man  who  lives  by  hunting.  If 
he  domesticates  his  animals,  and  keeps  flocks 
and  herds,  he  can  get  along  with  a  smaller 
quantity  of  land,  and  with  less  still  if  he  culti- 
vates the  soil,  and  keeps  his  cattle  in  barns. 
The  highest  economy  will  be  reached  when 
man  shall  dispense  altogether  with  animals, 
and  shall  devote  the  whole  surface  of  the 
earth  to  raising  food  for  his  own  stomach, 
and  the  material  which  shall  clothe  and  shel- 
ter his  own  body.  In  this  aspect  of  the  case, 
the  vision  of  man's  physical  millennium 
may  well  haunt  us  like  a  nightmare;  for  it 
seems  inevitable  that  man  must  come  down 
to  the  level  of  living  upon  those  vegetables 
of  which  the  earth  will  produce  most.  These 
we  understand  to  be,  in  the  torrid  zone,  ba- 
nanas, and  in  the  temperate  zone,  cabbages. 
That,  certainly,  will  be  rather  a  dreary  and 


monotonous  time,  when  the  world  is  reduced 
to  one  great  cabbage  field,  and  science  is 
concentrating  its  inventive  skill  upon  the  all- 
important  task  of  making  more  and  larger 
cabbages  grow  to  the  acre,  and  in  contend- 
ing with  the  bugs  and  butterflies  and  worms 
that  after  centuries  of  natural  selection  shall 
have  acquired  consummate  skill  in  the  work 
of  evading  man,  and  of  destroying  the  only 
remaining  staff  of  human  life.  To  this  ex- 
tremity the  world  seems  sure  to  come  under 
the  fostering  care  of  science,  unless  wars  and 
famines  and  pestilences  increase  in  destruc- 
tive power  as  population  tends  to  multiply; 
and  if  the  boast  of  science  is  true,  that  its 
great  mission  is  to  prevent  these  calamities, 
then  the  last  state  of  society  is  sure  to  be  its 
worst. 

In  the  ages  which  could  boast  neither  of 
science  nor  sentiment,  the  law  of  natural  se- 
lection has  operated  as  a  restraint  upon  the 
undue  increase  of  populations,  and  espe- 
cially upon  the  increase  of  such  as  were 
poorly  prepared  to  succeed  in  life's  battle. 
Under  the  action  of  this  law,  the  weak,  the 
sickly,  and  the  ungovernable  were  pretty 
sure  to  die  early,  and  leave  the  strong  and 
law-abiding  in  possession  of  the  field.  The 
advantage  of  such  a  condition  of  things  is 
obvious.  But  under  the  combined  sway  of 
modern  science  and  the  sentiments  which  it 
inculcates,  the  lives  of  the  diseased  and  the 
weak  are  prolonged,  so  that  while  the  aver- 
age length  of  human  life  is  considerably 
increased,  this  is  secured  by  prolonging, 
not  so  much  the  life  of  the  most  vig- 
orous and  worthy,  as  that  of  the  weak 
and  worthless.  The  strong  die  early  in 
endeavoring  to  protect  the  inefficient. 
Thus,  in  connection  with  the  increase  of 
the  average  length  of  human  life,  there  is 
pretty  sure  to  be  a  marked  diminution  in 
man's  average  power  of  endurance ;  and  the 
vicious  and  the  thriftless,  the  diseased  and 
the  deformed,  have  exceptional  advantages 
in  the  propagation  of  their  kind.  Of  course 
such  a  tendency  cannot  go  on  indefinitely 
without  defeating  itself;  and  those  very  con- 
quests of  science  which  give  us  temporary 
control  of  the  laws  of  disease  and  death  are 


1883.] 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


283 


tending  to  produce  a  state  of  things  with 
which  science  itself  will  at  length  be  power- 
less to  cope. 

From  this  survey  of  the  subject,  it  appears 
that  among  the  uncertainties  of  science  the 
doubt  as  to  what  the  final  outcome  of  its  in- 
fluence on  human  life  is  to  be,  is  tantalizing 
in  the  extreme.  The  present  results,  in  which 
we  delight  to  glory,  plainly  depend  upon  a 
transitory  state  of  affairs  consequent  upon 
the  recent  discovery  both  of  hidden  conti- 
nents and  of  hidden  natural  powers.  What 
shall  be  the  progress  when  we  become  fully 


adjusted  to  these  discoveries,  and  when  hu- 
man nature  is  subjected  to  that  enormous 
stress  of  temptation  which  is  sure  to  come 
when  the  world  approaches  the  limits  of  its 
capacity  for  production,  and  when  luxuries 
must  be  discarded,  is  more  than  the  wisest 
can  foretell.  If  science  could  invent  some 
motive  which  shall  secure  among  men  gen- 
erally the  virtues  of  self-control  and  fru- 
gality, the  ultimate  condition  of  the  race 
would  look  more  hopeful.  In  a  following 
paper  the  ability  of  science  to  do  this  will 
be  incidentally  discussed. 

G.  Frederick  Wright. 


BERNARDO   THE   BLESSED. 


IN  the  thirteenth  century,  Siena,  then  one 
of  the  richest  republican  cities  of  Tuscany, 
was  a  famous  seat  of  learning.  Some  of  the 
most  distinguished  scholars  and  philosophers 
in  Italy  graduated  within  its  walls,  and  it 
supplied  the  church  with  a  goodly  number 
of  popes  and  cardinals.  In  the  year  1272 
was  born  in  this  city  an  heir  to  the  illustrious 
house  of  Tolomei,  an  heir  long  desired  and 
prayed  for.  This  precious  child  was  destined 
to  distinguish  himself  in  far  other  walks  of 
life  than  those  prescribed  by  his  rank  and 
family  traditions.  He  became  one  of  the 
greatest  philosophers  of  his  age  and  country, 
the  man  to  whose  learning  all  other  scholars 
bowed — whose  explorations  in  the  then  mys- 
terious land  of  science  surpassed  all  that  had 
been  hitherto  known — and  finally  the  her- 
mit-saint, founder  of  the  great  monastery  of 
Monte  Oliveto  Maggiore,  and  nine  minor 
ones  scattered  throughout  the  province. 

His  entrance  upon  the  world's  stage  was 
heralded  by  a  strange  dream.  It  is  related 
that  Fulvia,  Countess  Tolomei,  dreamed 
that  she  had  given  birth  to  a  swan  of  rare 
whiteness,  which  flew  away  and  lit  upon  an 
olive-tree,  a  little  branch  of  which  it  took  in 
its  beak,  and  being  joined  by  other  similar 
swans,  took  its  course  heavenwards.  This 
dream  was  afterwards  interpreted  as  signify- 
ing the  Mount  of  Olives  where  the  monas- 


tery was  to  stand,  and  the  white  habits  of  the 
order  of  St.  Benedict. 

The  child  was  baptized  John,  Bernardo 
being  his  religious  name,  which  he  assumed 
on  quitting  the  world.  He  early  showed 
extraordinary  intelligence  and  devotion  to 
study,  as  well  as  a  religious  turn  of  mind. 
He  was  the  delight  of  masters  and  professors, 
the  model  boy,  whose  duty  never  was  neg- 
lected, who  worked  out  of  school  hours  and 
learned  more  than  his  lessons. 

At  about  seventeen,  Bernardo  left  college, 
carrying  away  all  the  honors  that  body  could 
bestow.  At  his  father's  request  he  was 
made  a  knight  by  the  Emperor  Rudolpho 
(Siena  being  then  under  the  protection  of 
the  German  Empire).  His  honorable  aca- 
demic career  thus  closed,  the  young  cavalier 
showed  the  versatility  of  his  genius  by  throw- 
ing himself  heartily  into  the  military  life,  and 
becoming  a  most  accomplished  and  dissi- 
pated courtier.  His  talents,  attractive  man- 
ners and  appearance,  and  the  illustrious 
name  he  bore  made  him  sought  after  and 
flattered  to  an  extent  that  was  very  prejudi- 
cial to  his  moral  well-being.  But  military 
pomp  and  idle  pleasure  could  not  long  satis- 
fy a  nature  such  as  that  of  Bernardo.  He . 
turned  from  his  youthful  follies  with  disgust, 
and  in  order  to  free  himself  from  all  old 
connections,  he  joined  a  society  called  St. 


284 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


[Sept. 


Anzano,  devoted  to  religious  and  charitable 
purposes.  He  gave  up  all  the  luxurious 
habits  he  had  formed,  and  led  a  life  of  priva- 
tion, performing  with  extraordinary  zeal  all 
the  hard  offices  of  his  position. 

Bernardo  was  still  under  twenty  when  he 
resumed  his  regular  religious  habits  of  life, 
and  with  them  his  studies,  which  he  had 
rather  neglected  while  he  was  in  the  army. 
His  talent  for  acquiring  knowledge  was  such 
as  soon  rendered  him  famous  in  every  part 
of  the  country.  He  gave  great  attention  to 
jurisprudence  and  theology,  and  as  a  mathe- 
matician he  was  unrivaled.  His  reputation 
for  learning  spread  to  foreign  countries,  and 
the  audiences  at  his  lectures  often  comprised 
not  only  the  delegates  from  the  different 
states  of  Italy,  but  eminent  doctors  from  far 
distant  lands,  who  were  glad  to  receive  the 
verbal  utterances  of  the  great  teacher  at  a 
time  when  knowledge  was  not  disseminated 
by  books — if  we  except  the  laboriously  writ- 
ten parchment  volumes  carefully  treasured 
up  in  the  religious  houses. 

This  youthful  prodigy  was  not  much  past 
twenty  when  he  was  elected  member  of  the 
government,  and  at  twenty-five  he  was  chos- 
en Gonfalonier* — or,  as  they  called  it  in  Siena, 
Captain  of  the  People,  i.  e.,  supreme  magis- 
trate of  the  republic  —  an  office  which  he 
filled  with  admirable  ability.  Raised  to  such 
a  pinnacle  of  power,  the  possessor  of  vast 
wealth,  idolized  by  his  fellow-citizens,  court- 
ed by  foreigners,  fawned  on  and  flattered  by 
the  servile  of  every  class  and  country — all 
this  was  too  much  for  human  nature,  and 
Bernardo,  noble  as  he  was,  could  not  resist 
it.  He  became  haughty  and  vainglorious, 
received  the  homage  of  the  world  as  if  it  was 
his  due,  and  sometimes  assumed  a  tone  of 
contempt  towards  other  learned  men.  He 
also  began  to  depart  from  the  rigid  simpli- 
city of  the  scholar's  life,  and  indulge  in  a  cer- 
tain luxury  and  display;  and  though  he  did 
not  withdraw  from  the  religious  society,  he 
was  seldom  seen  at  its  meetings.  He  how- 
ever attended  well  to  his  public  duties,  and 
continued  his  pursuit  of  science  with  un- 
abated zeal. 

Bernardo  had  lost  the  sight  of  his  left  eye 


from  excessive  study  and  a  natural  weakness 
of  the  member.  One  day  he  entered  the 
lecture-room  where  a  crowded  audience 
awaited  him,  for  he  had  announced  that  he 
meant  to  try  an  experiment  of  great  moment, 
which  had  cost  much  study.  After  the  pre- 
liminary discourse,  the  great  lecturer  de- 
scended from  his  chair  and  began  operations. 
Suddenly,  through  the  cloud  of  smoke  that 
rose  round  him,  the  spectators  saw  him  clap 
his  hand  on  his  right  eye,  and  heard  him 
cry,  "I  can  distinguish  nothing!"  He  was 
struck  blind  at  the  very  moment  when  his 
highest  ambition  was  about  to  be  realized. 

His  agony  of  mind  at  this  catastrophe  may 
be  imagined.  At  first  it  was  the  loss  of  his 
discoveries  he  grieved  for,  but  after  a  time 
he  began  to  regard  his  misfortune  as  a  cas- 
tigation  from  heaven  for  his  pride;  and  he 
prayed  intensely  and  continually  that  his 
sight  might  be  restored,  promising  to  fly 
from  the  seductions  of  the  world,  and  end 
his  days  in  some  solitude.  In  a  short  time 
his  sight  came  back,  and  he,  in  a  passion  of 
pious  gratitude,  renewed  his  vow.  The  joy 
in  Siena  was  unbounded  when  it  was  known 
that  the  great  master  had  regained  his  lost 
vision,  and  he  was  entreated  to  resume  his 
lectures.  On  the  appointed  day  he  took  the 
chair  as  usual,  but  instead  of  the  learned 
discourse  that  was  expected  of  him,  he 
delivered  a  sermon  so  eloquent,  so  full 
of  apostolic  fervor  and  passion,  directed 
against  the  vanities  of  the  world,  that  his 
audience  was  thrilled  to  the  soul. 

Bernardo  lost  no  time  in  putting  into  lit- 
eral practice  that  which  he  *had  preached 
against  worldliness.  He  disposed  of  his 
large  property  by  giving  to  needy  relations, 
destitute  families,  and  charitable  institutions, 
and  was  seen  no  more  in  the  busy  world. 
About  eighteen  miles  from  the  city  of  Siena, 
on  the  way  to  Rome,  in  a  wild  and  savage 
district  called  Accona,  there  stood  three  hills 
near  together,  divided  by  rocky  precipices 
and  deep  ravines — profound,  dismal  abysses, 
from  which  the  beholder  shrunk  back  in 
horror.  The  arid  waste  that  surrounded 
these  gaping  chasms  gave  the  impression 
that  there  had  been  sometime  a  volcanic 


1883.] 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


285 


eruption — an  impression  very  likely  to  be 
correct,  as  this  spot  has  always  been  subject 
to  earthquakes.  Accona  belonged  to  no 
nobleman;  it  was  not  comprised  in  the  ter- 
ritory appertaining  to  any  city  or  any  com- 
munity. It  was  the  No  Man's  Land  of 
Tuscany.  In  short,  it  was  altogether  suited 
to  be  the  retreat  of  an  anchorite.  Thither 
Bernardo  Tolomei,  having  disembarrassed 
himself  of  all  his  earthy  possessions,  betook 
himself.  The  wealthy  noble,  the  ruler  of  the 
state,  the  gifted  scholar,  reposed  in  a  damp 
cavern,  with  no  bed-covering  but  the  skins 
of  beasts,  no  food  but  wild  herbs  and  fruit, 
no  literature  but  a  few  books  of  devotion, 
no  society  but  that  of  two  loving  friends  who 
had  followed  him  to  the  desert,  and 

"  Made  him  their  pattern  to  live  or  to  die." 
They  were  two  young  nobles,  Piccolomini 
and  Patrizi,  and  they  imitated  their  leader 
in  all  his  austere  practices,  even  to  the  flog- 
ging himself,  which  his  pious  biographer 
says  he  did  seven  times  a  day!  I,  however, 
have  the  word  of  the  present  abbot — the 
last  abbot,  I  should  rather  say,  for  Mont- 
oliveto  is  one  of  the  suppressed  monasteries 
— that  flogging  was  not  a  rule  of  their  order. 
The  reader  may  judge  as  he  pleases  between 
the  abbot  and  the  chronicler.  I  prefer  to 
believe  that  the  story  of  the  good  Bernardo's 
self-castigation  is  grossly  exaggerated. 

The  first  thing  the  three  hermits  put  their 
hands  to  was  the  building  of  a  little  rustic 
chapel  for  their  devotions.  Then  they  dug 
a  well,  and  clearing  by  degrees  little  patches 
of  the  most  level  ground,  began  to  grow  the 
hardiest  vegetables  and  a  species  of  corn. 
They  only  tasted  meat  on  great  feasts,  and 
then  sparingly.  Soon  the  fame  of  the  three 
hermits  of  the  Three  Hills  spread  to  the 
neighboring  territories,  and  they  were  joined 
by  others,  who  desired  Bernardo  to  receive 
them  into  a  community,  and  constitute  him- 
self their  head.  But  he,  once  so  proud,  was 
now  so  humble  that  he  could  not  sufficient- 
ly abase  himself,  and  would  on  no  account 
consent  to  take  the  command.  So  they  all 
lived  together  free,  each  man  lord  in  his  own 
cave.  They  continued  to  excavate  grottoes 
and  level  and  cultivate  the  land,  laboring  in 


silence,  and  assembling  every  evening  in  the 
chapel  for  prayer  and  praise. 

Like  all  the  saints — our  own  Luther  in- 
cluded— Bernardo  was  horribly  tormented 
by  "demons,"  who  tempted  his  constancy  in 
every  form.  When  he  abandoned  the  world 
he  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  being  only  in  his 
forty-first  year;  his  bodily  health  was  unim- 
paired, and  his  great  intellect  was  in  its  full- 
est vigor.  He  was  at  an  age  when  the  refined 
habits  of  civilized  life  become  second  nature, 
and  he  was  not  yet  old  enough  to  be  satiated 
with  ambition,  or  to  have  lost  his  zeal  in  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge,  or  his  taste  for  the 
enjoyments  of  sympathetic  society  and  the 
interchange  of  ideas  with  other  great  minds. 
We  can  well  imagine,  then,  that  it  was  not 
without  passionate  longing  towards  the  civ- 
ilized world,  and  fierce  internal  struggles, 
that  Bernardo  succeeded  in  subduing  every 
earthly  desire  to  his  iron  will.  The  Blessed 
Bernardo — he  was  never  canonized,  and  is 
therefore  only  a  saint  by  courtesy — had  all 
his  life  been  devoted  to  intellectual  pursuits, 
and  showed  himself  extremely  indifferent 
to  the  charms  of  female  society.  He  had 
never  taken  a  wife  when  he  was  free  to  do 
so.  But  now  that  he  was  bound  to  celibacy, 
strange  longings  for  female  companionship 
came  upon  him;  sweet  scenes  of  domestic 
happiness  rose  before  his  mind's  eye,  and 
agitated  his  soul  to  such  an  excess  that 
he  trembled  for  his  vow.  In  a  word,  the 
Beato  discovered  for  the  first  time  that  he 
had  a  heart  capable  of  love,  when  to  indulge 
in  such  a  sentiment  was  an  unpardonable 
sin.  It  is  not  improbable  that  his  imagi- 
nation was  excited  by  the  recollection  of 
some  fair  one  who  had  smiled  in  vain  upon 
the  all-accomplished  senator,  then  coldly  in- 
different to  her  charms.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  demon,  aware  of  the  struggle  in  the  good 
man's  heart,  knew  how  to  tempt  him. 

One  evening  as  he  was  going  into  the 
chapel  at  dusk,  a  fair  form  stood  in  the 
doorway,  impeding  his  entrance.  It  was  that 
of  a  charming  young  lady  who  had  known 
and  loved  him  when  he  was  at  the  zenith  of 
his  glory.  The  trembling  saint  stood  spell- 
bound, while  she  related  the  story  of  her 


280 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


[Sept. 


blighted  affection.  He  had  been  to  her  the 
bright  particular  star  which  she  worshiped, 
though  he  never  deigned  to  cast  his  eyes 
upon  her;  she  had  never  dared  to  reveal  her 
sentiments,  fearing  a  repulse,  while  he  was 
still  the  idol  of  the  world;  but  when  she 
knew  him  to  be  alone,  poor,  desolate,  she 
had  taken  the  desperate  resolve  to  seek  him 
in  the  desert,  content  to  die  at  his  feet 
rather  than  live  away  from  him. 

The  Beato  knew  his  weakness,  and  turned 
to  fly;  the  demon  knew  it  also,  and  still 
stood  in  his  way.  Suddenly  a  light  broke 
upon  his  mind :  it  was  not  the  Sienese  lady 
who  stood  before  him,  but  the  foul  fiend, 
who  had  assumed  her  form.  He  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  over  her,  told  her  she  was 
the  Devil,  and  she  disappeared  down  the 
ravine  with  appalling  cries. 

Other  demons  came  to  him  in  the  form  of 
brother-hermits,  urging  his  return  to  the 
city,  saying  there  was  much  useful  work  to 
be  done  there,  preaching,  teaching,  attending 
the  sick,  etc.  But  from  all  these  tempta- 
tions Bernardo  issued  forth  victorious,  and 
continued  his  thorny  way. 

Some  foul  calumnies  were  preferred 
against  the  hermits  of  Accona  by  malicious 
persons  of  evil  life,  so  that  Bernardo  was 
obliged  to  go  to  plead  his  cause  in  person  to 
the  Pope,  John  XXII. ;  and  the  pontifical 
court  being  then  at  Avignon,  it  was  a  long 
and  dangerous  pilgrimage  to  those  who  went 
on  foot  and  unarme'd,as  did  the  Beato  and  his 
companion.  They  arrived  safely,  however, 
and  succeeded  in  convincing  the  Pope  of 
their  entire  innocence  of  the  iniquitous 
charges,  and  not  only  that,  but  his  Holiness 
was  so  persuaded  of  the  extraordinary  fit- 
ness of  Bernardo  Tolomei  to  revive  the 
monastic  life,  then  in  a  depressed  state,  that 
he  insisted  on  his  founding  a  monastery, 
and  gave  him  a  letter  to  the  Archbishop  of 
Arezzo,  asking  him  to  take  Accona  into  his 
jurisdiction,  and  admit  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Three  Hills  to  all  civil  and  religious  rights 
which  they  chose  to  claim. 

On  their  return  the  pilgrims  stopped  in 
Turin,  and  were  entertained  in  the  house  of 
a  gentleman  of  that  city.  It  entered  into 


the  head  of  a  wicked  servant  to  take  this  op- 
portunity to  rob  his  master,  which  he  ac- 
cordingly did;  and  to  divert  suspicion  from 
himself,  he  put  a  small  piece  of  plate  into 
the  satchel  of  the  Beato,  who  started  with  his 
companion  next  morning  at  an  early  hour. 
They  had  not  gone  many  miles  when  they 
were  overtaken  by  horsemen  and  brought 
back  to  the  house.  On  being  searched  the 
plate  was  found,  and  both  the  pilgrims  were 
thrown  into  prison,  where  they  remained 
several  days.  When  they  were  brought  be- 
fore the  tribunal,  it  was  revealed  to  Bernardo 
who  the  guilty  servant  was,  and  he  pointed 
him  out.  Proofs  were  sought  and  found, 
and  he  was  speedily  transferred  to  the 
prison  vacated  by  the  pilgrims.  The  gen- 
tleman was  seized  with  deep  remorse  for  the 
wrong  he  had  done  such  holy  men,  and  he 
soon  after  joined  them  at  their  hermitage, 
where  he  ended  his  days',  being  called  in  the 
community  Saetano  of  Turin. 

Meantime,  the  Bishop  of  Arezzo  received 
the  pope's  letter.  On  this  occasion  he  had 
a  strange  dream.  The  Madonna  presented 
herself  to  him,  holding  in  one  hand  a  white 
robe,  and  in  the  other  a  book  with  the  in- 
scription, Regula  Beati  Benedicti  Abbatis. 
There  was  a  crest  of  three  hills,  and  on  the 
middle  one  was  planted  a  vermilion  cross; 
from  the  inside  of  the  other  hills  young 
olives  sprouted  forth. 

Money  poured  in  on  all  sides  for  the 
building  of  the  new  monastery,  but  the  de- 
mons, of  course,  had  set  their  faces  against  its 
erection,  and  from  time  to  time  on  stormy 
nights  the  mischievous  imps  diverted  them- 
selves by  throwing  down  newly  raised  walls, 
to  the  great  consternation  of  the  brothers. 
On  one  occasion  a  wall  fell,  carrying  with  it 
the  master  mason  who  was  on  a  scaffold 
working.  He  was  dragged  from  under  the 
debris,  dead.  But  Bernardo  prayed  ear- 
nestly for  his  restoration,  and  when  he  laid 
his  hands  on  him  he  revived.  In  spite  of 
the  malignant  powers,  the  new  monastery 
was  brought  to  a  successful  conclusion,  and 
christened  Santa  Maria  di  Monte  Oliveto, 
since  that  seemed  to  be  the  virgin's  wish. 
Bernardo  was  elected  abbot  by  unanimous 


1883.] 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


287 


vote,  but  positively  declined  the  honor,  and 
the  three  succeeding  years  he  did  the  same 
at  each  election;  but  the  fourth  he  was 
forced  by  his  companions  to  assume  the 
office,  though  much  against  his  will,  as  he 
said  he  was  more  fitted  to  obey  than  com- 
mand. In  this  he  did  himself  a  grievous 
wrong,  as  he  made  an  excellent  abbot,  and 
continued  in  the  office  till  his  death,  a  period 
of  twenty-six  years. 

In  the  year  1348  a  fearful  pestilence  des- 
olated a  great  part  of  Italy.  The  Beato 
Bernardo,  then  an  old  man  of  seventy-seven 
years,  put  himself  at  the  head  of  his  monks 
and  sallied  forth  from  his  solitude.  They 
divided  and  betook  themselves  to  the  neigh- 
boring cities  where  disease  and  death 
reigned.  There  they  labored  among  the 
sick  and  dying  with  extraordinary  devotion, 
and  when  the  plague  had  abated  the  monks 
returned  to  their  mountain  home;  but  they 
carried  the  disease  with  them,  and  many  died. 
The  venerable  abbot,  who  had  passed  scathless 
through  the  plague-stricken  city,  soon  after 
he  reached  Montoliveto  began  to  feel  his 
strength  sinking,  and  on  being  told  that  it 
was  the  fatal  disease,  expressed  his  joy  at 
the  hope  of  seeing  his  Lord  so  soon.  Hav- 
ing given  his  last  counsel  and  blessing  to  his 
brethren,  he  took  the  crucifix  into  his  hands 
and  sank  calmly  into  repose,  conscious  of 
having  faithfully  performed  the  work  to  which 
he  had  felt  himself  called. 

The  life  of  the  Beato  Bernardo  is  very 
interesting — albeit  too  much  interspersed 
with  supernatural  visions.  But  the  discrim- 
inating reader  can  easily  separate  the  false 
from  the  true,  by  reading  for  "  demons " 
men  and  women.  We  have  authentic  evi- 
dence enough  to  show  that  this  remarkable 
man  was  sincerely  devoted  to  religion.  Na- 
ture had  gifted  him  with  a  character  singu- 
larly sweet  and  noble,  as  well  as  an  intellect 
of  the  highest  order.  All  his  thoughts  and 
aims  were  lofty,  and  even  in  his  proudest 
moments  it  was  not  the  vanity  of  rank  or 
power,  it  was  the  pride  of  knowledge  that 
betrayed  him  into  ambition.  He  had  found 
Montoliveto  a  savage  waste,  and  he  left  it 
a  flourishing  institution.  On  the  center  hill 


rose  a  grand  pile,  with  its  lofty  towers  seen 
far  off  on  the  mountains,  a  beacon  of  joy  to 
the  weary  traveler  overtaken  by  night  or  by 
storm,  or  to  the  hunted  fugitive  flying  for 
refuge  from  his  enemies,  or  to  the  sick  poor 
seeking  charity  and  medical  aid.  The  slop- 
ing hillsides  and  intervening  vales  were  cov- 
ered with  olives,  figs,  vines,  corn,  and  so 
forth,  cultivated  to  the  highest  perfection 
by  the  hands  of  the  brothers.  They  varied 
these  rural  pursuits  by  study,  for  the  Bene- 
dictine is  the  most  learned  of  all  religious 
orders.  They  amused  themselves  copying 
out  old  manuscript  books,  painting  sacred 
pictures,  composing  music,  carving  in  wood 
or  ivory,  or  any  other  art  for  which  they  had 
a  taste.  Besides  the  mother  convent  of 
Montoliveto,  the  Beato  Bernardo  founded 
nine  minor  ones  in  different  parts  of  the 
province. 

As  for  the  service  rendered  by  Bernardo 
Tolomei  to  his  fellow-man  by  these  founda- 
tions, it  would  be  difficult  for  us  in  the  pres- 
ent day  to  estimate  it  justly.  I  believe  that 
the  tendency  is  rather  to  underestimate  it 
than  the  reverse.  The  modern  tourist  in 
Italy,  who  sees  a  church  at  the  corner  of 
every  street,  with  a  number  of  priests  attached 
to  it,  who  seem  to  have  no  duty  or  object  in 
life  but  the  putting  on  and  off  of  gorgeous 
vestments;  and  meets  at  every  turn  a  con- 
vent (convento  in  Italian  is  a  designation 
for  the  religious  houses  of  both  sexes) 
crowded  with  inmates,  who,  every  layman 
will  tell  him,  are  the  most  idle,  worthless,  im- 
moral portion  of  the  population — the  plague- 
spot  which  spreads  corruption  around;  who 
sees  in  every  city  hundreds  upon  hundreds 
of  ecclesiastics  (in  Rome  there  are  no  less 
than  4,000)  who  eat  the  bread  of  idleness 
from  boyhood  to  old  age ; — this  travelef  will 
find  it  difficult  to  estimate  justly  the  claims 
of  Bernardo  Tolomei,  and  such  as  he,  to  our 
admiration  and  gratitude,  unless  he  studies 
carefully  the  history  and  state  of  society  in 
the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries. 

In  those  .lawless  days  when  might  was 
right ;  when  nothing  was  respected  but  Holy 
Church — even  that  sometimes  sacrilegiously 
outraged;  when  there  were  no  hospitals,  few 


288 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


[Sept. 


doctors — and  the  "leech"  was  a  very  poorly 
qualified  individual;  when  the  roads  were 
bad  and  beset  by  perils — no  conveyance  for 
travelers,  no  hotels :  when  there  was  no  place 
in  the  world  for  a  quiet,  studious  man  who 
did  not  want  always  to  have  his  hand  on  his 
sword-hilt  to  defend  his  property  or  his 
honor — the  monastery  was  a  fine  institution, 
and  served  a  good  and  useful  purpose.  They 
were  pure-living,  zealous,  industrious  men, 
the  monks  of  those  days,  ever  ready  to  help 
the  poor  and  suffering  with  substantial  aid 
as  well  as  spiritual  consolation.  They  were 
the  teachers  of  the  young,  and  the  jealous 
custodians  of  the  literature  and  art  of  the 
country,  to  which  they  themselves  contrib- 
uted the  major  parts.  But  they  are  no 
longer  needed,  and  even  if  they  had  not 
sunk  from  the  high  moral  standing  they 
once  occupied,  they  would  still  be  an  ana- 
chronism. 

But  they  are  very  far  from  being  what  they 
once  were,  and  the  whole  system  would  have 
sunk  by  slow  decay,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence of  internal  corruption,  if  the  gov- 
ernment had  not,  so  to  speak,  torn  down 
the  roof  over  their  heads.  Hundreds  of 
monasteries  have  been  suppressed  within  the 
last  ten  years,  the  property  applied  to  state 
purposes,  and  the  inmates  obliged  to  amal- 
gamate with  other  religious  houses.  They 
think  they  have  been  hardly  used,  but  the 
Reform  party  had  a  long,  long  score  to  settle 
with  the  Church  party,  not  only  for  their 
own  misdeeds,  but  their  constant  persecu- 
tion of  liberty  in  every  form;  and  who  will 
say  that,  on  the  whole,  they  have  not  been 
moderate  and  just  in  balancing  the  accounts? 
At  all  events,  the  will  of  the  nation  has  gone 
along  with  the  proceedings  of  government, 
and  there  is  hardly  a  man  of  any  intelligence 
who  will  not  tell  you  that  they  deserved 
their  fate. 

Very  different  were  the  sentiments  cher- 
ished by  the  people  towards  Bernardo  Tolo- 
mei  and  his  brethren;  for  his  preaching 
and  example  exercised  a  powerful  influence 
on  all  the  clergy  throughout  the  country. 
And  the  influence  of  a  great  and  good  man 
does  not  die  with  him.  His  memory,  kept 


alive  by  traditions,  lives  for  ages  in  the  hearts 
of  his  followers,  and  helps  to  shape  their 
lives  in  a  certain  accordance  with  his  own. 
This  is  true  of  any  hero,  be  he  poet,  patriot, 
king,  or  priest :  but  more  true  of  the  priest 
than  any  other,  for  the  obvious  reason  that 
his  mission  is  the  highest  of  all,  and  appeals 
to  the  finest  instincts  of  humanity.  We  can 
well  believe,  then,  that  however  weakened  by 
the  effect  of  time  and  the  corrupting  influ- 
ences of  later  ages,  the  spirit  of  the  Beato 
Bernardo  continued  to  pervade  the  institu- 
tions he  founded,  but  more  especially  the 
one  he  had  chosen  for  his  own  residence, 
built  on  the  very  spot  where  he  had  wept 
and  prayed  for  years,  a  solitary  hermit,  cry- 
ing to  God  for  help  against  the  tempta- 
tions of  the  world. 

Monte  Oliveto  Maggiore  is  one  of  the 
suppressed  monasteries,  and  is  now  pre- 
served, like  many  others,  as  a  museum  by 
the  government,  three  monks  acting  as  cus- 
todians and  agents,  returning  all  the  profits 
of  the  land.  At  six  o'clock  one  bright  June 
morning,  I  found  myself  and  party  on  the 
Roman  road  in  a  carriage  roofed  over  with 
canvas  as  a  protection  against  the  sun,  in- 
tent on  exploring  the  solitude  of  the  Blessed 
Bernardo.  The  Italian  sun  was  already  up 
"with  all  heaven  to  himself";  the  birds  were 
singing  their  morning  hymn  in  every  bush ; 
the  hedges  at  either  side  of  the  road  were  a 
mass  of  wild  roses,  honeysuckle,  and  scarlet 
poppies.  The  fields  were  yellow  with  ripe 
corn;  and  although  the  landscape  had  to  our 
Northern  eyes  two  great  defects — the  want 
of  wood  and  of  water — the  effect  on  the 
whole  was  pleasing,  and  the  pure,  balmy  air 
of  the  morning  refreshing.  As  we  descended 
from  the  height  on  which  Siena  stands,  we 
looked  back  at  the  old  city,  encircled  by 
battlemented  walls,  bristling  with  towers; 
high  above  all,  the  great  tower  of  the  palace 
of  the  republic,  and  the  dome  of  the  cathe- 
dral striking  against  the  blue  vault  above:  it 
presented  a  perfect  picture  of  a  Mediaeval  city. 
It  is  a  good  eighteen  miles,  and  the  country, 
though  tame  enough  for  the  first  half  of  the 
journey,  becomes  more  varied  as  we  advance, 
— hills,  vales,  and  woods  following  each  other 


1883.] 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


289 


in  quick  succession.  This,  though  interesting 
from  our  point  of  view,  was  from  the  horses' 
point  of  view  anything  but  agreeable.  Like 
many  an  ill-sorted  pair,  they  did  not  pull  well 
together:  one  was  a  quiet,  steady-going, 
rather  slow  creature,  while  the  other  went  in 
a  series  of  erratic  bounds  and  plunges  curious 
to  behold.  It  began  to  be  very  warm  before 
we  got  into  the  sheltering  precincts  of 
Montoliveto,  but  hopes  were  buoyed  up  by 
occasional  glimpses  of  a  stately  pile  of  build- 
ings when  we  got  to  the  top  of  a  hill,  soon 
to  be  damped  on  descending  into  a  valley, 
and  finding  that  we  had  more  turns  and 
twists  of  the  road  to  take  before  we  reached 
the  famous  Three  Hills. 

At  last,  after  a  sharp  ascent,  we  came  in 
sight  of  a  tower,  and  under  it  a  great  gate- 
way, surmounted  by  frescos,  through  which 
the  carriage  passed  into  a  grove  of  olives. 
This  small  building  is  called  the  palazzo, 
and  contains  the  chemist's  shop  of  the  estab- 
lishment. We  descended  from  the  carriage, 
and  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  refreshed 
ourselves  with  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  sand- 
wich. While  we  were  thus  engaged  the 
abbot  came  upon  us  accidentally.  He  is  an 
elderly  gentleman,  with  pleasant,  courteous 
manners,  nobly  born  and  highly  educated. 
He  wore  the  long  black  gown  of  the  secular 
clergy  (the  Olivetani  on  being  disembodied 
left  off  the  white  robes  of  the  order),  and 
the  picturesque,  broad-leafed  hat  which  all 
Italian  priests  wear,  the  most  becoming  head- 
gear of  modern  times.  The  abbot  had  been 
on  the  farm  with  the  workmen,  and  was  en 
deshabille — a  fact  which  embarrassed  him 
somewhat,  but  not  nearly  so  much  as  it  would 
have  done  an  Englishman  caught  in  the 
same  plight.  He  came  forward  to  welcome 
us  with  the  easy  courtesy  which  distinguishes 
his  countrymen;  then  recognizing  us  as  hav- 
ing visited  Montoliveto  on  a  former  occa- 
sion, he  shook  hands  with  us  cordially,  and 
when  we  had  presented  our  friends  he  re- 
proached us  for  eating  outside  the  convent 
walls;  for  they  still  keep  up  the  old  hospit- 
able customs.  He  asked  us  what  we  would 
like  for  dinner.  We  said  we  had  brought 
cold  fowl  and  bread  with  us,  and  all  we 
VOL.  II.— 19. 


wished  to  be  supplied  with  were  vegetables, 
fruit,  and  a  cup  of  coffee  after  dinner. 

"No  soup?" 

The  party,  being  all  consulted,  declined 
soup.  This  seemed  inexplicable  to  the  Ital- 
ian mind,  and  the  abbot  said,  with  a  smile: 

"Are  you  afraid  you  will  have  to  pay  too 
much?  Remember  this  is  not  a  hotel." 

Having  convinced  our  host  that  the  An- 
glo-Saxon race  did  not  consider  soup  a  nec- 
essary of  life,  particularly  in  hot  weather,  the 
dinner  question  was  dismissed,  and  we  gave 
our  attention  to  the  fine  arts  during  the  four 
hours  that  were  to  intervene  before  it  was 
ready.  There  is  a  large  salon  set  apart  for 
strangers,  and  several  bedrooms  are  at  their 
disposal  should  they  wish  to  prolong  their 
stay.  If  they  remain  more  than  one  night, 
they  pay  at  a  moderate  rate  for  their  board. 
The  house  contains  three  hundred  sleeping 
apartments,  not  to  speak  of  refectories,  libra- 
ry, studies,  chapter-rooms,  etc.  The  three 
solitary  monks  must  feel  the  winter's  nights 
very  dreary  in  their  lowly  retreat,  walking 
through  all  those  empty,  echoing  corridors 
and  cloisters,  .where  scores  of  white-robed 
brothers  once  promenaded,  and  other  scores 
of  gay  school-boys  laughed  and  romped. 

We  first  visited  the  cloisters,  which  run 
round  a  square  open  court  in  the  center  of 
the  building;  here  there  is  a  deep  well  of 
cool  fresh  water,  with  delicate  ferns  spring- 
ing from  the  stones  that  compose  its  wall. 
The  cloisters  were  once  open  to  the  court, 
but  the  government  has  ordered  glass  to  be 
put  in,  the  better  to  preserve  the  frescos 
from  the  effects  of  rain  or  damp.  These 
frescos  consist  of  a  series  of  pictures  rep- 
resenting the  history  of  St.  Benedict,  the 
founder  of  the  order,  and  scenes  from  the 
life  of  Bernardo,  the  founder  of  this  institu- 
tion. Of  these  frescos  tvrenty-nine  are  from 
the  hand  of  Sodoma,  who  was  pupil  of  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci,  and  one  of  the  greatest  fresco- 
painters  of  the  fifteenth  century;  nine  are  by 
Signorelli,  an  equally  famous  artist,  and 
more  conscientious  worker;  and  one  by 
Riccio — making  in  all  forty  pictures  which 
cover  the  whole  four  walls  of  the  cloisters. 
These  are  the  most  interesting  works  to  be 


290 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


[Sept. 


seen  at  Montoliveto,  and  take  a  long  time 
to  examine.  It  would  be  impossible  to  de- 
scribe them  all,  so  I  will  just  mention  a  few 
of  the  most  striking  and  finely  executed:  one 
in  which  St.  Benedict  starts  for  school,  ac- 
companied by  his  parents;  another  in  which 
he  has  fled  from  the  seductions  of  the  city, 
and  is  seated  in  his  solitary  hermitage  in 
deep  thought;  in  a  third,  two  Roman 
princes  present  their  little  sons  to  him  for 
education,  Placidus  and  Maurus — afterwards 
martyred  saints;  two  more  admirable  pic- 
tures represent  some  traitor  monks  offering 
poisoned  wine  to  St.  Benedict,  and  Ijis  de- 
tection of  the  artifice ;  and  a  wicked  priest, 
enemy  of  St.  Benedict's,  introducing  light 
women  into  the  precincts  of  the  monastery 
to  dance  and  sing  before  the  monks.  When 
Sodoma,  who,  like  most  of  the  artists  of  his 
day,  was  a  graceless  scamp,  was  painting 
this  last-named  picture,  the  monks  often 
asked  him  when  he  would  have  it  done. 
As  he  painted  behind  a  partition  no  one 
saw  his  work  till  it  was  finished;  and  when 
the  boards  were  removed,  the  good  abbot 
was  horrified  to  see  that  the  dancing  girls 
had  hardly  any  clothes.  He  severely  re- 
buked the  artist,  who  wickedly  replied  that 
the  frati  teased  him  so  to  finish  it  quickly 
that  he  had  no  time  to  dress  the  ladies  decent- 
ly. The  scandal  was  quickly  removed,  and 
now  they  appear  properly  attired.  Besides 
these  cloister  frescos,  Sodoma  has  left  oth- 
er works  in  different  parts  of  the  monas- 
tery. 

We  next  visited  the  library,  a  spacious, 
lofty  apartment,  large  as  a  city  hall  in  a 
provincial  town,  the  walls  lined  with  old 
parchment  volumes  of  great  value.  There 
are  many  books  of  music  beautifully  illumi- 
nated. The  Italian  monks  carried  this  min- 
iature painting  to  wonderful  perfection,  and 
there  is  no  religious  house  that  has  any  pre- 
tentions  to  art  which  does  not  count  its  doz- 
ens of  these  great  wooden  or  leather  bound 
volumes,  edged  with  brass  and  fastened  with 
lock  and  key. 

Our  host  had  been  called  away,  and  had 
left  us  in  charge  of  another  brother,  an  at- 
tenuated little  creature  with  a  world  of  dis- 


content in  his  melancholy  dark  eyes.  When 
he  had  shown  us  the  library  and  other  apart- 
ments, he  brought  us  into  a  small  private 
apartment  full  of  wooden  chests,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  unlock  these  and  take  out  a  great 
number  of  handsome  altar-pieces  and  priest- 
ly vestments — all  the  work  of  his  hands. 
They  were  embroidered  exquisitely  with 
wreaths  of  gold  or  silver  flowers  on  a  silk 
foundation ;  or  silk  garlands  of  every  color 
on  a  ground  of  cloth  of  gold  or  cloth  of  sil- 
ver, the  effect  of  which  was  superb.  He  had 
executed  a  great  number  of  these,  and  I 
imagined  that  it  would  have  taken  him  half 
his  lifetime,  but  he  assured  me  that  he 
never  sat  all  day  at  this  work,  but  took  his 
part  in  all  the  multifarious  duties  of  the 
house  and  farm,  as  well  as  helping  in  the 
education  of  four  boarders. 

We  then  went  down,  still  conducted  by  the 
brother,  to  see  the  church,  which  is  large  and 
handsome — the  altars  of  colored  marbles, 
richly  ornamented  with  gold  and  silver  chasing, 
and  surmounted  by  pictures  of  great  masters. 
The  choir,  however,  is  the  great  beauty  of 
the  church;  it  is  inlaid  wood,  representing 
various  objects  in  nature  with  a  grace  and 
distinctness  little  inferior  to  painting,  and 
was  executed  by  Giovanni  da  Verona,  a  great 
monk  artist  of  the  fifteenth  century,  who 
completed  forty-seven  pieces  on  the  walls 
and  forty-eight  stalls  within  two  years.  Be- 
fore quitting  the  church,  the  little  brother 
led  us  to  a  little  side  chapel,  on  the  altar  of 
which  was  a  tabernacle,  the  doors  lined  with 
blue  silk.  He  took  a  key  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  opening  this  revealed  a  miniature  cradle 
of  silver  filigree  work,  containing  a  beauti- 
fully molded  waxen  baby,  wrapped  in  swad- 
dling-clothes such  as  no  human  baby  ever 
wore,  silver  cloth  wreathed  with  flowers  of 
the  most  delicate  lines,  and  a  coverlid  of  the 
same  description.  The  little  brother  seemed 
to  prize  this  more  than  all  his  work,  and  be- 
fore shutting  it  up  he  cast  a  lingering  glance 
of  paternal  fondness  upon  it.  While  wan- 
dering through  the  church,  I  remarked  upon 
the  rare  works  the  monks  of  olden  times  had 
left  behind  them. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "they  were  the  great  en- 


1883.] 


Bernardo  the  Blessed. 


291 


couragers  and  conservers  of  art.  Our  orders 
were  the  propagators  of  all  civilization,  and 
now  we  are  chased  from  our  convents  as 
worthless  good-for-nothings!  We  who  re- 
main here  as  government  servants — we  work 
without  ceasing,  and  have  to  surrender  every- 
thing to  the  government,  who  pays  us  one 
franc  a  day  for  our  labor." 

"One  franc!" 

"Yes;  but  we  would  have  begged  to  remain 
for  nothing  sooner  than  quit  the  old  place 
and  see  it  pass  into  the  hands  of  strangers." 

"  But  you  have  your  living  gratis,  have 
you  not?" 

"Nothing,  nothing;  we  buy  everything 
but  the  wood,  and  there  is  so  much  of  that 
that  for  shame  they  could  not  charge  it  on 
us." 

Poor  little  man  !  His  pent-up  feelings 
should  have  vent,  and  I  listened  in  silence, 
feeling  a  sort  of  sympathy  for  him,  but  none 
for  his  order  in  general. 

Before  dinner  our  host  joined  us,  and  re- 
mained with  us  during  the  meal,  though  he 
tasted  nothing,  having  dined  at  noon.  He 
dressed  our  salad  with  his  own  hands,  and 
helped  to  wait  on  us ;  for,  to  speak  the  truth, 
the  service  is  but  poor,  and  there  is  little 
evidence  of  the  splendor  and  luxury  gener- 
ally attributed  to  religious  houses ;  at  all 
events,  if  it  ever  existed  at  Montoliveto,  it  has 
disappeared.  After  dinner  we  walked  about 
and  paid  a  visit  to  the  silk-worms,  which  are 
cultivated  extensively  here  ;  and  as  the  gov- 
ernment has  no  claim  on  them,  they  must 
make  a  considerable  augmentation  to  the 
one  franc  a  day.  We  saw  them  go  through  all 
the  phases  of  their  brief  existence;  some 
were  creeping  out  of  a  roll  of  yellow  floss, 


and  others  were  laying  their  eggs.  One  in- 
sect is  capable  of  laying  five  hundred  eggs, 
after  which,  its  object  in  life  being  accom- 
plished, it  dies.  One  ounce  of  eggs  will 
produce  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  of 
silk.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  Italians  are  not 
enterprising  enough  to  establish  a  silk  man- 
ufactory here,  instead  of  sending  all  the  raw- 
material  to  France. 

I  have  left  myself  little  space  to  speak  of 
the  deep-wooded  vales,  home  of  the  night- 
ingale and  a  thousand  sweet-voiced  birds;  or 
of  the  seven  tiny  chapels  scattered  through- 
out the  grounds,  erected  by  Olivetani  of  as 
many  different  nationalities.  The  prettiest 
is  the  most  recently  built,  and  stands  over 
the  grotto  occupied  by  Bernardo  when  he 
first  settled  at  Montoliveto.  The  walls  are  of 
colored  marbles,  and  there  is  a  very  hand- 
some altar-piece  representing  the  Madonna 
and  saints.  An  opening  under  the  altar 
leads  by  a  few  steps  to  the  grotto,  where  a 
sculptured  image  of  the  saint — life  size,  in 
Carrara  marble — is  seen  reclining  in  an  atti- 
tude of  deep  meditation.  One  recogriizes 
at  once  the  fine  outline  of  that  perfectly 
Tuscan  head  which  meets  the  eye  in  every 
chapel,  passage,  and  corridor,  and  is  even 
frescoed  over  the  gateway.  The  air  of  Mont- 
oliveto is  redolent  of  Bernardo  the  Blessed, 
and  one's  mind  becomes  filled  with  thoughts 
of  him  and  his  times  while  wandering  about 
the  charming  spot  which  his  genius  created 
out  of  a  desert — the  strength  and  beauty  of 
whose  character  left  an  impress  which  ages 
have  hardly  yet  erased;  and  one  cannot 
help  speculating  as  to  how  the  presence  of 
a  few  such  monks  now  would  affect  the  des- 
tinies of  the  church. 

G.  S.  Godkin, 


292 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[Sept. 


KING   COPHETUA'S   WIFE. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

*'A  shining  isle  in  a  stormy  sea, 

We  seek  it  ever  with  smiles  and  sighs; 
To-day  is  sad.     In  the  bland  to-be, 
Serene  and  lovely  to-morrow  lies. 

"It  mocked  us,  the  beautiful  yesterday, 
It  left  us  poorer.     O,  never  mind! 
In  the  fair  to-morrow,  far  away, 

It  waits  the  joy  that  we  failed  to  find." 

IN  the  spring  I  went  to  Germany.     There 
was  need  of  a  change  in  my  abiding  place, 
for   I   was   growing    rapidly   nervous    and 
morose,    and   each  day  in  Boston  or  New 
York  hung  over  me  like  a  cloud  that  hid 
some  lurking  horror  behind  it.     I  could  not 
sleep  at  night,  and  I  could  not  work  in  the 
daytime.     So  I  covered  up  my  manuscripts, 
laid  away  my  little  household  treasures,  took 
the  doctor's   advice    that   chimed  in   tune 
with  my  own  wish,  and  started  for  Germany. 
I  had  said   good   by  to   all    my  friends 
either  personally  or  by  letter,  yet  there  was 
quite   a  gathering  of  these  good  people  to 
see   me  off;  and  when  we   steamed  out  of 
the  harbor  I  was  glad  enough  to  get  down 
into  my  stateroom,  where  there  was  scarcely 
room  to  turn   around  in,  so    many  flowers 
had   been  placed  there.     Those  who  send 
bouquets  and  baskets  and  wreaths   of  fra- 
grant  blossoms  to  a  person  about  to  take 
a  sea-voyage  are  very  kind,  but  I  wonder  if 
they   realize   how   sickening    the   smell    of 
flowers  can  become.     I   ordered  these  all 
taken  out  and  thrown  overboard,  and  much 
gratitude  went  with  them;  almost  as  much 
that  they  were  out  of  my  sight  and  smell  as 
that  any  friends  had  been  good  enough  to 
remember    me.      Had    the    flowers    been 
changed  into  fruit,   I   think  that  I    should 
have  been  glad  to  keep  them  in  my  room. 

With  a  great  deal  of  outward  bravery  and 
inward  trembling  I  went  to  my  first  dinner 
on  board.  A  man  sitting  opposite  me  or- 
dered a  glass  of  brandy  and  seltzer  before 
he  touched  his  soup,  and  as  he  had  spoken 


of  having  "been  across"  a  dozen  times,  I 
thought  he  must  know  the  proper  thing  to 
do,  and  followed  his  order.  Oh,  how  I  suf- 
fered for  the  imitation ! 

In  a  couple  of  days,  however,  I  was  able  to 
go  to  the  smoke-room,  and  play  at  "nap" 
or  whist,  and  burn  my  cigars  with  the 
stoutest  seafarer.  Meeting  the  gentleman 
whose  call  for  brandy  and  seltzer  I  had  so 
disastrously  followed,  I  related  my  expe- 
rience. 

UO,  that  is  my  ordinary  custom  at  home 
or  abroad,"  he  replied.  "If  you  had  not 
followed  my  example  no  doubt  you  would 
have  kept  on  your  legs.  It's  the  worst  of 
drinks  for  a  man  unaccustomed  to  sea-voy- 
ages." 

We  landed  at  Hamburg,  and  I  realized  at 
once  that  I  was  abroad.  Hardly  had  I  be- 
come accustomed  to  my  hotel,  however, 
before  a  morning  when  Adam  Jaquith 
called  upon  me.  It  was  pleasant  to  know 
that  I  had  a  friend  in  the  strange  city,  but 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  feel  for  a  while — 
just  a  little  while — that  there  was  no  one 
near  who  might  care  to  note  my  moods  or 
my  wanderings. 

What  I  had  fled  from  was  again  upon  me. 
Heaven  forbid  that  I  was  ungracious  in  the 
thought ! 

Jaquith  had  been  staying  in  Hamburg  for 
a  long  time — as  time  goes  on — and  knew  of 
many  nooks  and  corners  into  which  I 
should  never  have  penetrated  alone.  The 
narrow,  dark  streets,  and  the  canals  over- 
hung by  balconies  belonging  to  quaint 
houses  with  tiled  roofs,  grew  bright  under 
the  companionship  of  my  friend,  who 
seemed  to  have  brought  out  from  some- 
where in  the  depth  of  his  nature  a  lightness 
and  jollity  I  had  never  found  in  him  before. 
Full  of  wit  and  good  cheer,  he  bore  me 
along  with  him  until  I  half  forgot  that  I  had 
any  burdens  to  carry,  or  that  I  had  left  my 
home  to  escape  the  ghosts  that  haunted  it. 


1883.J 


King  CophetucCs  Wife. 


293 


Only  at  night,  when  with  wide-open  eyes  I  lay 
in  bed  thinking,  did  the  past  come  across 
me,  and  I  would  sigh  heavily  over  my  heart- 
lessness  in  allowing  myself  to  forget  in  this 
foreign  city  what  I  could  not  forget  in  Boston. 

So  foolish  are  we  human  creatures,  whose 
chief  happiness  is  in  having  something  to 
pity  ourselves  for,  and  who  regret  the  laying 
aside  of  any  sorrow  or  weighty  evil,  more  be- 
cause it  leaves  us  without  anything  to  mourn 
over  than  because  of  any  desire  to  expiate 
our  offenses  by  carrying  the  iron  cross 
about  with  us. 

Yet  I  went  on  from  day  to  day,  roaming 
from  one  part  of  the  town  to  another,  and 
perfectly  content  to  be  in  that  strange  place, 
whether  I  stood  looking  at  the  house  in 
which  Mendelssohn  was  born,  and  wondering 
if,  when  he  became  famous,  he  was  ashamed 
of  having  first  seen  the  light  (what  little  light 
there  was  to  see  in  the  dark  rooms)  in  that 
plain  house  on  the  narrow  street;  or  leaning 
from  the  hotel  window  looking  out  over  the 
bay  on  which  my  temporary  home  faced, 
and  watching  the  pleasure-boats  sail  to  and 
fro.  I  could  find  it  in  me  to  smile  at  the 
costumes  of  the  peasants,  and  even  to  ad- 
mire the  fresh,  healthy  beauty  of  the  faces 
that  now  and  then  looked  out  from  the  lace 
caps  of  the  maid-servants. 

Ah,  Hamburg !  I  owed  you  much  then ;  I 
owe  more  to  you  to-day. 

"Will  you  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  call 
on  an  American  friend  of  mine  at  the  Kron- 
prinzen?  He  is  a  quiet  sort  of  fellow  like 
yourself,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  will 
find  him  companionable  and  agreeable.  He 
has  been  in  England  and  France  for  two  or 
three  years,  and  is  in  Hamburg  now  for  a 
month.  I  ought  to  tell  you  also  that  he  has 
two  sisters  who  are  traveling  with  him,  and 
they  are  very  attractive  young  ladies." 

Adam  filliped  the  ashes  from  his  cigar, 
and  looked  out  on  the  bay,  for  we  were  sit- 
ting in  my  room. 

"Ah,  two  young  American  women!  I 
wondered  where  you  were  gone  so  long  yes- 
terday. And  you  have  met  them  elsewhere 
in  Europe,  I  venture  to  suppose." 

"Yes,  in  Paris.     And  I  passed  some  days 


with  my  friend  at  Cartmel  down  in  Lanca- 
shire, while  I  was  in  England." 

"How  is  it  that  I  have  not  heard  you 
speak  of  your  friend  before  this?  Was  it  be- 
cause of  the  young  ladies?" 

"No — O  no.  I  did  not  mention  them  for 
the  reason  that  they  were  strangers  to  you, 
and  they  arrived — quite  unexpectedly  to 
me — in  Hamburg  yesterday  morning.  I 
want  you  to  know  them,  however,  for  an 
American  is  a  Godsend  to  one  of  his  coun- 
trymen when  he  appears  in  the  Old  World; 
and  Strafford  is  an  accomplished  linguist  as 
well  as  a  man  who  has  a  wide  acquaintance 
among  delightful  persons  in  Germany.  He 
is  a  little  soured  by  fate  just  now;  but  prom- 
ise me  that  you  will  go  with  me  to  call  to- 
morrow." 

"I  promise.  But  the  sisters — am  I  to 
meet  them  as  well  as  the  brother?  How  do 
you  know  that  they  will  like  to  have  an  ac- 
quaintance thrust  upon  them  in  this  way?" 

"That  will  be  all  right.  I  have  asked 
their  permission  to  bring  you,  and  they  were 
'only  too  delighted,'  and  it  would  be  'very 
lovely'  in  me.  Do  not  bother  your  head  with 
the  finical  technicalities  and  provincial  twists 
that  abound  in  our  society  at  home.  We 
are  not  so  much  tied  down  by  them  when 
we  meet  one  of  our  own  countrywomen 
abroad.  Miss  Strafford  and  Miss  Louisa  are 
regular  American  women,  and  not  so  much 
spoiled  by  their  residence  in  England  as  one 
might  imagine  they  would  be.  It  will  be 
well  for  you  to  know  them  while  you  are 
here  in  this  dull  old  town." 

"It  is  not  dull  to  me.  I  came  here  for 
rest,  and  the  quietness  that  I  knew  I  could 
not  find  in  London,  or  any  of  the  European 
cities  where  the  current  of  life  hurries  and 
surges  along.  I  could  be  as  sluggish  and 
prosy  as  I  chose  in  this  place,  that  seems 
never  to  have  lost  its  early  slowness  and  re- 
pose. But  I  will  go  with  you  to  call  upon 
your  friends,  and  afterwards  I  may  please 
myself  by  continuing  the  acquaintance  or 
not  as  I  choose.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"Yes;  but  I  had  hoped  to  find  that  you 
shook  off  your  moods  and  contrariness  when 
you  parted  with  the  Boston  dust,  and  that 


294 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[Sept. 


you  meant  to  come  down  from  the  pedestal 
of  solitude,  and  mingle  more  with  men  and 
women  who  are  outside  the  narrow  circle 
you  so  delight  to  move  in.  I  tell  you,  El- 
dridge,  it  makes  a  man  selfish  and  unnatu- 
ral if  he  devotes  himself  entirely  to  an  art  or 
profession  and  lets  the  world  go  by,  unless 
it  can  serve  his  purpose  to  let  himself  drop 
into  its  midst  and  struggle  for  a  while  with 
its  worry  or  pleasure.  You  have  lived  alone 
too  long.  You  scan  everybody  through  a 
microscope,  and  finding  that  no  one  is  ab- 
solutely faultless,  you  draw  back  again  into 
your  groove,  and  move  around  its  confined 
limit  without  thinking  that  you  are  doing  a 
harm  to  the  broader  part  of  your  nature — a 
part  you  have  no  right  to  keep  concealed. 

"You  are  misunderstood  and  misjudged 
while  you  show  only  your  coldness  to  the 
world.  I  tell  you,  man,  that  this  selfishness 
—I  do  not  intend  to  imply  that  you  are  not 
liberal :  yes,  liberal  to  a  fault  in  some  ways 
— this  selfishness  is  creeping  into  the  work 
of  your  pen.  One  who  knows  you  can  find 
it  permeating  your  writings,  and  for  that 
reason,  if  for  no  other,  you  should  drop 
work  for  the  present  and  find  pleasure  in 
going  about :  not  only  in  looking  at  the 
outer  movements  of  life  in  these  cities,  but 
in  pushing  yourself  into  the  very  heart  of 
humanity. 

"Throw  your  cigar  away:  it  has  been  un- 
lighted  these  ten  minutes ;  take  a  fresh  one, 
and  think  over  what  I  have  said  to  you.  I 
went  to  you,  my  friend,  when  I  had  no  one 
else  that  I  dared  to,  or  felt  that  I  could, 
trust,  and  in  return  for  your  generous  good- 
ness then  I  want  to  help  you  now.  Per- 
haps you  think  that  I  have  presumed  too 
much  upon  the  friendship  you  fully  extended 
to  me  at  that  time,  but  it  will  be  best  for 
me  to  tell  you,  Frank" — he  came  to  a  chair 
nearer  mine,  took  my  hand  in  his,  and 
leaned  over  to  look  into  my  face — "to  tell 
you  that  the  struggle  you  are  undergoing  is 
not  so  much  of  a  secret  as  you  believe  it  to 
be.  I  have  read  it  in  your  face,  in  your 
moods,  and  in  your  poetry.  You  are  in 
love — or  fancy  yourself  in  love — with  Madge 
Barras." 


"How — how  dare  you?"  and  I  started 
from  my  seat  only  to  fall  back  again  among 
the  cushions  and  bury  my  face  in  my  hands. 

"How  dare  I?  I  will  tell  you  how  and 
why  I  dare.  When  you  gave  me  your  friend- 
ship I  took  it  as  a  gift  of  rare  value,  know- 
ing you  to  be  one  who  does  not  lightly  open 
his  heart  to  let  a  new-comer  in.  And,  be- 
cause I  rated  this  at  its  true  worth,  I  deter- 
mined to  be  as  faithful,  as  helpful  to  you 
as  I  could,  for  I  knew  then  that  the  time 
must  come  when  you  would  need  to  be  told 
something  like  what  I  have  just  told  you. 
You  thought  that  your  great  heart  could 
hold  its  secret,  that  you  could  hug  the  an- 
guish to  yourself  and  bear  it  alone.  But, 
my  friend,  it  has  eaten  its  way  out,  and 
being  within  my  reach,  I  dare  to  lay  hold 
upon  it  and  ease  you  of  the  bitterness  as 
much  as  I  can.  Harry  Ascot — even  to  him 
you  would  not  s.peak  of  this — has  gone  from 
you  for  the  to-day  of  this  life,  and  I  mean  to 
do  for  you  what  he  would  do,  were  he  here 
and  strong  to  understand  you  as  I  think  I 
am.  With  the  knowledge  that  a  man  of 
experience — a  so-called  man  of  the  world — 
has,  I  have  watched  and  studied  you,  and  I 
shall  share  this  burden  of  yours  with  you. 
It  has  its  shame,  I  know.  You,  with  the 
delicate  sensitiveness  of  your  kind,  feel  this 
love  for  your  friend's  wife  to  be  a  sin  from 
which  you  can  never  be  cleansed,  and  so 
you  let  it  burn  within  your  heart  when,  if 
you  will,  you  may  rise  above  and  look  down 
upon  it. 

"  Tell  me  that  you  are  glad  I  know  the 
truth,  that  it  will  be  less  hard  for  you  now  to 
struggle  against  yourself  and  to  conquer, 
because  there  is  one  who  knows  of  your  pas- 
sion, and  will  strive  with  you  to  uproot  the 
dream  and  throw  it  aside." 

I  had  regained  my  calmness,  but  there 
was  a  certain  horror  in  feeling  that  any  one 
had  so  cleverly  read  what  I  thought  was 
hidden  out  of  sight.  I,  who  had  presumed 
to  teach  others  their  duty  to  God  and  man, 
stood  at  last  stripped  of  all  pretense,  my  er- 
ror laid  bare  at  least  to  this  one  man's  gaze. 
Alas!  I  could  not  tell  how  many  others  had 
looked  into  my  heart.  But  Adam  Jaquith 


1883.] 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


295 


meant  only  good  to  me,  and  I  realized  it.  I 
told  him  all  there  was  to  tell  of  the  story, 
and  slept  the  better  that  night  because  there 
was  one  from  whom  I  need  not  conceal, 
from  whom  I  could  not  hide,  what  seemed  to 
me  almost  a  crime. 

It  was  in  a  pleasant  parlor  in  the  Kron- 
prinzen  that  I  met  the  Misses  Strafford. 
Strafford  himself  we  had  found  smoking  a 
cigar  outside,  and  gazing  into  the  depths  of 
the  Alster  Basin,  upon  which  the  hotel  is 
located. 

Miss  Strafford  was  sitting  at  a  window 
busy  with  a  mass  of  wonderful  embroidery, 
which  she  told  me  she  had  bought  that 
morning  for  "almost  nothing" — an  expres- 
sion I  have  since  learned  to  look  upon  sus- 
piciously, for  it  does  not  always  mean  such 
a  very  little  money  after  all. 

Miss  Louisa  had  a  lapful  of  tulips,  and 
was  slowly  gathering  them  into  a  large 
bunch.  She  made  a  laughing  apology  for 
not  rising,  and  I  sat  down  beside  her,  offer- 
ing to  help  assort  the  colors,  an  offer  that 
was  immediately  declined. 

She  had  a  sweet  face,  this  American  girl — 
not  beautiful,  but  attractive.  Her  hair  was 
auburn,  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  'the  boys 
at  school  used  to  call  her  "Red-head." 
Indeed,  I  know  they  did,  for  she  told  me 
so  once  when  we  became  better  acquainted. 

I  thought  as  I  looked  at  her  that  she  was 
like  a  pansy,  the  flower  we  would  choose 
from  a  garden  full  of  more  beautiful,  more 
pretentious  blossoms,  if  we  were  in  certain 
moods  when  heart  and  soul  needed  comfort 
and  contentment. 

A  daily  call  upon  the  Straffords  grew  to 
be  a  regular  thing  with  us.  We  walked, 
talked,  drove,  and  visited  all  the  interesting 
spots  together.  Henry  Strafford  I  could 
not  like:  he  was  moody  instead  of  reserved, 
and  carried  a  sort  of  I-wish-I-were-dead 
air  about  with  him.  I  remember  that  one 
morning  after  we  had  reached  Heidelberg, 
Adam  and  I  went  up  to  the  castle.  It  was 
very  early,  but  we  wanted  to  wander  over 
the  ruin  without  company.  The  sentiment- 
al atmosphere  of  the  German  land  had 
crept  into  our  systems,  and  we  made  up 


stories  about  the  different  parts  of  the  beau- 
tiful old  building — more  beautiful  perhaps  as 
a  ruin  than  it  ever  was  in  its  entirety.  We 
peopled  the  whole  of  it,  from  the  never- 
empty  tower  where  so  many  prisoners  had 
been  kept,  down  to  the  chapel.  There  is 
such  a  delightful  thrill  of  mystery  in  the 
words  "once  upon  a  time,"  that  I  confess 
to  never  liking  a  story  half  so  well  if  it  be- 
gins with  a  more  prosaic  sentence.  Loiter- 
ing along,  we  came  to  a  great  chimney,  and 
as  we  stood  looking  into  the  huge  recess 
below  it  Strafford  came  gravely  forth  from  a 
dark  corner.  I  say  gravely,  for  indeed  in 
the  romantic  fancy  of  the  place  and  time 
a  sheeted  ghost  could  not  have  startled  me 
as  much. 

"How  are  you,  Henry?  How  long  have 
you  been  up  here?"  Adam's  voice  rang 
through  the  vast  emptiness  about  us. 

"All  night,"  was  the  answer,  and  he  strode 
along  and  out  of  sight. 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged!"  was  all  that 
Jaquith  said;  but  the  spell  that  had  been 
upon  us,  the  spell  of  the  old  days,  was  brok- 
en. We  could  not  bring  up  the  life  of  by- 
gone centuries  after  seeing  a  man  of  to-day 
who  had  chosen  to  hide  himself  in  a  chim- 
ney for  over  night.  So  we  went  back,  took 
our  breakfast  in  the  Schloss  garden,  and 
later  called  upon  Stafford's  sisters,  with  whom 
we  found  the  brother  in  a  more  monosyllabic 
mood  than  ever. 

So  our  lives  went  on  in  Germany.  I 
heard  frequently  from  America;  Madge 
wrote  to  me  of  her  successes  and  of  her 
plans;  but  her  letters  did  not  disturb  me, 
did  not  make  my  heart  ache  and  the  blood 
leap  in  my  veins  as  they  had  once  done,  and 
I  could  not  have  told  how  the  change  had 
come  about.  I  learned  the  reason  why  in 
Vienna. 

It  was  four  months  after  my  landing  in 
Hamburg  that  we  went  to  Vienna.  By  we, 
I  mean  the  Straffords  as  well  as  Jaquith 
and  myself,  for  we  had  planned  to  travel  to- 
gether as  a  party  of  five. 

We  had  been  to  the  Volksgarten  one  day, 
and  Adam  was  at  his  best.  He  and  Miss 
Louisa  ate  their  ices  and  drank  coffee  to- 


296 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


[Sept. 


gether,  while  there  were  many  whispered 
confidences  and  merry  peals  of  laughter  at 
the  little  table  where  they  sat  alone. 

At  length  Miss  Strafford  brought  me  back 
from  my  thoughts.  "Are  you  unwell,  Mr. 
Eldridge?  You  look  pale  and  tired;  besides, 
you  are  very  silent,  are  you  not  ?  Let  us 
call  Louisa  and  Mr.  Jaquith  and  go  home." 

"No,  I  am  not  tired,  and  it  is  delightful 
here  ;  let  us  stay." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  find  it  very  '  delight- 
ful,' judging  from  your  face,"  Strafford  broke 
in  roughly,  and  I  could  have  kicked  the 
fellow  as  he  spoke.  "I'm  going  home  any- 
way, and  my  sisters  had  better  go  with  me." 
So  he  went  over  and  said  a  few  words  to 
his  younger  sister,  who  rose  from  the  bench 
upon  which  she  was  sitting  and  came  to  us. 

"  Henry  wants  us  to  go  to  the  hotel.  He 
has  letters  to  write,  and  we  must  write  ours 
so  that  they  may  all  be  posted  at  the  same 
time ;  for  our  home  people  think  that  letters 
from  abroad  ought  to  arrive  in  a  budget." 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  spoke,  and  the 
blood  reddened  her  cheeks  for  a  moment 
and  sent  a  pink  tinge  even  over  her  pretty  ears. 

"  I  will  stay  here  with  Eldridge  if  you 
will  excuse  us";  and  Adam  stood  behind  me. 
We  watched  the  three  go  along  the  garden 
walk,  and  then  my  friend  seated  himself  op- 
posite me,  and  putting  both  elbows  on  the 
table,  leaned  forward  and  said,  "What  is  the 
trouble  to-day?  you  look  as  if  you  had  seen 
a  ghost." 

"Nothing  is  the  trouble — that  is — 

"Yes,  the  truth,  if  you  please." 

"Well,  nothing  of  a  ghostly  nature. 
Unfortunately  it  is  a  reality,  and  I  do  not 
know  how  to  escape  it." 

"Foolish  boy!  Escape  it?  It  is  the  best 
thing  that  ever  came  to  you,  and  now  you  want 
to  run  away  and  hide  from  the  only  thing  that 
can  bring  happiness  to  you.  I  have  watched 
you  carefully,  and  you  have  come  out  of  a 
miserable  dream  into  a  blessed  reality ;  yet 
you  want  to  escape  it.  Bah !  I  should  have 
no  patience  with  you  if  I  were  not  your 
sworn  friend.  You  did  not  know  what  was 
coming  over  you,  enveloping  you  and  lifting 
you  so  far  above  your  former  self.  /did. 


What  else  did  I  bring  you  into  contact  with 
Louisa  Strafford  for  ?  Face  your  reality  and 
make  a  man  of  yourself." 

"But  you — are  not  you  and  she — 
"I?     Why,  man,  did  you  not  read  my 
secret  in  your  study  long  ago  ?     I  am  bound 
heart  and  soul,  and  am  happy  as  I  hope  to 
see  you  happy." 

We  went  away  from  the  Volksgarten  arm 
in  arm,  and  that  night  as  I  walked  with 
Louisa  Strafford  under  the  bright  starlight, 
and  with  the  far-away  music  of  the  orchestra 
sounding  in  our  ears,  I  told  her  the  story  of 
my  past ;  and  more :  the  story  of  my  present — 
the  story  so  often  told,  and  yet  forever  fresh 
and  new.  And  before  her  lips  answered  me, 
I  read  in  her  eyes,  even  in  that  dim  evening 
light,  the  truth,  and  knew  that  I  had  found 
my  heart 's-ease,  and  that  it  was  mine  forever. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

"Thy  cheek  hath  lost  its  roundness  and  its  bloom; 

Who  will  forgive  those  signs  where  tears  have  fed 
On  thy  once  lustrous  eyes,  save  he  for  whom 
Those  tears  were  shed  ? 

"  Hath  not  thy  forehead  paled  beneath  my  kiss? 

And  through  thy  life  have  I  not  writ  my  name  ? 
Hath  not  my  soul  signed  thine  ?     I  gave  thee  bliss, 
If  I  gave  shame. 

"Then,  if  love's  first  ideal  now  grows  wan, 

And  thou  wilt  love  again,  again  love  me, 
For  what  I  am— no  hero,  but  a  man 
Still  loving  thee." 

Into  the  small  room  in  New  York  that 
Madge  used  for  her  study  I  was  shown  one 
winter  day.  No  one  was  in  the  room,  but 
it  had  evidently  been  occupied  until  within 
a  few  minutes,  for  a  book  spread  open  was 
lying  face  downwards  on  the  table.  A  hand- 
kerchief lay  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
and  the  room  was  sweet  with  the  mingled 
smell  of  flowers  and  fruit  from  where  the 
sunshine  struck  upon  a  china  dish  of 
oranges,  and  the  bowl  of  jonquils  and  lilies, 
of-the-valley  that  stood  beside  it.  A  wo- 
man's room  this,  with  its  upholstery  of 
gray  and  pink.  Everything  cushioned,  lux- 
urious and  graceful  in  design.  Such  a  room 
as  a  man  likes  to  enter,  taking  in  with  a 
sort  of  strange  bewilderment  all  the  details 


1883.] 


King  Cophetua's  Wife. 


297 


that  go  to  make  up  the  charming  whole,  and 
yet  quite  unable  to  say  wherein  the  charm  lies. 

I  had  stood  looking  out  of  a  window  for 
a  few  moments  before  the  soft  portiere  was 
pushed  back  with  the  musical  sound  of  sil- 
ver rings  striking  against  each  other,  and 
Madge  came  to  greet  me.  She  had  a  pecu- 
liarly sweet  smile  in  those  days — a  smile  that 
had  a  pathos  in  it,  quite  unlike  the  merry, 
girlish  smile  with  which  she  met  me  first  at 
Ellenwood. 

"  I  think  you  always  come  to  me  when  I 
need  you  most,"  she  said  by  way  of  saluta- 
tion, and  with  her  hand  in  mine.  "  I  have 
been  restless  all  the  morning,  and  every- 
thing jars  upon  me.  Books  have  exasper- 
ating endings,  poems  are  full  of  false 
rhymes  and  overstrained  sentiment,  my 
piano  has  a  note  out  of  tune,  and  my  voice 
is  harsh  to-day.  Altogether,  I  am  simply 
unhappy,  and  you  have  come,  as  you  always 
do,  just  when  I  need  you." 

'•  Then  let  us  pray  that  I  may  leave  you 
in  a  happier  and  more  restful  condition,"  I 
answered  half-banteringly.  "And  I  think 
that  it  may  be  we  can  do  no  better  than  to 
lay  our  tribute  on  the  altar  of  this  'Praying 
Boy.'  Perhaps  his  outstretched  arms  raised 
toward  the  sun  will  bring  our  petitions  near 
to  light  and  fulfillment."  And  as  I  spoke  I 
put  the  bowl  of  flowers  upon  the  pedestal 
of  the  statue. 

"  It  may  be  the  wisest  way."  She  took  my 
attempt  at  lightness  seriously  enough.  "  I 
think  we  all  like  to  stand  off  and  leave  in- 
sensate things  to  do  our  praying  for  us;  but, 
do  you  know,  I  have  been  wishing  lately 
that  I  could  believe  I  had  a  patron  saint,  and 
pray  to  him  or  her.  I  think  my  prayers,  in 
the  multitude  that  are  going  up  to  God  from 
broken  hearts,  must  seem  so  very  small  and 
pitiful  to  him.  It  would  be  a  happy  thought 
that  some  one  stood  ready  to  bear  my  peti- 
tions straight  to  the  Master,  some  one  at 
favor  in  court  who  might  look  direct  upon 
the  face  of  the  king." 

"Why,  Madge,  my  friend,  what  is  the  trou- 
ble to-day?  You  have  been  so  brave,  so 
steadfast  in  your  course  hitherto:  are  you 
giving  way  now?  Is  it  anything  new?" 


"No,  nothing  new.  I  think  nothing  that 
is  new  can  ever  come  to  me  now.  I  seem 
to  have  lived  through  every  phase  of  ex- 
istence, to  have  endured  and  enjoyed  all 
that  one  possibly  could  endure  or  enjoy, 
and  the  only  new  experience  for  me  could 
be  death.  Yet  even  that  I  have  been 
through  with,  for  death  is  only  a  dissolution 
of  hopes  and  fears,  and" — after  a  pause — "I 
have  neither  now." 

"But  your  music:  surely  you  appreciate 
your  success  before  the  world ;  your  fame  is 
something  to  you,  is  it  not?  I  stood  at  the 
back  of  the  hall  while  you  sang  last  night, 
and  to  me  your  face  seemed  lighted  up  as 
though  you  had  reached  some  inner  temple 
of  life's  sanctuary,  and  found  peace  and  hap- 
piness there." 

"Ah,  last  night!  While  I  was  singing  one 
of  the  arias  in  the  Oratorio  the  audience 
melted  away  from  before  me,  and  I  seemed 
to  be  standing  on  tip-toe,  and  singing  right 
into  the  ear  of  God.  I  had  lost  all  thought 
of  myself,  and  so  of  course  I  was  happy  and 
content.  But  when,  as  to-day,  I  am  con- 
scious of  myself — of  all  my  ills  and  uncom- 
fortablenesses — I  grow  so  restless,  so  distrust- 
ful, that  I  am  unfit  for  anything.  Why"- 
and  she  rose  and  stood  before  me — ;"why 
am  I  not  constituted  like  other  women  ?  I 
know  many  a  soft-voiced,  pure-eyed  woman 
who,  if  she  had  one-tenth  my  anguish,  would 
drown  it  by  the  morphine  powders  of  excite- 
ment. Look  at  these  letters.  Here  are  in- 
vitations to  private  dinners,  assurances  of 
ardent  devotion,  perfumed  sentences  of  love 
— all  the  tricks  of  insult  that  men  know  so 
well  how  to  direct  against  a  defenseless  and 
suffering  woman.  How  many,  how  many  of 
the  woman  friends  you  and  your  wife  pos- 
sess would  let  these  go  unnoticed,  and  not 
'seek  to  forget,  in  the  poor  delirium  they 
offer,  the  pangs  and  distress  of  the  sickness 
that  is  upon  them?  Do  not  speak:  you  can 
say  nothing  to  calm  me ;  let  me  say  out  that 
which  is  within  my  heart  to  say. 

"I  have  not  spoken  of  my  husband  since 
you  came  home  from  Europe.  Do  you 
think  it  has  been  because  he  is  not  in  my 
thoughts?  I  have  lain  down  at  night  with 


298 


King  CopTietuas  Wife. 


[Sept, 


my  heart  filled  with  love  for  him.  I  have 
risen  in  the  morning,  and  found  strength  to 
get  through  the  day  only  by  the  stimulus  of 
remembering  that  he  loved  me  once :  yes,  I 
know  that  he  loved  me  once."  She  said  this 
slowly  and  softly,  as  if  answering  a  question- 
ing voice  that  had  spoken  from  her  heart. 
"And,  Frank,  do  not  think  me  crazy  or  fool- 
ish; I  am  but  a  loving,  clinging  woman.  I 
believe  that  he  will  come  back  to  me  some 
day,  and  that  is  the  only  reason  why  I  do 
not  die.  For  oh !  God  knows  that  I  should 
have  died  long  ago  if  I  had  not  had  faith  to 
believe  he  spoke  an  untruth  when  he  said 
that  he  did  not  love  me." 

She  was  exhausted  by  her  emotion,  and 
sank  back  into  a  chair.  We  sat  a  long  while 
talking  about  Neil,  for  I  saw  that  to  speak  of 
him  was  the  only  way  to  calm  and  relieve 
her  mind.  The  sunshine  slipped  its  light 
from  the  dish  of  fruit,  it  lingered  for  a  few 
moments  on  the  pink  cushions  of  the  win- 
dow-seat, and  at  last  a  gray  light  filled  the 
room.  There  had  been  several  cards  sent 
up  to  Mrs.  Barras,  but  she  would  see  no 
strangers.  The  light  grew  dimmer  and  dim- 
mer, and  still  I  did  not  go.  I  heard  the 
distant  tinkle  of  the  door-bell  once  more, 
just  as  I  was  repeating  the  few  lines  of  one 
of  Clough's  poems.  Madge  sat  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  folded  hands  in  her  lap. 

I  heard  the  servant  opening  the  door,  and 
a  murmuring  of  voices,  but  Madge  had  not 
noticed  the  sounds.  Her  thoughts,  I  knew, 
were  far  away,  and  that,  although  she  might 
be  conscious  of  my  voice,  it  was  only  as  we 
are  conscious  of  the  current  of  the  river 
that  bears  our  drifting  boat  on  and  on. 

A  trembling  of  the  curtain  before  the 
door  that  led  into  the  hall,  the  gleam  of  a 
hand  amid  its  folds,  a  gentle  pushing  back 
of  the  heavy  plush,  and  a  man  came  into 
the  room  and  stood  motionless.  Madge 
looked  up,  and  I  had  finished  the  poem. 

"  My  wife,  my  friend,  I  have  come  back. 
Not  proud,  not  stubborn  and  selfish  as  I 
went  away,  but,  by  the  grace  of  God,  a  bet- 
ter man  than  I  was  of  old.  Madge,  I  have 
come  back  to  tell  you  that  I  lied  to  you.  I 


love  you,  and  you  alone.  My  heart  was 
not  false  to  you  ;  it  was  only  for  a  moment 
that  my  fancy  strayed  away  from  you.  Frank, 
the  last  time  I  saw  you,  you  refused  to  take 
my  hand,  and  rightly,  because  I  seemed  to 
you  a  weak  man,  untrue  to  his  best  vows 
and  to  his  better  self,  as  well  as  to  the 
woman  who  loved  him  with  all  her  soul. 
Once  more  I  hold  .out  my  hand  to  you : 
will  you  take  it  now?  it  is  as  worthy  of  your 
clasp  as  ever." 

I  had  taken  his  hand  and  stood  with  my 
other  hand  upon  his  shoulder  as  I  looked  into 
his  face  that  was  white  in  the  dusky  light  that 
filled  the  room ;  but  Madge  had  not  moved. 

"Go  to  her,"  I  said;  and  he  went.  He 
kneeled  down  by  her  chair  and  kissed 
the  hand  that  laid  in  her  lap.  She  raised 
her  hand  and  it  rested  upon  his  head  for  an 
instant,  then  she  rose  and  drew  herself  away 
from  him. 

"  You  have  come  back,  my  husband,  after 
all  these  many  months  to  tell  me  that  you  love 
me.  Can  this  telling  kill  the  memory  of  the 
time  when  you  said  that  you  did  not  love 
me?  Can  I  forget  the  agony  of  this  waiting, 
the  murdering  of  my  faith  in  humanity,  of 
the  belief  in  all  that  is  noble  and  true  in 
men?  Have  you  not  drawn  between  your- 
self and  me  an  impassible  line?  Did  you 
not  take  away  from  me  all  that  made  life 
beautiful  and  sweet?  and  have  you  not  turned 
it  for  me  into  a  hard,  stern  routine,  worse — 
yes,  ten  thousand  times  worse — than  the  life 
you  took  me  from  ?  O,  why  did  you  not  let 
me  die  when  my  mother  died,  instead  of 
feeding  me  with  all  the  sweets  of  love  and 
existence,  and  then  stabbing  me  to  the  heart 
when  your  passion  had  cooled?" 

Neil  had  stood  with  his  head  bowed  upon 
his  hands  while  she  was  speaking,  and  when 
she  ceased  he  lifted  it  and  said,  in  a  voice 
husky  with  despair  and  tears:  "You  are 
right,  of  course.  It  was  foolish  to  hope  that 
you  could  forget  all  this,  and  forgive  me  for 
the  wrong  I  have  done  you.  But  I  loved 
you  so  that  I  could  not  stay  away  longer, 
and  I  came  back  to  pray  for  pardon  and  for 
love.  Good  by."  He  started  towards  the 
door.  I  took  his  hand,  and  he  lifted  my 


1883.] 


Gone. 


299 


hand  quickly  and  pressed  it  against  his  cheek 
that  was  wet  with  tears. 

"Stay,  Neil!"  I  said.  "Madge,  you  have 
lived  all  this  time  upon  the  thought  that  Neil 
would  come  back  to  you:  you  told  me  so  a 
little  while  ago.  The  very  books  he  had 
used,  the  clothes  he  had  worn,  the  vase  that 
held  his  cigar  ashes,  were  trifles  that  you 
found  it  hard  to  forsake  when  you  left  his 
house,  and  now  you  are  sending  him  away 
from  you,  and  forever.  Think  of  what  you 
are  doing,  and  then  give  your  husband  your 
final  answer."  And  dropping  Neil's  hand  I 
went  out  of  the  room,  down  over  the  stairs, 
and  into  the  street.  I  walked  about  for  an 
hour,  thinking  of  the  past  and  of  the  true 
heart  that  was  waiting  for  me  in  my  own 
home  in  Boston,  and  I  prayed  that  I  might  be 
worthy  to  have  and  to  hold  the  love  I  had  won. 

I  went  back  to  the  house  where  I  had  left 
my  friends,  and  looked  into  the  room. 
Neil's  head  was  lying  in  his  wife's  lap,  and 
she  was  fondling  his  hair  as  I  had  so  often 
seen  her  do  before.  And  I  heard  her  say, 
"  I  can  forget  now,  dear  heart,  that  there 
ever  was  an  interruption  of  my  happiness, 
and  we  must  be  dearer  to  each  other  here- 
after for  this  separation." 

[THE 


It  was  no  time  for  me  to  break  in  upon 
their  peace,  and  I  came  away. 

My  wife  and  I  sat  in  my  study,  and  the 
bright  fire  in  the  grate  crackled  merrily.  I 
was  alone  no  longer.  Once  more  my  home 
was  made  a  home  to  me  by  loving  compan- 
ionship, and  the  bright,  flower-like  face  of 
her  whom  I  had  first  seen  in  quaint  and 
stately  old  Hamburg.  We  had  been  plan- 
ning many  things  for  the  future,  and  our 
hearts  were  full  of  joy. 

Into  our  quietness  came  Adam  Jaquith, 
and  his  face  was  radiant  as  with  a  fulfilled 
hope. 

"I  have  gained  my  heart's  desire,"  he 
said.  "  Beulah  told  me  that  she  could  not 
be  my  wife  until  Mrs.  Barras  and  her  hus- 
band were  reunited;  and  now  my  full  hap- 
piness has  come  to  me,  and  I  want  your 
good  wishes  and  congratulations  to  be  the 
first  after  my  mother's." 

That  was  three  years  ago,  and  as  I  pen 
the  last  words  of  this  little  story  my  boy  sits 
playing  on  the  floor  beside  my  chair,  and 
I  bend  down  to  kiss  the  rosy  lips  for  the 
sake  of  the  patient,  gifted  artist  whose  name 
he  bears,  my  dear,  dead  friend,  Harry  Ascot. 
James  Berry  Bensel. 

END.] 


GONE. 

THE  light  irradiating  this  worn  face 

Has  fled  the  waxen  brow,  the  peaceful  eyes; 
This  form,  that  with  drawn  lids  deserted  lies, 

But  yesterday  was  his  abiding  place. 

We  had  forgot  he  was  of  alien  race, 

And  dared  to  pause;  in  anguish  and  surprise, 
When  he  prepared,  along  the  ways  that  rise, 

The  well-remembered  journey  to  retrace. 

Bear  it  away,  earth's  crumbling  heritage ! 

Yet  tenderly,  for  where  he  once  made  stay, 
And  told  the  hours  of  time's  disquiet  stage, 

To  our  bereft  hearts  still  is  sacred  clay. 
This  we  have  cherished,  this  could  him  encage; 

Not  earth's  blue  dome  can  shut  him  in  to-day. 

Wilbur  Larremore. 


300 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Sept. 


THE   SWITZERLAND  OF   THE   NORTHWEST.— I.     THE    MOUNTAINS. 


THE  nebula  of  the  Great  West  is  being 
rapidly  resolved.  Railroads  are  the  tele- 
scopes and  spectroscopes  before  which  the 
vague  masses  of  plains  and  mountains  and 
"great  American  deserts"  have  fallen  into 
orderly  systems  of  farms  and  cities.  The 
miracle  of  Pyrrha  and  Deucalion  is  repeated 
in  this  vast  West  beyond  the  West.  The 
iron  and  stone  of  the  railroads  are  thrown 
down  and  nations  rise.  Across  the  great 
plains,  which  the  popular  imagination  of 
fifty  years  ago  filled  with  Indians  and  buffa- 
loes, hundreds  of  people  and  thousands  of 
bushels  of  grain  are  daily  borne  by  steam. 
Down  the  canons  of  the  Rockies,  which 
were  as  mystical  to  our  ancestors  as  the  moun- 
tains of  the  moon,  the  eager  prospectors  are 
chasing  the  veins  of  gold  and  silver,  and  upon 
the  very  backbone  of  the  continent  banks 
and  churches  and  costly  dwellings  rise  like 
apparitions.  The  Oregon  whose  forests  the 
greatest  of  American  poets  coupled  sixty 
years  ago  with  the  Barcan  desert  as  a  sym- 
bol of  solitude  is  now  surpassed  by  one  river 
only  of  the  Union  in  the  extent  of  cultivated 
country  dependent  on  it,  and  its  banks  are 
trodden  by  constantly  increasing  throngs  of 
tourists  from  the  East  and  the  Old  World. 

All  this  vast  Northwest,  hitherto  set  at  the 
end  of  the  earth  by  its  isolation,  is  now 
about  to  be  unlocked  to  the  world.  The 
Northern  Pacific  Railroad  system,  sooner  than 
we  can  realize  it,  is  to  bring  within  a  few 
days'  easy  journey  of  the  great  Eastern  cities 
all  this  vast  domain,  with  its  strange  and 
contradictory  elements,  its  steam-spouting 
canons  and  snowy  wastes,  its  deserts  and 
valleys  of  almost  tropical  fruitfulness,  its 
vast  forests  and  yet  vaster  prairies. 

There  is  a  singular  fascination  about  the 
Pacific  coast.  Ever  since  the  human  family 
set  forth  from  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates 
to  claim  its  heritage,  the  cry  has  been, 
"Westward,  ho!"  But  here  on  the  sunset 
sea  the  East  and  West  have  found  each 


other.  Here  the  East  becomes  West  and  the 
West  becomes  East.  Here  the  world-tide 
stops  and  turns  back  upon  itself. 

The  pioneers  who  have  successively 
drained  the  swamps  of  Germany,  stormed 
the  chalk-cliffs  of  England,  chained  the  At- 
lantic, sown  the  plains  of  the  Mississippi 
with  cities,  and  vaulted  right  over  the  ridge- 
pole of  the  continent,  have  here  at  last 
broken  ranks ;  and  mingled  with  the  ancient 
cry  we  hear  the  shouts  of  Eastward !  North- 
ward !  Southward !  Here  is  the  world's 
West.  Here  will  be  the  cosmopolis. 

As  the  human  tides  are  here  whirled  back- 
ward into  innumerable  eddies,  many  most 
interesting,  odd,  fantastic,  and  often  grand 
elements  of  character  are  brought  to  the 
surface.  The  true  Westerner  is  the  boldest, 
the  most  humorous,  most  extravagant,  and 
least  conventional  of  men.  The  East  seems 
insipid,  timid,  colorless  to  him.  This  is 
largely  due  to  the  extremes  of  natural  scen- 
ery and  production  of  this  region.  To  the 
inhabitant  of  the  Pacific  coast,  any  other 
skies  than  his  own  seem  dull  and  muddy; 
any  other  mountains  half-grown ;  any  other 
trees  dwarfed ;  and  any  other  people  singu- 
larly deficient  in  feeling  and  native  passion. 
This  is  indeed  a  country  of  extremes.  The 
skies  are  brighter  and  the  storm-clouds 
blacker,  the  deserts  more  desolate  and  the 
valleys  more  rich,  the  mountains  more 
abrupt  and  the  plains  more  level,  the  rivers 
both  swifter  and  slower,  clearer  and  more 
turbid,  than  elsewhere  on  the  continent. 
Corresponding  extremes  among  the  people 
make  them  very  interesting. 

Mountains  are  the  skeleton  of  a  country, 
rivers  its  assimilative  system.  Strangers 
look  first  at  its  mountains  to  see  its  struc- 
ture, then  at  its  rivers  to  see  its  laws  of 
growth.  In  this  article  I  invite  you  to  our 
mountains.  In  the  osteology  of  this  great 
Northwest,  the  artist,  the  poet,  and  the 
scientist  alike  can  find  material  for  work. 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


301 


I  hope  at  a  subsequent  time  to  float  with 
you  down  the  Columbia,  which,  as  if  the 
aorta  of  the  country,  throbs  across  it  from 
the  mountains  of  the  Far  North  to  the 
Pacific. 

Though  the  Northern  Pacific  Railroad  is 
not  yet  completed,  we  may  in  anticipation 
cross  the  continent  upon  it.  Let  us  take  a 
recent  map  of  the  region  traversed  by  it,  and 
imagine  ourselves  borne  across  that  rudi- 
mentary empire.  Dakota  with  its  intermi- 
nable prairies,  budding  into  cultivated  fields 
and  busy  towns,  is  succeeded  by  the  wonder- 
land of  the  Yellowstone.  You  are  borne 
across  the  vast  plateaus  of  the  Rockies,  down 
the  Bitter  Root  Mountains,  along  the  tor- 
rents of  Clark's  River,  across  the  wooded 
slopes  lying  between  Ben  D'Oreille  and 
Coeur  D'Alene  Lakes,  and  at  last  emerge 
upon  the  rolling  plains  of  the  Spokane. 
Here  you  are.  This  is  the  great  plain  of 
the  Columbia.  But  it  is  a  long  distance  to 
the  great  peaks  which  you  are  to  visit. 

Suppose  we  go  two  hundred  miles  south 
by  the  O.  R.  &  N.  line,  through  the  most 
highly  cultivated  portion  of  the  great  plain, 
and  climb  one  of  the  beautiful  spurs  of  the 
Blue  Mountains,  twenty  miles  south  of  the 
bustling  town  of  Walla  Walla.  It  is  a  morn- 
ing in  June.  The  last  rains  of  spring  have 
laid  the  dust,  and  given  the  sky  a  dazzling 
clearness  never  seen  east  of  the  Rockies. 
At  our  feet,  and  stretching  northward  until 
earth  and  sky  become  one  dim  blue  land,  is 
the  wheat-field  of  the  Columbia  basin.  The 
.  grain,  just  yellowing  on  the  higher  land  and 
green  as  an  Italian  vineyard  in  the  valleys, 
waves  in  the  wind,  and  scintillates  like 
flames  as  the  blinding  sunlight  pours  upon  it. 
Look  westward.  The  sun  is  in  the  east,  so 
the  western  sky  is  perfectly  undimmed. 
Your  eye  follows  the  maze  of  hill  and  plain 
to  the  horizon.  Singular  clouds  out  there, 
you  think.  Clouds?  You  look  again. 
Their  shape  remains  unchanged.  The  deli- 
cate pinkish  tint  of  the  early  morning  has 
faded  to  a  chalky  hue  which  seems  rather 
than  appears.  When  you  have  counted 
eight  of  those  weird  cloud-masses  fringing 
the  blue  line  of  the  west,  you  begin  to  real- 


ize the  truth.     This  is  your  first  view  of  the 
snowy  cones  of  the  Northwest. 

Nowhere  in  the  United  States,  unless  it 
be  in  the  Sierras  of  Southern  California,  is 
there  a  distant  mountain  view  of  such  satis- 
fying grandeur.  In  crossing  the  continent 
by  the  route  of  the  U.  P.  R.  R.,  our  imagi- 
nary traveler  has  seen  few  great  isolated 
peaks.  It  is  simply  one  vast  ridge.  In 
Colorado,  though  there  are  many  mountains 
of  greater  absolute  height,  there  can  be  seen 
no  such  succession  of  great  peaks  drawn  up 
as  if  in  battle  array,  rising  in  isolated  majesty 
from  the  level  of  the  sea.  Standing  there 
upon  the  Walla  Walla  butte,  you  view  in 
miniature  the  region  which  we  have  ventured 
to  call  the  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 
The  eight  great  peaks  stand  there  like  senti- 
nels, nearly  two  hundred  miles  from  our 
watch-tower. 

At  this  great  distance,  the  individual  pe- 
culiarities of  the  mountains  can  be  as  well 
fixed  in  mind  as  at  any  nearer  point.  That 
rounded  mass  flanked  on  each  side  by  black 
cliffs,  farthest  north  of  all,  but  stupendous 
even  in  the  distance,  is  Tacoma.  Next 
southward  is  St.  Helen,  a  smooth  dome  of 
matchless  symmetry,  almost  hidden  by  the 
shapeless  vastness  of  Adams.  Then,  a  lit- 
tle south  of  west,  and  apparently  nearest 
of  all,  stands  a  bold  and  jagged  peak, 
whose  steepness  exaggerates  its  apparent 
height. 

It  is  Hood,  the  most  be-rhymed  and  be- 
painted  of  all  its  stately  brotherhood.  Jef- 
ferson, next  southward,  is  a  spire-like  crag, 
a  smaller  edition  of  Hood.  Then  comes  a 
beautiful  Alpine  group,  called  the  Three 
Sisters.  If  the  atmosphere  be  exceedingly 
clear,  we  may  see  with  a  good  glass  still  an- 
other white  pile,  named  Diamond  Peak. 

Among  those  snowy  lumps,  so  vague  in 
the  vast  distance,  lakes  are  scattered  thick 
as  stars ;  unnumbered  rivers  pour  from  those 
palaces  of  ice;  waterfalls,  hundreds  of  feet 
in  height,  leap  from  cliffs  compared  with 
which  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson  are  mere 
toy-hills;  there  flows  the  Columbia;  towns 
and  farms  and  saw-mills  and  all  the  appli- 
ances of  growing  civilization  are  beginning 


302 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Sept. 


to  clamber  in  pigmy  effrontery  around  the 
feet  of  those  kings  of  winter. 

While  you  are  thus  taking  these  great 
landmarks  of  our  Pacific  Switzerland,  we 
will  give  its  geographical  outline  and  situa- 
tion. And  first  we  may  notice  that  its  limits 
are  somewhat  arbitrarily  set.  The  regions 
both  north  and  south  possess  essentially  the 
same  features.  It  is  rather  because  of  its 
contiguity  to  the  main  lines  of  travel  that  we 
have  set  this  region  apart,  and  given  it  a  dis- 
tinctive name.  What  we  call  the  Switzer- 
land of  the  Northwest  has  for  its  northern 
limit  Mt.  Tacoma  (pronounced  Tah'coma 
by  the  Indians,  and  usually  called  Ranier 
on  the  maps),  and  for  its  southern,  Diamond 
Peak.  It  extends  two  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  along  the  Cascade  Mountains  from 
north  to  south,  and  fifty  miles  east  and  west 
directly  across  them.  The  Columbia  River 
divides  it  nearly  in  two.  The  narrowness  of 
this  entire  mountain  range,. whose  northern 
division  is  called  the  Cascade  and  whose 
southern  is  called  the  Sierra,  is  very  notice- 
able here.  It  is  scarcely  wider  than  the 
Green  Mountains  of  Vermont.  With  an 
average  height  of  five  thousand  feet,  and 
scores  of  volcanic  crags  of  eight  thousand  feet 
and  upward,  it  is  in  few  places  more  than 
fifty  miles  wide,  and  in  some  places  much 
less.  To  this  excessive  narrowness,  and  con- 
sequent steepness,  is  due  much  of  the  wild 
grandeur,  especially  the  waterfalls,  character- 
istic of  this  enchanted  land. 

We  have  seen  our  great  mountains  framed 
together  in  one  grand  picture  against  the 
western  sky.  It  is  time  to  descend  from  our 
eyrie,  and  venture  on  a  more  intimate  and 
individual  acquaintance. 

From  Walla  Walla,  we  go  by  rail  and  riv- 
er to  Portland.  From  this  place,  the  me- 
tropolis of  the  Northwest,  as  a  starting  point, 
we  radiate  in  any  direction  as  fancy  and  con- 
venience may  dictate.  Since  we  first  named 
the  mountains  from  the  north,  we  will  visit 
them  from  the  north.  Tacoma  is,  therefore, 
the  first. 

After  descending  the  Pisgah,  from  which 
we  first  saw  the  promised  land,  we  get  no 
view  of  Tacoma  until  we  reach  the  mouth 


of  the  Willamet.  There  we  see  it,  the  far- 
thest north  of  the  magnificent  line  of  peaks 
along  the  east,  just  reversing  the  direction  of 
our  first  point  of  observation.  But  it  is  still 
far  away.  We  go  by  steamboat  from  Port- 
land to  Kalama;  thence  by  rail  (N.  P.  R.  R.) 
to  the  town  of  Tacoma,  on  Puget  Sound. 
While  crossing  Yelm  Prairie,  southeast  ot 
Olympia,  we  get  our  first  unobstructed  view 
of  the  great  peak,  hitherto  hidden  from  us 
by  the  dense  forests  extending  from  the  Co- 
lumbia to  Puget  Sound.  It  is  perhaps  fifty 
miles  distant,  but  it  seems  to  cover  all  the  east. 
Before  its  solitary  grandeur  all  the  surround- 
ing objects  dwindle  into  insignificance.  Even 
the  Olympic  range  northwest  of  us,  its  blue 
heights  spotted  with  snow,  seems  to  shrink 
and  crouch. 

Into  the  almost  impenetrable  forests  by 
which  Tacoma  is  surrounded,  a  dozen  gla- 
ciers stretch  their  fingers.  Its  height  is  14,- 
450  feet.  Surpassing  by  three  thousand  feet 
the  next  highest  of  its  brethren,  it  is  yet  more 
remarkable  for  its  enormous  bulk.  Those 
who  have  been  in  positions  to  best  judge 
say  that  it  is  not  less  than  a  hundred  miles 
in  circuit.  With  its  outlying  spurs,  it  would 
occupy  so  much  of  an  average  New  England 
State  as  to  leave  little  space  for  anything  else. 
Five  large  streams,  one  of  them  the  Yakima, 
which  is  nearly  equal  in  volume  to  the  Con- 
necticut, derive  their  main  support  from  its 
melting  snows.  The  summit  is  a .  smooth 
dome,  whose  snowy  purity  is  never  soiled. 
On  each  side  of  this,  and  nearly  equal  in 
height,  is  a  splintered  basaltic  crag.  Below 
these  three  summits  are  frightful  canons, 
into  which  a  few  such  hills  as  Mt.  Washing- 
ton or  Monadnock  might  be  dropped  with- 
out materially  altering  the  appearance  of 
things.  In  these  canons  the  glaciers  lie. 

Some  noted  Eastern  visitor,  seeing  this 
mountain  for  the  first  time,  and  having  a 
sunset  view  at  that,  looked  long  and  silently, 
then  turning  to  his  expectant  friends,  he 
begged  them  to  prepare  his  coffin  at  once. 
He  had  no  wish  to  return  to  the  earth 
again.  To  us  who  were  born  on  this  coast, 
and  whose  earliest  recollection  is  of  snowy 
summits,  the  only  regret  is  that  we  can  never 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


303 


feel  the  sensation  of  seeing  them   for  the 
first  time. 

So  far  as  we  know,  but  two  ascents  have 
ever  been  made  to  the  summit  of  Tacoma. 
The  first  to  achieve  this  triumph  was 
General  Kautz,  U.  S.  A.,  now  stationed  at 
Angel  Island,  who  made  the  ascent  of  Mt. 
Tacoma  away  back  in  the  "fifties."  He 
has  written  a  very  graphic  sketch  of  it, 
which  appeared  in  the  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 
for  May,  1875,  but  does  not  latterly  seem 
to  have  claimed  the  honors  that  are  his  due, 
since  very  few  persons  know  anything  of  his 
bold  and  hazardous  and  successful  ascent. 
The  sketch  published  in  the  OVERLAND  has 
since  been  placed  among  the  records  of  the 
San  Francisco  Geographical  Society,  and 
its  final  publication  among  these  will  put 
General  Kautz  on  record  as  the  first  to  per- 
form this  mountaineering  feat. 

One  of  the  two  who  performed  the  second, 
and  so  far  as  I  know  the  only  repetition  of 
General  Kautz's  exploit,  gave  an  account 
of  it  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  some  years 
since.  And  a  great  exploit  it  was,  too. 
The  remoteness  of  the  mountain  from  any 
roads,  its  encircling  wilderness  of  woods 
and  swamps,  the  difficulty  in  getting  Indian 
guides  on  account  of  their  superstitious 
awe,  render  even  the  approach  more  difficult 
than  the  ascent  of  most  of  the  other  great 
peaks.  When  the  snow-line  is  at  last  reach- 
ed, the  fearful  crags  and  canons,  the  well 
nigh  endless  snow-fields  swept  by  fierce 
winds,  and  the  rarified  air  of  the  summit, 
combine  to  make  the  ascent  the  most  peril- 
ous enterprise  in  the  mountain  climbing  of 
the  Northwest.  When  these  two  men 
reached  the  top,  the  gathering  darkness  and 
the  increasing  cold  indicated  that  their 
chances  of  remaining  alive  through  the 
night  were  very  poor.  They  dared  not  de- 
scend in  the  dark.  From  this  situation 
they  were  suddenly  relieved  by  discovering 
a  volanic  breathing-hole  under  an  overhang- 
ing cliff.  Crawling  in,  they  remained  in 
safety  during  the  night,  and  in  the  morning 
returned,  more  dead  than  alive  from  the 
severity  of  their  labor  and  the  alternate  freez- 
ing and  roasting  and  suffocation  experienced 


in  their  sulphurous  chamber.  Since  then 
Tacoma  has  remained  the  despair  and  ambi- 
tion of  mountaineers. 

Tacoma  is  peculiarly  the  mountain  of 
Puget  Sound,  as  is  Hood  of  the  Columbia 
River.  Of  almost  every  picture  on  that 
wonderful  inland  sea,  Tacoma  forms  the 
background.  The  most  noted  view  of  the 
mountain  is  at  the  town  of  Tacoma.  The 
most  remarkable  ever  seen  by  the  writer, 
however,  was  from  a  "deadening"  on  Tenal- 
cut  Prairie,  twenty  miles  southeast  of  Olym- 
pia.  The  mountain  lay  under  the  light  of 
an  April  moon,  while  the  charred  and  limb- 
less trees,  creaking  in  a  heavy  wind,  lent  an 
indescribable  loneliness  to  the  weird  gran- 
deur of  the  scene.  The  mountain,  over  fifty 
miles  distant,  sparkled  under  the  frosty 
touch  of  the  moon,  till  it  seemed  rising  and 
falling  in  regular  pulsations.  The  illusion 
that  it  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  about 
to  fall  upon  us  in  an  avalanche  of  frozen 
moonbeams,  became  almost  irresistible. 

I  have  alluded  to  the  superstitious  feeling 
among  the  Indians  for  Mt.  Tacoma.  The 
cause  of  this  they  give  in  a  legend  too  in- 
teresting to  omit.  Ages  ago,  they  say,  all 
the  Indians  around  Tacoma  became  very 
bad.  The  Sochlah  Tyee  (their  name  for 
God)  concluded  to  dispose  of  them.  Wish- 
ing, however,  to  save  some  few  good  In- 
dians, together  with  representatives  of  the 
animal  creation,  he  directed  a  noted  tema- 
riimus  (medicine)  man  to  undertake  their 
deliverance.  This  the  temanimus  man  ac- 
complished by  shooting  an  arrow  up  into  a 
cloud.  It  stuck  in  the  cloud.  Then  he 
shot  another  arrow,  which  stuck  into  the  first. 
In  this  way  he  fastened  together  a  long  line 
of  arrows,  extending  from  the  cloud  to  the 
earth.  The  good  Indians  and  the  animals 
climbed  this  rod,  and  so  were  safely  lodged 
in  the  cloud.  Then  the  floods  came,  and 
fire  spouted  from  the  mountain,  and  all  those 
bad  Indians  were  swept  from  the  face  of  the 
earth.  After  many  days,  the  temanitnus  man, 
thinking  that  the  volcanic  fury  might  have 
abated  enough  to  make  it  safe  for  them  to 
come  down,  sent  several  animals  out  to  ex- 
plore. The  fish,  finding  a  nice  brook,  con- 


304 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Sept. 


eluded  not  to  go  back  at  all.  The  duck 
also  deserted,  but  the  beaver  came  back 
with  a  lump  of  mud  on  his  tail,  assuring 
them  that  the  volcano  had  ceased  to  spout, 
and  that  they  might  safely  venture  out. 
For  this  reason,  the  beaver  has  ever  since 
been  held  in  high  esteem ;  while  the  fish  was 
then  and  there  sentenced  to  remain  all  his 
life  in  the  water,  and  the  duck  was  con- 
demned to  a  wabbling  gait  henceforth  for- 
ever. The  good  Indians  and  the  animals 
accordingly  descended,  the  snake  coming 
last.  When  the  temanimus  man  saw  him 
crawling  out  to  the  rod,  he  broke  it  off. 
Hence  the  snake  did  not  come  down  at  all, 
and  to  that  is  due  the  fact  that  there  are  no 
snakes  at  present  around  Mt.  Tacoma. 

Some  cynical  persons  suggest  that  the  In- 
dians destroyed  by  the  volcanic  visitation  are 
much  better  now  than  the  present  race.  I 
have  also  heard  it  suggested  that  the  super- 
stition felt  by  the  noble  red  man  as  to  as- 
cending Mt.  Tacoma  is  part  of  his  general 
superstition  in  regard  to  any  form  of  labor. 
However  that  may  be,  it  is  sure  that  the  In- 
dians are  much  opposed  to  going  anywhere 
near  the  mountain. 

The  Cascade  branch  of  the  U.  P.  R.  R. 
will  doubtless  pass  not  very  far  from  Taco- 
ma. It  will  then  be  more  easy  of  access, 
though  it  will  probably  never  be  a  common 
subject  for  mountain-climbers.  A  road  has 
been  cut  this  spring  (1883)  from  Wilkeson 
to  the  glaciers  on  Mt.  Tacoma. 

Mt.  St.  Helen,  the  queen  of  the  moun- 
tains, as  Tacoma  is  their  king,  is  fifty  miles 
southwest  of  the  latter.  A  greater  contrast 
can  hardly  be  imagined.  Tacoma  is  all 
grandeur,  loneliness,  mystery.  St.  Helen  is 
all  beauty,  symmetry,  warmth.  Even  its 
glaciers  look  warm.  Aside  from  the  central 
dome,  Tacoma  is  a  monstrous  mass  of  vol- 
canic crags.  St.  Helen  is  wrapped  as  smooth- 
ly in  her  mantle  of  snow  as  a  garden  lawn. 
Her  flowing  curves  gently  broaden  outward 
from  the  dome,  and  the  vast  surface  of  un- 
broken snow  gives  her  a  steel-blue  glitter 
which  we  observe  on  no  other  of  the  great 
peaks.  Though  five  thousand  feet  less  in 
height  than  Tacoma,  Mt.  Sfe.  Helen  is  hardly 


less  remarkable  as  a  landmark.  It  must 
have  early  attracted  the  attention  of  the  old 
French  voyageurs,  to  whom  we  owe  the  pretty 
and  appropriate  name.  Though  it  has  been 
climbed  but  seldom,  it  is  said  to  be  easy  of 
access  and  ascent.  The  route  to  it  from 
Portland  is  via  Vancouver  and  Lewis  River 
for  thirty  miles,  thence  by  an  Indian  trail  for 
forty  miles  farther.  This  trail  follows  an 
ancient  river  of  lava,  in  whose  stiffened  ed- 
dies the  half-consumed  roots  of  trees  are 
still  found. 

In  our  southward  progress  we  are  now  ap- 
proaching the  Columbia  River,  the  great 
artery  of  travel  on  the  northwest  coast.  The 
next  two  great  peaks,  Adams  and  Hood,  are 
therefore  more  within  the  reach  of  tourists, 
and  more  often  visited  and  described  than 
any  others.  Mt.  Adams  is  forty  miles  north 
of  the  Columbia,  and  Hood  thirty  miles 
south.  Both  are  in  view  from  all  the  prin- 
cipal towns  of  northern  Oregon.  They  may 
be  taken  as  typical  mountains. 

If  you  who  are  daily  stifled  with  the  heat- 
ed air  of  some  great  city,  or  you  from  whose 
prairie  home  the  greatest  elevation  visible  is 
the  grain-elevator  or  new  court-house,  could 
only  stand  for  an  hour  on  one  of  these  gla- 
cial summits,  and  quaff  this  air  which  comes, 
like  froth  from  the  goblets  of  the  gods, 
straight  from  the  Pacific,  you  could  appreci- 
ate at  once  the  extravagant  love  felt  by 
mountain-dwellers  for  their  mountains.  But 
you  must  content  yourselves  with  what  di- 
luted breaths  we  can  thrust  between  the 
leaves  of  a  magazine.  If  they  give  you 
the  true  mountain  thirst,  you  can  satisfy 
it  only  from  the  mountain  springs  them- 
selves. 

Mt.  Adams  is  the  most  easily  accessible, 
the  most  easily  climbed,  has  the  pleasantest 
surroundings — and  in  short,  in  itself  and  all 
its  accessories,  is  the  most  satisfactory  of  all 
the  great  peaks.  Its  height  is  about  9,500 
feet,  nearly  the  same  as  that  of  St.  Helen. 
It  is  triple-peaked,  and  vast  in  extent.  It 
forms,  in  fact,  an  immense  mountain-gan- 
glion of  itself,  standing  considerably  east  of 
the  main  range.  On  all  sides  but  the  north 
it  slopes  gently  down  upon  a  park-like  re- 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


305 


gion,  dotted  with  scattered  pines,  and  car- 
peted with  grass  and  flowers. 

In  July,  dry,  bracing,  and  dazzlingly  bright, 
the  pleasantest  of  Oregon  months,  we  leave 
Portland  for  the  summit  of  Adams.  Ninety 
miles  by  steamer  up  the  grandest  section  of 
the  Columbia  brings  us  to  White  Salmon. 
Here  we  linger  a  few  days,  laying  in  our 
stock  of  eatables.  We  take  no  tent.  He 
who  does  not  go  to  sleep  with  his  eyes  clos- 
ing on  the  stars  tangled  in  the  giant  pine 
tops  is  no  true  child  of  nature.  We  are  not 
annoyed  in  this  blessed  place  with  hotels  or 
guides  or  curiosity-mongers,  or  any  other  of 
those  pestiferous  agencies  which  blight  al- 
most all  the  mountain  retreats  of  the  older 
States.  We  camp  under  a  giant  oak  close  at 
the  edge  of  the  river.  It  is  a  place  of  mar- 
velous beauty.  Towering  hills  overlook  the 
narrow  strip  of  farming  land,  while  right  in 
front  flows  the  mighty  river,  a  mile  wide  and 
a  hundred  feet  deep. 

There  is  a  wagon  road  from  White  Salmon 
to  Camas  Prairie,  which  lies  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain.  We,  however,  went  horse- 
back the  entire  distance,  securing  several 
skittish  Cayuse  ponies  of  an  intelligent  and 
clever  Indian  named  Johnson,  who  has  a 
little  farm  near  here.  We  took  up  our  line 
of  march  on  one  of  those  days  seen  only  on 
the  Pacific  coast.  There  was  not  a  breath 
of  wind.  The  sun,  just  peeping  over  the 
shoulder  of  a  huge  butte,  turned  every  spic- 
ule  of  the  motionless  pines  into  a  thread  of 
the  purest  gold.  Mt.  Hood,  thirty  miles 
south,  glittered  as  though  its  internal  fires 
had  broken  forth  anew.  Not  content  with 
setting  the  snow-banks  on  fire,  the  sun- 
beams darted  into  the  canons,  and  touched 
the  streams  with  flame.  We  had  to  almost 
shut  our  eyes  from  the  brightness.  This 
blaze  of  light,  unaccompanied  with  great 
heat,  is  peculiar  to  the  Pacific  coast. 

We  leave  the  valley  of  the  White  Salmon 
and  enter  that  of  the  Klikitat.  We  cross 
Camas  Prairie  (so  named  from  an  onion-like 
plant  used  as  food  by  the  Indians),  with  its 
cattle-ranches  and  dairy  farms,  and  mount  a 
high  ridge  in  order  to  enter  again  the  valley 
of  the  White  Salmon.  Descending  this 
VOL.  II. — 20. 


ridge,  we  seem  to  be  entering  an  immense 
park.  Trees  are  scattered  over  the  rankest 
of  grass  and  the  brightest  of  flowers.  We 
are  in  some  ancient  Eden  set  here  when  the 
world  was  new. 

We  ford  the  icy  torrent  of  the  White 
Salmon,  and  journey  for  six  or  seven  miles 
through  this  paradise,  passing  a  romantic 
little  lake  filled  with  trout  and  wild  fowl,' 
cross  the  White  Salmon  again,  and  find  our- 
selves at  the  foot  of  Mt.  Adams.  One  un- 
accustomed to  these  great  peaks  will  gain 
some  idea  of  their  magnitude  when  told 
that  the  distance  from  the  foot  to  the  sum- 
mit of  Mt.  Adams  is  not  less  than  thirteen 
miles.  In  some  places  it  is  very  steep, 
though  the  average  grade  is  not  more  than 
eleven  or  twelve  degrees,  and  one  can  easily 
go  horseback  to  the  snow-line.  We  need 
no  trail.  The  white  pile  ahead  of  us,  seen 
through  the  open  woods,  is  a  sufficient 
guide,  and  there  is  no  undergrowth  to  impede 
our  steps.  We  seem  to  make  no  progress. 
Glade  follows  glade,  and  one  grassy  lawn 
succeeds  another.  We  begin  to  see,  how- 
ever, that  the  spring  flowers  take  the  place 
of  those  of  summer.  The  pine  spicules  have 
a  freshness  as  if  just  opened.  The  flutter- 
ing aspen-leaves  and  the  lonesome-looking 
rose-buds  have  the  newness  of  a  colder 
zone.  The  trees  look  twisted  and  contorted, 
as  if  they  had  had  many  a  struggle  with  the 
wind.  The  sun  has  dropped  half  down  the 
west,  when  we  begin  to  hear  a  distant  tumult, 
as  if  a  tempest  were  coming  to  give  the  trees 
another  shake.  But  we  soon  discover  that 
it  is  a  little  creek — the  first  water  we  have 
found  in  the  long  day's  sunny  climb.  Ice- 
cold  and  clear  as  crystal,  it  comes  tumbling 
over  the  volcanic  debris.  The  trees  grow 
smaller  and  more  gnarled.  We  sink  to  the 
ankles  in  the  ashy  soil.  A  huge  mule-deer 
springs  up  from  a  couch  on  a  grass  plat  just 
ahead.  Before  our  Nimrod  recovers  from 
his  excitement  the  deer  recovers  from  his  and 
vanishes  among  the  trees.  A  slim,  silvery 
animal  slinks  out  of  sight  as  we  again  mount 
upward.  It  is  probably  a  wolf.  The. creek 
grows  more  tumultuous.  Pretty  soon  a 
smutty  snow-bank  appears  among  the  trees. 


306 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Sept. 


It  looks  as  though  it  had  lain  there  forever. 
The  snow-banks  thicken.  We  look  for  a 
camping  place,  and  find  it  in  a  little  valley, 
a  half-acre  in  extent,  fringed  by  dwarfed 
hemlocks,  carpeted  with  new-grown  grass, 
and  fortified  by  a  huge  snow-bank  above. 
The  creek  tumbles  over  a  precipice  fifty  feet 
high,  and  then  ripples  gently  through  the 
valley  as  if  to  atone  for  the  unseemly  haste 
of  its  entrance. 

Here  we  rest  for  the  night.  Rest  is  sweet 
away  up  here.  Not  all  the  pleasant  sounds 
of  the  night  nor  the  moonlight  on  the  snows 
above  can  keep  us  awake.  Up  in  the  morn- 
ing before  daylight,  and  we  are  fairly  out 
on  the  snow  in  time  to  see  the  morning 
sun  turn  all  the  eastern  flank  of  the  moun- 
tain into  a  mass  of  molten  silver  too  bright 
to  look  at.  We  must  blacken  our  faces 
and  put  on  goggles  to  avoid  snow-blind- 
ness. The  mountain  air  exhilarates  like 
wine.  We  hurry  on,  and  congratulate  our- 
selves on  the  ease  of  climbing  a  great 
mountain.  It  is  no  job  at  all,  we  think. 
As  soon  as  we  reach  that  cliff  projecting 
like  a  porch  just  a  little  above  us  we  shall 
be  half-way  up.  But  somehow  it  takes  a 
singularly  long  time  to  reach  that  cliff.  We 
have  to  climb  several  others  which  come  in 
the  way.  Then  we  find  a  vast  snow-field. 
The  snow  looks  so  old  that  we  can  imagine 
it  has  lain  there  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world.  It  lies  wedged  in  among  the  rocks 
in  drifts  and  counter-drifts,  like  sand  on  the 
seashore.  In  places  it  is  as  pure  as  if  it 
had  fallen  yesterday;  in  others  it  is  smutted 
with  the  sand  blown  from  the  overhanging 
cliffs.  Down  there  are  deep  green  cre- 
vasses :  it  is  a  glacial  formation.  We  avoid 
crossing  the  glaciers,  since  the  slightest  slip 
among  those  green  cracks  might  be  fatal. 
Now  we  leave  the  snow-field  for  a  long  ridge 
of  rock  from  which  the  snow  has  been 
melted.  These  rocks,  varying  in  size  from 
a  man's  fist  to  a  piano,  form  a  gigantic  flight 
of  stairs. 

At  the  end  of  four  hours  we  stand  upon 
the  cliff  which  we  had  thought  so  near  us. 
We  are  half-way  up.  Now  we  cross  another 
enormous  snow-field,  nearly  level,  and  so  ex- 


posed  to  the  sun  that  it  is  becoming  soft/ 
We  toil  across  it,  frequently  sinking  knee- 
deep.     At   last  we  see   before  us  the  final 
steep  climb  of  a  thousand  feet.     Its  average 
grade   is    forty    degrees.      The    projecting 
rocks,  though  in  some  cases  sheathed  with 
ice,  give  tolerably   secure   footing.      Great 
care  is  needed,  however,  as  a  misstep  at  this 
point  might  involve  a  slide  half-way  down 
the  mountain — provided  one  were  not  inter- 
rupted  by  a    crevasse,    in   which   case   he 
would   slide   into  the  mountain  instead  of 
down  it.     The  rock  stairway  terminates   in 
the   southeastern     peak   of    the  mountain. 
The   central    dome   is   four    hundred   feet 
higher   and  half  a  mile   farther.     Between 
the  two  is  a  snow-field,  terminating  on  the 
northeastern  side  in  a  tremendous  precipice, 
over  which  hangs  a  frozen  Niagara.     That 
greatest  of  cataracts,  with  its  green  waters 
above,  its  black  depths  below,  and  the  rain- 
bow-girdled flood  between,  with  its  perpet- 
ual mist,  and  its  roar  and  rumble  from  the 
under  world,  is  a  revelation  of  the  sublime 
in  motion.     Here  at  the  other  end  of  the 
continent  is  the  ghost  of  the  great  waterfall, 
the  sublime  at  rest.     With  a  movement  ap- 
parent only  to  the  eye  that  sees  it  always, 
with  a  silence  more  awful  than  the  loudest 
noise,    the   great   ice-fall    creeps    over   the 
black   cliffs.       An   island   of  basalt   stands 
midway  and  presents  the  only  barrier  to  the 
general  congelation.      A  pyramid  of  ice  a 
hundred  feet  high   stands  on  the  verge  of 
the  glacier.     In  form  it  is  perfect.     As  to 
color — one  would  think  that  all  the  tints  of 
heaven  and  earth  had  been  scattered  broad- 
cast on  its  slippery  sides.     In  this  tremulous 
atmosphere  it  seems  on  the  point  of  tum- 
bling headlong. 

From  the  foot  of  the  glacier  two  thousand 
feet  below  us  a  white  thread  issues,  and 
crawls  away  amid  the  rocky  desolation. 
This  is  the  Klikitat  River.  From  it  floats  a 
faint  murmur,  almost  lost  in  the  calmness 
of  the  upper  atmosphere. 

We  toil  on  to  the  summit,  and  reach  it  at 
three  o'clock.  A  few  moments  of  rest  from 
utter  exhaustion — then  what  a  panorama ! 
We  see  two-thirds  of  Washington  and  half 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


307 


of  Oregon,  a  territory  equal  to  all  New  Eng- 
and  and  the  greater  part  of  New  York.  St. 
Helen  to  the  west,  Hood  to  the  south,  and 
to  the  north  Tacoma,  the  mightiest,  lie  glow- 
ing in  the  sunbeams.  Far  away  eastward 
we  see  the  Blue  Mountains.  Amid  them, 
smoky  patches  indicate  the  rolling  plains  of 
the  Great  Basin.  A  dim  blue  line  westward 
shows  the  position  of  the  Coast  Mountains. 
A  yellowish  patch  to  the  southwest  stands 
for  the  Willamet  Valley.  We  can  distinguish 
no  towns.  One  thing,  indeed,  that  chiefly 
surprises  us  is  the  smallness  of  all  objects. 
Extensive  plains  are  the  merest  spots. 
Mountains  that  we  thought  very  lofty  are  re- 
duced to  inconspicuous  knolls.  The  park 
through  which  we  came  seems  to  extend 
clear  to  the  foot  of  Mt.  St.  Helen.  We  see 
many  lakes  shining  amid  woody  solitudes. 

As  the  sun  drops  down,  a  serenity,  a  sub- 
lime calmness,  descends  upon  the  world. 
We  can  no  longer  think  of  these  rocks  as 
having  been  thrown  up  bubbling  from  the 
caverns  of  the  earth.  We  no  longer  think 
of  the  pitiless  cold  that  whitened  these  once 
seething  rocks.  We  no  longer  think  of  the 
winds  that  swept  those  snows.  The  volcano, 
the  cloud,  the  tempest — all  are  sleeping. 
The  long  day  hastens  to  its  close,  and  we 
must  hasten  with  it.  But  the  strange  fascina- 
tion of  our  surroundings  holds  us  still  there. 
Here,  we  think,  the  Past  and  Present  lock 
hands.  The  Past,  with  its  earthquakes  and 
volcanoes  and  glacial  plowshares,  grinding 
the  rocks  and  establishing  the  water-courses, 
still  reigns  here  among  these  crags.  The 
Present  reigns  in  those  far-away  wheat-fields, 
whose  fertile  soil  was  spread  and  sowed  with 
grass  and  trees  and  flowers  by  the  hands  of 
glaciers. 

Partly  running,  partly  sliding,  we  hurry 
down.  It  is  dusk  when  we  reach  our  camp. 
A  chilly  wind  descends  as  night  falls,  and 
the  solemn  snow-fields  above  have  a  strange 
look  of  unreality.  Another  night  of  sleep, 
such  as  only  a  canopy  of  stars,  a  bed  of  moss, 
and  the  music  of  the  stream  can  give,  and 
we  descend  through  the  park  to  the  White 
Salmon,  and  stand  once  more  upon  the  com- 
mon level  of  the  earth. 


Before  returning  to  civilization  we  must 
visit  the  ice-cave.  It  is  in  the  park,  between 
Adams  and  St.  Helen,  about  twelve  miles 
from  the  former,  and  is  about  2,700  feet 
above  sea-level.  Its  exterior  appearance  is 
that  of  a  huge  well  fifteen  feet  in  diameter. 

Entering  this,  we  find  at  a  depth  of  fifteen 
feet  a  floor  of  ice.  Two  chambers  branch  off 
from  this  central  opening.  We  are  drawn  to 
one  of  them  by  a  cathedral  of  ice,  standing 
just  under  the  eaves  of  the  cave.  We  light 
our  pine-torches  and  step  cautiously  across 
the  slippery  floor.  The  cave  we  find  full  of 
icicles,  some  as  large  as  a  tree,  others  slen- 
der and  having  knife-like  edges.  The  ceil- 
ing, with  its  fretwork  of  ice,  and  the  clusters 
of  icicles  like  the  pipes  of  an  organ,  give  an 
indescribably  beautiful  effect  under  the  light 
of  the  torches.  This  chamber,  two  hundred 
feet  long,  terminates  in  a  narrow  crack  too 
small  for  a  man  to  enter,  beyond  which  it  is 
evident  from  the  sound  of  rocks  thrown  in 
that  there  is  a  long  cavity.  The  other  cham- 
ber is  larger,  but  contains  no  ice.  It  is,  how- 
ever, adorned  with  beautiful  specimens  of 
lava,  some  hanging  from  the  roof  in  clusters, 
like  grapes. 

With  its  surroundings  of  mountains  and 
open  woods,  in  which  is  an  abundance  of 
game,  this  is  a  most  delightful  place  to  spend 
a  week.  As  yet  it  is  unspoiled  by  any  mod- 
ern improvements.  There  is  no  hotel  with- 
in forty  miles.  But  too  long  already  have  we 
lingered  amid  the  charming  woods  and  lakes 
and  caves  of  Adams.  We  leave  it,  assuring 
the  Eastern  visitor  that,  if  weary  of  the  White 
Mountains  with  their  numberless  hotels  and 
little  railroads  up  nearly  every  little  hill,  he 
would  seek  a  solitude  where  nature  dwells 
alone,  he  can  find  it  here. 

Hood  comes  next  upon  the  list  of  moun- 
tains. Its  name  is  at  once  suggested  by  the 
very  name  of  Oregon.  It  is  the  only  one  of 
the  great  peaks  of  which  the  average  East- 
erner has  any  distinct  idea.  Seen  from  all 
the  principal  towns  of  Oregon,  welcoming 
the  dusty  emigrant  from  across  the  plains 
and  waving  its  white  banners  to  the  white- 
sailed  ships,  made  familiar  to  the  world  by 
the  brushes  of  Bierstadt,  Gifford,  Keith,  and 


308 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Sept. 


many  other  painters  of  lesser  note,  Mt. 
Hood  is  altogether  the  most  famous  of  all 
our  mountains,  though  surpassed  in  grandeur 
by  Tacoma,  in  beauty  by  St.  Helen  and  the 
Three  Sisters,  and  in  pleasantness  of  sur- 
roundings by  Adams.  Nevertheless,  its  bold 
and  jagged  outline,  its  delicate  coloring, 
and  its  conspicuous  position  will  doubtless 
always  make  it  the  mountain  of  Oregon.  It 
is  11,225  feet  high,  and  is  situated  sixty 
miles  east  of  Portland.  It  is  rendered  com- 
paratively easy  of  access  by  the  Barlow  road, 
a  road  by  which  the  early  immigration  en- 
tered the  State. 

The  space  lying  between  Portland  and  the 
mountain  need  not  detain  us,  though  the 
slender  firs  swaying  with  every  breath  of 
wind,  the  vine-maples,  moss-draped  almost 
to  the  tips,  the  ferns  that  nod  over  the  banks 
of  the  milk-white  Sandy,  and  the  gigantic 
cliffs  that  guard  its  narrow  valley,  are  very 
beautiful.  The  valley  of  the  Sandy  is  ab- 
ruptly terminated  by  Laurel  Hill,  having 
climbed  which  we  find  ourselves  on  the  main 
ridge  of  the  Cascade  Mountains,  and  at  the 
foot  of  Mt.  Hood.  As  we  look  back  we 
can  see  the  zigzag  road  down  which  the 
emigrants  of  thirty  years  ago  used  to  let  their 
wagons  with  ropes — when  San  Francisco 
was  a  range  of  dismal  sand  hills,  Portland  a 
tangled  forest,  Walla  Walla  an  Indian  camp- 
ground. 

We  camp  on  the  southern  side  of  the 
mountain,  preparatory  to  making  the  ascent 
the  next  day.  The  ascent  of  nearly  all  these 
great  peaks  is  made  on  the  south  side. 
There  is  a  general  tilt  northward  of  the 
strata  of  this  part  of  the  range.  This  makes 
the  north  sides  very  abrupt. 

Mt.  Hood  seems  in  all  respects  wilder  and 
more  rugged  than  Adams.  The  stunted 
hemlocks  among  which  we  camp  writhe  and 
groan  in  the  chilly  wind,  and  the  Alpine 
blossoms  cringe.  For  years  and  years  these 
withered  little  evergreens  have  been  strug- 
gling here  upon  the  edge  of  winter,  and 
though  so  little  they  look  very  old.  The 
glaciers  in  their  turn  have  been  crawling 
down  toward  the  summer,  and  on  the  border 
land  they  trickle  away  drop  by  drop,  and 


lose  themselves  in  the  thickening  vegetation. 
The  eternal  interplay  of  life  and  death ! 
The  flowers  climb  upward,  and  the  snow- 
flakes  fall. 

A  night  of  brilliant  moonlight,  a  roaring 
wind  right  from  the  lips  of  the  ice  above  us, 
a  bed  of  grass  and  a  chunk  of  bark  for  a 
pillow,  no  roof  but  the  sky — what  could  be 
more  magnificent?  After  so  many  centu- 
ries of  house-life,  the  nomadic  instinct  still 
is  strong.  The  typical  man  needs  to  be  an 
Arab  at  least  one  month  in  the  year.  We 
seemed  that  night  to  hang  in  the  air  above 
a  sea  of  ink  relieved  only  by  the  glimmer 
of  lakes,  through  which  we  could  fancy 
ourselves  looking  into  luminous  depths  be- 
low. 

A  morning  of  dazzling  brightness  and 
freezing  coldness  follows.  Vast  masses  of 
fog  rest  on  the  seaward  side  of  the  moun- 
tain. The  east  side  is  perfectly  clear,  and 
the  vast  plains  of  central  Oregon  seem  to 
be  already  palpitating  in  the  heat,  while  we 
in  our  breezy  eyrie  six  thousand  feet  above 
can  slake  our  thirst  with  ice;  for  all  the 
running  streams  have  run  entirely  out  of  our 
reach  during  the  night.  And  so  we  start, 
armed  with  ropes  and  hatchets,  with  faces 
blacked  and  veiled  or  goggled.  The  air  is 
astonishingly  clear.  We  amuse  ourselves  by 
guessing  at  the  distance  of  a  huge  drift  rock 
in  the  center  of  the  snow-field  on  which  we 
first  enter.  It  appears  to  be  about  five  hun- 
dred yards.  The  guess  of  a  mile  is  received 
with  jeers.  But  for  three  hours  that  imper- 
turbable mass  of  matter  looked  down  upon 
our  stragglings  and  groanings  and  frequent 
prostrations  full-length  in  the  snow.  It  was 
over  two  miles  from  our  starting  point. 
This  two  miles  is  all  a  field  of  snow.  It 
ends  in  the  Sulphur  Rocks,  so  called  from 
their  brimstone  smell  and  frequent  sulphur- 
ous spoutings.  They  are  the  remains  of  the 
southern  rim  of  the  crater.  On  all  sides 
but  the  north  the  crater-walls  have  crum- 
bled, and  been  borne  away  on  the  backs  of 
glaciers,  like  the  gates  of  Gaza  on  the  back 
of  Samson.  When  the  crater-walls  were  en- 
tire, the  mountain  was  doubtless  far  higher 
than  now.  Only  a  few  shattered  columns 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


309 


now  remain  to  attest  the  colossal  majesty  of 
the  ancient  structure. 

Having  mastered  the  Sulphur  Rocks,  we 
slowly  make  our  way  across  a  long  ridge  of 
snow,  nearly  level,  and  evidently  gradually 
making  its  way  into  the  crater.  From  this 
Tartarean  pit  the  smoke  puffs  at  intervals,  as 
if  from  a  steamboat.  The  sulphurous  smell, 
together  with  eating  snow,  makes  us  all  sick. 
However,  we  struggle  across  and  find  our- 
selves at  the  foot  of  the  northern  rim  of  the 
crater.  This  is  about  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  crater,  has  an  average  steepness  of  sixty 
degrees  (which  by  making  the  ascent  diag- 
onally we  decrease  to  fifty),  is  sheathed  with 
ice,  and  marked  at  the  foot  by  a  crevasse  of 
unknown  depth.  This  crevasse  we  can  cross 
in  one  place  only.  This  is  by  a  bridge  of 
ice  not  more  than  six  feet  wide.  As  we 
cautiously  pick  our  way  across  this  bridge, 
we  pause  long  enough  to  see  the  wondrous 
play  of  color  as  the  sunbeams  light  upon  the 
lips  of  the  chasm.  Green  and  gold  and  saf- 
fron and  purple  chase  each  other  across  the 
icicles,  and  flit  like  birds  from  one  icy  ledge 
to  another.  That  must  be  where  the  rain- 
bows hide  when  the  storm  is  past. 

As  we  enter  upon  that  last  steep  climb  we 
find  it  necessary  to  chop  steps  in  the  ice. 
It  is  safer  to  take  a  long  rope  and  tie  the 
different  members  of  a  party  together.  A 
slip  at  this  point  would  very  likely  be  fatal. 
An  hour  of  the  most  exhausting  toil  brings 
us  to  the  top.  The  volcano  is  beneath  our 
feet.  A  fierce  north  wind  flings  the  dry 
snow  in  eddies  around  our  heads.  The 
sunlight  is  blinding,  but  seems  to  have  lost 
all  its  heat.  It  is,  in  fact,  freezing  hard. 
For  a  few  minutes  we  stand  utterly  be- 
wildered at  the  dim  immensity  below  us. 
The  hills  and  valleys  over  which  we  came 
are  flattened  as  with  an  enormous  roller. 
Over  -the  lower  part  of  the  Willamet  Val- 
ley vast  masses  of  clouds  pulsate  like  a  sea. 
Fifty  miles  southward,  seeming  within  rifle- 
shot, stands  Mt.  Jefferson.  Just  beyond  are 
the  Three  Sisters,  their  bold  outline  softened 
by  the  blue  haze.  Still  farther  is  the  vast 
flat  pile  of  Diamond  Peak.  And  vague  in 
the  two  hundred  miles  of  distance  a  cluster 


of  snowy  peaks  closes  the  southward  view. 
Eastward  the  great  plateau  of  central 
Oregon,  with  its  bitter  lakes  and  sunken 
rivers,  with  its  abysmal  canons  and  mon- 
strous springs  gushing  out  in  the  midst  of 
deserts,  with  its  cities  of  rocks  and  its  grassy 
plains,  its  mastodon  cemeteries  and  petrified 
forests,  stretches  mazily  away,  bounded  by 
a  blue  line  of  mountains.  We  look  north- 
ward for  the  Columbia.  Though  thirty 
miles  distant,  it  seems  to  flow  at  our  very 
feet.  The  town  of  the  Dalles  we  can  dis- 
tinctly see,  though  it  looks  no  larger  than  a 
chess-board.  The  dark  green  current  of  the 
river  flowing  past  the  town  and  gleaming 
here  and  there  among  the  crags  imparts  a 
strange  look  of  briefness  and  littleness  to 
the  works  of  man.  The  three  great  peaks 
already  described  dominate  all  the  northern 
landscape.  Tacoma  in  the  center,  sublimest 
of  American  mountains,  most  beautifully 
contrasts  with  St.  Helen,  a  smooth  and  shin- 
ing dome  rising  from  a  purple  base — fit  bride 
of  Hood,  according  to  the  Indian  legend. 
Our  eyes  again  seek  and  follow  the  river  in  its 
sublime  and  perpetual  journey,  until,  unvexed 
by  mountain  barriers,  it  broadens  like  a  sea 
and  fades  in  the  mist  of  the  ocean. 

Having  looked  in  all  other  directions,  now 
look  down.  Creep  cautiously  to  the  north- 
ern edge  of  the  crag  and  peep  over.  The 
view  is  frightful.  Three  thousand  feet  al- 
most perpendicular !  The  basaltic  columns 
point  right  up  at  us,  like  huge  fingers.  Ten 
of  the  loftiest  firs,  plucked  from  among  the 
"continuous  woods"  which  lie  west  of  us,  if 
set  "each  to  each"  on  the  glacier  stretching 
like  a  marble  pavement  at  the  foot  of  the 
precipice,  would  hardly  reach  us.  This  fear- 
ful precipice,  together  with  the  freezing  wind, 
the  whirling  snow,  the  blue-black  sky,  the 
smoking  crater  with  its  brimstone  stench,  and 
the  rocks  continually  rolling  below  with  re- 
sounding crash,  invest  Mt.  Hood  with  a  ter- 
ror far  different  from  the  pleasant  calm  of 
Adams.  We  gladly  descend  and  leave  the 
shaggy  peak  to  commune  alone  with  the 
storms.  A  few  long  slides,  a  few  wild  tum- 
bles in  the  stiffening  snow,  and  we  are  at 
our  camping  place.  The  ascent  required 


310 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Sept, 


seven  hours;  the   descent,  an  hour  and  a 
half. 

No  one  should  attempt  the  ascent  of 
Hood  without  a  guide.  This  it  is  not  always 
possible  to  get.  For  some  years  a  man,  very 
intelligent  too,  who  had  made  a  hermit  of 
himself  for  unknown  reasons,  lived  in  a 
cabin  on  Summit  Prairie  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain,  and  could  be  induced  for  the 
consideration  of  ten  dollars  to  lead  a  party 
to  the  summit.  He  has  made  the  ascent 
eight  times,  and  once  spent  the  night  of  a 
Fourth  of  July  on  the  summit.  He  says  that 
the  mercury  fell  only  to  twenty  degrees  on 
that  occasion,  though  it  might  just  as  well  have 
gone  down  to  zero,  in  which  case  the  scanty 
clothing  that  he  could  take  would  hardly 
have  sufficed  to  keep  him  from  freezing.  It 
is  not  possible  to  venture  at  all  on  these 
great  mountains  through  more  of  the  year 
than  two  months.  So  vast  a  quantity  of 
snow  is  liable  to  cause  at  any  time  the 
formation  of  storm-clouds  on  the  summit. 
Furious  snow-storms  occur  on  Mt.  Hood  in 
midsummer,  when  it  is  warm  and  pleasant 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  Then  a  visitor 
can  appreciate  fully  the  beautiful  description 
by  Moore  of  Mt.  Lebanon  : 

"His  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 
Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet." 

Mt.  Adams,  too,  serene  and  hospitable  as 
it  was  on  the  visit  hitherto  described,  is  fre- 
quently the  scene  of  most  furious  storms. 
Two  years  after  the  visit  I  have  described,  I 
again  tried  to  reach  the  summit.  I  reached 
Trout  Lake,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
expecting  to  climb  it  the  next  day.  The 
noonday  sun  shone  brightly,  and  against  the 
blue-black  sky  the  monstrous  mass  of  rocks 
and  snow  lay  in  serene  repose.  But  even 
while  I  looked,  now  at  the  mountain,  now  at 
its  image  in  the  lake,  a  white  haze  began 
to  gather  on  its  western  slope.  Clinging 
there  motionless  for  a  time,  but  constantly 
thickening,  it  soon  began  to  eddy  and  swirl. 
Huge  white  masses,  rolling  over  and  over, 
obscured  the  whiteness  of  the  mountain. 
The  white  masses  became  dun,  then  black, 


and  rolled  swiftly  upward  like  smoke  from 
a  burning  city.  Then  we  could  hear  the 
thunder  and  see  the  lightning  drop  from  the 
clouds.  A  black  wall  had  gradually  formed 
from  the  wheeling  vapors.  Little  knots  of 
cloud  of  dazzling  whiteness  flew  like  troops 
of  swans  across  the  battlements.  Deep 
caverns  appeared  here  and  there  in  the  dark 
pile.  Grotesque  forms  writhed  amid  the  re- 
volving towers,  and  hideous  faces  peered 
grinning  over  them.  All  this  time  we  were 
stretched  at  ease  upon  the  fragrant  grass  and 
flowers,  with  the  genial  sun  playing  on  the 
wimpling  surface  of  the  lake.  Though 
right  under  the  storm,  we  felt  not  a  breath 
of  it.  Just  as  the  sun  was  ready  to  set  the 
black  wall  cracked  apart.  The  sunbeams 
poured  in  like  a  flood.  The  purple  banners 
of  sunset  were  planted  on  the  reappearing 
heights,  and  all  the  rolling  vapors  fell  away 
like  a  garment,  leaving  the  mountain  in  its 
unclothed  purity  against  a  cloudless  sky. 
Then  we  saw  that  far  down  the  mountain 
sides  the  trees  were  powdered  with  snow. 

We  afterward  learned  that  a  party  was 
on  the  mountain  that  very  day.  They  suf- 
fered severely.  This  liability  to  sudden 
storms  makes  it  necessary  to  use  much  care 
in  selecting  a  time  for  ascending  a  snow 
peak.  Mr.  Muir  nearly  lost  his  life  in  a 
snow-storm  on  Mt.  Shasta,  and  our  northern 
peaks  are  even  more  liable  than  those  of 
California  to  such  visitations. 

Of  the  remaining  peaks  of  our  Switzer- 
land we  need  not  speak  at  so  much  length. 
Mt.  Jefferson  has  nothing  of  so  great  inter- 
est in  itself  or  its  surroundings  as  the  moun- 
tains already  described.  Its  height  is  about 
ten  thousand  feet,  a  little  more  than  Adams, 
which  is,  however,  of  vastly  greater  extent. 
The  summit  of  Jefferson  is  a  basaltic  chim- 
ney five  hundred  feet  high  and  entirely  inac- 
cessible. The  mountain  has,  however,  been 
frequently  climbed  to  that  point.  The  re- 
gion extending  from  Jefferson  southward  to 
Diamond  Peak,  though  crossed  by  two  wag- 
on roads,  has  a  higher  average  elevation,  is 
more  rugged  and  more  full  of  lakes  and 
torrents  than  any  part  of  the  region  we  are 
describing.  There  are  many  lofty  peaks 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


311 


covered  with  snow  for  most  if  not  all  the 
year.  Only  a  few  of  these  have  been  named 
or  even  visited.  Mt.  Washington,  Three- 
fingered  Jack,  Table  Rock,  and  Olallie 
Butte  are  the  most  noticeable  of  these  sec- 
ondary peaks.  The  last  named  is  near  the 
Sautiam  wagon  road,  and  is  quite  extraordi- 
nary in  appearance.  It  is  a  shaggy  mass  of 
volcanic  rock,  rising  like  a  huge  spine  from 
the  backbone  of  the  range.  It  has  never 
been  measured,  but  its  height  must  be  about 
seventy-five  hundred  feet. 

Directly  south  of  it  is  that  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  pictures  furnished  by  our  moun- 
tains, the  Three  Sisters.  They  are  entirely 
separated  from  each  other  by  tremendous 
canons,  but  from  this  point  of  view  form  one 
magnificent  group  unsurpassed  among  our 
mountains.  The  average  height  of  the  Sis- 
ters is  nine  thousand  feet.  They  are  ex- 
ceedingly steep,  and  more  Alpine  in  appear- 
ance than  any  others  of  the  great  peaks. 
Presenting  such  an  immense  united  surface 
of  snow  to  the  sun,  they  are  of  necessity 
often  enveloped  in  clouds.  The  sight  of 
these  three  peaks  emerging  from  their  cloudy 
canopy,  with  the  horizontal  beams  of  the  set- 
ting sun  turning  the  cold  white  snow  to  the 
warm  blush  of  a  rose,  and  the  protruding 
cliffs  to  a  royal  purple,  would  dim  the  fiery 
brushes  of  Turner,  and  paralyze  the  pen  of 
Ruskin.  The  northern  Sister  has  been  sev- 
eral times  ascended,  and  commands  proba- 
bly a  more  diversified  view  than  any  other 
point  on  the  northwest  coast.  Eleven  great 
peaks — Tacoma,  St.  Helen,  Adams,  Hood, 
Jefferson,  the  two  other  Sisters,  Diamond 
Peak,  Mt.  Thielson,  Scott's  Peak,  and  Mt. 
Pitt — can  be  seen  on  a  clear  day;  while  a 
score  of  lesser  peaks,  of  which  Olallie  Butte 
is  an  example — peaks  that  would  be  great 
anywhere  else — are  scattered  near.  Count- 
less lakes  shine  among  the  mountains.  The 
Willamet  Valley,  bounded  by  the  blue 
Coast  Range,  lies  westward.  The  bare  and 
sandy  valleys  of  the  Des  Chutes  and  John 
Day  stretch  eastward,  ramifying  through  the 
Blue  Mountains;  while  to  the  southeast  can 
be  seen  vast  sage-brush  plains,  bounded  only 
by  the  horizon. 


Among  the  lakes  which  are  so  important 
an  element  in  the  scenery  of  all  this  region, 
the  most  remarkable  is  Clear  Lake,  unless 
indeed  we  go  some  miles  south  of  Diamond 
Peak  and  visit  Crater  Lake,  the  most  won- 
derful sheet  of  water  on  the  whole  coast. 
Clear  Lake  is  the  head  of  the  MacKenzie 
River,  the  largest  branch  of  the  Willamet. 
It  is  fed  by  a  spring  which  gushes  from  a 
lava-bed  with  a  stream  thirty  feet  wide  and 
two  feet  deep.  The  lake  is  of  unsounded 
depth,  though  not  more  than  three  miles 
long  and  a  mile  wide.  We  found  a  canoe  of 
the  most  fragile  description  to  be  the  only 
means  of  transportation  across  it.  A  nervous 
person  would  hardly  repress  a  shriek  in  first 
pushing  out.  We  seemed  to  be  floating  on 
air.  Whitened  tree  trunks,  eighty  feet  be- 
low, were  distinctly  visible.  Frequently  we 
would  float  over  a  submerged  tree  still  stand- 
ing. We  could  glance  down  a  hundred  glis- 
tening feet  of  trunk.  These  submerged 
trees  show  that  the  lake  was  formed  or  at 
least  enlarged  by  a  recent  volcanic  dam.  It 
is  said  that  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Sis- 
ters from  Clear  Lake  is  a  spring,  similar  to 
this  that  feeds  Clear  Lake,  but  so  large  that 
a  good-sized  steamer  might  float  in  its  basin. 
From  it  comes,  in  fact,  the  greater  part  of 
Des  Chutes  River.  Myriads  of  such  won- 
ders, as  yet  undiscovered,  will  doubtless  re- 
ward the  search  of  the  ambitious  tourist. 

Of  Diamond  Peak,  it  is  sufficient  to"  say 
that  it  is  a  small  edition  of  Mt.  Adams.  It 
is  about  8,500  feet  high,  and  easy  of  ascent. 
It  is  seldom  visited,  though  its  surroundings 
of  lakes  and  forests  filled  with  game,  and  its 
interesting  geological  remains,  are  unsur- 
passed. 

Crater  Lake,  though  outside  the  limits  ot 
our  Switzerland,  cannot  be  passed  without  a 
brief  description.  It  is  most  easily  reached 
by  a  wagon  road  from  Jacksonville,  in 
southern  Oregon.  It  is  about  a  hundred 
miles  northeast  of  that  place.  Its  elevation 
above  the  sea  is  five  thousand  feet.  Its 
banks  are  perpendicular  walls,  having  an 
average  height  of  twenty-five  hundred  feet. 
From  above,  the  lake  is  said  to  look 
nearly  black.  At  one  place  only  are  the 


312 


Annetta. 


[Sept. 


walls  crumbled  enough  to  permit  a  de- 
scent. A  party  descended  at  this  point,  tak- 
ing with  them  materials  for  a  rude  boat. 
With  this  they  explored  the  lake,  which  they 
found  to  be  several  miles  each  way,  and  of 
a  depth  beyond  any  measurements  they 
could  make.  There  was  a  frightful  quiet- 
ness over  its  entire  surface.  The  wind 
seemed  never  to  strike  it.  In  the  center  of 
the  lake  they  found  a  volcanic  cone,  in  the 
top  of  which  was  a  little  sunken  lake,  an  al- 
most exact  copy  in  miniature  of  the  large 
one.  This  lake  is  indeed  one  of  the  won- 
ders of  the  Pacific  coast,  but,  far  distant  from 


any  of  the   great   thoroughfares,  it  is  little 
known  to  the  general  public. 

Such  is  a  rude  outline  of  our  mountain 
land.  Isolated  and  unknown  as  it  has  been 
in  the  past,  it  will  soon  throw  its  volcanic 
gates  wide  open  to  the  multitude.  In  a  fu- 
ture article  I  hope  to  describe  the  river 
which  flows  among  these  mountains.  The 
mountains,  grand  and  wonderful  as  they  are, 
may  be  surpassed  in  some  respects  by  the 
Sierras  of  southern  California.  But  the 
river,  with  its  inclosing  crags,  stands  alone, 
unrivaled,  unapproachable,  among  the  riv- 
ers of  the  continent. 

IV.  D.  Lyman. 


ANNETTA. 


XV. 


HAD  Annetta  been  in  Bartmore's  thoughts 
while  he  was  quarreling  with  Treston?  Sim- 
ply as  a  controllable  factor  of  the  trouble. 
He  had  never  considered  her  private  and 
personal  bias.  The  storm  and  stress  of  his 
own  feelings  alone  had  swayed  him.  Nor 
when  Treston  had  been  gone  some  days, 
through  which  Annetta's  countenance  had 
touchingly  betrayed  the  gnawings  of  her  si- 
lent anguish,  did  Bartmore  observe,  reflect, 
or  regret.  Nay,  he  fought  his  wordy  battle 
with  Treston  over  and  over  again  in  his 
sister's  presence,  after  his  wont.  And  yet 
there  was  a  difference  between  this  carping 
and  that  of  older- occasions;  a  subtle  sense, 
unrecognized,  indistinct,  that  Annetta  did 
not  agree  with  him,  which  kept  him  lashing 
away  at  the  theme  as  if  he  would  never  be 
done.  She,  poor  child,  holding  her  peace 
at  cost  of  keen  self-reproach,  making  none 
of  the  hot  defenses  of  the  absent  that  surged 
impulsively  from  full  heart  to  dumb  lips, 
could  never  bring  herself  to  murmur  any 
sedative  approval  of  the  fraternal  course. 
Despite  the  bid  line,  there  is  a  silence  which 
does  not  give  consent.  Bartmore  may  have 
felt  the  prick  of  some  such  undefinable  feel- 
ing. Had  it  become  tangible,  he  would  have 


forced  his  sister  to  take  part  with  him,  or,  at 
her  peril,  against  him. 

Impalpable  as  was  Bartmore's  impression 
of  antagonism,  like  a  thorn  which  we  feel 
but  cannot  find,  it  irritated  him.  Annetta 
tried,  God  .knows,  in  those  first  so  terrible 
days  to  omit  no  sisterly  attention.  She 
grasped  at  every  possible  domestic  service — 
grasped  to  find  her  hands  full  and  her  heart 
empty  even  to  faintness.  Her  mind  was  a- 
prey  to  thoughts  that  led  her  round  and 
round  in  one  narrow  track  soon  worn  pain- 
fully bare.'  If  Treston  cared  for  her,  why 
had  he  gone  away?  If  he  did  not  care  for 
her,  what  meant  such  and  such  a  tone,  a 
glance,  an  act?  But  he  had  gone  away'. 
This  was  the  reiterated  end  of  all  reflections. 
Amply  able  to  defend  and  protect,  he  had 
left  her. 

How  many  times  she  woke  out  of  dreamy 
revivals  of  happier  hours  to  struggle  in  vain 
against  that  oppressive  nightmare  ! 

And  now  returned  to  torture,  all  the  se- 
cret doubts  she  had  felt  of  him  at  their  first 
meeting.  His  courtly  smile  had  never  been 
aught  save  mere  polished  worldliness.  His 
critical  disapproval  of  Tom,  and  of  her  whom 
he  saw  in  the  midst  of  Tom's  boon  compan- 
ions, gayly  furthering  their  jollity,  had  never 
been  modified.  This  conviction  gradually 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


313 


fastening  upon  her,  her  heart  lost  so  much 
of  its  sisterly  submissiveness,  that  she  began 
shudderingly  to  fancy  herself  growing  hard 
and  bitter,  and  to  wonder  what  the  end 
would  be. 

At  last  when  she  was  in  a  condition 
closely  bordering  upon  melancholia,  a  healthy 
resolve,  an  ambition,  sprang  up  within  her 
and  grew  rankly  toward  inflorescence.  She 
could  never  be  happy  again,  but  she  might, 
at  least,  be  thoroughly  self-respecting. 

Bursting,  impatiently  into  the  house  one 
afternoon,  Bartmore  rushed  about  seeking 
his  sister.  He  had  something  upon  his 
mind  which  he  wished  to  tell  her. 

Taking  each  room  below  stairs  in  an  ir- 
regular career,  he  appeared  suddenly  in  the 
parlor.  No  sounds  issuing  thence  seemed 
to  have  given  him  any  warning.  He  stood 
dumb  at  the  vision  of  a  small  figure  with 
dangling  legs  perched  on  the  piano-stool, 
Annetta  sitting  close  by  and  beating  time 
with  emphatic  finger. 

Curtly  nodding  to  an  inquiring  sisterly 
glance,  the  intruder  moved  toward  the  sofa 
and  sat,  his  air  suggesting  strong  opinions 
held  in  reserve. 

There  was  a  silence,  spasmodically  broken 
by  several  immature  musical  efforts,  then  a 
dismissal.  The  little  learner,  embracing  her 
large  green  book,  marched  from  the  apart- 
ment and  the  scene,  making  way  for  a  dia- 
logue dryly  begun. 

"Who's  that?" — so  Bartmore,  jerking  his 
head  toward  the  door  of  exit. 

"Don't  you  remember  her,  Tom?" — a 
little  factitious  surprise  doing  duty  to  hide 
some  secret  trepidation. 

"Would  I  have  asked?" 

"Bessie  Banks." 

"What's  she  doing  here?" 

"You  saw — I  was  giving  her  a  music 
lesson." 

"Humph!  what  are  your  terms?" — sarcas- 
tically. 

Annetta  forebore  to  answer  this  query. 

"I  meant  to  tell  you  very  soon,  Tom.  I 
am  teaching  to  pay  for  my  own  tuition." 

"Who  put  that  notion  into  your  head?" 

"I  hated  so  to  trouble  you  with  my  bills." 


"I  always  paid  'em,  didn't  I?     Come!" 

"You  paid  the  first  month's  bill." 

Bartmore  rose  to  swing  back  and  forth, 
turning  toward  her  to  ask,  still  restrainedly : 

"How  did  you  get  scholars?" 

"By  canvassing  the  neigborhood."  An- 
netta had  not  spoken  without  fear,  yet  with 
increasing  hardihood. 

Her  last  words  were  a  bitter  bolus  to  her 
listener.  He  made  a  wry  face,  then,  as  it 
were,  spat  out  a  prefatory  oath. 

"What  do  you  suppose  folks  think  of  it?" 

That  aught  save  good  could  be  thought  of 
it  had  never  occurred  to  Annetta.  She  so 
expressed  herself. 

"Good  lordy !  what  do  you  want  of 
money?  Haven't  you  all  you  need?" 

"Tom" — with  a  little  burst  of  antagonism 
and  resolution  commingled — "I  want  to 
earn  my  own  living." 

"  Then  you'd  better  get  at  it  in  good  shape." 

To  his  surprise,  and  partly  her  own,  An- 
netta answered  crisply,  eagerly,  deaf  to  his 
sneer. 

"  How  to  do  just  that  is  what  I  want  to 
ask  your  advice  about." 

In  an  ensuing  silence  which  Bartmore 
stirred  only  by  impatient  and  restless  strid- 
ings,  many  things  were  vividly  present  in  his 
mind.  Annetta — his  sister — going  out  to 
seek  employment,  the  effect  upon  this,  that, 
and  the  other  friend :  worse,  upon  this,  that, 
and  the  other  enemy;  the  comments,  the 
criticisms,  the  endless  questions. 

A  nxious,  alert,  trembling  a  little,  knowing 
him  displeased  and  excited,  Annetta  waited 
for  him  to  speak. 

She  felt  that  she  could  live  on  no  longer 
in  the  old  way.  She  must  have  some  change ; 
why  not  through  the  means  she  had  suggest- 
ed? But  Tom  was  far  angrier  than  she  had 
any  idea  of.  He  startled  her  by  suddenly 
crowding  up  close  to  her  as  she  stood,  and 
saying  furiously : 

"Dare  to  mention  this  subject  again,  and 
I'll— I'll— " 

His  eyes  flashing  out  of  reddened  rims, 
his  quivering  nostrils,  his  clenched  hands, 
hinted  at  a  menace  unuttered  and  unuttera- 
ble. 


314 


Annetta. 


[Sept. 


Mere  physical  repulsion  caused  Annetta 
to  shrink  back — but  a  step.  She  volunta- 
rily steadied  herself.  Her  cheeks  blanched 
with  the  horror  of  the  moment,  but  not  an 
eyelash  trembled.  Erect,  tense,  she  returned 
glance  of  resolution  for  glance  of  coercion. 

Tom  had  never  suspected  her  of  possess- 
ing such  pride  and  spirit.  "Damn  you!" — 
the  words  coming  as  if  escaping  from  a  seeth- 
ing mass — "why  do  you  stare  at  me  like  that? 
You've  got  to  submit  to  my  authority,  do  you 
hear!" 

"  I  do,"  in  a  low,  clear,  unsubjugated  tone. 

"  Curse  you  !    Does  that  mean  you  won't  ?" 

"  It  means  that  I  will  not  yield  to  force, 
Tom." 

"You  shall  yield,  by  God!  to  whatever  I 
choose." 

The  feelings  of  desire  to  be  free  from  her 
brother's  government,  which  Annetta  had 
shuddered  at  as  hard  and  bitter,  moved 
strenuously  now,  barring  the  doors  of  her 
mind  against  any  conciliation. 

Her  lip  may  have  curled  ever  so  slightly. 

Tom  was  in  no  mood  to  endure  the  least 
hint  of  contempt.  His  frame  quivered  and 
then  gave  itself  to  action.  There  came  a 
sharp,  quick  sound. 

An  angry  redness  had  rushed  into  Annet- 
ta's  cheek — but  one  cheek — and  was  spread- 
ing over  one  temple.  The  scorn  had 
ripened  on  her  lip.  Bartmore  was  storming 
about  the  room,  muttering  dizzy  impreca- 
tions. 

Finding  that  he  had  no  intention  of  ap- 
proaching her  again,  Annetta  walked  stead- 
ily to  the  nearest  sofa,  sat  down,  and  found 
herself  shaking  from  head  to  foot.  In  the 
very  center  of  the  confused  whirl  of  her 
thoughts  was  this  conviction  : 

"The  end  has  come." 

Living  with  Tom  would  now  be  impossi- 
ble. 

But  all  the  more  because  of  what  he  had 
done  did  Bartmore  resolve  to  control  her. 
Still  in  the  ashen  pallor  of  his  rage,  smothering 
something  very  like  remorse,  he  turned  upon 
her,  setting  his  under  jaw  and  pronouncing  a 
deliberate  threat. 

"  No  one  shall  cause  me  to  be  sneered  at 


— and  live.     I  told  Treston  that — damn  his 
easy  insolence!" 

"Treston!"  The  blood  tingling  in  An- 
netta's  veins  congealed  once  more.  That 
name,  never  to  be  heard  without  an  electric 
shock,  was  now  coupled  with  a  reference  new 
to  her.  She  had  fancied  Tom  concealing 
certain  details  of  the  quarrel.  The  fancy 
became  at  this  moment  a  petrifying  certain- 
ty- 

She  dared  scarcely  breathe  for  fear  of 
losing  a  single  syllable  of  what  Bartmore, 
impelled  by  a  mysterious  and  elusive  associ- 
ation of  ideas,  went  on  to  say  noisily  : 

"He'd  played  fast  and  loose  with  me  long 
enough" — using  wide-spread  fingers  in  spas- 
modic gestures.  "I'd  made  up  my  mind  to 
get  at  bottom  facts.  So  I  spoke  right  out 
that  noon — we  were  in  Jim  Bernard's  office 
waiting  for  him — kind  of  smiling  like"- 
here  he  showed  his  teeth  in  an  illustration 
purely  mechanical.  " '  Frank,'  says  I,  '  I  don't 
really  believe  you've  any  notion  of  buying 
my  property.'  'Bartmore,'  says  he,  after 
hesitating  a  second,  'you're  right.  I  want 
a  location  for  a  home,  and  that  doesn't  seem 
to  meet  my  ideas.  Bullion  &  Davis  have 
an  improved  corner  which  is  far  more  desir- 
able for  my  purposes.  But  I  hope,  Bart- 
more, if  you  haven't  been  able  to  make  a 
bargain  with  me,  we  may  continue  friendly. 
I  hope  my  plain  speaking  won't  interfere 
with  our  pleasant  understanding.'  He  put 
out  his  hand,  smiling  one  of  them  insin- 
uating smiles  of  his.  I  looked  at  it  as  if  'twas 
a  dog's  paw.  'You're  mighty  late  in  the  day 
with  your  plain  speaking,  Treston,'  says  I. 
'But  now  I've  begun,'  says  he,  Til  go  on 
with  it.  I  did  intend  to  purchase  that  land, 
at  first.' " 

Then  continued  narration  rendered  im- 
possible by  an  access  of  spleen.  "He  was 
for  marrying  you — my  sister!  He  was  for 
marrying  you  with  my  consent,  or  without  it 
if  you'd  agree.  And" — rolling  a  flaming 
eye  upon  her — "he  seemed  to  have  little 
doubt  that  you  would  !" 

There  was  a  pause,  through  which  Bart- 
more threw  himself  into  a  chair,  only  to  rise 
again  impatiently.  He  resumed  in  a  tone  of 


1883.] 


Annctta. 


315 


indomitable  determination,  his  glance  crafti- 
ly narrowed : 

"I  knew  the  man  too  well  to  threaten 
him  with  personal  violence  if  he  proceeded. 
But" — forcing  the  words  between  grinding 
teeth — "  I  took  my  solemn  oath  then  and 
there,  if  he  so  much  as  breathed  a  syllable 
of  what  we'd  been  talking  about  to  you,  I'd 
fix  your  pretty  face  so  that  no  man  would 
ever  want  to  look  at  it.  And  I'd  have  done 
it.  Nobody  shall  push  me  out  of  the  way, 
or  go  again  my  plans  and  get  off  scot-free. 
I'll  punish  'em  one  way  or  another,  by  God ! " 

Annetta  had  let  her  head  sink  gradually 
and  softly  against  the  wall.  Her  arms  were 
loosely  fallen  their  length,  her  hands  were 
open  and  passive.  Her  whole  feeling  was 
that  of  a  terrible  tension  relaxed.  Had  she 
been  alone,  she  would  have  fallen  in  a  half- 
swoon  of  mingled  gladness  and  grief.  Tom's 
unsympathetic  presence  forbade  any  impul- 
sive giving  way  or  passionate  outbreaking. 
Nature,  thus  denied,  conquered  its  need. 
The  effect  of  a  few  moments'  breathless  and 
arduous  silence  was  healing.  Annetta's 
heart  leaped  up  in  her  bosom,  freshened, 
strengthened,  purified. 

The  shame  Tom  had  put  her  to  was  all 
forgotten  in  the  honor  Treston  had  con- 
ferred. 

Those  thoughts  of  leaving  Tom,  of  mak- 
ing a  new  and  independent  existence  for 
herself,  were  now  remembered  as  misdeeds 
to  be  impulsively  atoned  for. 

"O  Tom!"  she  cried  in  a  soft  full  voice; 
"O  Tom!"  rising,  but  not  approaching  him. 
"Can  you  forgive  me?  Since  my  foolish 
notions  displease  you,  I  put  them  aside.  I 
never  meant  to  act  contrary  to  your  express 
wishes.  Your  anger  creates  an  atmosphere 
of  horror  about  me.  Forgive  me,  Tom." 

Bartmore  heard  and  let  something  very 
like  apprehension  exhale  gustily  with  the 
breath  he  had  held  to  hear  Annetta  through. 
But  he  was  ready  to  yield  no  whit  until  after 
a  long  and  severe  rating,  in  the  course  of 
which,  now  his  sister  was  verbally  castigated, 
now  Treston,  with  an  impartiality  which  he 
could  not  himself  have  accounted  for. 

"I  never  really  liked  the  darn  fellow  from 


the  first,"  he  declared  with  a  touch  of  frank- 
ness, when  the  fires  of  his  wrath  had  lost 
their  malignancy.  "He  didn't  have  the 
true  ring,  somehow.  And  there  was  always 
a  kind  of  look  out  of  his  eyes  as  if  he  felt 
himself  wound  up  a  turn  tighter  than  me 
and  my  friends.  I  wasn't  going  to  have 
the  girl  I'd  taken  care  of  all  these  years 
taught,  by  jingoes,  to  despise  me  and  my 
ways." 

"I  trust  that  I  never  could  be  taught  to 
be  unsisterly,  Tom,"  murmured  Annetta, 
contritely. 

For  how  clearly  she  saw  now  that  as 
Treston's  wife  she  would  soon  have  to  come 
to  have  little  in  common  with  her  brother. 

His  wrath  gone  quite  out,  Bartmore 
showed  his  white  teeth  in  a  smile  genuinely 
conciliatory. 

"Let  your  music-pupils  take  their  dimes 
elsewhere,  Netta;  that  sort  of  thing  would 
injure  me.  It  would  create  an  impression 
like  that  this  last  contract  was  too  much  for 
me.  I'll  scratch  together  enough  to  pay  for 
your  singing  lessons.  Here,  take  this"- 
filliping  a  shining  coin  toward  her.  "When 
you  need  more  you  know  how  to  get  it." 

Annetta  knew,  at  least,  what  he  meant. 
A  few  weeks  passing,  she  modestly  pre- 
sented her  claim  on  her  brother's  pocket, 
to  meet  this  petulant  rebuff: 

"Darnation,  Net!  How  many  twenties 
do  you  want  me  to  throw  into  your  throat?" 

Annetta  troubled  him  no  more.  But 
this  last  has  been  anticipatory.  Bartmore 
had  burst  in  on  Annetta's  secret,  his  mind 
full  of  something  very  different.  When  she 
and  he  were  friends  again,  he  remembered 
to  tell  her  what  he  wished  and  expected  of 
her. 

"They  say  that  you're  not  like  you  used 
to"  be.  Never  a  bit  free-hearted  or  social." 

Camp  gossip,  of  course,  although  Bart- 
more did  not  directly  admit  it. 

"Make  yourself  agreeable  there,  Netta," 
he  urged.  "It's  business.  The  boys  must 
be  kept  good  natured.  I'm  only  paying  'em 
half  wages,  and  less  if  I  can  manage  it  until 
I  get  through  this  confounded  contract. 
Thirty  thousand  dollars  carted  away  already 


316 


Annetta. 


[Sept. 


with  them  darned  sand  hills,  and  as  much 
more  must  follow  before  my  feet  strike  bot- 
tom." 

Annetta  repaired  to  camp  that  very  even- 
ing, but  not  quite  in  the  old  light-hearted 
fashion.  Those  sordid  surroundings  weighed 
upon  her  spirit — the  approaches,  deeply 
worn  by  clodding  feet,  the  accumulated 
odors  of  the  ceaseless  succession  of  break- 
fasts and  dinners  and  suppers,  the  inefface- 
able smears  clinging  to  the  walls  in  rows 
over  the  long,  low  benches,  and  bespeaking 
dozens  of  leaning  heads.  She  felt  herself 
painfully  susceptible  to  these  cheerless  influ- 
ences. 

As  she  ran  up  the  creaking  stairway  into 
McArdle's  room,  the  guttural  hurry  of  many 
gossiping  voices  was  suspended  an  instant, 
to  burst  forth  again  in  accents  of  delight. 

She  had  brought  her  guitar,  an  instrument 
joyously  known  in  camp  as  "  Miss  Bairtmore's 
fiddle." 

She  sang  many  songs,  and  her  delight 
grew  with  the  measure  of  delight  so  undis- 
guisedly  expressed.  Who  can  tell  what 
touch  of  something  better  than  they  had 
known  wakened  in  the  dull  workaday  hearts 
she  felt  it  her  mission  to  cheer?  One  could 
see  by  reddening  cheeks  and  kindling  eyes 
that  those  same  hearts  were  set  throbbing  a 
bit  faster  at  sounds' of  her  clear,  lilting  voice. 

For  a  song,  Annetta  frankly  forgot  the 
hopelessness  of  a  life-long  separation,  and 
rejoiced  in  mysterious  and  rapturous  antici- 
pations. Yet  there  was  a  power  of  pathos 
in  her  tones,  unknown  before  the  coming  of 
deep  suffering  experience.  How  did  that 
pathos  pour  forth  with  the  stanzas  of  this 
old  ballad: 

"  Lovely  clouds  !  departing  yonder, 

Let,  O,  let  me  with  thee  stray  ! 
Here  alone  why  should  I  wander 

When  all  I  love  is  far  away  ? 
Beauteous  vapors,  why  so  fleeting  ? 

Creatures  of  the  life-fraught  air, 
List  a  while  my  sighs  entreating, 

Leave  me  not  in  lone  despair. 

"No,  they  care  not;  onward  speeding, 

Here  no  kindly  aid  they  spare; 
But  my  mournful  strain  unheeding, 
Lightly  waft  themselves  afar. 


No,  poor  heart,  there's  naught  to  cheer  thee, 

Pining  thus  thy  home  to  see, 
O  my  love,  that  I  were  near  thee, 

There  alone  is  peace  for  me  ! " 

Then  Terry,  sitting  to  listen  devoutly,  his 
head  aslant,  a  hand  on  either  knee,  said 
slowly,  in  his  high,  thin  voice : 

"  It's  no  lie  to  say  but  thim's  great 
and  mournful  words,  Miss  Bairtmore.  Sure, 
they'd  bring  tears  from  the  eyes  of  a  man 
who  didn't  have  anny  eye.  Yit  it's  but  wan 
here  an'  there  wud  be  afther  comprehendin' 
their  m'anin'." 

A  set  speech,  over  which  the  general  com- 
pany murmured  hoarse,  indiscriminating  ap- 
provals, instantly  to  break  into  acclamations. 

Terence  O'Toole  was  proposing  that  they 
might  have  a  "chune,"  something  a  bit 
livelier,  if  Miss  Bairtmore  wud  axcuse  him 
for  makin'  so  bould. 

Annetta  gayly  and  obligingly  dashed  into 
the  crisp  measures  of  "Killarney." 

Immediately  began  the  rhythmic  stir  of 
nodding  heads  and  waving  hands,  the 
clumsy  tapping  growing  loud  and  louder  of 
heavy  boots,  and  at  the  end  a  burst  of 
Hibernian  applause  that  shook  the  building. 

This  last  vocal  performance  having  aroused 
latent  terpsichorean  memories,  hasty  calls 
were  made,  and  peremptory,  for  a  jig. 
After  much  coaxing  Terence  O'Toole  and 
Eddie  Gavan  were  gotten  upon  the  floor, 
where  they  danced  to  the  tinkle  of  Annetta's 
guitar  and  the  encouraging  music  of  such 
ejaculations  as  "Aha,  Eddie!"  and  "Sure, 
ye  shuck  your  heel  that  toime,  Terence  lad!" 

Annetta  could  not  leave  the  beat  and  jar 
of  these  rude  sounds  behind  her  as,  escorted 
by  Maggy,  she  left  the  camp  and  walked 
wearily  homeward.  They  followed  her  to 
her  lonely  chamber,  and  made  her  wide-eyed 
and  sleepless. 

She  knelt  at  her  bedroom  window,  tasting 
the  balm  of  the  flower-scented  night,  and 
growing  calm  under  the  benediction  of  vast 
starry  silences.  She  looked  toward  the  dark 
westward  hills,  feeling  after  the  ocean  behind 
them,  and  the  ocean  answered  her  need  in  a 
faint,  far  roar. 

That   day  upon  the   beach — one   day  of 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


317 


many — was  in  her  mind,  and  the  final  word 
Treston  had  spoken  concerning  his  first  un- 
fortunate love. 

Then  her  bright  hopes  had  run  mistily 
high  and  full  with  the  running  sea.  Now 
that  dim  hollow  boom  smote  upon  her  ears 
with  sound  of  somber  irrevocableness. 

"I  was  so  happy,  so  confident,"  she  mur- 
mured, her  breath  coming  in  half  sobs. 

Lifting  a  face  suffused  and  radiant  to- 
ward the  sky,  she  whispered  devoutly: 

"  But  he  loved  me.  He  would  have  had 
me  for  his  wife.  Why  should  I  not  live  on 
proudly,  serenely,  in  that  knowledge?" 

Had  her  voice  unconsciously  arisen?  Some 
one  spoke  up  quickly  from  the  garden  balow. 

"Was  yez  afther  wantin'  me  in,  Miss 
Annitta?" 

"Why,  Maggy !    Haven't  you  retired  yet?" 

"I  was  a  bit  restless  like." 

"And  I  too.     Maggy!" 

"Yes,  miss." 

"Come  closer." 

Maggy  obeyed,  her  black  head  stirring  on 
a  level  with  the  window-sill,  then  her  face 
vaguely  upturned. 

"You  are  thinking  of  Dan,  Maggy." 

There  was  a  mellow,  sympathetic  cer- 
tainty in  Annetta's  soft  assertion. 

"Of  Dan?" 

This  resonant  repetition  alone  to  be  dis- 
tinguished amid  inarticulate  and  confused 
mumblings  of  denial. 

"It  is  true.  I  know  that  you  miss  him, 
long  to  see  him/'' 

And  again,  correcting  a  sigh,  and  urging 
forth  tones  of  hearty  good  will : 

"Write  to  him,  Maggy.  Dan  always  liked 
you.  How  glad  I  should  be  to  see  you  two 
together!  I  have  his  address;  at  least,  I  can 
tell  you  how  to  get  a  letter  safely  to  him.  " 

"Not I,  miss !"  cried  Maggy,  sturdily.  "I'll 
ne'er  put  pen  to  paper  first  for  anny  man,  Dan 
Meagher  or  another." 

"But,  Maggy—" 

"Wait  a  bit,  Miss  Annitta.  Wud  yez  be 
afther  doin'  that  same  yoursel'?" 

"I'll  write  to  Dan  for  you,  if  that's  what 
you  mean." 

"Now,  miss,  don't  yez  bethwisthin'  out  iv 


it !  Wud  yez  write  for  your  own  sel'  to  him 
who  hasn't  been  here  for  the  weeks  ye've 
been  goin'  round  like  a  ghost?" 

"O  Maggy!" 

"Glory  to  God,  miss!  don't  think  as  I 
wint  to  hurrt  yez.  But  there's  strong  shtir- 
rin's  o'  pride  in  the  kitchen  as  well  as  the 
parelor." 

"Forgive  me,  Maggy." 

"Forgive  me  for  shpakin'  out  a  bit  rough 
like.  As  for  Dan,  who  seen  betther  nor 
Maggy  the  road  his  poor  hairt  was  dhrawn  ? 
An'  Maggy  seen  other  things." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

This  with  an  intuitive  assurance  that 
Maggy  only  waited  encouragement  to  speak 
— not  of  Dan,  but  of  that  other. 

"He  thought  heaven  an'  airth  of  yez,  miss. 
Yez  was  spring  an'  summer  to  him." 

"I  could  not  really  tell  that  he  cared  for 
me,  Maggy." 

"Yez  was  too  upset  like  wid  your  own  feel- 
in's.  But  'twas  in  his  shmilin'  whinsumever 
he  looked  at  yez,  as  plain  as  the  time  o'  day 
on  a  clock's  face." 

XVI. 

December  had  come  in,  and  was  dragging 
by  stormily.  The  valley  and  its  encircling 
hills  parted  with  their  overplus  of  moisture 
by  way  of  the  long  open  road  leading 
thither.  That  red-rocked  highway  soon 
found  itself  the  bed  of  a  turbid,  brick-colored 
stream;  yet  even  so,  was  as  a  race-course, 
down  which  the  dismal  weather  made  the 
most  of  its  opportunities.  There  stretched 
wind  and  rain,  twinned  in  a  wild,  gray  career. 
There  mists,  now  finely  granulous — mere 
water-dust — now  woven  into  a  billowy  con- 
tinuity, sped  and  fled,  were  tossed  and  torn. 
If  thinning  betimes  to  show  the  Quarry  like 
a  red-brown  scar  against  richly  grassed  and 
rounder  hill-masses,  it  was  only  to  thicken 
and  drive  more  obstinately. 

The  leaden  pond  stealthily  grew  until  it 
washed  over  a  newly  graded  street,  got  into 
gardens  hitherto  untouched,  marked  inch 
after  inch  higher  upon  the  props  lifting  hab- 
ited and  uninhabited  houses  into  fancied  se- 


318 


Annetta. 


[Sept. 


curity,  and  one  desolate  morning  was  found 
to  have  extended  its  western  and  murkiest 
edge  into  the  graveyard,  there  to  set  a  coffin 
or  two  forlornly  afloat. 

The  sounds  of  the  season  were  as  dolor- 
ous as  its  sights.  The  wind,  whose  summer 
hilarity  had  expressed  itself  in  many  chang- 
ing keys,  seemed  possessed  by  a  legion  of 
devils.  It  beat  as  if  with  myriad  wild  vans, 
gray  by  day,  black  by  night,  against  every 
obstacle.  It  had  divers  and  hope-defying 
voices.  It  was  driven  forth  with  evil  exul- 
tation. It  was  drawn  on  and  on  in  attenu- 
ated lamentation. 

Annetta  had  wisely  set  herself  some  tasks 
which  would  help  her  to  live  through  the 
days  of  imprisonment.  So  many  blouses  to 
make  for  Joe  Flynn,  so  many  fresh  print 
aprons  to  brighten  McArdle's  dingy  kitchen 
array,  and  the  two  closing  volumes  of 
Froude's  England  to  study,  besides  her  mu- 
sic. Yet,  bar  out  despondency  as  she  might, 
there  were  instants  of  intense  perturbation 
which  no  service,  no  song  could  soothe. 

Never  a  pleasant  storm-comrade,  Bart- 
more  was  now  more  than  unusually  unsatis- 
factory. The  wet,  the  mud,  were  fetters 
which  he  chafed  against  incessantly. 

An  extension  of  time  had  been  granted 
him  on  his  heaviest  contract,  yet  he  was 
condemned  to  watch  those  precious  days  of 
grace  drag  by,  his  stables  thronged  with  idle 
horses,  the  camp  swarming  with  idle  men. 

This  the  first  week  only.  In  the  second 
he  borrowed  money  at  the  bank,  paid  up 
arrears  of  wages,  and  reduced  his  force  of 
laborers  to  fifty,  most  of  these  old  hands. 
Yet  he  found  no  peace  of  mind,  but  wandered 
about  the  house  in  slippered  restlessness,  or 
made  wild  trips  to  camp  for  no  other  pur- 
pose, as  it  seemed  to  Annetta,  than  to  vitiate 
the  indoor  atmosphere  with  steamy  odors  of 
drying  garments,  and  to  set  the  seals  of  an 
utter  desolation  in  miry  boot-prints  upon 
well-swept  carpets. 

Yet  slightingly  as  she  might  think  of  those 
flying  visits  to  camp,  McArdle  greatly  feared 
them.  She  had  learned  to  curtail  her  usual 
culinary  lavishness  in  wet  weather.  For 
then  at  any  moment  the  "boss"  might  ap- 


pear, himself  to  superintend  her  conduct  of 
affairs,  with  an  eye  which  nothing  escaped. 
Then  did  she  assume  a  rectitude  if  she  had 
it  not,  sending  Barney  Flynn  and  others  of 
his  sort  away  empty  of  stomach  and  of  hand. 

Never  had  she  forgotten  how,  to  use  her 
characteristic  hyperbole,  "it  was  teemin' 
bullocks  wid  the  horns  down'ards "  on  the 
dreadful  day  when — 

But  she  enjoyed  going  the  "rounds"  of 
the  story  herself,  and  never  allowed  it  to  be 
taken  out  of  her  garrulous  mouth. 

"There,"  she  would  say,  pointing  toward 
a  perennial  grease-spot  upon  the  kitchen- 
floor,  "she  shtud,"  meaning,  as  all  her  au- 
ditors knew,  Mrs.  O'Toole's  daughter,  Molly, 
often  sent  to  see  what  could  be  picked  up  in 
an  atmosphere  where,  to  use  a  Chaucerian 
metaphor,  "  it  snewed  of  meat  and  drink." 

"  I  was  tattherin'  betune  the  table  an' 
shtove  " — so  McArdle,  with  an  unfailing  air 
of  reminiscent  awe — "gitten  dinner;  I  had 
jist  t'rown  three  whag-yokes  iv  beef  intil  the 
pot,  whin  I  picks  up  another  an'  gives  it  a 
casht  intil  Molly's  ap'un,  an'  begorra  !  before 
I  cud  git  the  crook  out  o'  me  arrum,  there 
shtud  the  boss,  his  eyes  prickin'  right  an' 
left.  Och-hone" — waving  wild,  lank  hands 
aloft — "me  hairt  was  kickin'  in  me  t'roat 
but !  I  twishted  a  look  at  Molly.  Her 
ap'un  was  all  of  a  virtuous  pucker,  an'  so  was 
her  mout'.  She  turrns  an'  was  gittin'  away 
quiet,  fut  fer  fut.  '  Hould  on ! '  says  the  boss, 
cuttin'  his  worrds  in  two,  as  if  his  lips  was  a 
pair  o'  sharp  blades.  Back  comes  Molly,  an' 
me  turrnin'  iv  a  green  shweat.  'What's  that 
yez  iv  got  in  your  bib?'  says  the  boss — he 
not  bein'  the  man  to  know  the  grammar  o' 
wummin's  things. 

'"A  bit  iv  an  ould  soup-bone,'  says  Molly, 
bould  as  brass.  Wid  that  the  boss  plucks  at 
her  ap'un,  an'  pulls  it  down. 

" '  Is  it  this,  begorra !  yez  was  afther  con- 
trivin'  behind  me  back,  Molly  O'Toole?' 
murthers  I.  But  the  boss  was  pickin'  out 
the  mate  an'  settin'  Molly  intil  the  rain  be 
her  two  shoulders. 

"What  did  he  say  till  me?  Arrah,  niver 
a  wurrud,  livin'  or  dead,  but  he  fetched  a 
shtraight  luk  at  me  wud  shplit  a  shtone." 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


319 


The  storm  broke  at  last,  but  not  that  dry- 
ing weather  might  hastily  ensue. 

For  another  week  Annetta  must  needs 
stay  indoors,  the  garden  and  streets  near 
by  being  well  nigh  impassable.  For  an- 
other week  old  Refugio  must  needs  sit 
limp  and  shivering  by  the  kitchen  fire,  a 
prey  to  gloomy  horticultural  anxieties  and 
rheumatism.  For  another  week  the  men 
must  lounge  about  the  camp  smoking,  and 
telling  ghost-stories  in  which  Johnny  Melody's 
name  figured  frequently.  Of  him  all  had 
some  grisly  experience  to  recount.  To  judge 
from  their  recitals,  he  had  indeed  frequent- 
ly revisited  the  scenes  of  his  last  earthly  labors. 
Terry  had  seen  him  during  that  very  "spell 
o'  weather, "  his  hair  and  beard  "pinted 
with  wather,"  and  his  steps  leaving  "dhrips 
o'  wather"  wherever  he  moved;  had  seen 
him  walk  through  the  stable  to  the  feed- 
cutter,  and  thence  to  the  stall  where  his 
drowned  horse  had  always  stood,  there  to 
disappear  with  a  flickering  haste,  as  a  shadow 
from  the  screen  of  a  magic  lantern.  And 
McArdle  had  a  tale  to  tell  of  slumbers  in- 
terrupted by  mysterious  scrambling  sounds 
in  the  dining-room. 

'"Twas  Johnny,  jist,"  she  declared,  lap- 
ping her  tongue  forth  to  moisten  her  thick, 
dry  lips,  and  shaking  her  shock  head.  "  He 
was  for  sittin'  down  to  supper,  an'  some  wan 
wudn't  lave  him.  Whin  he  cries  out  onct, 
'O  Dan !'  an'  ag'in,  'Misther  Bairtmore 
dear';  thin  he  boockled  to  wid  whosumever 
'twas,  an'  ras'led  a  long  boockle.  An'  if  yez 
don't  belave  me,"  she  would  end  in  a  tone  of 
triumph,  "begorra,  why,  thin,  was  the  bench- 
es all  iv  a  twisht  the  mornin'?" 

For  that  last  heaviest  interval  of  inactiv- 
ity, Bartmore  watched  the  gray,  stealthy 
mist-ranks  crowding  over  the  hills  and  trail- 
ing through  the  valleys,  to  groan  when  they 
were  condensed  into  a  petulant,  driving 
drizzle,  and  to  exult  when  they  dissolved 
away  before  an  impetuous  sunburst. 

A  dozen  times  a  day  he  told  his  sister,  in 
large,  round  numbers,  how  many  dollars  he 
was  out  of  pocket. 

Finally  two  joyful  events  conspired  to  put 
him  into  high  good  humor:  the  sun  came 


forth  in  broad,  sparkling  earnest,  and  a  pur- 
chaser was  found  for  the  —  —  Street  prop- 
erty. 

"  Sixteen  thousand  !  "  Tom  cried,  vigor- 
ously walking  about,  and  jingling  whatever 
coins  he  chanced  to  have  in  his  trousers 
pockets.  "Seven  —  hundred  —  and  —  ten 
more  than  I  asked  that  damned  Eastern 
chap." 

Only  by  some  such  circumlocution  had 
Tom  referred  to  Treston  since  the  quarrel 
with  Annetta. 

"  Sixteen  thousand,  sis !  And  I  must 
spend  every  darn  cent  of  it  before  I  can 
begin  to  collect.  But  when  money  does 
pile  in  " — his  nature  expanding  in  the  antici- 
pation— "we'll  have  more  than  we'll  know 
what  to  do  with.  You  shall  have  silks  and 
diamonds,  by  jingoes!  till  you  can't  rest ;  or 
what  do  you  say  to  a  pony  and  phaeton  all 
your  own?" 

Annetta  said  nothing,  but  clung  to  her 
brother  with  wistful  pressure  of  arms  and  of 
cheek,  thus  wordlessly  conveying  warm  ap- 
preciation of  his  good  will.  But  her  heart 
refused  to  leap,  as  once  it  might,  at  any 
promise  merely  material. 

On  the  morning  when  the  teams  could  go 
grinding  away  to  work,  Torn  was  up  early, 
and  Annetta  with  him ;  yet  not  any  earlier 
than  old  Refugio,  returning  happy  as  a  child 
to  his  philandering  among  the  flowers. 

Annetta  walked  about  in  the  garden  after 
the  familiar  click  and  clank  had  gone  sud- 
denly out  in  the  distance,  living  a  little  more 
fully  than  of  late  in  mere  sensations,  finding 
her  heart  somehow  expanding  in  strange, 
blissful  hopes.  What  and  whence  those 
hopes  she  knew  not;  but  Treston's  presence 
was  the  very  soul  of  each  and  all. 

She  looked  abroad  and  rejoiced  with  the 
rejoicing  earth.  Already  the  ugly  corrosions 
of  the  storm  were  healed.  Only  its  cleans- 
ing and  purifying  effects  remained  in  the 
sweet  fresh  air,  the  smooth  roads,  in  raptur- 
ous bits  of  verdue. 

Enjoying  these,  Annetta  was  telling  her- 
self in  a  warm  glow  of  feeling  how  helpful, 
how  patient,  how  true  she  would  be  in  years 
to  come:  helpful  to  Tom  and  patient  with 


320 


Annetta. 


[Sept. 


him;  true  to  Treston's  gracious  memory,  how- 
ever long  their  separation.  God  would  not 
keep  them  always  apart.  Something  told 
her  that  to-day.  She  was  young,  she  could 
wait.  She  could  trust  on,  though  the  silence 
be  unbroken. 

These  reflections  further  enriching  her 
mood,  she  went  indoors,  not  singing,  but  with 
an  exaltation  of  spirit  too  great  to  express 
itself  in  aught  save  a  Te  Deum  Laudamus. 

Nor  did  the  trivial  tasks  of  housekeeping 
lessen  her  fervor.  She  moved  here  and 
there  ever  so  radiantly,  touching  everything 
into  a  finer  polish  than  served  honest 
Maggy's  turn  of  mind. 

The  chambers  thrown  wide  to  airy  minis- 
tries, she  went  into  the  office  and  gazed, 
refusing  to  be  dismayed,  upon  evidences 
of  Tom's  careless  occupancy  scattered  in 
muddy  boots,  torn  papers,  gaping  drawers, 
cigar  ashes,  and  empty  glasses.  Having  in- 
troduced a  broad  beani  of  sunshiny  sweet- 
ness into  that  stale  atmosphere,  she  fell  to 
work  gayly,  only  pausing  once  or  twice,  her 
countenance  rosed  by  the  active  exercise  of 
sweeping,  to  lean  on  her  broom  and  look 
from  the  window  with  eyes  that  instinctively 
wandered  toward  the  farthest  and  vaguest 
point  of  a  wide  horizon. 

But  no  ordinary  setting  to  rights  could 
fully  satisfy  Annetta's  housewifely  ardor  on 
this  beautiful,  exhilarating  morning.  Her 
dusting  done,  she  sat  down,  the  towel  still 
wound  about  her  head,  at  Tom's  desk. 
She  knew  that  the  very  abomination  of  con- 
fusion reigned  in  every  drawer.  Zeal  less  ar- 
dent than  hers  had  not  been  equal  to  begin- 
ning the  task  she  entered  upon  cheerfully. 

A  piece  of  work  like  this  is  apt  to  lengthen 
out  indefinitely.  The  segregation  of  bills 
paid  from  bills  unpaid,  of  notes  canceled 
from  notes  uncanceled,  of  copies  of  public 
contracts  irom  copies  of  private  agreements, 
of  business  communications  from  social  let- 
ters, cost  her  much  anxiety. 

Being  unwonted  in  the  matter,  she  may 
have  made  a  few  mistakes,  going  on  serenely 
unconscious  of  them. 

And  besides  these  papers,  there  were  in- 
numerable waste  sheets  whereon  Tom  had 


begun  but  never  ended  some  bid  or  letter 
or  calculation;  and  scraps  difficult  to  assign 
to  any  fit  place,  being  covered  merely  with 
figures  meaningless  to  her. 

And  stay :  what  letters  were  these  in  a 
lower  drawer?  Easily  enough  Annetta  re- 
cognized the  long  loops  and  leaning  capitals 
of  their  wan  superscription.  Bulky  epistles 
from  Tom's  wife  while  she  was  yet  only 
his  fiancee  crowded  into  little  pink  or  blue 
lined  envelopes.  Alas !  the  ink  was  not 
more  faded  than  her  gentle  influence  from 
Tom's  buoyant  career.  Annetta  tied  them 
all  carefully  together  with  a  soft,  deep  sigh, 
then  delved  anew  into  the  bowels  of  the 
disorder.  A  moment  later  she  had  taken 
up  another  letter,  and  had  partly  read  it  be- 
fore glancing  at  the  signature;  her  tranquil 
sorrow  was  thrilled  through  and  through  by 
strange,  quick  pulses  of  agony. 

Treston  had  again  come  out  of  the  realms 
of  dreams,  past  and  future,  into  her  life. 

The  page  bore  a  date  later  than  any 
knowledge  she  had  of  him. 

So  he  had  written  to  her  brother  from  the 
East.  This  was  the  sentence  which  after  a. 
formal  introduction  had  sent  her  eyes  dart- 
ing downward: 

"  I  herewith  soberly  relinquish  all  thought 
of  pursuing  the  hope  disclosed  to  you." 

Should  she  read  more — all?  This  was 
something  Tom  had  not  told  her  in  any 
expansion  of  confidence  or  eruption  of  anger. 
She  would  possess  herself  of  no  secret,  of 
no  added  syllable.  She  had  read  enough. 

Still  in  the  sickening  numbness  of  heart 
produced  by  that  inadvertent  discovery,  An- 
netta was  startled  by  a  deep,  sudden  sound 
striking  the  house  like  a  blow,  jarring  every 
door,  rattling  every  window. 

They  were  blasting  to-day  at  the  Quarry; 
Annetta  now  remembered  seeing  the  cans 
of  powder  in  Tom's  buggy  as  he  drove  away. 

She  rose  and  looked  from  the  window. 

The  thick  white  cloud  rising  funnel- 
shaped  in  the  stainless  atmosphere  was  al- 
ready whirling  into  sullen  shapelessness,  and 
dozens  of  dwarfed  figures  were  swarming 
back  up-hill  from  as  many  different  points, 
whither  they  had  withdrawn.  Tom's  buggy, 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


321 


a  mere  toy  from  that  distance,  reached  the 
deserted  platform  ahead  of  the  men.  An- 
netta watched  its  slender  wheels  spin  glint- 
ing along  the  edge.  She  noted  how  high 
Nelly  carried  her  head.  She  stood  a  mo- 
ment, then  went  back  to  the  swinging  chair 
and  her  silent  work. 

She  was  still  very  busy — nay,  it  seemed 
but  a  moment  afterward  that  she  heard  the 
returning  carts  closely,  reluctantly  at  hand. 
Tom  would  very  likely  return  with  them. 
This  probability  was  hardly  formed  in  the 
mind  when  she  caught  sound  of  his  voice 
shouting  some  order  in  the  direction  of  the 
stables.  Then  again  those  tones,  vigorous, 
excited,  exigent,  formed  themselves  into 
words  resonantly  intended  to  reach  her  ears, 
at  whatever  distance  she  might  be.  He  was 
rushing  through  the  back  yard  toward  the 
office,  he  was  opening  the  outer  door. 

"Netta,  Netta;  have  you  seen  that  bill  of — '' 

He  stopped  there,  foot  and  tongue,  at  the 
smiting  vision  of  his  sister  and  the  work  she 
was  at.  By  his  expression  of  countenance 
he  did  not  think  well  of  it. 

Annetta  read  his  face  with  eyes  uplifting 
somewhat  heavily.  She  read  and  murmured* 
her  faint  smile  meant  to  be  reassuring. 

"  I  haven't  destroyed  a  single  scrap  of  any- 
thing, Tom." 

Which  speech,  although  received  with  not 
too  easy  credulity,  brought  him  back  to  his 
unfinished  query. 

"That  bill  of  Clay's,  sis.  For  wines  and 
liquors.  He's  presented  it  again,  and  darned 
if  I  don't  believe  I  paid  it  one  evening  at 
the  club-rooms.  If  I  did,  the  receipt  is 
somewhere  here.  I  can't  find  it  in  my 
pockets  or  memorandum-book." 

"Several  receipted  bills  of  Clay's  are  in 
this  drawer,"  said  Annetta,  searching  for  a 
packet  suitably  backed  and  displaying  it 
with  laudable  pride. 

Bartmore  tore  the  papers  eagerly  apart. 
The  one  he  sought  was  not  there. 

"  You've  put  it  in  another  bundle  by  mis- 
take, perhaps,"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  about 
to  see  what  to  pounce  upon  next. 

Annetta  answered  obligingly,  "I  will  look, 
dear." 

VOL.  II.— 21. 


Which  assurance  left  Tom  free  to  pace 
the  floor  and  devote  his  mental  energies 
entirely  to  belaboring  Clay  with  an  unction 
derived  from  that  again  revived  sense  of  po- 
litical defeat:  this  for  the  mere  minute  his 
patience  lasted. 

"By  Jove,  sis!  Haven't  you  come  across 
it  yet?" 

"There  are  so  many  papers,  Tom.  I 
don't  think — I  was  really  very  careful — 

"You've  destroyed  it!"  roared  he,  falling 
straightway  upon  Annetta's  nearly  finished 
work  with  marauding  eagerness. 

As  packet  after  packet  was  rent  apart  in 
hasty  and  hastier  pursuit  of  the  missing  pa 
per,  the  confusion  swelled  beyond  the  con- 
fines of  the  desk,  and  overflowed  upon  the 
floor. 

"There !  what  did  I  tell  you  ?" — presently 
displaying  the  now  familiar  billhead  among 
a  bundle  of  business  letters.  "You  see 
you'd  better  leave  things  alone  than  mix 
them  up  like  this." 

But  though  Annetta  stood  quite  dumb 
before  this  glaring  proof  of  her  inadvertency, 
Tom's  triumph  was  short-lived. 

His  discovery  proved  to  be  of  the  original 
bill  merely. 

The  desk  being  quite  empty,  and  Bart- 
more's  temper  by  no  means  improved,  he 
harshly  ordered  his  sister  to  cram  all  the 
scattered  papers  back  into  his  desk,  and 
then  to  cease  to  meddle  with  what  didn't 
concern  her. 

He  rushed  from  the  office  and  the  yard. 

His  loud  dictatorial  tones  coming  up  pres- 
ently from  the  street  below,  Annetta  went 
mechanically  to  the  window.  He  was  stand- 
ing with  legs  wide,  using  his  arms  in  strenu- 
ous gestures. 

Recognizing  Clay  in  the  slenderer  person 
sturdily  facing  him,  Annetta  feared  there 
might  be  trouble.  But  whatever  Bartmore's 
grievances,  real  or  fancied,  for  this  time  he 
confined  himself  to  domineering  utterances 
profanely  emphasized.  Annetta's  suspended 
breath  exhaled  in  a  long  sigh,  partly  of  re- 
lief, partly  of  sorrow,  as,  parting  from  his 
companion,  he  impetuously  vowed  that  he 
would  settle  the  matter  in  dispute,  if  at  all, 


322 


Annetta. 


[Sept. 


when,  where,  and  how  he  pleased;  and 
swung  off  with  a  splendid  consciousness  that 
his  physical  strength  was  an  argument  Clay 
could  not  answer. 

Tom  did  not  return  to  dinner,  although  so 
near. 

There  were  days  such  as  these  given  to 
the  rush  of  business  when  he  forgot  to  eat, 
and  that  without  seeming  to  suffer  from  his 
fasting. 

The  carts  having  gone  grinding  heavily 
away  again,  Annetta  ceased  to  expect  him, 
and  sat  down  to  a  meal  made  doubly  lonely 
by  the  experiences  of  the  morning. 

Mrs.  McArdle  was  at  the  house  in  the 
afternoon.  That  tall,  uncouth  compound 
of  ignorance  and  superstition  was  always 
strangely  nervous  and  restless  on  days  when 
the  men  were  blasting.  And  this  day, 
marked  by  other  bursts  of  sound  as  ominous 
as  the  first  which  had  startled  Annetta,  was 
no  exception. 

Her  tongue  ran  glibly  through  the  chap- 
ter of  accidents  which  had  been  written  by 
the  pen  of  fate  since  she  had  worked  in  the 
camp,  beginning  with  Mrs.  Flynn's  Larry 
brought  home  dying  from  a  premature  dis- 
charge of  powder,  the  fortnight  before  Joe 
was  born,  and  ending  with  Johnny  Melody. 

His  name  naturally  introduced  her  story 
of  the  ghostly  midnight  wrestling  match. 

"Cats!"  cried  Maggy,  with  a  great  whole- 
•some  roar  of  laughter.  Yet  she  was  to 
remember  the  tale  thereafter;  and  the  mys- 
terious association  of  Bartmore's  name  with 
the  dead  man's  was  to  be  triumphantly  re- 
called by  McArdle. 

Just  at  dusk,  supper  then  waiting  for  Tom 
(the  carts  were  already  home),  Annetta  was 
watching  now  from  a  window,  now  from  the 
front  door. 

Standing  at  the  last  place  of  espial,  she 
saw  a  phaeton  dash  around  the  high-fenced 

corner  of Street.     A  strange  phaeton 

and  a  strange  horse  in  a  neighborhood  where 
every  regular  passer-by  soon  comes  to  be 
known  is  something  of  an  event. 

The  light  vehicle,  the  swift  horse  hurried 
forward  to  stop  at  the  front  gate.  A  man 
was  instantly  upon  his  feet  and  the  ground, 


advancing  toward  her.     A  stranger,  who  as 
she  was  drawn  insensibly  to  meet  him,  her 
slightly  widened  eyes  fixed  upon  his  black- 
bearded  face,  lifted  his  hat,  and  asked  in  a 
deep  tone,  oddly  hurried,  Annetta  thought : 
"Is  this  Tom  Bartmore's  residence?" 
"  It  is,  sir." 

"  I  am  looking  for  his  sister." 

Annetta  bowed  slightly. 

"  Miss  Bartmore,"  exclaimed  the  gentle- 
man, in  a  firm,  somewhat  dictatorial  tone, 
"  will  you  not  get  your  hat  and  cloak  and 
come  with  me — immediately?  " 

The  last  word  was  so  uttered  as  to  convey 
an  impression  of  dreadful  exigence.  The 
girl  felt  the  chill  wintry  air  and  began  to 
tremble  visibly.  She  stood  in  the  walk,  her 
face  blanched,  her  manner  dazed. 

Something  had  brought  Maggy  to  the 
front  door.  The  gentleman  looking  beyond 
and  above  Annetta,  said  peremptorily : 

"Her  hat  and  cloak." 

Another  moment,  and  passively  arrayed 
in  whatever  Maggy  had  fetched,  Annetta 
half  stepped  and  was  half  lifted  into  the  con- 
veyance. 

Nothing  was  said  during  a  drive  which 
whether  long  or  short  Annetta  never  knew, 
but  these  two  curt  sentences  : 

"  He  has  been  carried  into  my  office. 
For  his  sake  be  brave." 

Then  there  ensued  a  dizzy  sense  of  a  great 
surging  crowd  growing  stiller  and  denser 
toward  its  center,  which  was  Tom's  face, 
ghastly  almost  beyond  recognition. 

"Speak  to  him." 

Was  it  the  person  who  brought  her  that 
said  this  ? 

"Tom,  Tom!" 

The  girlish  voice,  rich,  steady,  with  a 
strange  power  that  did  not  seem  to  be  of 
herself,  thrilled  through  the  crowd  and 
through  the  fainting  sufferer's  dulled  senses. 

Bartmore  opened  his  eyes,  their  sudden 
light  seeming  weirdly  out  of  place  amid 
that  deathly  pallor. 

"Sis,  sis!"  he  gasped.  She  bent  close  to 
catch  these  words  uttered  with  a  terrible 
eagerness. 

"Listen  to  what  they  say  about  me." 

Evelyn  M.  Ludlum. 


[CONTINUED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


1883.] 


Family  Names  and  their  Mutations. 


323 


FAMILY   NAMES   AND   THEIR   MUTATIONS. 


WHEN  Sam  Weller  said  that  the  orthog- 
raphy of  his  name  depended  "on  the  taste 
and  fancy  of  the  speller,"  he  put  in  words 
what  is  practically  done  with  a  large  number 
of  our  proper  names.  At  the  present  rate  of 
corruption,  it  will  soon  require  a  philologist 
to  determine  the  relationship  of  many  of 
them,  as  it  already  does  to  decipher  their 
meaning;  for  it  hardly  needs  to  be  said  that 
all  such  names  were  originally  significant. 
The  heading  of  this  paper  refers  merely  to 
family  names,  nor  is  it  proposed  to  examine 
into  the  abstruse  reasons  which  induce  men 
to  spell  the  baptismal  Philip  with  two  "1's," 
Stephan  with  an  "e"  in  the  final  syllable,  or 
Anselm  so  that  it  differs  from  Absalom  only 
in  the  second  letter.  We  omit  entirely  the 
discussion  of  that  peculiar  idiosyncrasy  of 
the  female  mind  which  makes  three-fourths 
of  the  fair  sex  (schoolma'ams  included)  re- 
joice in  such  names  as  Hattie,  Sadie,  Lulu, 
Mamie,  and  hosts  of  other  appellations  in 
"ie,"  never  bestowed  on  their  wearers  at 
any  baptismal  font  in  Christendom.  But 
the  same  vanity  plays  tricks  with  the  other 
sex,  and  though  it  crops  out  but  rarely  in 
Christian  names,  yet  runs  in  a  well-defined 
lead  through  many  if  not  most  of  our  family 
names.  S.  Madison  Stubbs,  J.  Chesebor- 
ough  Snooks,  Q.  Cadwallader  Wiggins,  and 
their  confreres  are  quite  frequent  on  cards 
and  signboards,  producing  on  the  mind  of 
the  average  American  much  the  same  pre- 
judice as  does  the  first  sight  of  the  man  who 
parts  his  hair  in  the  middle:  it  requires 
time  to  remove  the  bad  impression. 

Years  ago  the  writer  became  acquainted 
with  a  lately  arrived  Hollander,  Moritz  Van 
den  Eiken  by  name,  whom  he  has  subse- 
quently met  in  an  Eastern  town,  married, 
with  seven  children,  and  transformed  into 
Morris  Oakley.  In  this  instance  the 
change  was  total,  but  the  reason  assigned 
was  a  plausible  one.  Heer  Van  den  Eiken 
assured  me  that  my  countrymen  could  not 


pronounce  and  would  not  spell  his  Holland- 
ish  name,  and  that  he  consequently  took 
its  nearest  English  equivalent  in  meaning, 
just  as,  in  France,  he  would  have  taken 
Duchene.  In  Pennsylvania  there  are  num- 
bers of  Butchers,  Carpenters,  and  Tailors, 
whose  original  patronymics  were  Metzger, 
Zimmerman,  and  Schneider.  If  the  de- 
scendants of  these  should  be  lucky  enough, 
through  striking  oil  or  otherwise,  to  join  the 
ranks  of  the  shoddy  aristocracy,  they  will 
doubtless  be  able  to  find  an  accommodating 
professor  of  heraldry  who  will,  "for  a  con- 
sideration," deduce  their  descent  from  fam- 
ilies of  those  names  in  England,  furnish 
them  with  a  family  tree  and  coat  of  arms, 
just  as  valuable  and  probably  just  as  true  as 
would  have  been  supplied  then  under  their 
original  and  real  names.  A  French  gentle- 
man, long  Americanized,  once  assured  me 
that  it  was  a  constant  source  of  annoyance 
to  hear  himself  addressed  or  referred  to  as 
Mr.  Peel-about,  his  name  being  Pe"labout. 
The  cases  of  Van  den  Eiken  and  Pe"labout 
are  fair  instances  in  which  there  was  rational 
ground  for  changing  the  name ;  and  in  such 
a  cosmopolitan  country  as  ours,  there  are 
thousands  of  similar  instances.  Vanity  and 
ignorance,  however,  are,  we  fancy,  the  prin- 
cipal elements  at  work  in  such  changes. 
The  former,  like  the  poor,  we  shall  always 
have  with  us;  and  the  latter  does  not  as  yet 
show  any  material  signs  of  decrease. 

Readers  of  the  printed  "Domesday  Boke" 
will  have  no  difficulty  in  perceiving  that  up 
to  that  time  one  name,  and  that  the  bap- 
tismal, was  considered  by  our  Anglo-Saxon 
forefathers  amply  sufficient  for  all  purposes ; 
though  in  cases  of  ambiguity,  the  name  of 
the  father  is  added,  or  still  more  frequently 
the  place  of  residence  suffixed  by  means  of 
the  Latin  preposition  "a."  Hence,  Gib 
Wat's  son,  Hal  Jamie's  son,  Giles  a  Grange, 
Hob  a  Seven  Oaks  (Se'enokes,  Se'nokes, 
Snokes,  Snooks).  Further  on  in  English  his- 


324 


Family  Names  and  their  Mutations. 


[Sept. 


tory  we  see  the  necessity  for  a  clearer  family 
nomenclature  manifesting  itself  still  more 
strongly,  since  none  but  saints'  names  could 
be  given  at  baptism,  and  the  number  of 
saints  by  no  means  increased  at  an  equal 
rate  with  the  population.  From  reprints  of 
documents  dated  in  the  reign  of  Henry  III., 
we  find  that  the  recurrence  of  the  same 
name  had  already  become  such  an  annoy- 
ance that  fully  two-thirds  of  the  population 
had  subjoined  to  their  baptismal  name 
some  other  word  which  served  as  a  family 
name,  and  has,  in  one  form  or  other,  how- 
ever mutilated,  been  bequeathed  to  their 
male  descendants.  These  names  were  gen- 
eral nicknames,  as  Craven,  Hardy,  Stout; 
names  of  trades,  as  Baker,  Fuller,  Smith; 
names  of  color,  as  Black,  Dunn,  White; 
names  of  physical  qualities,  as  Limpy, 
Shanks,  Cripple;  names  reflecting  origin,  as 
Fleming,  Welsh,  French;  the  father's  name, 
with  "son,"  as  Jackson,  Johnson,  Hobson. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  we  originally  got 
our  names  in  a  very  hap-hazard  way,  very 
much  as  was  the  case  with  the  Israelites  in 
Germany  during  the  last  century;  the  only 
difference  being,  that  legal  enactment  forced 
the  Hebrews  to  take  names  by  which  they 
might  be  known  in  law;  while  among  our 
ancestors,  laws  to  that  effect  were  only  made 
when  all  had  either  already  selected  names, 
or  had  them  will  ye  nill ye  imposed  by  their 
neighbors.  Except  for  the  length  of  time 
during  which  we  have  borne  them,  our  fam- 
ily names  have  no  more  to  do  with  us  per- 
sonally than  have  the  names  of  our  fellow- 
citizens  of  African  descent,  who  simply  took 
the  name  of  the  master  that  bought  them. 
Certainly  our  Browns,  Robinsons,  and 
Smiths  have  either  had  large  preponderance 
in  numbers  to  begin  with,  or  have  had  more 
male  children  than  those  of  other  colors, 
names,  or  trades.  There  are  numerous  other 
names  not  far  behind  these  in  frequency; 
nor  is  it  much  to  be  wondered  at  that  some 
of  the  fraternity  should  try  to  accomplish 
what  their  names  fail  to  do,  and  by  adding 
or  omitting  letters,  strive  to  individualize 
themselves  among  their  all  too  numerous 
namesakes.  Hence,  Smithe,  Smythe,  and 


the  ludicrous  Smitthe;  Browne,  Bron, 
Broune;  and  Robison,  Robeson,  Robesen. 

These  changes  carry  their  cause  quite  pat- 
ently. Not  so,  however,  when,  a  quarrel  over 
a  legacy  having  sprung  up  in  a  portion  of  the 
extensive  gens  White,  one  branch  of  the  fam- 
ily thenceforward  writes  the  name  Whyte, 
to  emphasize  the  fact  that  they  have  no  con- 
nection with  the  firm  across  the  way.  Not 
so  when  the  son  of  a  reputable  blacksmith 
(whose  name  appears  upon  his  sign  as  Dev- 
lin, surmounted  by  three  horse-shoes)  on  re- 
ceiving an  appointment  in  the  army  blooms 
out  into  De  Valin;  nor  can  we  find  any  ex- 
cuse for  Mr.  Sewell,  who  having  prospered 
pecuniarily  announces  himself  as  Mr.  Sa 
Ville — a  change  uncalled  for  by  the  frequency 
of  his  real  name,  and  far  from  creditable  to 
his  knowledge  of  French  cognomens. 

With  all  the  patriotism  of  the  Irish — and 
it  is  prodigious — large  numbers  of  them, 
both  in  England  and  the  United  States,  have 
dropped  the  "O  '  from  their  names.  The 
Connors,  Connells,  Shannesies,  and  Fallons 
are  far  more  numerous  than  the  full  Mile- 
sian names;  nor  are  instances  uncommon 
where  the  literally  patrician  baptismal  name 
of  Patrick  is  slurred,  ignored,  and  stowed  out 
of  sight  like  a  poor  relation,  under  such 
guise  as  P.  Eugene  Carthy. 

"  Per  O  et  per  Mac  veros  cognoscis  Hibernos: 
His  demptis  nullus  verus  Hibernus  adest. " 

It  is  idle  to  attempt  in  a  magazine  article 
to  write  exhaustively  on  a  subject  co-exten- 
sive with  the  directories  of  our  chief  cities. 
But  suggestions  may  be  thrown  out  which 
will  enable  those  who  feel  an  interest  in  the 
matter  to  derive  ample  material  for  reflec- 
tion from  the  signboards  that  meet  their 
view  on  any  walk  in  the  streets  of  any  town. 
Matthew  and  Matthias  were  both  evidently 
names  very  commonly  given  in  baptism  in 
early  England,  and  our  ancestors  seem  to 
have  had  the  same  tendency  to  the  cur- 
tailing of  names  which  their  descendants 
manifest  as  to  language  at  large.  Matthie, 
Mattie,  and  Matt  were  therefore  current 
contractions  of  both  names.  Hence,  in  the 
outset,  the  family  name  Matthewson,  Mattie- 


1883.] 


Family  Names  and  their  Mutations. 


325 


son,  and  Matson.  But  we  have  nowadays, 
in  addition,  Madison,  Madeson,  Matison, 
and  Mattisson;  while  the  son  of  Mag  or 
Maggie  (widow  or  spinster),  apparently 
ashamed  of  his  matronymic,  has  dropped 
the  true  spelling,  and  fancies  that  he  throws 
philology  off  the  scent  by  writing  himself 
Maxon. 

The  repute  of  the  hero  of  Trafalgar,  with- 
out any  doubt,  preserved  to  us  many  far-off 
sons  of  Nell,  under  their  original  sobriquet, 
who  would  otherwise  long  since  have  fig- 
ured as  Nellistons;  and  the  retention  of  the 
plebeian  Howard  (Swineherd)  by  the  Dukes 
of  Norfolk  has  given  this  name  in  the  minds 
of  those  who  wit  not  of  its  origin  a  halo 
of  aristocracy  which  prevents  its  being  ex- 
changed for  Howarth  and  Hogarth.  By  the 
way,  this  latter  often  appears  under  the  pho- 
netic spelling  Huggart.  But  for  the  fame  of 
the  Protector,  the  Cromwells  would  by  this 
time  all  have  lapsed  into  Crummies.  Since 
the  Franco-German  war,  there  has  been  a 
marked  decrease  in  the  readiness  of  German 
immigrants  to  change  the  Teutonic  patro- 
nymics for  American  ones;  and  if  a  Snooks 
should  arise  with  luck  or  ability  enough  to 
attain  the  presidency  of  this  republic,  towns, 
counties,  cities,  streets,  and  children  would 
be  named  in  his  honor  by  people  who 
never  saw  him. 

Without  considering  the  names  that  come 
to  us  from  foreign  languages,  a  glance  at  a 
few  of  our  own  English  or  British  names  will 
suffice  to  exemplify  the  queer  transforma- 
tions that  they  have  undergone,  when  those 
bearing  them  desired  a  change,  or,  through 
want  of  acquaintance  with  the  schoolmaster, 
fell  into  the  phonetic  system  of  orthography. 
The  circumstances  surrounding  each  muta- 
tion, did  we  know  them,  would  at  once  dis- 
close whether  the  new  form  was  due  to  igno- 
rance, to  vanity,  or  to  the  necessity  for  some 
more  accurate  distinctive  mark  than  the 
name  afforded.  In  many  instances,  the 
prim  a  facie  evidence  needs  no  bolstering, 
and  the  reade^can  judge  of  the  motive  from 
the  appearance  of  the  original  and  the  im- 
postor. 

Aitkin,  Atkin,  Adkin,  with  their  clansmen 


in  "sm,"  were  in  origin  one,  and  if  there 
be  any  good  at  all  in  correct  spelling,  only 
one  of  them  can  be  the  genuine  name ;  nor 
is  the  case  at  all  different  with  Moore, 
Muir,  More.  Altford  was  a  name,  the  sig- 
nificance of  which  is  patent;  but  in  Alford 
it  is  partially  obscured,  to  go  into  total 
eclipse  under  the  guise  of  Alvord,  which 
has  no  derivation  in  any  tongue.  If  the 
reader  will  set  himself  to  think  in  how  many 
different  ways  something  similar  in  sound  to 
Holiday  or  Haliday  might  be  represented 
by  letters,  he  will  at  the  end  have  but  an 
inkling  of  the  transformations  to  which  that 
word  has  been  subjected  since  it  became  a 
proper  name.  Applegarth  is  a  very  good 
Saxon  compound,  and  from  that  "orchard" 
the  original  Applegarths  have  the  name; 
but  whence  came  Appelgraith,  Apelgrit,  and 
Appelgate?  We  have  Aitchinson,  Achison, 
Aitchison,  Aitcheson,  Aicheson,  with  other 
changes  yet,  rung  upon  one  original.  There 
is  a  violent  suspicion  of  cockneyism  in  the 
name  of  Mr.  Arper,  and  it  would  need  evi- 
dence to  convince  us  that  it  is  not  a  cor- 
ruption of  Harper,  engendered  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  Bow  Bells. 

Bacchus,  Baccus,  Backus,  though  sound- 
ing alike,  differ  in  origin,  the  last  being  a 
false  spelling  of  the  German  word  for  "Bak- 
ery." The  Bairds  and  Beards  might  both  be 
admissible;  but  whence  did  Bayrd  come? 
Not  all  who  bear  the  name  of  Bayard  are  in  any 
way  entitled  to  the  cognomen  of  the  knight 
sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.  Berkeley  has 
a  meaning,  but  Burklee  and  Barclay  have 
none.  Batchelder,  Baxter,  and  Beall  or 
Beale,  should,  if  rightly  written,  appear  as 
Bachelor,  Bagster,  and  Bell ;  while  Beebe 
and  Bibb,  Burke  and  Bourke,  Bigsby  and 
Bixby,  Birdsall  and  Burtsell,  Bowles,  Boales, 
and  Boles,  Brennan  and  Brannan,  Burns 
and  Byrnes,  Burroughs,  Burrowes,  and  Bur- 
rus,  are  but  mispellings  of  the  first-mentioned 
in  each  set.  Breen  would  fain  escape  the 
Fenian  O'Brien,  and  there  are  too  many 
Queens  whose  ancestors  were  Quinns !  Cad- 
ogan  and  Cardigan  are  both  good  Welsh 
names;  Cadigan  and  Cardogan  mean  noth- 
ing, and  are  nothing  but  failures  in  orthog- 


326 


Family  Names  and  their  Mutations. 


[Sept. 


raphy.  Cahill,  Coyle,  Coill,  and  Kyle  are 
but  one  and  the  same  name.  Blocksham, 
Farnham,  and  Barnham,  with  many  words  of 
similar  ending,  have  in  some  hands  degen- 
erated into  Bloxom,  Bluxom,  Farnum, 
Farnim,  Barnum,  and  Barnim.  Cadwell, 
Colwell,  and  Kilwell,  all  indicate  but  one 
original;  and  Callahan  is  the  simon  pure, 
of  whom  Cullen,  Cullan,  Cullin,  and  Callan 
are  counterfeits.  Who  will  dispute  the 
identity  of  Kavanagh,  Kevenny,  Kevney, 
etc.  ?  Carr,  Kerr,  and  Ker  are  unmistak- 
ably one.  Perhaps  it  was  well  to  get  rid 
of  the  look  of  the  real  name ;  still  the  sound 
is  much  more  important  than  the  appear- 
ance of  a  name ;  and  Messrs.  Cilley,  Cock- 
erill,  and  Cronk  had  recourse  but  to  half- 
measures  when  they  misspelled  their  gen- 
uine names.  Comerfort  naturally  tempts 
the  American  to  say  and  spell  Comfort. 
The  Hebrew  Cohen  is  spelled  Kohen,  Kone, 
and  Cone;  and  Connolly,  Cannelly,  Kenealy, 
Keneely ;  Corrigan,  Kerrigan ;  Cowley, 
Cooley;  Kirby,  Curby:  Kramer,  Creamer; 
together  with  all  the  possible  ways  of  ap- 
proximating the  sounds  of  Donaghue  and 
Dougherty — give  us  examples  of  a  diversity 
attained  under  the  most  discouraging  circum- 
stances. 

Bevans,  Bowen,  Powell,  Price,  Pritchard, 
and  probably  Breese,  are  modifications  of 
the  Welsh  "  Ap  "  (equivalent  to  Mac,  O,  Fitz, 
Son),  prefixed  to  Evans,  Owen,  Howell,  etc. ; 
but  what  induces  the  first  to  spell  his  name 
Bivins  is  more  than  we  can  answer. 

No  argument  is  needed  to  show  that  Dowd 
and  David,  Davis  and  Tevis,  English  and 
Inglis,  Eustace  and  Eustis,  Ennis  and  Innis, 
Forester  and  Foster,  are,  pair  by  pair,  one. 
Gough,  Hough,  Geraghty,  Garret,  and  Gleeson 
appear  each  under  five  different  guises  in  the 
directory.  Some  Hardy  was  taken  with  a 
fancy  for  Hardee,  and  others  of  the  clan 
struck  for  Hardie ;  a  branch  of  the  Hoi- 
combes  write  themselves  Hoakum;  Hyatt 
becomes  Hite,  Kearney  becomes  Carney, 
Kelly  is  Keiley,  Kelehy,  Kiely,  Keely, 
and  suffers  other  metamorphoses  too  te- 


dious to  mention.  Let  the  reader  recall  to 
his  mind  in  how  many  different  ways  he 
has  seen  Lawrence  spelled.  Irwin  has  been 
spelled  in  eleven  different  fashions,  though 
it  is  but  one  name.  Ralph,  Rolfe ;  Percival, 
Purcell;  McHugh,  McCue;  Philips,  Phelps; 
Pierson,  Pearson;  Reynard,  Rennert;  Rus- 
sell, Roszelle ;  Strahan,  Strain,  Strane — are  in- 
stances of  two  names  made  in  each  case  from 
one  original.  Sim's  son  is  none  the  less  a 
son  of  his  father  through  his  device  of  insert- 
ing a/;  nor  will  the  same  subterfuge  con- 
ceal the  paternity  of  Thompson.  Is  there 
a  possible  way  in  which  the  sound  of  Shep- 
herd could  be  represented  that  has  not  al- 
ready been  put  into  use  or  abuse?  Meagher 
is  spelled  in  every  intermediate  way  down  to 
Mair,  which  is  as  low  as  we  have  been  able 
to  trace  it.  One  Poindexter  says  that  his 
name  is  Pundickster;  and  some  years  since 
there  was  a  certain  Murphy,  who,  acquiring 
something  that  he  mistook  for  fame  or  re- 
pute, proceeded,  as  he  thought,  to  suit  his 
name  to  his  new  circumstances,  and  became 
Paul  Morphey. 

Most  of  the  facts  here  stated  can  be  veri- 
fied by  him  who,  passing  on  the  streets,  has 
eyes  and  uses  them.  ;  If  our  country  is  a 
cosmopolitan  one,  San  Francisco  is  peculiar- 
ly so  as  a  city;  and  nowhere  else  in  the 
world  could  we  have  in  one  spot  such  an  ex- 
cellent opportunity  for  research  on  the  ori- 
gin of  proper  names.  It  cannot  be  said  here, 
as  the  chronicler  says  of  Cornwall — 

"By  Pol,  Tre,  and  Pen, 
You  may  know  the  Cornishmen"; 

nor,  as  Sir  Walter  sings  of  Annandale — 

"Within  the  bounds  of  Annandale 

The  gentle  Johnstones  ride ; 
They  have  been  there  a  thousand  years, 
A  thousand  more  they'll  bide." 

Our  population  is  diversified  and  changing 
as  our  names,  races,  and  languages  are  va- 
rious ;  the  reader  may  therefore  easily  follow 
out  for  himself  the  line  of  observation  I  have 
indicated  by  these  few  instances  of  what  ap- 
pears to  be  a  growing  abuse  of  an  integral 
part  of  our  inheritance,  the  mother  tongue. 


1883.] 


Current  Comment. 


327 


CURRENT   COMMENT. 


SINCE  the  issue  of  our  last  number,  the  OVERLAND 
has  met  with  one  of  the  heaviest  losses  that  the  death 
of  one  man  could  bring  it;  and  in  this  loss  it  is  only 
a  sharer  with  almost  every  good  effort  and  institu- 
tion in  the  community.  On  the  3 1st  of  July,  Mr.  W. 
W.  Crane  died,  a  man  of  whose  work  and  worth  it 
is  speaking  narrowly  and  selfishly  to  say  only  that 
he  was  one  of  the  very  inner  circle  of  stanchest  friends 
and  supporters  of  the  OVERLAND,  both  the  early 
magazine  and  the  present  series,  both  in  prosperity 
and  still  more  in  adversity.  Mr.  Crane  has  been  an 
occasional  contributor  to  our  columns  from  first  to 
last,  oftener  in  editorial  and  otherwise  unsigned 
writing  than  in  signed  articles.  But  greater  than 
the  loss  of  the  services  from  time  to  time  rendered 
the  magazine  is  the  loss  of  the  untiring  steadfast- 
ness of  friendship  and  interest  that  we  have  always 
from  first  to  last  been  able  to  count  upon  with  absolute 
confidence.  It  is  no  secret  that  in  our  community 
where,  as  yet,  the  forces  of  life  and  activity  are  rush- 
ing strongly  into  material  channels,  the  battle  for  the 
intellectual  civilization  everywhere  in  progress  is  car- 
ried on  with  fewer  forces  than  in  other  places,  and, 
under  conditions  involving  a  heavier  strain  on  each 
one,  more  weight  of  anxiety  for  the  issue.  Therefore, 
the  sudden  fall  of  one  who  stood  among  the  few  most 
steadfast,  most  intelligently  active,  most  personally 
unselfish,  is  an  inexpressible  loss.  Almost  every  inter- 
est of  the  public  that  constitutes  our  reason  for  exist- 
ence— the  interests  of  education,  of  pure  government, 
of  literature — lose  as  warm  a  friend  as  the  OVERLAND 
loses,  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Crane  in  the  prime  of  his 
life  and  his  work.  We  hesitate  to  enter  here,  and 
hastily,  upon  any  analysis  of  the  character  or  history 
of  the  life  of  one  as  to  whom  so  much  is  to  be  said  by 
those  that  knew  him,  and  ought  to  be  read  by  all  in 
our  community  that  did  not  know  him;  and  shall  in 
as  early  a  future  as  possible  publish  some  more  ade- 
quate memorial  of  Mr.  Crane:  only  pausing  here  for 
the  few  words  of  honor  to  his  memory  and  sorrow 
for  the  public  loss,  without  which  we  cannot  let  this 
issue  go  forth. 

IF  the  friends  of  education  were  surprised  to  hear 
that  Charles  Francis  Adams,  Jr.,  had  declared,  on 
behalf  of  himself  and  the  Adams  family  generally, 
against  the  classical  curriculum  of  Harvard  and 
its  preparatory  academies,  no  noun  weaker  than 
"  amazement "  describes  their  feelings  after  reading 
the  oration  in  which  he  thus  takes  stand.  We 
found  it  entirely  comprehensible  that  Mr.  Adams — 
whose  specialty,  as  every  one  knows,  is  railroad  ques- 
tions— should  have  ranged  himself  with  the  many  in- 
telligent though  one-sided  or  partially  informed  men 


who  believe  the  scientific  education  to  be  at  odds  with 
the  classical,  and  in  the  right  of  the  quarrel.  There  is 
nothing  to  discredit  a  man  in  this  ;  in  the  majority  ot 
cases  he  is  quite  in  the  right,  except  for  the  one  point 
that — as  in  the  case  of  Herbert  Spencer — he  is 
attacking  the  traditional  and  obsolescent  classical 
education,  and  supposes  that  the  classical  education 
scholars  are  now  defending  is  the  same  thing,  which 
is  not  the  case.  Between  the  wide  and  generous 
scientific  training  and  the  wide  and  generous  classi- 
cal training  there  is  no  conflict,  but  great  mutual 
helpfulness.  If,  on  the  other  .hand,  Mr.  Adams 
had  taken  ground  with  the  specialists  in  behalf  of 
the  technical  training,  which  is  opposed  to  the  class- 
ical, it  would  not  have  been  incomprehensible: 
though  the  men  of  wisest  and  widest  outlook  and 
forward  look  will  never  be  found  among  the  advo- 
cates of  the  technical,  there  is— once  grant  the  point 
of  view — so  much  that  is  really  sound  to  be  said  in 
its  behalf,  that  one  need  not  be  surprised  to  see 
many  a  fellow-citizen  of  solid  brain  and  great 
public  services  turn  up  on  that  side. 

But  Mr.  Adams's  real  position  proves  to  be,  not 
for  science,  not  for  technique,  but  for  French.  Bur- 
lesque though  it  may  sound,  it  is  only  a  fair  summary 
we  are  giving  when  we  say  that  Mr.  Adams's  oration 
is  to  the  following  effect:  He  himself,  and  in  fact 
many  of  the  Adams  family  have  been  bitterly  morti- 
fied and  seriously  inconvenienced  because  they  did 
not  know  French;  John  Adams,  when  he  went 
abroad  as  United  States  Minister,  had  to  learn 
French  in  mature  age,  and  the  inconvenience  this 
was  to  him  in  diplomatic  intercourse  seems  to  his 
great-grandson  no  less  serious  a  matter  than  the  posi- 
tion of  one  who  "  fought  for  his  life  with  one  arm 
disabled."  On  his  own  behalf  as  well  as  his  great- 
grandfather's he  betrays  the  same  surprisingly  exag- 
gerated sensitiveness,  in  describing  his  own  feeling  at 
industrial  congresses  in  Europe,  where  his  French  was 
inadequate.  Now  Greek,  he  says,  was  always  to  the 
Adams  family  a  bore;  they  learned  it  by  rote  in  the 
first  place,  and  with  enormous  labor;  they  never  un- 
derstood it,  and  never  cared  for  Greek  literature. 
He  believes  the  majority  of  his  classmates  felt  the 
same  way  about  it.  Therefore,  for  the  benefit  of 
those  of  similar  tastes  and  mental  bias,  he  advises  the 
establishment  of  academies  which  shall  substitute 
for  the  teaching  of  Greek  the  modern  languages — 
French,  German,  Spanish,  Italian — and  that  Har- 
vard shall  accept  a  thorough  knowledge  of  any  two 
of  these  as  an  equivalent  for  the  elementary  knowl- 
edge of  Greek  now  required. 

Now  the  absurdity  of  all  this  lies  in  a  nut-shell; 
and  the  nut-shell  is  that  any  rran,  not  phenomenally 


328 


Current   Comment. 


[Sept. 


obtuse  in  language,    can  learn  French   or   German 
or  Spanish  or  Italian,  even  to  the  degree  of  perfec- 
tion that  Mr.  Adams  asks,  at  any  time  in  the  first 
ten  or  twenty  years  out  of  college;  if  he  has  learned 
his  Latin  and  Greek  well  in  college,  and  got  even 
the  scant  conception  of  language  relationships  that 
the  best  Latin  and  Greek  grammars  now  in  use  give, 
he  will  have  the  general  "hang"  of  the  Aryan  lan- 
guages well  enough  to  learn  the  German  and  Ro- 
mance tongues  with  ease,   even  without  a  teacher, 
save  for  the  one  point  of  pronunciation.     The  pro- 
nunciation, we  freely  grant  Mr.  Adams,  he  could  not 
have   acquired   to   a   scholarly   delicacy  after   early 
youth.     If  it  is  to  save  his  sons  from  the  mortification 
of  mere  deficiency  in  pronunciation  that  Mr.  Adams 
would   make   this   reform   in  the  academies,  it  is  a 
large   apparatus  for  a  small  piece  of  work;  for  we 
have  repeatedly  seen  young  men  and  women  equip- 
ped   with  the  pronunciation  enough,  not  merely  for 
industrial  or  diplomatic  purposes,  but  for  the  more 
exacting   standard  of  social  purposes,  in  no  longer 
time   than  those  very  hours   now  given  to  modern 
language  in  every  college  schedule;  we  speak  from 
knowledge  when  we  say  that  any  intelligent  young 
man  of  a  fairly  good  ear,  with  a  good  teacher,  can 
if  he  will  put  his  mind  on  it  acquire  all  the  French 
or  German   or  Spanish  pronunciation  he  will  ever 
need    in   three   class-room   hours   a   week    for    six 
months — and  there  is  no  college  in  which  the  ogre 
Greek  devours  the  hours  so  utterly  as  not  to  leave 
easily   this   remnant   to  the   student.     All   the   rest 
there  is  to  be  learned  of  a  foreign  language — and  we 
are  not  advocating  the  "grammar  and  dictionary" 
knowledge   that  Mr.   Adams   snubs   as  worthless — 
can  be   learned   thereafter,    and   the   pronunciation 
"  kept  up  "  by  simply  acquiring  and  keeping  up  a 
habit  of  reading  and  conversing  in  it.     It  is  just  here 
that  Mr.  Adams's  position  strikes  us  as  most  incom-  • 
prehensible.     He  says  plainly  that  he,  in  his  profes- 
sion, has  found  it  a  most  vitally  important  matter  to 
be  able  to  read  French  industrial  works,  and,  in  fol- 
lowing  out   lines   of    research   abroad   or    meeting 
co-laborers   of  other   lands,    equally    important    to 
speak    and     understand    French.      Of    course   we 
comprehend   that   he   means   by   this,    to  read  and 
speak  with  the  same  or  nearly  the  same  ease  as  his 
native  tongue.     Now  this  mastery  of  a  foreign  lan- 
guage, he  says,  he  has  found  it  impossible  to  acquire, 
both  from  lack  of  time  and  from  loss  of  the  mental 
facility  of  youth.     When  a  man  of  so  high  intellect- 
ual standing  proclaims  that  he  has  been  unable  to 
master  a  modern  language  after  arriving  at  the  age  of 
thirty  years  or  so,  one  is  almost  compelled  to  be- 
lieve  that   the  achievement  is  really  so  enormous. 
And  yet  one  needs  but  to  look  around  him  to  find 
American  society  bristling  with   refutation;  to  find 
men   reading  German  and  French  as  part  of  their 
business  or  professional  work,  women  speaking  them 
as  part  of  their  social  convenience,  all  of  whom — 
starting  from  the  ordinary  smattering  of  the  schools 


and  colleges — simply  learned  to  read  the  language 
by  reading  it,  to  speak  it  by  speaking  it.  Young  men 
go  every  year  from  our  American  colleges  to  Ger- 
man universities,  young  girls  to  study  music  abroad, 
and*  have  themselves  equipped,  almost  before  the 
voyage  is  over,  with  a  fair  use  of  theii  material, 
a  basis  on  which  they  can  raise  as  complete  a 
building  as  they  choose  by  simply  continuing  to 
use  the  language.  There  is  in  this  facility  for  ac- 
quiring language  a  great  difference  in  people;  but  as 
a  general  rule  it  may  be  said  that  any  one  who  has 
once  thoroughly  comprehended  and  learned  his 
Greek  and  Latin  grammar,  and  acquired  even  a 
dictionary  power  of  reading  these  languages,  and 
this  in  the  intelligent  way  and  from  the  point  of  view 
of  comparative  philology  (habitually  used  by  the 
best  teachers  on  this  Pacific  coast,  and — we  must  be- 
lieve on  other  authority  that  seems  to  contradict  Mr. 
Adams — at  Harvard  too) — any  one,  we  sa'y,  who  has 
thus  learned  Greek  and  Latin  grammar  has  learned 
the  grammar  of  the  Aryan  languages  once  for  all, 
and  need  only  note  a  few  points  of  variation  in  each 
to  have'  command  of  all  that  is  needed  as  a  founda- 
tion on  which  practice  will  build  good  working 
mastery  of  any  Romance  or  Teutonic  dialect.  It 
would  be  rather  curious  if  it  should  turn  out  that 
Mr.  Adams's  oration  had  unconsciously  revealed  a 
hitherto  unnoticed  mental  deficiency  hereditary  in 
the  brilliant  and  scholarly  family  for  which  he 
speaks — that  curious  obtuseness  in  the  one  matter 
of  language,  whatever  the  other  mental  powers, 
occasionally  discovered  by  every  practical  teacher. 
The  fact  that  he  represents  Greek  as  having  been 
a  terrible  drudgery  to  them  all,  and  the  grammar 
merely  learned  by  rote  and  never  understood,  seems 
to  point  in  the  same  way. 

IT  is  really  high  time  the  talk  of  classical  study  as 
an  old-fashioned,  fossilized  thing  was  dropped,  for  it  is 
becoming  an  inexcusable  display  of  ignorance;  and 
ignorance  with  regard  to  the  very  thing,  at  that, 
which  it  claims  to  know  most  about — the  spirit  and 
tendency  of  modern  science.  Language  occupies  a 
smaller  place  in  school  curricula  to-day  than  at  one 
time;  but  it  has  never  since  the  Renaissance  held  a 
more  important  rank  among  the  progressive  activities 
of  men,  or  been  more  a  vigorous  "  New  Learning," 
than  now.  There  is  among  men  who  are  by  temper- 
ament or  geography  a  little  out  of  the  way  of  know- 
ing what  is  going  on  in  the  intellectual  centers,  a 
doctrine  that  the  new  learning  of  to-day,  the  science 
that  carries  the  standard  for  the  nineteenth  century, 
is  exclusively  physical  science.  The  "humanities," 
they  think,  are  still  what  they  were  a  hundred  years 
ago.  They  think  of  the  group  of  sciences  that  deal 
with  man  as  a  rational  being  as  still  consisting  of 
such  studies  as  metaphysics,  theology,  orthodox 
political  economy;  and  do  not  seem  to  know  that 
these  dry  bones  are  now  walking  around  with  pre- 
cisely the  same  modern  blood  that  flows  in  the  veins 


1883.] 


Current  Comment. 


329 


of  the  group  of  sciences  that  treat  of  matter,  and  of 
man  only  so  far  as  he  consists  of  undoubted  matter. 
To  one  who  has  once  dipped  fingers,  be  it  never  so 
lightly,  into  the  great  currents  of  historical  and  socio- 
logical research  that  go  flowing  nowadays  around  the 
globe,  all  this  seems  an  amazing  ignorance.  Just  as 
chemistry,  geology,  or  botany  lead  up  to  biology  as 
their  highest  result,  and  owe  their  deepest  interest  in 
the  minds  of  all  but  specialists  to  that  very  fact,  so 
the  group  of  human  sciences,  history,  philosophy, 
literature,  economics  (the  distinctions  are  rough,  we 
grant,  for  they  are  all  really  history,  past  or  contem- 
porary), lead  up  to  sociology,  and  owe  their  deepest 
significance  to  that  fact.  And  just  as  the  unlearned 
are  made  most  quickly  to  feel  the  hand  of  science 
in  the  making  of  their  own  lives,  and  to  respect  it 
accordingly,  by  being  shown  the  result  of  mathemat- 
ics, mechanics,  astronomy,  meteorology,  in  engines, 
improved  routes  for  vessels,  and  storm-signals,  or  of 
biology  in  Pasteur's  and  Tyndall's  discoveries  about 
infection,  so  they  can  best  appreciate  the  results  of 
the  historic  sciences  when  they  come  to  the  point 
that  is  technically  called  dynamic  sociology,  and  lay 
an  actual  reforming  hand  on  the  abuses  of  society 
and  politics. 

Now  the  activity  that  is  in  this  year  of  grace  1883 
pervading  this  group  of  historic  sciences,  the  thor- 
oughly modern  and  common-sense  methods  that 
are  followed,  the  strong  breeze  of  "  nineteenth-cen- 
tury spirit "  that  fills  their  sails,  and  keeps  them  well 
on  in  the  van  of,  progress  (progress  even  in  the 
narrow  sense  often  fastened  on  the  word,  of  change, 
independence  of  the  old,  and  the  like) — these  are  most 
evident,  to  him  who  even  in  a  far-off  and  unlearned 
way  keeps  an  eye  on  their  course.  They  seize  on 
the  young  student  who  puts  himself  in  the  way 
of  their  influence,  and  sweep  him  along  into  their 
current  with  a  more  joyous  and  vigorous  enthusiasm 
than  any  other  class  of  subjects.  We  do  not  speak 
of  the  places  in  which  these  subjects  are  taught  and 
studied — as  botany  and  mathematics  are  apt  to  be 
in  the  same  places — in  an  unscientific,  rote-learned 
way:  we  speak  of  the  places  where  they  are  taught 
and  studied  accordingly  to  the  best  and  most  fertile 
method  ;  and  we  suspect  a  careful  census  would 
prove  these  places  to  be  as  many  as  those  in  which 
the  physical  sciences  come  up  to  the  same  standard ; 
and  that  their  radiation  of  really  valuable  influence 
is  as  great,  their  working  army  as  numerous,  though 
they  do  not  seem  to  attract  camp-followers  so  much. 
Now  he  who  knows  something  of  the  present  pro- 
gressive spirit  and  fruitful  development  of  the  histor- 
ical sciences  knows  also  that  nothing  has  done  more 
to  place  history  in  its  present  position  than  the  re- 
cent development  of  comparative  philology  —  that 
language-study  is  the  very  tap-root  through  which 
conies  the  main  current  of  nutriment  of  this  vigor- 
ously growing  and  fruitful  plant.  It  is  almost  hard 
to  tell  which  is  historian  and  which  is  philologist 
now,  and  it  is  fair  to  say  that  no  one  is  very  much  of 


a  historian  in  the  modern  spirit  who  is  not  a  philolo- 
gist, nor  very  much  of  a  philologist  who  is  not  a  his- 
torian. We  call  E.  A.  Freeman  a  historian — but 
how  much  of  Mr.  Freeman  would  be  left  if  the 
philology  were  taken  out?  Prof.  Cook  of  our  own 
University  is  technically  a  philologist,  because  a  man 
must  be  technically  something;  yet  the  chief  credit 
that  attached  to  his  name  before  he  came  here  was, 
we  understand,  in  connection  with  institutional  history. 
Prof.  Max  Miiller  is  technically  a  philologist;  and  his 
philology  has  been  the  direct  cause,  both  to  himself 
and  others,  of  enormous  contributions  to  the  compar- 
ative history  of  religion,  law,  government — and  in 
fact,  well  nigh  all  civilization.  If  any  one  doubts  the 
practical  value  of  all  this,  let  him  consider  whether, 
in  the  interests  of  character  and  morality,  the  very  gen- 
eral craving  among  the  intelligent  but  not  scholarly 
classes  for  some  new  light,  and  that  cast  from  outside 
sources,  on  theology,  had  better  be  satisfied  by  the 
smattering  of  crude  fact  and  falsehood  that  the  sensa- 
tional pulpit  stands  ready  to  supply,  or  by  the  sound 
facts  of  the  religious  history  of  mankind  which  will- 
like  all  sound  facts — undermine  the  taste  for  the  sen- 
sational. 

It  will  probably  be  readily  granted  that  this  vital 
history  of  to-day,  in  one  or  all  of  its  forms,  is  an 
indispensable  element  in  a  liberal  education.  Our 
own  observation  inclines  us  to  go  farther,  and  say 
that  there  is,  on  the  whole,  no  path  into  history  and 
sound  historic  methods  so  accessible,  practical,  and 
satisfactory  as  the  philological.  And  for  philology, 
there  practically  is  no  foundation  except  Latin  and 
Greek — and  Greek  rather  than  Latin.  This  is  a 
thesis  that  needs  no  proof  to  one  who  has  studied 
even  the  elements  of  the  two  languages  intelligently 
and  by  the  methods  of  comparative  philology,  and 
that  is  incapable  of  proof  to  one  who  has  not.  The 
reason  that  they  constitute  the  basis  of  all  language 
study  is  in  the  nature  of  the  languages,  the  particular 
stage  of  development  at  which  they  were  crystal- 
lized into  literature.  To  the  trained  philologist, 
their  value  is  not  pre-eminently  great — in  fact,  they 
are  comparatively  squeezed  lemons  to  him;  but  to 
the  young  student  there  is  no  substitute  for  them. 

As  to  whether  the  classics  are  actually  taught  in 
schools  and  colleges  according  to  the  vital  compara- 
tive method,  we  can  only  say  that  the  text-books  of 
Latin  and  Greek  now  foremost  in  the  field  are  thor- 
oughly in  its  spirit,  that  we  have  seen,  even  on  this 
•  far  Pacific  coast,  and  for  ten  years  past,  a  fair 
amount  of  it,  and  that  the  centers  of  education  are 
turning  out  yearly  men  competent  to  impart  it.  As 
a  further  indication  that  the  spirit  of  scientific 
language  study  is  supplanting  that  of  barren  classi- 
cism in  our  colleges,  imparting  a  new  strength  to  the 
position  of  Latin  and  Greek,  we  note  the  movement 
toward  Anglo-Saxon  in  our  colleges,  pointing  to  its 
ultimate  status  as  a  regular  part  of  the  classical  cur- 
riculum. It  will,  however,  legitimately  stand  third 
in  time  there,  not  because  it  is  less  worthy,  but  be- 


330 


Current  Comment. 


[Sept. 


cause  it  can  be  to  best  advantage  studied  third. 
This  will  perhaps  seem  fallacious  to  one  who  enter- 
tains the  hasty  impression  that,  while  Latin  helps  you 
to  learn  French,  because  most  French  words  are  de- 
rived from  Latin,  Greek  cannot  possibly  help  you  to 
learn  German,  because  there  are  few  words  in  com- 
mon. The  student,  however,  knows  that  the  thing 
which  makes  the  acquisition  of  new  languages  easy 
is  not  any  array  of  half-helping,  half-misleading  hints 
as  to  vocabulary,  but  a  sound  comprehension,  pre- 
viously built  into  his  intellectual  structure,  of  the 
"general  hang  "  of  language  and  its  methods. 

A  SMALL  point  of  international  discussion,  namely, 
the  right  of  England  to  charge  us  with  the  double 
given  name  as  an  Americanism,  has  already  been  to 
a  great  extent  settled  by  the  triumphant  citing  on  the 
part  of  patriotic  Americans  of  "those  well-known 
Americans,"  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  Henry 
Kirke  White,  William  Ewart  Gladstone,  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray,  or  of  "the  distinguished 
Britons,"  Abraham  Lincoln,  Bayard  Taylor,  Horace 
Greeley,  Edwin  Booth.  Though  it  may  be  easy  to 
prove  that  America  bestows  the  double  name  far 
more  freely  than  England,  she  can  at  least  protect 
the  custom  from  the  charge  of  being  an  Americanism 
by  an  amply  substantiable  tu  quoque.  But  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  bow  with  entire  submission  to 
strictures  on  the  American  middle  initial,  feeling  that 
we  cannot  allege  any  "Thomas  B.  Macaulay"  or 
"William  E.  Gladstone"  against  our  "John  G. 
Whittier"  and  "James  A.  Garfield."  Mr.  James, 
Jr.,  has  done  his  worst  by  the  friendless  initial;  the 
journalism  of  the  West  has  accepted  it  as  purely 
American  and  a  good  butt  for  purely  American 
humor,  and  accordingly  the  burlesque  novelette  of 
Western  journalism  is  now  depending  largely  for 
humorous  point  upon  calling  the  lover  "Alonzo  J. 
Smith"  or  "Henry  S.  Wilton"  at  impassioned 
points.  Such  a  sentence  as,  "Father,  I  will  not 
conceal  it  longer:  it  is  my  love  for  Alonzo  J.  Smith 
that  is  killing  me,"  is  considered  a  full  demonstration 
of  the  unfitness  of  the  middle  initial  for  romantic  or 
poetic  purposes;  while  its  peculiar  fitness  for  business 
purposes  is  everywhere  implied — the  very  sound  of 
Peter  A.  Miller  conveying  an  impression  of  com- 
mercial importance.  This  unfitness  for  romance  and 
fitness  for  business  in  the  middle  initial  is  probably 
the  point  that  has  reconciled  America  to  settling  down 
under  imputation  of  an  Americanism  without  a  sign  of 
her  usual  eager  search  through  Chaucer  and  Donne 
and  parish  registers  to  prove  that  it  is  really  an  old  and 
authenticated  Anglicism.  And  as  to  England  her- 
self, she  has  received  the  knowledge  of  this  curious 
custom  of  the  barbarous  people  with  much  amuse- 
ment, and  adopted  it  in  a  class  of  novels  as  the  very 
latest  and  best  means  of  writing  "This  is  an  Amer- 
ican "  across  the  brow  of  a  transatlantic  character. 

It  is  therefore  with  much  surprise  that  we  read 
the  signatures  to  a  testimonial  presented  to  United 


States  Minister  Adams,  upon  his  departure  from 
London  in  1868.  There  are  seventy-two  signatures 
to  this  document;  of  these,  twenty-two  are  either 
titles  or  firm  names,  and  throw  no  light  on  the  num- 
ber of  initials  possessed  by  the  signer.  Of  the  re- 
maining fifty,  twenty  signatures  consist  of  one  given 
name  and  surname,  to  which  may  be  added  that  of 
Disraeli,  who  signed  his  last  name  alone,  like  a  title. 
The  other  twenty-nine  signatures  we  will  give  in  two 
divisions: 

I. 

Thomas  Milner  Gibson.     C.  E.  Trevelyan. 

A.  H.  Layard.  C.  P.  Fortescue. 

C.  B.  Adderley.  W.  E.  Gladstone. 

John  Abel  Smith.  A.  C.  London. 

H.  E.  Rawlinson.  H.  H.  Milman. 

E.  P.  Bouverie.  W.  E.  Forster. 

Sir  S.  E.  Colebrook.  R.  W.  Crawford. 

H.  A.  Bruce.  J.  J.  Morgan. 

James  K.  Shuttleworth. 

II. 

Arthur  P.  Stanley.  William  J.  Alexander. 

James  W.  Colville.  George  J.  Goschen. 

G.  Shaw  Lefevre.  Spencer  H.  Walpole. 

M.  E.  Grant  Duff.  Rod.  I.  Murchison. 

Stafford  H.  Northcote.  J.  Wilson  Patten. 

Francis  H.  Goldsmid.  Thomas  N.  Hunt. 

Not  only,  then,  do  twenty-nine  out  of  fifty  Brit- 
ons, distinguished  in  church  and  state  and  letters  and 
finance,  sign  three  names  apiece,  but  twelve  of  these 
use  either  the  middle  initial,  or — in  three  cases — the 
first  initial  with  full  middle  name.  In  the  face  of 
"Arthur  P.  Stanley"  and  "Stafford  H.  Northcote," 
the  future  status  of  this  last  and  least-questioned  of 
Americanisms  seems  doubtful. 

THE  National  Civil  Service  Reform  League  have 
sent  out  a  circular,  in  which  they  urge  as  the  next 
step  of  reform  the  repeal  of  the  law  of  1820,  by 
which  many  of  the  higher  offices  in  the  civil  service 
are  limited  to  a  maximum  tenure  of  four  years.  The 
Pendleton  bill  met  the  abuses  of  the  spoils  system 
with  regard  to  the  lower  branches  of  the  service,  but 
left  all  the  higher  offices  untouched  by  reform,  except 
as  they  are  indirectly  affected  by  the  restrictions  on 
appointment  to  the  lowest  grades.  To  the  reformer, 
or  to  any  one  who  is  in  sympathy  with  reform,  the  mere 
statement  of  the  question  at  issue  is  sufficient  to  win 
hearty  assent  to  the  proposition,  and  sympathy  with 
the  effort  for  the  repeal  of  the  law;  the  arguments 
that  are  urged  are  in  the  main  the  same  by  which  the 
first  step  was  gained.  The  point  is  made  with  some 
insistance  that  the  repeal  of  the  law  would  be  no  ex- 
periment, but  a  return  to  the  custom  of  the  early  re- 
public; and  the  quotation  of  the  opinions  of  Webster, 
Benton,  Clay,  Calhoun,  etc.,  has  much  weight. 
That  of  Jefferson,  on  this  very  law,  we  quote  as  the 
best  summary  of  the  whole  :  "It  saps  the  constitu- 


1883.] 


Book  Reviews. 


331 


tional  and  salutary  functions  of  the  President,  and 
introduces  a  principle  of  intrigue  and  corruption 
which  will  soon  leaven  the  mass,  not  only  of  Sena- 
tors, but  of  citizens.  It  is  more  baneful  than  the  at- 
tempt which  failed  at  the  beginning  of  the  govern- 
ment, to  make  all  officers  irremovable  but  with  the 
consent  of  the  Senate.  This  places  every  four  years 
all  appointments  under  their  power,  and  obliges  them 


to  act  on  every  one  nomination.  It  will  keep  in 
constant  excitement  all  the  hungry  cormorants  for 
office;  render  them,  as  well  as  those  in  place, 
sycophants  to  their  Senators;  engage  them  in  eternal 
intrigue  to  put  out  one  and  put  in  another,  in  cabals 
to  swap  work;  and  make  of  them  what  all  executive 
directories  become,  mere  sinks  of  corruption  and 
faction." 


BOOK   REVIEWS. 


Studies  in  Literature. 

THE  third  issue  of  the  Putnam's  "  Topics  of  the 
Time  "  series  is  Studies  in  Literature.1  This  series  is 
practically  a  monthly  eclectic  magazine,  of  which 
each  issue  is  devoted  to  one  special  line  of  articles. 
It  is  a  novel  and  a  good  idea,  for  it  enables  the  read- 
er to  select  among  reprinted  English  essays  more  ac- 
cording to  his  preference;  and  on  the  whole  a  higher 
grade  of  essays  are  sifted  out  for  this  more  perma- 
nent form  than  for  the  magazines;  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  not  so  many  in  each  number,  and  they  are 
not  so.  recent.  The  present  number  has  a  specially 
good  selection  of  essays.  It  is  perhaps  a  drawback 
that  four  of  the  six  are  from  the  Nineteenth  Century 
and  the  Contemporary  Review,  whose  pirated  issues 
in  this  country  make  it  probable  that  these  essays 
have  been  read  before  by  many.  The  Blackwood 
paper  on  American  literature  in  England  is  the  first 
of  the  six,  and,  by  virtue  of  its  bearing  on  a  current 
controversy,  the  most  interesting.  It  is  in  the  main 
a  temperate,  gentlemanly,  and  reasonable  article; 
but  it  bears  some  droll  testimony  to  the  very  thing  it 
is  denying — that  is,  that  English  readers  are  not  in  a 
position  to  understand  the  New  England  school  of 
literature.  It  takes  ground  that  American  literature 
is  still  provincial,  and  that  when  Americans  exalt 
various  names  of  whom  England  has  never  heard,  it 
is  not  the  English  under-rating  but  American  over- 
rating that  is  at  fault.  When  the  critic  supports  this 
position  by  quoting  Mr.  Lowell's  early  eulogy  of  N. 
P.  Willis,  it  certainly  looks  strong;  but  is  promptly 
weakened  when  he  goes  on  to  illustrate  further  the 
superiority  of  English  standard  of  judgment  as  fol- 
lows: "  Nor  can  we  help  asking  ....  whether  if 
Mr.  Longfellow  had  not  been  an  American  any  man 
in  his  (literary)  senses  would  have  considered  him 
worthy  of  Westminster  Abbey?  He  is  a  very  charm- 
ing and  fluent  writer,  his  verses  run  smoothly  and 
catch  the  ear,  his  subjects  are  unexceptionable,  and 
he  has  a  little  characteristic  melody  of  his  own  which 
gives  a  gentle  pleasure.  But  nobody  surely  would 

1  Topics  of  the  Time.  Edited  by  Titus  Munson 
Coan.  Vol.  I.  No.  3.  Studies  in  Literature.  New 
York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883. 


rank  Evangeline  or  Hiawatha  among  the  great  poems 
of  the  world." 

Had  not  this  Blackwood  essay  been  so  generally 
commented  on  at  the  time  of  its  first  appearance,  we 
could  dwell  at  some  length  upon  several  misappre- 
hensions of  the  critic;  but  we  will  only  call  attention 
to  the  truth  of  his  general  proposition  that  in  all 
great  literature  the  humanity  is  larger  than  the  pro- 
vincialism, and  intelligible  to  all  whose  opinion  is 
worth  having.  American  critics  have  never  claimed 
that  Howells  is  great  in  this  highest  sense  of  the 
word;  they  only  claim  for  him  the  discovery  of  a 
new  handling  of  fiction  so  modern,  so  true,  and  so 
charming  as  to  be  in  itself  a  sort  of  greatness;  in 
other  words,  he  is  great  in  the  more  superficial  ele- 
ments of  novel-writing,  and  admirable,  but  just 
short  of  great,  in  the  deeper  qualities.  But  the  asser- 
tion that  we  have  no  literature  in  which  the  human 
rises  above  the  provincial  simply  discredits  the 
writer:  we  have  a  good  deal  of  poetry,  and  a  little 
fiction,  notably  Hawthorne's,  not  to  speak  of  any 
other  sort  of  literature.  One  thing  always  confuses 
the  English  second-rate  critic  in  this  question  of  pro- 
vinciality: he  cannot  feel  that  the  political  issues 
touched  in  the  Biglow  Papers  are  no  more  provincial 
than  those  touched  in  Gulliver's  Travels,  and  objects 
that  the  wit  of  the  paper  is  obscured  by  the  necessity 
of  studying  up  petty  details  of  American  history. 
We  Americans  expect  to  study  up  English  history 
that  is  quite  as  petty  as  either  the  Mexican  War  or  the 
Secession,  in  order  to  understand  English  literature. 

The  second  essay  is  on  a  "new  reading  "of  Ham- 
let, by  Franklin  Leifchild,  and  is  from  the  Contem- 
porary Review.  Overlooking  the  slight  tinge  of  the 
fanciful  that  seems  to  haunt  essays  about  Hamlet,  the 
position  taken  is  to  our  mind,  in  its  general  outline, 
the  only  sound  one:  that  the  keystone  of  the  drama 
is  not  the  father's  murder  and  the  duty  of  vengeance, 
but  the  mother's  fall,  and  Hamlet's  consequent  loss 
of  faith  in  humanity  and  life;  and  that  the  numerous 
inconsistencies  are  explained  by  the  rather  incongru- 
ous grafting  of  this  psychologic  drama  on  the  materi- 
alistic frame-work  of  the  stage-play.  Nothing  could 
more  plainly  exhibit  this  incongruity  than  the  instance 


332 


Book  Reviews. 


[Sept. 


here  quoted  of  the  soliloquy  following  after  the  inter- 
view with  the  ghost:  "The  undiscovered  country 
from  whose  bourne  no  traveler  returns" — and  this  in 
the  face  of  an  incident  that  contradicts  half  the  burden 
of  the  soliloquy.  The  next  essay,  "The  Humorous 
in  Literature,"  is  rambling  nonsense,  not  worth  print- 
ing the  first  time,  still  less  the  second.  "The  Bol- 
landists"  is  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  little 
known  and  less  appreciated  work  of  the  Jesuit  so- 
ciety founded  by  Bolland  to  write  a  complete  cyclo- 
pedia of  the  "Lives  of  the  Saints."  This  remark- 
able work,  begun  in  1629,  has  continued  with  only 
one  break  to  the  present  time,  and  bids  fair  to  go  on 
a  generation  or  two  more.  One  cannot  lay  down 
this  paper  (by  the  Rev.  George  T.  Stokes,  in  the 
Contemporary  Review)  without  a  warm  admiration 
for  the  character  and  work  of  the  society,  especially 
of  its  founders.  Matthew  Arnold's  essay,  "Isaiah 
of  Jerusalem,"  already  much  read  and  quoted  on  this 
side  the  sea,  is  simply  a  plea  to  the  revisers  to  pre- 
serve the  beauty  of  the  old  translation  of  Isaiah,  even 
at  the  sacrifice  of  verbal  exactness,  because  literary 
beauty  is  an  invaluable  religious  force  in  the  sacred 
books  of  a  people.  A  pleasant  article  by  Thomas 
Wright,  "The  Journeyman  Engineer,"  discusses  in 
an  optimistic  way  the  readers  of  the  "penny  novel 
serials  "  (which  appear  to  be  much  the  sort  of  litera- 
ture that  Pomona  used  to  read  in  the  Rudder 
Grange);  these  readers,  he  says,  are  of  the  "gen- 
teel" class — young  ladies  in  the  millinery  business, 
and  so  on;  and  they  will  read  the  next  grade  higher 
of  fiction  by  preference  whenever  they  can  get  it  for 
a  penny. 

Kenan's  Recollections.1 

ERNEST  RENAN  is  sixty  years  of  age.  He  is 
known  chiefly  to  American  readers  as  the  author 
of  a  Life  of  Jesus,  which  was  published  in  1863, 
which  in  five  years  ran  through  five  editions,  and 
which  was  translated  into  most  of  the  continental 
languages.  He  was  intended  for  the  church,  and 
following  the  guidance  of  his  early  introduction  to 
the  Oriental  tongues,  he  became  a  student  and  master 
of  the  Semitic  languages,  and  to-day  probably  has 
no  living  superior  in  that  department  of  learning. 
He  was  by  nature  religious,  and  by  training  scholarly. 
He  first  accepted  the  teachings  of  authority,  but  the 
questions  that  arise  in  every  mind  prone  to  philos- 
ophy, and  speculation,  and  complete  acquisition, 
kept  him  in  the  paths  of  investigation,  until  the 
doubts  which  authority  would  silence  were  answered 
for  him  by  solutions  that  brought  him  to  grounds  of 
belief  different  from  his  teachers  and  his  church. 
He  has  in  all  reverence  and  honesty  passed  over  the 
whole  gamut  of  Christian  religious  th'ought,  from  the 
permanent  and  rigid  dogmas  of  Roman  Catholicism 
to  a  complete  and  unqualified  disavowal  of  belief  in 

1  Recollections  of  my  Youth.  By  Ernest  Renan. 
Translated  by  C.  B.  Pitman.  New  York:  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons.  For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 


what  is  known  and  accepted  as  Christianity  in  its 
most  liberal  expression.  These  recollections  of  his 
youth  are  not  a  narrative  of  the  events  of  his  early 
life,  such  as  make  up  the  substance  of  most  biograph- 
ical writings.  "The  recollections  of  my  childhood," 
he  says,  "do  not  pretend  to  form  a  complete  and 
continuous  narrative.  They  are  merely  the  images 
which  arose  before  me,  and  the  reflections  which 
suggested  themselves  to  me  while  I  was  calling  up  a 
past  fifty  years  old,  written  down  in  the  order  in 

which  they  came The  form  of  the  present 

work  seemed  to  me  a  convenient  one  for  expressing 
certain  shades  of  thought  which  my  previous  writings 
did  not  convey.  I  had  no  desire  to  furnish  informa- 
tion about  myself  for  the  future  use  of  those  who 
might  wish  to  write  essays  or  articles  about  me." 
With  such  prefatory  warning,  and  with  the  further 
expression  that  "the  one  object  in  life  is  the  devel- 
opment of  the  mind,  and  the  first  condition  for  the 
development  of  the  mind  is  that  it  should  have  lib- 
erty, "he  gives  hints  of  the  progressive  development 
of  his  own  religious  opinions,  as  he  passed  from  one 
place  of  study  to  another  in  his  youth.  His  teachers 
are  placed  before  you  as  they  were  intellectually  and 
religiously,  and  his  own  struggles  and  doubts  as  they 
arose  and  conquered  him,  until,  in  the  honesty  of 
his  being,  he  broke  the  promise  of  early  intent  and 
gave  up  the  life  of  the  priesthood,  for  which  -he  had 
made  all  the  primary  preparation.  As  he  writes  of 
his  youth,  the  conclusions  of  his  maturity  often 
come  uppermost,  and  interpolate  themselves  between 
the  stages  of  his  earlier  development,  and  at  inter- 
vals we  meet  his  best  conclusions  concerning  the 
truths  of  religion,  philosophy,  and  life.  Whether 
Renan  agrees  with  the  reader  a  little  or  differs  from 
him  a  great  deal,  one  must  reflect  that  he  is  reading 
the  work  of  one  who  is  most  deeply  learned  in  all 
the  beginning  and  maturity  of  Christian  learning. 
If  he  cannot  solve  the  reason  of  the  differences  be- 
tween himself  and  the  author,  the  author,  at  any  rate, 
does  not  come  within  the  range  of  his  pity  or  his 
criticism,  by  reason  of  lack  of  learning  upon  this  sub- 
ject, to  which  he  has  given  most  of  the  thinking  of 
his  life.  He  is  one  of  the  most  elegant  writers 
of  his  time,  and  in  this  work  the  grace  and  sim- 
plicity of  his  style  will  allure  many  readers  who 
might  be  repelled  from  another  who  reached  conclu- 
sions so  wide  apart  from  most  modern  religious 
thought.  His  morality  is  on  a  plane  above  our  crit- 
icism. His  conclusions  may  be  a  bewilderment  to 
the  church  in  which  he  was  fostered,  but  the  im- 
maculateness  of  his  life  and  the  purity  of  his  pur- 
poses are  evidenced  throughout  this  last  svork  of  his 
and  in  every  expression  of  his  pen.  He  is  grateful 
to  the  priests  who  taught  him  for  the  rigid  morality 
of  his  life,  but  he  does  not  concede  to  every  one  the 
right  to  doubt  what  have  been  accepted  as  great  re- 
ligious truths.  "There  are,  in  reality,"  he  writes, 
"  but  few  people  who  have  a  right  not  to  believe  in 
Christianity.  If  the  great  mass  of  people  only  knew 


1883.] 


Book  Jteviews. 


333 


how  strong  is  the  net  woven  by  the  theologians,  how 
difficult  it  is  to  break  the  threads  of  it,  how  much 
erudition  has  been  spent  upon  it,  and  what  a  power 

of  criticism   is    required  to  unravel  it  all I 

have  noticed  that  some  men  of  talent,  who  have  set 
themselves  too  late  in  life  the  task,  have  been  taken 
in  the  toils  and  have  not  been  able  to  extricate 
themselves."  On  a  level  with  this  thought  we  may 
add,  that  this  book  is  not  for  all  readers;  that  there 
are  but  few  people  who  have  their  own  opinions  so 
far  within  their  control. that  they  can  afford  to  follow 
this  author  into  what  may  be  toils  from  which  they 
may  not  be  able  to  extricate  themselves..  For  the 
average  reader  does  not  have  that  foundation  and 
reason  for  his  final  religious  conclusions  that  Renan 
is  able  to  give:  "I  cannot  honestly  say,  moreover, 
that  my  faith  in  Christianity  was  in  reality  diminished; 
"my  faith  has  been  destroyed  by  historical  criticism, 
not  by  scholasticism,  nor  by  philosophy." 

Life  on  the  Mississippi.1 

IT  is,  on  the  whole,  a  pleasure  rather  than  other- 
wise to  find  that  Mark  Twain's  latest  book,  while 
unquestionably  an  entertaining  one,  is  not  distinctly 
humorous.  There  is  a  limit  to  the  desirability  of  re- 
peating the  sort  of  humor  that  has  put  this  delightful 
writer  into  the  position  of  representative  American 
humorist.  "Never  try  to  repeat  a  success,"  the 
saying  goes ;  and  it  is  particularly  true  of  humor. 
We  doubt  if  there  is  a  humorist  on  record  who  has 
been  as  nearly  inexhaustible  as  Mark  Twain;  never- 
theless, it  must  be  realized  that  the  "Innocents 
Abroad"  and  "Roughing  It"  have  been  written, 
and  cannot  be  written  again.  Mark  Twain  has  lived 
to  find  himself  in  something  the  position  celebrated 
by  Tennyson  in  "The  Flower."  So  enormous  a 
crop  of  imitators  has  grown  up,  so  thoroughly  have 
they  permeated,  saturated  the  press,  especially  the 
Western  press,  in  all  degrees  of  cleverness  and  of 
stupidity,  that  the  bona  fide  article  can  never  be 
fully  the  same  thing  again  to  us.  We  are,  therefore, 
very  willing  to  find  in  the  present  book  more  of  auto- 
biographic value  than  of  deliberate  humor. 

The  autobiography  is  mixed  with  nonsense,  with 
whimsical  sells,  with  various  adornment ;  but  any 
intelligent  reader  can  discriminate  enough  among 
these  to  get  a  very  fair  idea  of  the  environment  that 
produced  (supplemented  by  the  mines  of  Oregon  and 
California)  a  larger  portion  of  typical  "American 
humor  "  in  one  man  than  has  been  incarnated  in  any 
other  three.  While  for  the  most  part  semi-serious  or 
even  quite  serious,  the  book  is  sprinkled  through  with 
very  characteristic  bits  of  broad  farce  and  absurdity : 
the  story  of  the  "  ha'nted  bar'l,"  for  instance  ;  the 
elaborate  and  somewhat  ghastly  fiction  of  the  errand 
at  Hannibal,  solemnly  inserted  among  veracious  in- 
cidents; the  refuge  for  imbeciles  at  St  Louis;  and 
a  number  of  briefer  anecdotes  and  remarks.  The 

1  Life  on  the  Mississippi.  By  Mark  Twain.  Illus- 
trated. Boston  :  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  1883. 


greater  part  of  the  volume  narrates  the  incidents  of  a 
trip  made  last  year  by  the  author  over  his  old  region, 
down  the  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans,  and  up  it 
again  to  St.  Paul,  reviving  old  recollections,  meet- 
ing old  acquaintances,  and  noting  the  changes  in  the 
country.  With  so  much  enthusiasm  and  spirit  is  his 
earlier  life  there  described  in  the  first  chapters,  that 
the  reader  enters  to  a  great  extent  into  the  author's 
feeling  for  the  river  and  the  pilot's  life,  and  feels  much 
sympathy  with  his  desire  to  revisit  the  old '  scenes, 
much  interest  in  knowing  what  became  of  Horace 
Bixby  and  George  Ealer  and  the  rest.  There  is  un- 
questionably padding  in  the  book;  the  idea  of  the 
publishers  seems  to  have  been  that  if  five  hundred 
pages  from  Mark  Twain  were  good,  six  hundred 
were  better;  and  in  so  assuming,  they  certainly  had  a 
public  to  count  upon  who  will  consider  every  page 
extra  so  much  clear  gain.  The  critical,  however, 
would  prefer  to  have  Life  on  the  Mississippi  with 
the  padding  out,  to  the  exclusion  of  some  well-worn 
facts,  some  dull  itinerary  details,  and  some  strained 
jests  that  seem  to  have  been  forced  in  among  better 
ones  to  make  the  number  up  to  what  the  public  will 
naturally  expect  from  Mark  Twain.  If  anything 
entitles  Twain  to  the  gratitude  of  his  country  more 
than  does  the  delightful  drollery  he  has  contributed 
to  it,  it  is  the  success  with  which  he  has  sustained 
the  difficult  position  of  humorist-laureate  for  so 
many  years.  When  one  considers  what  human 
nature  is,  it  is  marvelous  that  he  has  not  dropped 
long  ago  into  flat  caricature  of  himself,  into  a  copi- 
ous flow  of  strained  jokes;  the  temperance,  taste, 
and  critical  judgment  he  has  in  the  main  shown  in 
this  matter  constitute  in  themselves  a  high  literary 
quality,  and  are  probably  the  very  thing  that  saved 
him  from  the  swift  deterioration  and  disappearance 
that  has  befallen  one  after  another  all  his  imitators. 
The  desertion  of  newspaper  work  for  magazine  and 
book  work  has  been  a  great  element  in  this  perma- 
nency of  his  qualities.  Nevertheless,  it  will  occasion- 
ally happen  that  he  writes  a  sentence  that  would 
evidently  never  have  been  written  but  for  the  sense 
upon  him  of  a  reputation  for  jokes  to  be  sustained. 

Briefer  Notice. 

THREE  books2  of  European  travel  fall  to  our 
notice,  which  are  marked  examples  of  three  totally 
different  moods  in  which  book-making  Americans 
look  at  things  abroad.  Mr.  Ruggles  is  the  severely 
.  practical  man;  he  always  has  his  measuring-tape  in 
his  hand,  and  always  gives  the  cost  of  what  he  talks 
about,  be  it  the  king's  palace  or  a  mug  of  beer.  He 
writes  in  the  style  with  which  we  have  become  dis- 

2  Germany  Seen  without  Spectacles.  By  Henry  Rug- 
gles, late  U.  S.  Consul  at  Malta  and  Barcelona.  Bos- 
ton: Lee  &  Shepard.  1883. 

Pyrenees  to  Pillars  of  Hercules.  By  Henry  Day. 
New  York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883.  For  sale  by 
A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 

Italian  Rambles.  By  James  Jackson  Jarves.  New 
York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883.  For  sale  by  A.  L. 
Bancroft  &  Co. 


33-4 


Outcroppings. 


[Sept. 


mally  familiar  in  the  letters  of  the  special  corres- 
pondent to  the  "enterprising"  newspaper,  a  style 
marred  by  attempts  at  the  sensational  and  the  occa- 
sional mistaking  of  vulgarity  for  wit.  And  yet  it  is 
a  book  that  one  reads  to  the  end,  though  with  a  little 
self-contempt  for  doing  it,  and  it  gives  a  fair  picture, 
doubtless,  of  the  outside  view  of  the  German 
people,  of  whose  inner  life  Mr.  Ruggles  has  neither 
the  ability  nor  the  hardihood  to  write.  Pyrenees  to 
Pillars  of  Hercules  is  a  good  name  for  Mr.  Day's  book 
on  Spain.  He  begins  at  one  end  of  the  country  and 
goes  through  it  in  a  methodical  sort  of  way,  writing 
as  if  his  book  were  to  be  used  as  a  text-book  to  be 
committed  to  memory  by  unwilling  children.  There- 
fore his  statements  are  put  in  the  simple  declarative, 
with  a  solid  basis  of  fact  and  a  bristling  array  of  figures, 
gained  confessedly  from  the  guide-boek.  There  is 
nothing  sympathetic  or  powerful  about  the  book,  and 
the  reader  is  forced  to  admit  that  the  humility  of  Mr. 
Day's  preface  is  justified  by  the  pages  that  follow. 
Mr.  Jarves  is  neither  the  rampant  Philistine  nor  the 
plodding  disciple  of  Murray,  and  he  has  given  us  a  book 
that  contains  many  charming  pictures  of  odd  corners  of 
Italy,  and  notes  of  some  value  of  many  of  its  art  treas- 
ures. He  gives  his  readers  the  credit  of  knowing 
something  to  start  with,  and  thus  does  not  make  the 
mistake  of  informing  us  that  we  probably  are  igno- 
rant that  Stuttgart  is  the  capital  of  Wurtemberg,  as 
Mr.  Ruggles  does,  nor  does  he,  with  Mr.  Day,  refer 
us  to  the  map  of  Europe,  that  we  may  discover  that 
Spain  is  a  peninsula.  Indeed,  he  sometimes  assumes 
a  knowledge  of  art  matters  that  leaves  the  general 
reader  much  in  the  dark,  however  it  may  flatter  his 
vanity.  The  pictures  of  peasant  life  are  the  most 
enjoyable  part  of  the  book,  although  the  chapters  on 
manners  in  Europe  and  America  are,  in  general, 

just  and  valuable. The  Rolfe  series  of  editions  of 

Shakspere's  works  comes  to  an  end  with  the  publica- 
tion of  two  volumes,  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  Lucrece, 
and  Other  Poems,1  and  the  Sonnets.*  Like  the  last 

1  Shakespeare's  Venus  and  Adonis,  Lucrece,  and  Other 
Poems.      Edited    by   William  J.    Rolfe.      New  York: 
Harper  &  Brothers.     1883. 

2  Shakespeare's  Sonnets.    Edited  by  William  J .  Rolfe. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Brothers.     1883. 


of  the  dramas  issued,  these  are  unexpurgated,  since 
they  are  unsuitable  for  schools  and  reading-clubs. 
The  "Other  Poems,"  which  he  considers  undoubt- 
edly Shaksperian,  are  the  "Lover's  Complaint," 
"Passionate  Pilgrim,"  and  the  less  frequently  ad- 
mitted "  Phcenix  and  Turtle."  From  "The  Pas- 
sionate Pilgrim "  six  songs  and  sonnets  are  re- 
manded to  the  notes  as  unquestionably  the  work 
of  others  than  Shakspere,  while  much  doubt  is 
cast  on  others  that  are  nevertheless  left  in  the  text. 
The  volume  of  sonnets  contains  much  discussion  of 
the  question  of  their  meaning,  the  outcome  of  which 
is  that  investigation  fails  to  supply  any  more  proba- 
ble solution  than  the  obvious  one  suggested  by  the 
sonnets  themselves;  Mr.  Rolfe  sets  them  down  as  un- 
doubtedly genuine  autobiography,  not  dramatic  fancy. 
His  collation  of  all  the  evidence  and  speculation  on 
this  point  makes  its  meagerness  apparent  enough. 
The  material  for  the  biographical  sketches  con- 
tained in  Twelve  Americans^  we  are  told,  "  was  in 
every  case  obtained  during  long  and  frequent  person- 
al interviews  "  with  the  subjects.  The  character  of 
the  sketches  may  easily  be  inferred  from  this.  The 
"Twelve"  are  Horatio  Seymour,  "The  Farmer- 
Statesman";  Charles  Francis  Adams,  "A  Descend- 
ant of  Presidents";  Peter  Cooper,  "The  People's 
Friend";  Hannibal  Hamlin — •  "He  Served  the 
State";  John  Gilbert,  "For  Fifty  Years  an  Actor"; 
Robert  C.  Schenck — "The  Recollections  of  a  Vet- 
eran"; Frederick  Douglass— "  Through  Slavery  to 
Fame  ";  William  Allen,  "  An  Old-Time  Democrat "; 
Allen  G.  Thurman,  "The  Senator  from  Ohio"; 
Joseph  Jefferson — "A  Lifetime  on  the  Stage"; 
Elihu  B.  Washburne,  "The  Watch-dog  of  the 
Treasury";  Alexander  H.  Stephens,  "  A  Man  of 
the  South."—  — The  fourth  issue  of  the  excellent 
"Theatre  Contemporain  "  pamphlet  series  is  again  a 
comedy,  Le  Gentilhomme  Pauvre,*  by  Dumanoir  and 
Lafargue. 

8  Twelve  Americans:  Their  Lives  and  Times.  By 
Howard  Carroll.  New  York:  Harper  &  Brothers. 
1883.  For  sale  by  A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co. 

4  Le  Gentilhomme  Pauvre.  Come"die  in  Deux  Actes, 
par  MM.  Dumanoir  et  Lafargue.  New  York:  William 
R.  Jenkins.  1883. 


OUTCROPPINGS. 


Rus  in  Urbe. 

THE  city  sensations  of  a  countryman  are  nothing 
new,  except  to  the  countryman  himself.  Luckily,  he 
never  loses  the  delights  of  novelty  when  he  exchanges 
his  rose  walks  and  cabbage  beds  for  the  noisome 
odors  and  rapid  excitement  of  his  metropolis.  Let 


not  belong  to  the  truly  rural  at  all.  He  knows  as 
little  of  its  hardships  as  he  does  of  its  joys.  He  is  a 
nondescript,  a  sort  of  social  circus-rider  trying  to 
bestride  two  horses  at  once. 

The  real  article  lives  out  all  the  seasons  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  produce.     He  watches  the  sunset  flame, 


it  be  understood  that   the  city  toiler  who  plays  at     the  whirling   autumn  leaves,  the  "mackerel   sky," 
country  life  for  the  summer  is  an  impostor.     He  does     the   sharp  green  blades  peeping  through  the  mold> 


1883.] 


Outer  oppings. 


335 


with  a  knowing  eye.  The  touch  of  the  wind  on  his 
cheek,  the  cry  of  the  wild  geese  overhead,  are  to  him 
messages  as  direct  as  any  telephonic  communication. 
His  ambitions  rarely  run  ahead  of  his  successes.  It 
is  not  for  us  to  say  whether  the  sluggishness  in  his 
blood  depends  upon  his  traditional  diet  of  hot  bread, 
pork,  and  pie,  or  is  due  to  the  soothing  influence  of 
nature  pure  and  simple — anyhow,  "the  country  is 
good  enough"  for  him.  But  half  a  dozen  times  in 
the  year  he  is  called  to  the  city.  It  is  always  an 
event — a  pebble  thrown  into  the  still  pool  of  his  exist- 
ence. He  has  the  bearing  of  a  voyager.  He  is  in- 
trusted with  many  commissions  which  are  equal 
sources  of  annoyance  and  satisfaction.  When  he 
leaves  home,  he  believes  in  himself  implicity,  he  has 
a  complacent  content  in  his  appearance,  his  judg- 
ment, his  surroundings,  which  every  mile  of  his 
journey  diminishes  by  a  shade,  until,  as  he  enters 
the  smoky  suburbs  of  the  town,  his  own  little  world, 
which  seemed  all  the  world  an  hour  or  two  before, 
shrinks  into  nothingness.  As  he  steps  out  of  the 
train  into  the  busy,  eager  human  tide,  and  is  borne 
along  with  it,  a  faint  unacknowledged  sense  of  isola- 
tion comes  to  him.  Even  his  best  suit  loses  its  sig- 
nificance, and  its  defects  loom  up  by  comparison  with 
the  dapperness  of  the  citizen,  till  Rusticus  grows 
awkward  and  ill  at  ease.  He  would  Tain  take  time 
to  consider,  but  is  soon  made  to  feel  that  nobody 
can  wait  for  that  sort  of  thing,  save  some  suave 
Israelites,  who  entreat  and  persuade  as  if  time  was 
not. 

Rusticus  loses  his  spectacles  often  while  inspecting 
unfamiliar  goods,  and  takes  out  his  memoranda  to 
consult  at  every  corner,  touching  his  breast  pocket 
to  make  certain  that  his  funds  are  safe.  •  Though  he 
is  not  a  total  stranger  and  can  follow  the  streets 
pretty  well,  he  walks  grievous  distances  to  reach 
places  only  a  few  blocks  apart,  and  is  constantly  ad- 
jured to  get  but  of  the  way  by  car-bells  and  hack- 
men.  He  is  deluded  by  shop-keepers  into  buying 
everything  he  was  told  not  to  buy — things  for  which 
he  has  no  need ;  and  his  pocketful  of  hard  coin 
melts  away  as  though  the  city  were  the  furnace  of 
Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego.  Rusticus  grows 
more  weary  with  this  unaccustomed  toil  than  he 
would  with  a  day's  plowing.  He  takes  lunch  at  a 
cheap  restaurant,  strives  to  put  on  the  air  of  an  ha- 
bitud,  fails  signally,  and  worst  of  all,  knows  that  h 
fails.  He  waits  until  everybody  else  is  served,  and 
eats  mysterious  compounds  cheerfully  and  without 
complaint.  Thrice  happy  is  he  if  he  meet  a  country 
neighbor ;  a  familiar  face  in  the  throng  is  as  wel- 
come as  a  guide-post  to  a  belated  traveler. 

Perhaps  Rusticus  stays  overnight ;  he  goes  to  dine 
with  some  urban  friend;  but  the  hospitality  lacks 
savor  and  the  house  is  cold.  After  he  gets  away 
from  his  entertainment — awkwardly  enough — he  feels 
it  his  duty  to  go  to  the  theater,  which  to  the  average 
countryman  represents  pleasure  in  its  most  exalted 
form.  If  he  is  the  single-minded  man  I  have  in  my 


mind's  eye,  the  play  bores  him ;  for  say  what  you 
will,  theatricals,  like  oysters,  are  an  acquired  taste. 
But  Rusticus  tries  to  think  he  is  enjoying  himself 
mightily,  and  stores  up  as  much  of  the  plot  as  he 
can  to  unfold  to  the  home  circle.  He  waits  con- 
scientiously till  the  curtain  falls,  and  then  goes  away 
to  his  inside  room  at  the  hotel,  where  he  sleeps  the 
sleep  of  the  just,  in  spite  of  the  hard  mattresses  and 
sleazy  blankets.  He  wakes  with  a  start  at  dawn, 
from  force  of  habit,  remembering  the  "chores"  to 
be  done,  and  only  recovers  his  own  indentity  among 
the  unfamiliar  surroundings  after  a  painful  struggle. 
He  begins  to  wish  his  business  accomplished.  JVbs- 
talgia  seizes  him.  He  thinks  of  his  yesterday's  pur- 
chases with  misgivings;  he  looks  at  his  depleted 
purse  with  a  sense  of  defeat ;  and  then  wonders 
mechanically,  as  he  goes  out  into  the  smudgy  morn- 
ing, whether  John  will  forget  to  have  the  roan  horse 
shod.  He  is  too  early  for  breakfast,  for  business, 
for  anything  but  the  contemplation  of  hucksters  and 
milk  carts,  or  laborers  and  mechanics,  hurrying  over 
the  slippery  pavements  to  their  routine.  The  first 
street -cars  down  town  find  him  waiting  irresolutely 
at  street-corners,  waiting  for  the  city  to  wake  up ; 
and  long  before  the  slim-legged  broker's  clerks  and 
rotund  merchants  have  found  their  way  to  their  re- 
spective offices,  Rusticus  is  worn  out  with  doing 
nothing.  Thereafter  he  is  in  as  great  hurry  as  the 
busiest  of  them  all.  He  chafes  at  delays.  He  is  at 
the  depot  an  hour  too  soon.  He  feels  as  though  he 
had  been  a  looker-on,  not  "at  Vienna,"  but  at  the 
building  of  Babel.  His  homely  pride  in  his  crops  and 
his  local  influence  (he  has  just  been  elected  school 
director),  his  honorable  self-esteem,  is  shriveled  up  to 
a  very  small  interrogation  point.  There  is  a  be- 
wildered "why?"  surging  around  in  his  brain,  which 
only  can  be  answered  in  sylvan  silence.  He  is  as 
well  educated  as  nine-tenths  of  the  men  he  meets, 
he  is  dressed  well  enough,  he  is  counted  shrewd 
enough  in  a  trade  at  home  ;  but  in  this  new  atmos- 
phere he  is  helpless,  mesmerized  by  the  tremendous 
vitality  of  the  crowd.  But  he  can't  help  asking, 
"Why?" 

The  overdressed  wife  and  daughters  of  his  host, 
with  their  gay,  slashed  jackets  and  cotton-velvet 
gowns,  with  their  false  bangs  and  their  suspiciously 
pink  cheeks,  seem  tremendously  fine  to  his  dazzled 
eyes.  A  gulf  lies  between  them  and  his  good  Pris- 
cilla,  who,  at  the  moment  he  is  drawing  comparisons, 
is  salting  the  butter  she  has  just  churned,  or,  maybe, 
putting  a  patch  on  little  Tom's  knees.  Priscilla  is  a 
gentlewoman — he  glories  in  her  mental  superiority, 
in  her  physical  helpfulness;  yet  he  almost  shivers  to 
think  of  her  in  her  cheap  black  alpaca  and  her  old- 
fashioned  bonnet,  side  by  side  with  these  brilliant 
butterflies  of  fashion.  Their  airy  persiflage,  their 
ironic  comments  on  celebrated  people,  overwhelm 
Rusticus  with  something  of  the  same  admiration 
which  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield's  family  felt  for  "Lady 
Blarney"  and  "Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 


336 


Outer  oppings. 


[Sept. 


Skeggs. "  He  cannot  reassure  himself  by  going  down 
the  list  of  Priscilla's  virtues ;  he  only  asks  dumbly, 
"Why?" 

On  his  journey  home  he  picks  up  his  broken 
threads  of  self-satisfaction  one  by  one,  and  by  the 
time  he  arrives  has  recovered  his  moral  tone.  For  a 
few  days  he  comports  himself  with  added  dignity, 
and  criticises  with  some  sharpness  the  household  at 
large,  the  children's  deportment,  Priscilla's  lack  of 
style,  her  neglect  of  certain  home  comforts;  but  the 
relation  of  his  adventures  and  the  consciousness  of 
his  vast  worldly  experience  tempers  his  discontent 
and  finally  restores  his  bucolic  equanimity.  The 
vexed  questions  which  troubled  his  mind  lose  their 
importance  under  the  sunny  sky— in  the  fresh,  crisp 
air.  We  who  are  wiser  than  Rusticus  know  without 
asking  or  answering  why  there  is  a  line  between  him 
and  Urban,  how  far  it  reaches,  and  what  an  impas- 
sable barrier  it  is;  but  our  prejudices  will  not  let  us 
decide  honestly  whether  the  town  or  country  mouse 
has  the  best  of  it  in  the  bewitching  game  called 
"Life."  K.  M.  B. 

How  Jennett  saw  the  Comet. 

IN  yielding  to  the  demands  of  society  with  regard 
to  the  comet,  I  had  come  to  grief.  For  a  week  I 
remained  in  my  bed,  faithfully  attended  by  the  cause 
of  my  woe.  For  a  time  I  thought  that  Jennett's 
devotion  to  me  was  penitential,  and  that  the  three 
lumps  of  sugar  she  persistently  dropped  into  my  tea, 
although  I  never  wish  but  one,  were  by  way  of 
atonement;  but  she  was  apparently  so  oblivious  of 
her  connection  with  my  abject  condition  that  I 
became  doubtful  of  her  responsibility  myself,  and 
was  inclined  to  throw  the  blame  on  Mrs.  Grundy 
or  the  comet.  One  must  blame  somebody  or 
something.  At  the  end  of  a  week  the  cold  I  had 
caught  yielded  to  the  persuasive  influences  of  hot  and 
cold,  wet  and  dry,  sweet  and  sour,  etc.,  after  the 
usual  manner  of  colds,  and  left  me;  but  also  left  a 
haunting  sense  of  duty  unfulfilled:  I  had  not  seen 
the  comet.  I  could  not  take  up  a  newspaper  with- 
out being  reminded  of  my  duty,  and  not  a  friend 
called  that  did  not  reproach  me  for  my  neglect. 

Finally  I  awoke  one  morning,  and  from  my  bed 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  star  that  was  peeping  through 
the  blinds  and  promising  a  clear  sky.  I  called  Jen- 
nett, and  throwing  on  a  wrap,  stepped  out  upon 
the  balcony.  I  shall  never  forget  that  scene.  Be- 
fore me  lay  the  city,  indistinct  and  shadowy;  beyond 
it  the  waters  of  the  bay  and  the  mountains  of  Contra 
Costa,  faintly  defined  against  the  sky,  which  was 
already  beginning  to  flush  with  the  approach  of  the 
coming  day.  Above  were  the  stars,  the  perfect 


crescent  of  the  waning  moon,  and  the  beautiful 
comet.  The  air  was  soft  and  full  of  perfume  from 
the  flowers  that  were  just  awakening  in  the  garden 
below— awakening  to  gaze  upon  its  beauty.  Pres- 
ently in  a  tree  close  by  a  little  bird  awoke  and  gave 
one  sweet  sleepy  call  to  its  mate,  and  was  as  softly 
answered;  then  all  was  silent. 

Jennett  stood  beside  me,  and  seemed  lost  in  ad- 
miration of  the  weird  beauty  of  the  scene.  What 
solemn  thoughts  gave  her  that  air  of  rapt  meditation  ? 
Suddenly  she  asked: 

"Is  that  the  comet's  tail,  ma'm?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered  quickly.  Surely  it  was  time 
to  go  in. 

Jennett  followed,  and  contemplatively  tapping 
her  chin,  continued: 

"  I  was  thinking — cows  are  strange — so  different 
from  us.  There  is  their  hoofs  and  horns — and  they 
eat  grass  and  drink  water — and  then  the  milk  they 
give — cows  are  strange.  There  was  Squire  Avord. 
He  got  to  be  governor  through  being  hooked  with  a 
cow."  Here  Jennett  faded  from  the  room  after  her 
usual  manner,  having  launched  me  without  a  pilot 
upon  an  unknown  sea  of  speculation. 

I  crept  back  to  my  bed  and  vainly  tried  to  sleep. 
I  thought  of  all  the  small  boys  in  our  schools  who 
are  being  taught  to  look  forward  to  the  presidential 
chair  as  their  natural  destination,  and  with  a  view 
to  the  future  of  my  three  small  nephews,  speculated  as 
to  the  breed  of  the  cow,  whether  Durham  or  Devon, 
arid  her  method  of  hooking,  that  resulted  so  felici- 
tously for  Squire  Avord.  Then  the  mathematical 
side  of  the  question  presented  itself.  If  a  cow 
could  hook  a  full-grown  man  into  the  gubernatorial 
chair,  what  might  reasonably  be  hoped  from  the 
political  influence  of — say  a  goat  ? 

It  was  broad  daylight  before  I  concluded  these  were 
things  past  finding  out.  Then  came  Jennett  with  a 
large  silver  salver,  on  which  were  grouped  a  cup  of 
coffee,  a  piece  of  bread,  and  an  egg,  all  in  the  center 
of  the  tray,  and  looking  like  three  small  islands  in  a 
sea  of  napkin.  Placing  these  before  me,  she  said 
with  a  slight  accession  of  animation: 

"Why,  ma'm,  goslin's  is  'most  as  cheap  as  eggs." 

"  Well,  do  you  advise  me  to  eat  goslings  instead  of 
eggs,  for  the  sake  of  economy.?" 

"  No,  ma'm,  I  was  only  thinking." 

"Yes,  Jennett,  but'  how  did  the  cow  hook  Squire 
Avord  into  the  gubernatorial  chair  ?  " 

"The  which,  ma'm  ? " 

"  How  did  the  cow  make  Squire  Avord  governor?  " 

"  He  got  hooked  with  a  cow,  and  it  set  him  agin 
farminV 

And  this  is  how  Jennett  saw  the  comet. 


In  the  October  number  will  be  begun  a  new  serial,  by  an  anonymous 
author,  a  story  of  San  Francisco  wealthy  society,  entitled 
"A  SHEPHERD  AT  COURT." 


THE 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF   THE   COUNTRY. 


VOL.  II.  (SECOND  SERIES.)— OCTOBER,   1883.— No.  10. 


LAZY   LETTERS   FROM   LOW   LATITUDES. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

I. 


FROM  A  CUPOLA. 

IN  A  HAMMOCK. 

ON  A  MAKAI  VERANDA. 

THROUGH  THE  MOSQUITO  FLEET  AND  AT  A  HULA-HULA. 

BY  THE  SEA. 

UP  THE  VALE  OF  NUUANU. 

WITH  ALOHA. 


HAWAIIAN  HOTEL,  HONOLULU,  H.  I. 

Do  you  remember,  dear  C ,  the  day 

that  you  and  I  sat  alone  in  this  glass  house 
and  heaved  a  stone  at  civilization,  business, 
worry,  and  the  world  in  general?  We  heaved 
it  fearlessly,  for  we  were  above  the  tree-tops 
and  out  of  reach;  even  had  our  victims 
deigned  to  retaliate  we  might  have  still 
shouted  defiance,  for  were  we  not  prepared 
to  withstand  a  siege  in  the  cupola  with  am- 
ple rations  of  champagne  and  cigarettes? 

You  had  dropped  in  upon  us,  as  is  your 
wont  at  intervals  while  vibrating  'twixt  the 
colonies  and  the  coast,  and  in  the  few 
hours  we  spent  together  we  rediscovered  the 
little  kingdom,  and  restored  it,  for  a  time  at 
least,  to  its  original  and  beautiful  barbarism. 

Do   you   remember  one  silver  strand  of 

spider-web  that  chanced  to  catch  our  eye? 

It  was  stretched  due  east  and  west  overhead 

in  the  cupola,  and  we  called  it  the  Tropic  of 

VOL.  II. — 22. 


Cancer;  and  weaving  a  Puck's  girdle  of  this 
filmy  fabric,  we  fled  in  imagination  over  sea 
and  shore  in  the  very  ecstasy  of  circum- 
navigation. How  we  laughed  to  scorn  the 
ignorance  of  those  who  know  us  not,  and  re- 
viled the  amateur  geographer  who  vainly  con- 
founds us  with  Tahiti,  and  sweeps  us  away 
toward  New  Guinea  and  the  uttermost  parts. 
Following  our  air-line  eastward,  we  tripped 
on  the  tail  of  Lower  California,  plunged 
through  the  heart  of  Mexico  into  the  Carib- 
bean Sea,  dashed  across  Cuba,  and  were 
lost  in  the  Atlantic;  then  we  returned  for 
a  season,  but  rested  only  long  enough  to 
roll  a  fresh  cigarette,  when  we  took  wing  for 
the  Orient — and  such  an  Orient !  Through 
the  solitary  sea,  crossing  the  track  of  Lapu- 
ta,  the  "Flying  Island,"  just  escaping  Lugg- 
nagg — sorrowfully  enough,  for  "the  Lugg- 
naggers  are  a  polite  and  generous  people," 
says  Gulliver — we  saw  Hong  Kong,  Calcutta, 
Mecca,  and,  beyond  the  Red  Sea,  the  Nile 
waters  and  the  measureless  sands  of  Sahara 


338 


Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes. 


[Oct. 


What  a  rosary  we  strung  on  that  glimmer- 
ing thread?  And  then  we  held  our  breath 
for  a  moment,  when  we  thought  how  above 
us  and  below  us  rolled  the  everlasting  deep 
from  pole  to  pole. 

O  Hawaii!  Hawaii  Nei!  Cinderella 
among  nations;  a  handful  of  ashes  on  a 
coral  hearth  slowly  fructifying  in  the  sun 
and  dews  of  an  eternal  summer.  How  lone- 
some you  are  and  how  lovely!  and  how  we 
who  have  known  you  and  departed  from  you 
come  back  again  with  the  love  that  is  yours 

alone!     At  least,  C and  I  do,  don't  we? 

You  are  t'other  side  o'  the  line  now,  old 
fellow,  on  the  edge  of  that  great  continent 
which  is  as  yet  not  half  explored ;  the  kanga- 
roo is  your  playmate  and  the  snake  your 
bed-fellow;  do  you  ever  think  of  us  who 
have  no  game  more  majestic  than  the  mos- 
quito? Here,  as  you  know,  the  noblest  vic- 
tim of  the  chase  is  the  agile  flea;  now  and 
again,  though  rarely,  appears  that  chain 
of  unpleasant  circumstances,  the  centipede; 
or  perchance  the  devil-tailed  scorpion,  whose 
stroke  is  by  no  means  fatal,  reminds  us  that 
nothing  can  touch  us  further.  And  indeed, 
but  for  these  foreign  invaders  this  life  were 
almost  too  Edenesque.  The  marvelous  tem- 
perature, which  is  never  hot  and  never  cold; 
the  rich  and  variable  color;  the  fragrance  so 
intense  after  a  shower,  when  the  ginger  and 
the  Japanese  lily  seem  to  distill  perfume  drop 
by  drop;  the  tinkle  of  gay  guitars;  the  spray- 
like  notes  dashed  from  shuddering  lute- 
strings ;  the  irreproachable  languor  of  a  race 
that  is  the  incarnation  of  all  these  elements 
— this  is  quite  as  much  as  man  wants  here 
below — latitude  21°  18'  23",  longitude  157° 
48'  45";  and  all  this  he  has  without  the  ask- 
ing. What  if  the  impertinent  minas  perch 
upon  the  roof  and  fill  the  attic  with  strange 
noises?  What  if  they  infest  the  groves  at 
twilight,  and  deluge  the  land  with  cascades 
of  silvery  sound  ?  They  are  a  pert  bird,  that 
has  rid  the  kingdom  of  its  caterpillars,  and 
now  they  propose  to  luxuriate  for  the  rest  of 
their  natural  lives. 

I  think  it  was  the  war-whoop  of  a  mina 
on  our  window-sill  that  called  our  attention 
to  old  Desmond  Head,  which  at  that  mo- 


ment was  glowing  like  a  live  coal :  it  was  the 
picture  of  the  ideal  red-hot  volcano  with  the 
Smoke  rubbed  out;  there  was  a  strip  of 
beryl  sea  beyond  it,  and  at  its  feet  a  great 
plain,  shaded  by  feathery  algaroba  trees; 
this  was  framed  in  the  sashes  on  one  side  of 
the  cupola. 

On  another  side,  mountain  peaks  buried 
their  brow  in  clouds  that  wept  copiously — 
so  sentimental  was  the  hour  of  our  com- 
munion; forests  of  the  juiciest  green  drank 
those  showers  of  tears;  Tantalus  and  his 
brother  never  looked  more  sublime. 

Turning  again,  we  saw  the  sunburnt  hills 
beyond  Palama,  and  the  crisp  cones  of  small 
volcanoes,  and  more  sea,  and  then  the 
exquisite  outline  of  the  Waianag  Mountains, 
of  a  warm,  dusty  purple,  and  with  a  film  of 
diffused  rainbows  floating  in  the  middle  dis- 
tance. 

There  was  but  one  other  window  left ;  it 
opened  upon  a  sea  stretching  to  the  horizon 
and  mingling  with  the  sky;  a  shore  fringed 
with  tapering  masts  and  the  crests  of  senti- 
nel palms,  and  beneath  us  the  city  sub- 
merged in  billowy  foliage,  through  which  the 
wind  stirred  in  gusts  and  eddies. 

Our  experience  was  ended — our  expe- 
rience bound  in  green  and  gold:  the  green 
of  the  grassy  hills  and  the  gold  of  the  sunset 
sea.  We  had  monopolized  the  cupola  to 
the  despair  of  those  guests  who  fly  to  it  as 
to  a  haven  of  rest;  but  there  was  no  further 
thought  of  monopoly  in  our  minds,  for  the 
afterglow  was  overwhelming,  and  already 
from  the  cool  corridors  of  the  caravansary 
— a  caravansary  that  in  its  architecture  re- 
minds one  of  Singapore — sweetly  and  si- 
lently ascended  the  incense  of  the  evening 
meal. 

II. 

HAWAIIAN  HOTEL,  HONOLULU,  H.  I. 

Yes,  my  friend,  it  hangs  in  the  same  cor- 
ner of  the  top  veranda,  and  swings  to-day  as 
it  swung  the  day  when  you  lay  in  it  under  a 
fleecy  wrap  and  a  be-butterflied  Japanese 
parasol. 

It  has  its  vicissitudes,  this  hammock; 
sometimes  it  is  a  pale  invalid  who  retires 
into  it  as  into  a  chrysalis,  and  is  rocked  to 


1883.] 


Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes. 


339 


and  fro  in  the  wind;  then  the  sympathetic 
and  the  sociable  gather  about  it  and  subject 
the  patient  to  the  smoke-cure — of  course  "by 
special  command" — or  the  mint-julep  cure, 
or  to  bits  of  frivolous  converse  thrown  jn  be- 
tween the  numbers  of  a  matinee-reception- 
concert  at  the  Princess  Regent's,  or  a  band 
night  at  Emma  Square.  Sometimes  a  be- 
wildered guest  from  the  colonies  or  else- 
where rolls  into  it  and  sleeps  with  all  his 
might  and  main;  sometimes  a  whole  row  of 
children  trail  their  slim  legs  over  the  side  of 
it — which  is  all  that  saves  them  from  being 
compared  to  peas  in  a  pod.  But  to-day  I 
inhabit  it  with  a  pencil  and  lap-tablet,  and 
nothing  but  a  convulsion  of  nature  shall 
drive  me  hence. 

The   breeze   is   blowing   fresh   from    the 
mountain,  the  health-giving   trade-wind;    I 
can  look  right  up  the  green  glade  which  is 
the  gateway  to  Tantalus,  and  see  the  clouds 
torn  to  shreds  across  the  wooded  highlands. 
Have  been  watching  a  crew  of  men-o'-wars- 
men  in  dazzling  white  duck  trousers  climb- 
ing the  brown  slopes  of  Punch  Bowl;  watch- 
ing  the    mango   trees  where   the   mangoes 
hang   like   bronze   plummets;  the  monkey- 
pots  are  in  bloom,  and  their  tops  resemble 
terraced  gardens ;  now  and  again  the  kama- 
ni  sheds  a  huge  leaf  as  big  as  a  beefsteak, 
and  as  red  also ;  but  what  are  these  splashes 
of  color  to  the  Ponriana  Regia  ? — it  is  a  con- 
flagration !     The  Bourgainvillea,  a  cataract 
of  magenta  blossoms  that  look  like  artificial 
leaves  just  out  of  a  chemical  bath,  obtrudes 
itself  at  intervals ;  it  is  the  only  crude  bit  of 
color  in  a  landscape  where  the  majority  of 
the  trees  are  colossal  bouquets  at  one  sea- 
son or  another.     The  hibiscus  is  aglow  with 
flowers  of  flame  the  most  of  the  year,  and 
the  land  is  overrun  with  brilliant  creepers, 
even  to  the  eaves  of  the  hotel  where  the 
birds  quarrel  and  call  noisily  from  dawn  to 
dusk.     But  why  particularize  ?     All  this  you 
know;  all  this  you  saw  when  your  end  of 
the  veranda  was  curtained  and  set  apart,  a 
nook  for  loungers  in  a  land  where  all  man- 
kind lounges  a  portion  of  the  day;  where  it 
is  not  considered  indelicate  for  a  merchant 
to  pose  in  the  midst  of  his  merchandise  guilt- 


less of  coat  and  vest,  for  his  respectability  is 
established  beyond  question,  and  his  bank 
account  a  potent  fact;  where  ladies  drive  in 
morning  dishabille,  and  shop  on  the  curb- 
stone without  alighting  from  their  carriages, 
and  where  any  of  them  may  pay  an  evening 
call  unbonneted  and  unattended. 

Now,  those  sailor  boys  are  perched  upon 
the  rim  of  Punch  Bowl,  like  a  row  of  pen- 
guins; the  distant  mountains  are  glassed 
with  fragmentary  rainbows,  and  there  are 
unmistakable  symptoms  of  an  afterglow. 

Through  verdant  vistas  I  catch  glimpses 
of  the  cavalcade  that  ahvays  enlivens  this 
hour,  and  down  the  shaded  avenues  that  lie 
between  the  hotel  cottages  troop  the  return- 
ing guests;  she  who  has  rocked  at  her  door- 
way— the  Venetian  blinds  thrown  wide  apart 
— all  day,  involved  in  the  toils  of  the  Ken- 
sington stitch,  has  passed  within  doors  to 
smooth  her  ribbons  before  dining;  a  card- 
party  in  the  middle  distance — surely  it  could 
not  have  been  whist — has  broken  up  with 
much  show  of  good  feeling;  children  are 
pelting  one  another  with  flowers  among  the 
balconies,  to  the  dumb  horror  of  a  coolie  in 
white  raiment  and  despair. 

I  hear  a  piano  in  the  distance,  and  recall 
a  voice  that  is  stilled;  and  I  feel,  all  at  once, 
that  the  transfusive  air  is  throbbing  with 
light — the  light  that  is  as  fleeting  and  as 
fascinating  as  a  blush;  "the  light  that  never 
was  on  sea" — but  I  spare  you  the  rest  of  the 
quotation ;  the  light  that  at  any  rate  trans- 
figures all  things,  beautifies  all  things,  glorifies 
all  things,  and  makes  this  hour  the  most  ex- 
quisitely sentimental  and  pathetic  of  the  four 
and  twenty. 

The  light,  by  Jove!  that  has  gone  out 
while  I've  been  endeavoring  to  wind  up  this 
lazy  scrawl 

III. 

HAWAIIAN  HOTEL,  HONOLULU,  H.  I. 
You  wonder  how  we  kill  time  in  the  trop- 
ics, dear  boy?  We  never  kill  it;  we  never 
get  quite  enough  of  it,  and  murder  were  out 
of  the  question.  Time  with  us  flows  softly 
and  swiftly,  like  a  river,  and  we  drift  with  it. 


340 


Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes. 


[Oct. 


It  were  vain  to  struggle  against  this  stream ; 
those  that  attempt  it  die  young  and  pass  out 
of  memory;  but  we  who  drift  without  rud- 
der or  compass  find  the  first  light  of  dawn 
flaring  up  into  the  zenith  before  we  are 
aware,  and  anon  it  is  flickering  in  the  west, 
and  day  is  over  and  gone.  We  may  not 
have  made  any  visible  effort;  we  certainly 
have  not  hurried  ourselves,  but  you  will  find 
upon  investigation  that  we  have  accomplished 
fully  as  much  as  you  would  were  you  here 
with  your  high-pressure  engine  in  full  blast. 

When  evening  comes  we  repose.  Repose 
is  not  to  be  thought  of  in  your  country;  we 
repose  mightily.  The  shops  are  shut  up 
after  dark,  nearly  all  of  them:  why  should 
business  transactions  be  extended  into  the 
night  when  they  can  just  as  well  be  accom- 
plished during  the  day,  and  in  a  very  few- 
hours  of  the  day?  You  are  probably  at 
this  moment  pitying  the  poor  salesman  on 
Kearny  Street,  or  trying  to  sit  out  some 
play  at  the  theater,  or  boring  yourself  at  the 
club,  or  wondering  what  you  can  do  next  to 
fill  up  the  hours  until  bedtime.  Alas  for 
you  and  the  likes  of  you ! 

At  the  present  writing,  my  friends  are  chat- 
ting upon  the  Makai  veranda — that  is,  the 
veranda  on  the  seaward  side  of  the  hotel. 
Troops  of  people  are  constantly  arriving 
and  meeting  with  mutual  compliments;  the 
verandas  are  speedily  filled,  so  are  the  settees 
upon  the  lawn,  where  foreigners  and  natives 
in  great  numbers  are  swarming  like  bees  and 
buzzing  like  them. 

It  is  Monday  evening;  the  customary  open- 
air  concert  is  about  to  take  place ;  in  the  il- 
luminated kiosque  Professor  Berger  and  his 
clever  native  lads  are  adjusting  their  instru- 
ments; the  avenues  leading  to  and  from  the 
hotel  are  lined  with  flambeaux,  the  verandas 
are  also  lighted,  and  the  gathering  of -"youth 
and  beauty" — pardon  me,  it  is  quite  the 
thing  for  Honolulu  society  to  do  the  open- 
air  concerts,  and  therefore  I  will  go  farther  : 
I  will  add  the  "  fair  women  and  brave  men," 
together  with  groups  of  ministers,  commis- 
sioners, naval  officers,  etc.;  the  multitudes 
who  prefer  to  lounge  about  under  the  trees, 
the  native  populace  that  seems  to  pasture 


upon  the  sward,  the  soft  air,  the  moonlight 
sifting  through  leafy  canopies — all  this  is 
quite  enchanting,  and  it  never  loses  its 
charm. 

The  band  plays  delightfully;  applause 
follows ;  the  audience  is  attentive  and  ap- 
preciative, especially  the  native  portion,  for 
the  Hawaiians  are  passionately  fond  of  music, 
and  they  have  not  yet  learned  the  art  of 
conversing  audibly  to  a  musical  accompani- 
ment. 

An  English  brougham  approaches ;  a  portly 
gentleman  alights;  it  is  Kalakaua  in  citizen's 
dress;  he  is  graciously  received  with  the 
scraping  of  chair  legs — for  the  veranda  is 
crowded — and  much  fluttering  of  fans — for 
the  ladies  are  en  masse. 

Later  in  the  evening  I  hear  the  suggestive 
popping  of  corks — a  sweet  reminder;  cigar- 
ettes have  burned  unceasingly — does  it  re- 
call the  Champs  Elysees?  A  brief  shower 
sweeps  over  us,  but  it  is  only  sufficient  to 
cool  the  air;  we  don't  even  deign  to  notice 
it. 

Now  the  band  boys  sing  a  plaintive  re- 
frain, andante,  sotto  voce,  etc.,  etc.;  wonder- 
fully pleasing  are  these  self-taught  singers, 
and  quite  without  the  affectations  of  the 
more  cultivated;  down  one  of  the  side  streets 
passes  a  troop  of  troubadours  strumming  a 
staccato  measure  that  dies  away  in  the  dis- 
tance like  a  shower  of  sparks.  A  delicious 
waltz  reels  out  from  the  kiosque,  and  the  par- 
lor is  at  once  filled  with  dancers — encore, 
encore,  it  is  a  night  for  music  and  mirth! 
In  the  intervals  of  silence,  I  hear  the  click 
of  billiard-balls  and  the  huzzas  of  the  vic- 
tors; and  now  approaches  a  troop  of  horse; 
ladies  in  native  costume  bestride  them;  a 
few  gentlemen  escorts,  unusually  dusky  in 
the  dusk,  await  the  pleasure  of  the  chief 
horsewoman,  who  anon  gallops  away — 
Whist !  a  princess,  beguiled  by  the  latest  hit 
of  Lecocq,  paused  for  a  moment  in  the 
moonlight,  and  then  vanished  away. 

But  a  truce  to  this,  my  boy;  you  must  be 
asleep  by  this  time,  as  I  will  be  a  few  mo- 
ments hence,  for  the  Makai  veranda  is  now 
thunderous  with  the  footsteps  of  departing 
guests 


1883.] 


Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes. 


841 


IV. 


HAWAIIAN  HOTEL,  HONOLULU,  H.  I. 
Camerado!  It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to 
remind  me  of  our  cruise  in  the  Mosquito 
Fleet;  every  returning  moon  revives  a  mem- 
ory that  "time  cannot  wither  nor  custom 
stale";  but  did  I  tell  you  of  the  origin  of 
the  name  that  will  long  be  associated  with  a 
very  central  yet  very  secret  quarter  of  this 
beautiful  burg?  Well,  in  the  beginning  was 
the  kalo-patch.  Nothing  can  be  prettier 
than  a  well-kept  kalo-patch ;  a  lake  full  of 
calla-lilies,  deflowered,  might  resemble  it; 
when  seen  from  a  little  distance,  and  espe- 
cially from  a  height,  a  disk  of  burnished  silver 
across  which  green-enameled  arrow-headed 
leaves  in  high  relief  are  set  in  lozenge  pat- 
tern, could  not  be  more  attractive ;  but  the 
trail  of  the  mosquito  is  over  them  all. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  narrow  paths 
that  ran  between  the  kalo-patches  in  the 
quarter  of  which  I  write  led  from  one  grass 
house  to  another;  grass  houses,  like  mush- 
rooms, crop  up  almost  anywhere,  but  es- 
pecially beside  still  waters;  and  so  it  came 
to  pass  that  a  little  village  like  a  toy  Venice 
sat  watching  its  reflection  in  the  unruffled 
waters  of  the  kalo-patches,  and  the  voice  of 
the  multitudinous  mosquito  in  that  vicinity 
was  like  a  chorus  of  buzz-saws ;  the  place 
was  known  to  Jack  ashore  as  the  Mosquito 
Fleet,  and  therein  his  feet  went  astray  with 
alacrity  and  the  charmers  that  charmed 
never  so  wisely. 

The  kalo,  as  you  know,  was  long  since 
pulled  and  beaten  and  eaten  in  fistfuls  of 
succulent /#//  the  patches  have  been  filled 
in  and  sodded  over,  and  the  grass  houses 
have  given  place  to  miserable  wooden  shan- 
ties, but  the  original  crookedness  of  the 
lane  that  led  to  destruction  is  preserved. 
The  way  is  not  broad;  on  the  contrary,  it  could 
hardly  be  narrower,  but  many  there  be  who 
go  in  thereat — as  we  went  once  upon  a  time 
to  spy  out  the  land,  and  take  note  of  one  of 
the  most  unique  quarters  in  Honolulu. 

What  a  worm  i'  the  bud  it  is !  the  church- 
going  bells  toll  over  it;  the  rear  walls  of 
highly  respectable  residences  bear  upon  it ; 


it  is  within  the  shadow  of  the  palace  of  the 
late  Princess  Ruth,  the  last  of  the  Kameha- 
mehas,  and  Emma  Square  with  its  mimosas 
and  palms,  matinee  music  and  applause, 
actually  faces  it.  But  what  of  all  this  ?  If 
you  were  alone  at  the  mouth  of  the  mysteri- 
ous path  that  winds  through  the  Mosquito 
Fleet,  you  would  unconsciously  turn  from  it, 
would  you  not? 

We  made  accidental  entrance  on  one  oc- 
casion, and  traversed  what  appeared  to  be 
a  cul-de-sac;  at  the  last  moment  we  were 
shifted  as  if  by  magic  into  a  passage  hardly 
broader  than  our  shoulders,  and  twenty 
paces  long.  Suddenly  a  diminutive  village 
sprang  up  about  us;  we  felt  like  discover- 
ers, and  wandered  jubilantly  about  among 
houses  with  strips  of  gardens  nestling  be- 
tween them,  and  all  fitted  together  like  the 
bits  of  a  Chinese  puzzle.  Now  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  be  certain  of  anything,  for  the 
lane,  which  seemed  without  beginning  and 
without  end,  turned  unexpected  corners  with 
bewildering  frequency,  and,  though  we  suc- 
ceeded in  threading  the  perilous  mazes,  the 
wonder  is  that  we  did  not  stumble  into  win- 
dows that  opened  upon  us  or  through 
doors  that  blocked  the  way.  We  met  no 
one  in  that  narrow  path ;  had  we  done  so 
one  or  the  other  must  needs  have  backed 
out,  or  vaulted  the  fence  beyond  which  it 
was  not  seemly  to  penetrate. 

There  was  music,  as  there  always  is  mu- 
sic where  two  or  three  natives  are  gathered 
together — the  chant,  half  nasal,  half  guttur- 
al, such  as  the  mud-wasp  makes  in  his  cell, 
relieved  by  the  boom  of  the  agitated  cala- 
bash— which  reminds  me  : 

Not  many  moons  ago  came  an  ancient 
mariner.  He  had  seen  the  world,  and  was 
aweary;  but  a  hula-hula  had  never  glad- 
dened his  eyes ;  so  a  hula  was  at  once  ap- 
pointed in  a  dingy  house  off  from  one  of 
the  joints  of  the  labyrinth  in  Mosquito 
Fleet. 

It  was  a  long,  low  room,  dimly  lighted  ; 
male  musicians  squatted  on  the  floor  against 
the  wall;  female  dancers  posed  in  front  of 
them;  lamps  were  ranged  before  their  feet 
like  footlights ;  the  ancient  mariner  and  his 


342 


Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes. 


[Oct. 


guests  reclined   upon  musty  divans   at   the 
other  end  of  the  room. 

There  is  nothing  more  exhilarating  than 
the  clang  of  gourds,  half  a  dozen  of  them, 
tossing  in  the  air  and  being  beaten  by  sav- 
age palms;  and  this  to  the  running  accom- 
paniment of  voices  that  are  precipitated 
by  the  concussion  of  savage  throats.  You 
mark  its  effect  upon  hula  dancers  as  the 
evening  wanes;  the  tireless  hands  and  feet, 
the  quivering  limbs,  the  convulsions  that 
succeed  one  another  with  ever-increasing 
violence;  the  extraordinary  abdominal  gyra- 
tions, the  semi-nude  gymnastical  rivalry 
that  ultimately  plunges  the  dancers  into  par- 
oxysms that  far  outstrip  the  sensuous  ecstasies 
of  the  whirling  dervish — but  it  is  quite  im- 
possible to  describe  a  hula;  moreover,  the 
improprieties  are  mute  according  to  law 
after  10  P.  M.,  and  by  that  time  the  room  we 
occupied  was  like  a  sweat-box;  windows  and 
doors  packed  full  of  strange,  wild  faces, 
and  the  frequent  police  gently  soothing  the 
clamoring  populace  without,  who,  having 
ears,  saw  not,  which  is  probably  the  acme  of 
aggravation.  But  there  we  drew  a  line,  and 
lo !  it  was  a  perfectly  straight  one 

V. 

WAIKIKI  BY  THE  SEA,  HONOLULU,  H.  I. 
MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIEND  : 

When  you  have  reached  the  mature  years 
which  make  the  easy  life  of  the  tropics  my 
chief  joy,  you  will  begin  to  realize  that  there 
is  something  quite  as  satisfactory  as  the  cele- 
brated domestic  hearth  or  the  prospect  of 
promotion  in  the  army,  and  that  is  a 
bachelor  bungalow  at  Waikiki ! 

That  it  is  within  easy  drive  of  the  capital 
is  not  enough;  that  it  is  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  park  and  the  race-track,  where 
one  may  secretly  speed  one's  trotter  before 
daybreak  by  merely  turning  over  in  bed,  as 
it  were,  is  not  enough  ;  that  the  telephone  re- 
calls you  at  convenient  intervals  from  a  lotus 
dream,  which  otherwise  might  possibly  be 
eternal,  is  scarcely  sufficient  unto  the  day. 
But  a  Lanai  as  broad  as  it  is  long,  and 
almost  if  not  quite  as  dazzling  as  a  transfor- 
mation scene  in  the  pantomime  on  boxing 


night,  together  with  books  and  pictures  and 
weird  instruments  with  miraculous  bowels, 
that  play  of  their  own  accord  with  amiable 
persistency,  and  a  beach  as  white  and  as 
firm  as  marble,  and  canoes — a  whole  fleet 
of  them — and  a  real  reef  that  night  and  day 
makes  moan,  and  monkeys  and  paradise 
birds  and  all  the  delicacies  of  the  season, 
save  only  that  most  delicate  of  all — the  wife 
of  a  fellow's  bosom — surely  this  is  enough 
and  more  than  enough  to  stay  one  for  a 
season  or  two ! 

Ah  me  !  you  will  freeze  in  the  north  and 
you  will  sizzle  in  the  south,  while  I  luxu- 
riate upon  the  half-shell  by  the  sea,  with  the 
mercury  serenely  ebbing  and  flowing  twixt  75 
and  85  degrees  the  whole  year  around. 

Of  course  nobody  works  hereabout ;  they 
toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin;  they  only 
imagine  they  are  busy,  and  in  this  frame  of 
mind  they  accomplish  just  as  much  in  the 
end  as  if  the  lash  of  the  task-master  were 
over  them  perpetually. 

When  mine  host  departs,  as  if  by  accident, 
somewhere  in  the  early  p.  M.,  pleading  a  busi- 
ness engagement  and  looking  rather  serious 
in  consequence,  it  is  his  little  joke,  and  I  at 
least  relish  it;  I  know  that  the  whole  town, 
the  business  portion  of  it,  runs  like  a  me- 
chanical piano,  and  that  if  you  will  only  give 
it  time  some  one  or  another  will  wind  it  up, 
and  then  it  will  play  its  pretty  chorus  of 
summer  toil  as  gayly  as  if  it  were  so  many 
bars  out  of  a  light  opera,  a  jingle  of  musi- 
cal coin  that  is  kept  up  till  5  p.  M.,  when  all 
all  at  once  it  shuts  up  or  runs  down,  and  life 
at  the  beach  really  begins.  It  begins  with  a 
sunset  across  a  tropic  sea,  and  a  twilight  that 
seems  longer  than  common  in  this  vicinity; 
sometimes  there  are  shadowy  ships  in  this 
twilight,  and  there  is  always  canvas  enough 
afloat  to  make  one  wish  to  quote  the  easy 
lines  about  autumnal  leaves  and  brooks  in 
Vallambrosa. 

Then  comes  dinner,  and  then  moonlight 
and  music  on  sea  and  shore,  and  naked  fish- 
ermen bearing  aloft  huge  torches  that  gild 
their  bronze-brown  bodies;  and  bathers 
under  the  stars,  and  torch-light  fishing  with 
trusty  retainers  in  our  host's  canoes  beyond 


1883.J 


Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes. 


343 


the  silvery  surf.  And  so  ends  the  evening 
and  the  morning  of  days  that  are  much 
alike;  but  not  for  worlds  would  we  vary 
them,  especially  such  nights  as  these  when 
the  moon  is  an  opal  and  the  stars  emeralds 
and  the  whole  wonderful  picture  of  earth 
and  sea  and  sky  is  done  in  seventeen  shades 
of  green 

VI. 

AT  THE  PALI. 
DEAR  ABORIGINAL  : 

When  you  turned  your  brawny  back  upon 
the  bush,  resolved  to  cast  your  lot  with  the 
fell  Egyptian,  your  ship  lay  by  in  our  harbor 
for  six  sunny  hours.  You  asked  me  what 
there  was  to  be  seen  of  merit  beyond  the 
pretty  girls  on  the  pretty  lawns  posing  aesthet- 
ically at  tennis.  I  at  once  suggested  a 
drive  to  the  Pali^  for  the  Pali  is  what  every 
one  must  and  does  see:  and,  more  than 
this,  it  is  worth  seeing. 

We  drove,  you  and  she  and  I.  You  be- 
guiled me  with  tales  of  old  Australia,  for 
you  had  not  yet  cast  off  the  cloak  of  pride, 
which  is  colonial  to  a  degree.  But  when 
we  had  quit  the  town,  and  were  slowly  as- 
cending the  cool,  green  valley  where  the 
rapid  streams  gurgle  by  the  roadside  and  the 
valley  walls  grow  high  and  steep  and  close; 
where  the  convolvulus  tumbles  a  cataract  of 
blossoms  at  your  feet,  and  the  creepers  go 
mad  and  swamp  a  whole  forest  under  bil- 
lows of  green ;  where  there  are  leafy  ham- 
mocks to  swing  in  and  leafy  towers  to  climb 
in  and  leafy  dungeons  to  bury  one's  self  out 
of  sight  in — you  sprang  out  of  the  carriage 
arid  rolled  in  the  grass  like  a  boy;  you  drank 
copious  draughts  of  delicious  mountain 
water  from  the  hollow  of  your  cork  helmet ; 
and  you  sent — yes  you  did  ! — you  sent  Egypt 
to  the  Devil,  and  swore  to  abide  with  us  for- 
evermore.  A  shower  of  shining  rain  didn't 
dampen  your  ardor,  and  you  wanted  to  take 
root  just  where  you  were  and  flourish  might- 
ily on  the  spot ;  the  Pali  was  forgotten — we 
were  not  yet  within  a  mile  of  it — and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  we  persuaded  you  to 
complete  a  pilgrimage  which  I  am  sure  you 
will  never  regret. 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock,  where 


I  am  now  writing,  we  sat  that  day;  for  a 
long  time  we  said  nothing;  I  don't  believe 
that  people  ever  talk  much  here.  In  the 
first  place,  if  you  open 'your  mouth  too  wide 
you  can't  shut  it  again  without  getting  under 
the  lee  of  something — the  wind  blows  so 
hard.  But  who  wants  to  talk  when  he  is 
perched  on  the  backbone  of  an  island,  with 
fifteen  hundred  feet  of  space  beneath  him, 
and  the  birds  swimming  in  it  like  winged 
fish  in  a  transparent  sea? 

And  O,  the  silent  land  beyond  the  heights, 
with  the  long,  long,  winding,  rocky  stairway 
leading  down  into  it;  no  sound  ever  comes 
from  that  beautiful  land,  not  even  from  the 
marvelously  blue  sea,  that  noiselessly  piles  its 
breakers  upon  the  shore  like  swans'  down. 

A  great  mountain  wall  divides  this  side  of 
the  island  of  Oahu  into  about  equal  parts. 
It  is  half  in  sunshine  and  half  in  shade;  on 
the  one  hand  is  the  metropolis,  on  the  other 
semi-solitude  and  peace.  Peace,  a  visible, 
tangible  peace,  with  winding  roads  in  it, 
and  patches  of  bright  green  sugar-cane, 
and  wee  villages  and  palm-trees  upon  the 
distant  shore;  it  is  picturesque  in  form,  de- 
licious in  color;  something  to  look  at  in  awe 
and  wonderment,  and  to  turn  from  at  last 
with  a  doubt  as  to  its  reality. 

It  is  all  precisely  as  you  left  it,  even  to  the 
microscopic  pilgrims  toiling  up  the  long 
stairway — fugitives  from  the  mysterious  land, 
who  we  are  surprised  to  find  resemble  us 
not  a  little;  while  some  come  back  to  us, 
others  are  going  thither — passing  down  into 
the  silence  and  the  serenity  of  the  enchant- 
ing distance.  And  so  this  little  world  wags 
on  with  an  easy  acquiescence,  unchangeable 
and  unchanged,  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever. 
Your  ship  lay  in  the  harbor — a  harbor  that 
from  the  Pali  reminds  one  of  the  Vesuvian 
Bay — and  you  hurried  away  to  your  Egypt, 
leaving  your  heart  here,  as  you  protested. 
"A  place  to  die  in,"  was  your  last  word  to 
me;  "I  will  return  and  give  up  the  ghost 
in  peace." 

A  place  to  live  in,  O,  prober  of  pyra- 
mids !  Having  unriddled  the  Sphinx,  is  it 
not  about  time  to  think  of  taking  life  lei- 
surely, even  unto  the  end?  .... 


344 


Quern  Metui  Moritura 


[Oct. 


VII. 

HAWAIIAN  HOTEL,  HONOLULU,  H.  I. 
REVERED,  BELOVED: 

"Ask  me  no  more!"  While  you  prate  of 
your  autumnal  tints,  I  can  show  you  richer 
and  riper  ones  at  almost  any  season  of  the 
year.  You  boast  of  your  snows;  we  have 
them  also  on  the  mountains,  and  we.  can  get 
at  any  time  in  the  twelvemonth  a  cool,  brac- 
ing atmosphere  on  our  highlands,  such  as 
is  "hot  to  be  found  on  yours  during  summer. 
Nor  is  our  heat  so  oppressive  as  yours,  and 
it  is  never  fatal ;  and,  moreover,  an  uninter- 
rupted course  of  sea-bathing  is  practicable 
in  this  delectable  clime.  Why  should  we 
elsewhere  seek  literature,  society,  etc.,  when 
they  come  to  us  by  every  vessel,  and  here  we 
can  enjoy  them  unmolested? 

"Ask  me  no  more ! "  The  wind  is  plucking 
the  blossoms  from  wonderful  trees,  such  as 
would  not  flower  in  your  latitude.  Tourists 
are  lounging  in  the  verandas  of  the  cottages 
scattered  over  the  hotel  grounds ;  there  will 
presently  be  a  gathering  in  the  big,  breezy 
dining-room,  and  after  that  such  mild  diver- 
sions as  are  not  likely  to  disturb  your  neigh- 
bor's nap. 

There  is  no  wear  and  tear  here,  unless  it 
be  at  a  "/<?/feed";  and  even  the  "poi  feed" 
has  its  special  restorative,  the  application  of 
which  may  be  classed  among  the  beatitudes. 


There  are  no  railway  accidents  here ;  no 
bridge  panics,  no  holocausts,  no  hoodlums : 
the  slightest  event  is  cheerfully  magnified, 
and  made  to  do  duty  for  the  blood-curdling 
sensations  upon  which  you  feed — a  diet  that 
is,  permit  me  to  observe,  hastening  you  to 
an  untimely,  grave.  All  that  sort  of  thing  is 
out  of  place  in  this  kingdom,  and  not  to  be 
tolerated.  It  is  not  that  I  love  life,  as  you 
call  it,  less,  but  repose  more,  that  I  refuse 
to  return  into  the  world  yet  awhile. 

The  age  is  too  fresh  !  It  is  well  to  with- 
draw from  the  madding  crowd  at  intervals 
and  compose  one's  soul  in  peace ;  therefore, 
with  aloha  I  decline  your  gracious  invita- 
tion to  join  you  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness 
at  Coney  Island,  the  Adirondacks,  or  Yosem 
ite ;  and  with  aloha  I  beseech  you  to  repent 
while  it  is  yet  day,  and  share  with  us  the 
unrivaled  fruits  of  idleness  in  a  land  where 
it  is  almost  always  afternoon ;  where  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling,  as  it  were ;  and 
where  the  weary  are,  for  the  time  being, 
comparatively  at  rest !  Aloha  and  aloha  ! 

P.  S. — As  for  the  idyls  of  my  idyllic  youth, 
the  shadowy  ones,  the  fair  and  frail,  the  be- 
loved, bewailed,  bewitching,  and  bewitched 
idolaters — zephyrs  have  s.ung  them  to  their 
rest,  and  upon  their  nameless  graves  "the 
iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth  his 
poppy." 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard. 


QUEM   METUI   MORITURA? 

^ENEID  IV.  604. 

WHAT  need  have  I  to  fear — so  soon  to  die? 
Let  me  work  on,  not  watch  and  wait  in  dread: 
What  will  it  matter,  when  that  I  am  dead, 

That  they  bore  hate  or  love  who  near  me  lie? 

'Tis  but  a  lifetime,  and  the  end  is  nigh 
At  best  or  worst.     I  will  lift  up  my  head 
And  firmly,  as  with  inner  courage,  tread 

Mine  own  appointed  way,  on  mandates  high. 

Pain  could  but  bring,  from  all  its  evil  store, 
The  close  of  pain:  hate's  venom  could  but  kill; 

Repulse,  defeat,  desertion,  could  no  more. 
Let  me  have  lived  my  life,  not  cowered  until 

The  unhindered  and  unhastened  hour  was  here. 

So  soon — what  is  there  in  the  world  to  fear? 


E.  R.  Sill, 


1883.] 


Some  Characteristics  of  our  Language. 


345 


SOME   CHARACTERISTICS   OF   OUR   LANGUAGE. 


ABOUT  forty  years  ago,  De  Tocqueville, 
a  distinguished  French  savant,  visited  our 
country  to  make  a  critical  examination  of  its 
social  and  political  condition.  He  reported 
the  results  of  his  observation  with  so  much 
candor  and  magnanimity,  that  the  Americans 
themselves  were  satisfied  with  his  judgments. 
Speaking  of  the  rapid  growth  of  our  coun- 
try, he  said:  "This  gradual,  and  continuous 
progress  of  the  race  toward  the  Rocky 
Mountains  has  the  solemnity  of  a  providen- 
tial event;  it  is  like  a  deluge  of  men  rising 
unabatedly,  and  driven  by  the  hand  of  God. 
....  This  is  a  fact  new  to  the  world;  a 
fact  fraught  with  such  portentous  conse- 
quences as  to  baffle  the  efforts  even  of  the 
imagination." 

Since  these  words  were  penned,  "this 
deluge  of  men"  has  risen  above  the  highest 
mountains,  and  swept  down  their  western 
slopes  toward  the  setting  sun.  The  Teu- 
tonic race,  to  which  the  Anglo-Saxons  belong, 
has  ever  been  advancing,  both  in  geograph- 
ical position  and  intellectual  culture.  They 
have  been  marching  and  improving  ever 
since  they  have  been  known  to  history  or 
tradition.  They  have  been  the  discoverers, 
inventors,  and  lawyers  of  the  human  race 
for  two  thousand  years.  They  came  from 
Central  Asia,  that  great  offidna  gentium, 
whence  successive  tides  of  population  have 
rolled  westward  till  they  have  quite  encircled 
the  globe.  They  left  the  early  abodes  of 
mankind,  at  a  period  "whereto  the  memory 
of  man  runneth  not  to  the  contrary."  It 
was  before  Neptune  raised  his  trident  in  the 
^Egean;  before  Jove  took  his  seat  on  Olym- 
pus; before  Saturn  ruled  over  the  rustic 
tribes  of  Italy;  almost  as  soon  as  Father 
Time  began  to  gather  his  harvest  of  apos- 
tate men  at  the  base  of  Mount  Ararat. 
They  have  traversed  continents  and  oceans, 
till  now  the  weary  emigrant  bathes  his  feet 
in  the  waters  of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  The 
words  of  Bishop  Berkeley,  respecting  the  rise 


and  expansion  of  the  British  Colonies  in 
America,  apply  in  all  their  force  to  the  whole 
Indo-European  race  since  they  have  been 
known  to  song,  tradition,  or  history:  "West-, 
ward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way." 

The  advance  of  emigration,  conquest,  and 
civilization  has  always  been  from  the  Orient 
to  the  Occident.  The  bold,  the  restless,  and 
the  enterprising  are  ever  prone  to  leave  their 
native  homes,  and  seek  for  perilous  adven- 
tures in  unexplored  lands.  Civil  war,  or  a 
surplus  population,  often  caused  a  desertion 
of  the  primitive  abodes  of  mankind.  Men  of 
strong  bodies,  active  minds,  and  brave  hearts 
usually  joined  such  expeditions.  Three 
great  tidal  waves  of  population  have  swept 
into  Europe  from  Asia  before  the  date  of 
authentic  history.  These  were  the  Celts, 
the  Goths,  and  the  Slaves.  The  Celts  were 
characterized  physically  by  large  stature, 
loose  muscles,  light  complexion,  blue  eyes, 
and  yellow  hair.  Though  they  were  brave  in 
war  and  fierce  fighters,  they  seem  not  to  have 
been  the  bold  defenders  of  their  own  liberty. 
They  were  governed  by  petty  princes  and  a 
tyrannical  priesthood.  They  occupied  the 
whole  of  Britain  when  Caesar  invaded  the 
island,  fifty-five  years  before  Christ.  The 
southern  Celts  were  partially  civilized.  They 
dwelt  in  towns,  kept  herds,  and  worked  mines. 
They  fought  the  Romans  from  war  chariots ; 
and  could  they  have  formed  a  Apolitical 
union,  might  have  expelled  their  invaders. 
But,  as  Tacitus  remarks,  "while  the  tribes 
fought  singly,  they  were  conquered  uni- 
versally." It  required  one  hundred  and 
fifty  years  to  subdue  these  natives  as  far  as 
the  Grampian  Hills.  The  Picts  and  Scots 
were  never  conquered;  but  were  cut  oft 
from  "the  rest  of  mankind,"  at  first,  by  a 
mound  of  earth  raised  by  Agricola,  and 
afterwards  by  a  wall  of  solid  masonry  built 
by  the  emperor  Severus.  The  Celts  made 
some  contributions  to  the  English  language. 
Many  of  the  names  which  they  gave  to  the 


346 


Some   Characteristics  of  our  Language. 


[Oct. 


mountains,  lakes,  rivers,  and  towns  have 
remained  unto  this  day;  as,  in  our  own 
country,  the  Indian  proper  names  remain 
after  the  tribes  that  gave  them  have  passed 
away.  The  Celts,  also,  contributed,  as  is 
supposed,  about  one  thousand  common 
words  to  our  vocabulary.  Some  philologists 
assign  about  one-third  of  our  primitive 
words  to  that  origin.  About  ten  millions 
of  their  descendants  now  speak  dialects  of 
that  tongue. 

After  the  departure  of  the  Romans,  the  bar- 
barians, from  behind  the  wall,  came  down 
upon  their  more  cultivated  relatives  at  the 
south  of  the  island.  Vortigern,  King  of 
Kent,  invited  some  Saxon  freebooters  who 
were  cruising  about  the  eastern  coast  of  Brit- 
ain to  aid  him  in  expelling  the  invaders. 
They  joined  the  weaker  party  as  allies,  and 
after  achieving  a  victory,  remained  as  con- 
querors. Tradition  assigns  the  middle  of  the 
fifth  century  of  our  era  as  the  date  of 
the  first  arrival  of  the  Saxons.  For  one 
hiindred  and  fifty  years,  adventurers,  un- 
der the  general  name  of  "pirates,"  from 
northern  Europe  continued  to  occupy  and 
settle  the  island.  They  founded  seven 
kingdoms,  whose  subjects  were  variously 
denominated,  from  their  origin,  Angles,  Sax- 
ons, and  Jutes.  The  dialects  spoken  by  them 
belong  to  the  Low  German.  Etymologi- 
cally,  German  means  "war-man,"  or  hero; 
Angle,  spear-man;  Saxon,  ax-man — indicat- 
ing their  love  of  war.  The  Jutes  were 
jutters,  or  promontorians,  occupying  land 
jutting  out  into  the  sea  from  Jutland.  It 
would  seem  that  the  Angles  were  the  most 
numerous  of  these  tribes,  for  they  gave  name 
to  the  island — Angle-land,  or  England; 
and  until  the  middle  of  the  eighth  century 
the  chief  seat  of  learning  was  among  the 
Angles  of  Northumberland,  or  land  north 
of  the  Humber.  The  Saxons  occupied  ter- 
ritory farther-  south.  Several  of  the  names 
of  their  kingdoms  still  survive;  as,  Essex, 
East  Saxons;  Wessex,  West  Saxons;  and 
Middlesex,  Middle  Saxons. 

These  Teutonic  tribes  worshiped  in  their 
native  forests,  at  first,  the  powers  of  nature, 
without  temples  or  images;  later,  deified  men, 


through  visible  representations  of  them. 
These  two  forms  of  worship  are  indicated  by 
the  names  of  the  days  of  our  week.  We 
also  have  a  sign  of  their  method  of  comput- 
ing time  by  nights  instead  of  days,  in  the 
words  "sennight," or  seven  nights,  and  "fort- 
night," or  fourteen  nights.  Their  government 
was  essentially  democratic,  though  the  legis- 
lative power  was  vested  in  a"  King,  Lords,  and 
Commons."  Indeed,  Montesquieu  says  that 
the  British  Constitution  had  its  origin  in  the 
woods  of  Germany. 

This  people,  according  to  Tacitus,  pos- 
sessed some  noble  traits  of  character,  which 
we  think  are  still  traceable  in  their  posterity. 
They  were  distinguished  for  their  personal 
independence,  love  of  liberty,  natural  purity, 
respect  for  woman,  and  reverence  for  relig- 
ion. Making  due  allowances  for  change  of 
place  and  time,  we  may  very  properly  claim 
for  the  Americans  the  same  national  charac- 
teristics. It  is  a  favorite  theory  of  some  mod- 
ern philosophers,  that  nations,  like  plants 
and  trees,  are  the  natural  product  of  the  soil 
where  they  grow.  It  is  undoubtedly  true 
that  climate  and  food  do  modify  every  ele- 
ment of  the  complex  being,  man.  His 
body,  mind,  and  estate  are  often  deter- 
mined by  them.  Monsieur  Taine  seems  to 
believe  that  if  the  "race,  epoch,  and  sur- 
roundings" were  given,  it  would  be  easy 
to  write  a  people's  history  from  these 
data.  Hence,  he  maintains  that  the  race 
which  sprung  from  the  ooze  and  slime  of 
northern  Europe,  where  the  horizon  was 
forever  curtained  with  clouds,  and  the  at- 
mosphere reeking  with  perpetual  fogs  and 
rains,  must  necessarily  have  been  dull, 
phlegmatic,  and  intemperate.  His  deduc- 
tions correspond  to  his  theory.  The  typi- 
cal Englishman  of  to-day,  though  he  has 
changed  the  place,  still  keeps  the  pain.  His 
climate  is  but  a  slight  improvement  upon 
that  of  Germany.  He  thinks  that  when  the 
Romans  first  landed  in  Britain,  they  must 
have  thought  themselves  in  Hades,  so 
gloomy  was  the  sky  compared  with  that  of 
sunny  Italy.  He  is  not  unmindful,  however, 
of  the  eminent  virtues  of  the  English  people. 
Duty,  law,  and  religion  hold  a  prominent 


1883.] 


Some  Characteristics  of  our  Language. 


347 


lace  in  the  "Notes" he  has  written.  Both 
their  good  and  bad  qualities  are  essentially 
Saxon. 

Their  speech  also  "bewrayeth"  them. 
Though  the  English  language  borrows  from 
all  the  dialects  of  "articulate-speaking"  men, 
yet  the  words  most  used  in  books,  as  well 
as  in  common  life,  are  of  Saxon  origin.  Of 
the  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  words 
in  Webster's  Dictionary,  probably  not  more 
than  twenty  thousand  are  Saxon  derivatives; 
and  yet  four-fifths  of  the  words  of  our  best 
authors  are  from  this  source. 

The  Normans,  the  ruling  race  after  the 
Conquest,  introduced  most  of  those  terms 
that  relate  to  church  and  state,  to  relig- 
ion, legislation,  and  military  tactics.  The 
conquered  race  were  counted  by  millions; 
their  conquerors  by  thousands.  The  serfs 
obstinately  retained  their  native  speech,  and 
with  it  their  mother  wit  and  rustic  lore. 
The  Saxon  style  is  usually  marked  by  force, 
brevity,  and  perspicuity;  the  Norman  by 
dignity,  elegance,  and  sonorousness.  Dr. 
Johnson  happily  illustrated  this  difference  in 
his  criticism  on  "The  Rehearsal."  He  re- 
marked :  "  It  has  not  life  enough  to  keep  it 
sweet."  After  a  little  reflection,  he  trans- 
lated it  into  his  own  pompous  style,  thus: 
"It  does  not  possess  sufficient  vitality  to 
preserve  it  from  putrefaction."  Such  quo- 
tations show  that  we  have  two  almost  perfect 
languages  in  one.  Their  union  gives  to  the 
English  tongue  its  marvelous  variety  and  copi- 
ousness. It  is  doubtful  whether  any  thought 
was  ever  originated  by  a  human  mind  that 
cannot  be  adequately  expressed  by  it. 

We  cannot  converse  in  the  Latin  element 
of  our  language,  because  it  is  deficient  in 
words  which  serve  as  connectives.  Why  the 
Saxon  element  is  most  convenient  for  use, 
both  by  the  voice  and  pen,  will  appear  from 
the  following  considerations : 

We  derive  from  our  mother  tongue — 

1.  All  words  that  indicate  relation,  such 
as  conjunctions  and  prepositions. 

2.  All   pronouns,  particles,  common  ad- 
verbs, and  auxiliary  verbs. 

3.  All  irregular   words,    whether   nouns, 
verbs,  or  adjectives. 


4.  Most  of  the  names  of  familiar  objects, 
such  as  first  strike  the  senses  in  childhood. 

5.  Words  that  express   family  relations, 
domestic   affections,    and   all   the  joys  and 
griefs  of  home  life. 

6.  Words   whose  signification  is  specific 
are   Saxon;  while  abstract  terms  are  more 
frequently  of  Latin  origin,  through  the  French. 
Color  is  pure  Latin ;  but  white,  black,  green, . 
red,  blue,  and  brown  are  Saxon.     Motion  is 
of  Latin  origin;  but   the  specific   kinds  of 
motion,    as    hop,    leap,   jump,    run,    creep, 
crawl,  walk,  fly,  slip,  and  slide,  with  a  multi- 
tude of  similar  words,  are  Saxon. 

7.  The  common  business  affairs  of  life, 
such  as  relate  to  the  shop  and  the  mill,  the 
farm  and  the  store,  are  expressed  in  words  of 
Saxon  origin.     We  buy  and  sell,  we  talk  and 
scold,  we  laugh  and  cry,  we  love  and  hate,  in 
the  terse   monosyllables   of  the   good    old 
mother  tongue. 

The  prominent  characteristics  of  our  gram- 
mar are  from  the  same  source.  A  critic  in 
the  "Edinburgh  Review,"  Vol.  LXX.,  writes 
as  follows:  "Our  chief  peculiarities  of  struc- 
ture and  idiom  are  essentially  Anglo-Saxon, 
while  almost  all  the  classes  of  words  which 
it  is  the  office  of  grammar  to  investigate  are 
derived  from  that  language.  Thus  the  few 
inflections  we  have  are  all  Anglo  Saxon. 
The  English  genitive,  the  general  modes  of 
forming  the  plural  of  nouns,  and  the  termi- 
nations by  which  we  express  the  comparative 
and  superlative  of  adjectives;  the  inflections 
of  the  pronouns,  those  of  the  second  and 
third  persons  present  and  imperfect  of  the 
verbs;  the  inflections  of  the  preterites  and 
participles  of  the  verbs,  whether  regular 
or  irregular;  and  the  most  frequent  termi- 
nation of  our  adverbs  (ly) — are  all  Anglo- 
Saxon." 

English  grammar  is  infinitely  more  simple 
than  that  of  the  parent  tongue.  We  have 
reduced  the  plethoric  body  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  a  mere  skeleton,  and  yet  our 
language  serves  for  all  the  purposes  of  gen- 
eral conversation  and  elegant  composi- 
tion. Its  flexibility  has  no  parallel  in  any 
human  speech.  It  is  probable  that  a  com- 
plete biography  or  book  of  travels  might  be 


348 


Some   Characteristics  of  our  Language. 


[Oct. 


intelligibly  written  with  the  use  .of  a  single 
verb.  An  English  clergyman  has  written  an 
account  of  a  day's  experience,  employing  no 
verb  but  "get."  It  begins  thus:  "I  got  on 
horseback  as  soon  as  I  got  your  letter. 
When  I  got  to  town  I  got  a  chaise  and  got 
aboard;  but  I  got  wet  and  got  a  cold,  which 
I  have  not  yet  got  rid  of.  When  I  got  to  the 
bank  I  got  my  money,  but  got  a  rebuke 
because  I  got  there  so  late."  This  is  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  entire  narrative. 

I  have  made  a  similar  experiment  with 
the  verb  "took":  "Last  autumn  we  took  a 
voyage  to  London.  We  took  leave  of  our 
friends  at  home,  and  took  the  cars  for  New 
York  on  the  second  day  of  November.  On 
our  arrival  in  the  city,  we  took  lodgings  at 
the  Astor  House,  where  we  took  two  days 
for  preparation.  We  took  staterooms  on 
one  of  the  Cunard  steamers,  took  our  trunks 
on  deck,  and  took  our  departure  on  the 
fifth  of  the  month.  On  our  arrival  in  Lon- 
don we  took  a  carriage,  which  took  us  to  the 
American  Hotel,  while  a  servant  took  care 
of  our  baggage.  We  immediately  took 
rooms,  where  we  took  two  hours  for  rest,  and 
then  took  supper.  In  the  evening  we  took 
a  walk  and  took  a  survey  of  some  of  the 
public  buildings  by  lamp-light.  We  acci- 
dentally took  the  wrong  street  on  our  return; 
but  a  policeman  took  pity  on  us  and  took  us 
to  the  point  where  we  took  the  wrong  way, 
and  there  we  took  a  coach  which  took  us  to 
our  hotel,  for  which  service  the  hackman 
took  exorbitant  fare.  We  then  took  a  night's 
rest,  and  in  the  morning  took  time  to  dress. 
Father  then  took  the  newspaper  for  amuse- 
ment, and  I  took  a  book,  while  the  servants 
took  care  of  rooms.  We  then  took  break- 
fast, and  immediately  took  our  way  to  the 
bank.  We  took  notice,  however,  that  the 
officers  took  no  foreign  drafts  till  they  took 
dinner.  We  therefore  took  a  drive  to  the 
Tower,  and  took  a  look  at  its  antiquities. 
The  keeper  took  his  key,  took  us  through 
the  open  door,  and  took  us  over  the  build- 
ing. He  took  a  fee  for  his  service,  and  ap- 
parently took  satisfaction  at  our  enjoyment, 
till  we  thoughtlessly  took  some  of  the  precious 
things  into  our  hands,  and  thus  took  a  nearer 


view  of  them.  At  this  the  official  took  of- 
fense, and  took  up  his  cane  to  take  ven- 
geance upon  us.  We  took  warning  from  his 
threats,  took  to  our  heels,  and  took  ourselves 
out  of  his  reach ;  but  in  our  flight  from  the 
Tower  the  police  officers  took  us  for  thieves, 
and  took  measures  for  our  arrest.  They 
even  took  us  to  prison,  and  the  jailer  took 
us  under  his  power.  We  then  took  care 
for  a  speedy  trial,  and  our  friends  at  the 
hotel,  who  took  notice  of  our  arrest,  took 
measures  for  our  discharge." 

The  verb  "make"  maybe  made  to  per- 
form similar  multifarious  duties  in  composi- 
tion without  losing  its  literary  identity.  The 
young  student  sometimes  wonders  at  the 
great  number  of  definitions  appended  to  a 
single  Greek  or  Latin  word  in  his  lexicons. 
The  old  Saxon  roots  are  far  more  prolific  in 
meanings.  The  thought  which  they  express 
seems  to  take  new  coloring  from  the  words 
which  precede  or  follow  them.  How  differ- 
ent is  the  meaning  of  the  verb  "made"  in 
the  following  expressions :  He  made  a  mis- 
take; he  made  a  fortune;  he  made  a  ship; 
he  made  a  vow;  he  made  an  oath  ;  he  made 
a  bow;  and  so  on,  ad  infinitum.  Examine 
the  verbs  "get,"  "put,"  and  "take,"  in  simi- 
lar relations. 

The  indefinite  use  of  such  words  renders 
the  English  language  intensely  idiomatic. 
To  a  foreigner,  it  seems  incapable  of  transla- 
tion in  its  familiar  and  colloquial  phrases. 
A  burglar  attempts  to  enter  the  chamber 
of  a  gentleman  in  San  Francisco.  As  he  is 
mounting  the  ladder,  the  occupant  of  the 
room  raises  the  window,  presents  a  pistol,  and 
shouts,  "You get";  the  robber  leaps  down, 
crying,  "  You  bet";  and  thus  the  dialogue 
ends.  Who  could  turn  such  idioms  into 
Latin?  A  Texan,  describing  a  fierce  dog, 
says,  "Other  dogs  got  up  and  got  when 
that  dog  got  round."  It  was  said  of  a  crim- 
inal, "  He  got  on  well  with  his  trial,  and 
got  off  with  impunity."  A  rustic  says  of  his 
heroine,  "  She  has  got  black  eyes  ";  a  report- 
er says  of  a  rioter,  "He  got  a  black  eye." 
A  rough  who  "got  drunk,"  and  "got  into  a 
row,"  and  "got  stabbed,"  and  so  got  into  the 
city  hospital,  was  reported  by  his  surgeon  as 


1883.] 


Some  Characteristics  of  our  Language. 


349 


"doing  well."  A  wag  replied,  "This  is  the 
first  time  in  his  life  when  he  has  been  re- 
corded as  doing  well"  A  school-girl  said  to 
her  companion,  of  a  new  text-book,  "You've 
got  to  get  it;  you  have  to  have  it."  Her 
meaning  was  clearly  understood.  The  use 
of  the  verb  "take,"  which  has  already  been 
partially  illustrated,  is  still  more  vague,  yet 
its  meaning  is  perfectly  intelligible  in  every 
case.  Notice  the  following  phrases :  To  take 
on;  to  takeoff;  to  take  dinner;  to  take  life; 
to  take  comfort ;  to  take  a  purse ;  to  take 
time;  to  take  medicine;  with  other  combi- 
nations without  end.  Common  people  say, 
"The  dog  took  after  the  thief";  "the  child 
takes  after  its  mother."  "Punch"  has  a  good 
illustration  of  the  latter  sentence.  A  happy 
family — father,  mother,  and  babe — sit  around 
the  domestic  hearth.  The  father  is  reading 
Darwin's  "Descent  of  Man."  He  pauses  to 
announce  the  author's  conclusion. 

"Sarah,"  says  he,  "we  are  all  descended 
from  hairy  quadrupeds  with  long  tails  and 
pointed  ears.  Baby  had  such  ancestors." 

"You  speak  for  yourself,  John,"  said  the 
indignant  wife.  "I  had  no  such  descent, 
and  baby  takes  after  me." 

Do  you  "take"?  It  takes  time  to  take 
the  full  force  of  genuine  wit.  Some  men 
cannot  take  a  joke;  others  take  offense  at 
mere  pleasantry.  But  we  should  take  care 
not  to  take  a  man  in  earnest  when  he  is  in 
jest,  nor  to  take  him  for  a  fool  when  he  takes 
the  role  of  a  harlequin. 

The  word  "put"  helps  "make  up"  a  host 
of  idiomatic  expressions.  In  conversation 
we  say  he  was  put  up  or  put  down ;  put  by 
or  put  through;  and  sometimes  we  hear  it 
said,  "He  was  put  to  it  to  breathe";  or  it  is 
used  absolutely  like  get,  as,  "he. put,"  mean- 
ing, he  fled. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  conversation 
can  be  carried  on  in  any  language  with  so 
few  words  as  in  English.  A  Yorkshire  peas- 
ant was  called  upon  to  testify  in  a  case  of 
manslaughter.  This  was  his  affidavit :  "  He'd 
a  stick  and  he'd  a  stick ;  he  struck  he  and  he 
struck  he ;  if  he'd  a  struck  he  as  hard  as  he 
struck  he,  he'd  a  killed  he,  and  not  he,  he." 
The  judge  understood  the  witness  perfectly. 


Men  transact  business  in  various  parts  of  the 
world  with  a  jargon  of  English  and  foreign 
tongues  composed  of  less  than  two  hundred 
words.  Pigeon  English,  in  China,  is  "busi- 
ness English."  Words  without  number,  gen- 
der, or  case,  and  a  few  verbs  without  mood 
or  tense,  constitute  the  warp  and  woof  of  this 
"tangled  yarn."  Pigeon  English  for  this 
question,  "Will  the  horse  kick?"  is,  "Hoss 
make  kick?"  "Ask  the  Consul  to  come," 
is  thus  expressed :  "  Catchee  Consul ;  bring, 
come  this  side."  Similar  abbreviated  modes 
of  intercourse  are  found  along  the  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean  Sea  and  on  the  western  coast  of 
our  continent.  A  dragoman  in  the  East,  who 
is  supposed  to  speak  five  or  six  different 
languages  because  he  can.  guide  traveler 
through  as  many  countries,  may  not  be  fa- 
miliar with  more  than  one  or  two  hundred 
words  in  each  tongue  he  interprets.  These 
serve,  like  current  coin,  for  the  purposes  of 
business.  Educated  people  are  supposed  to 
employ  about  three  thousand  words  in  con- 
versation. Milton  used  in  his  various  works 
six  thousand.  The  Bible  has  nine  thousand ; 
Shakspere,  twenty  thousand.  The  words  in 
the  last-named  books  have  been  carefully 
counted,  but  the  number  used  by  orators 
and  scholars  can  only  be  learned  from  con- 
jecture. The  uneducated  peasantry  of  Great 
Britain  are  said  to  attend  to  all  their  affairs 
with  the  daily  use  of  three  hundred  words. 
Many  of  them  know  no  more  of  letters  than 
the  cattle  they  drive. 

This  class  of  English  laborers  retain  a 
multitude  of  the  old  Saxon  idioms,  which 
their  ancestors  used  when  slaves.  This  ac- 
counts for  the  fact  that  the  vulgarisms  and 
provincialisms  of  England  are  of  Saxon  ori 
gin.  We  are  sometimes  reproached, '  by 
supercilious  critics  in  the  "mother  coun- 
try," on  account  of  the  numerous  vulgar 
words  and  idioms  which  we  employ.  But  a 
majority  of  them  are  pure  Saxon.  They 
still  live  in  the  English  provinces;  many  of 
them  are  found  in  the  old  English  authors. 
In  a  poem  entitled,  "The  Owl  and  Night- 
nigale,"  written  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
such  words  abound.  We  will  quote  four 
lines : 


350 


Some   Characteristics  of  our  Language. 


[Oct. 


"  Hule,  thu  axest  me  (ho  seide), 
Gif  Ich  kon  eni  other  dede, 
Bute  singen  in  sumer  tide 
And  bringe  blisse  for  and  wide." 

Here  we  have  "ax"  for  ask — a  common 
Yankee  pronunciation;  we  also  have  "gif," 
the  old  form  of  if,  a  verb  in  the  imperative 
mood,  meaning  give  or  grant.  We  find,  too, 
"bute,"  a  verb  in  the  imperative,  from  the 
Saxon  "butan,"  which  Home  Tooke  says 
means  "be  out," take  out,  except,  i  We  find 
in  the  same  song  "craftes,"  craft  used  for 
skill;  also,  "hovene-rich,"  heavenly  kingdom, 
and  "hovene  lihte,"  heavenly  light,  showing 
the  etymology  of  heaven  from  heave,  hove, 
hoven,  that  which  is  heaved  up  or  hoven  up. 
Head  is  thought  to  be  from  the  same  root, 
meaning  heaved  up,  that  is,  the  highest  part. 
Chaucer,  in  his  beautiful  description  of  the 
Parish  Parson,  introduces  many  words  now 
obsolete  or  supposed  to  be  of  American  ori- 
gin. He  has  "snub"  and  "nonce"  in  one 
line :  "Him  would  he  snybbe  sharply  for  the 
nones."  He  also  shows  that  two  negatives 
were  used  by  the  best  writers: 

' '  Wyd  was  his  parisch,  and  houses  fer  asondur; 
But  he  ne  lafte  not  for  reyn  ne  thondur, 
In  sicknesse  ne  in  mischief  to  visile 
The  ferrest  in  his  parisch,  moche  and  lite, 
Uppon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hond  a  staf." 

The  common  people  still  use  "fer"  for 
far,  and  the  churl  happily  illustrated  the  use 
of  two  negatives,  when  he  said,  "What  I 
give  is  nothing  to  nobody."  The  little  girl 

1  No  part  of  speech  has  caused  more  trouble  to 
grammarians  than  "disjunctive  conjunctions."  War 
exists  in  the  very  name.  The  usus  loquendi  does  not 
decide  whether  the  nominative  or  objective  case  shall 
follow  but.  Common  parlance  says,  "  All  but  you  and 
I."  Pope  says,  "All  but  the  lone  Philomel  and  I." 
But  if  this  word  be  a  verb  in  the  imperative  mood, 
the  doubt  is  solved.  The  meaning  of  the  word  is  in 
dispute.  It  is  certainly  a  very  troublesome  avant 
courier  in  conversation.  The  Antiquary  says:  "  I  hate 
but ;  I  know  no  form  of  expression  in  which  he  can  ap- 
pear that  is  amiable,  excepting  as  a  butt  of  sack — but 
is  to  me  a  more  detestable  combination  of  letters  than 
no  itself.  No  is  a  surly,  honest  fellow,  speaks  his  mind 
rough  and  round  at  once.  But  is  a  sneaking,  half-bred, 
exceptious  sort  of  conjunction,  which  comes  to  pull 
away  the  cup  just  when  it  is  at  your  lips — it  does  allay 
'  The  good  precedent — fie  upon  but  yet ! 
But  yet  is  as  a  jailer  to  bring  forth 
Some  monstrous  malefactor.' " 


did  still  better  in  defining  scandal.  It  is 
when  "nobody  does  nothing,  and  everybody 
goes  on  telling  of  it  everywhere."  Chaucer, 
in  his  description  of  the  "  Yong  Squyer,"  has 
this  line:  "Of  twenty  yeer  he  was  of  age  I 
gesse."  Here  we  have  the  Yankee  use  of 
guess,  for  think,  and  the  singular  year  for  the 
plural.  You  may,  perhaps  now,  hear  a 
farmer  say,  "Twenty  year  ago,  I  sold  a  hun- 
dred bushel  of  corn  for  three  shillin'  a  bush- 
el." We  may  find,  in  the  same  author,  as 
well  as  in  our  version  of  the  Bible,  the  oft- 
criticised  words  "sick,"  for  ill,  and  "ride," 
for  drive. 

Mr.  Grant  White  has  given  an  amusing 
illustration  of  the  use  of  the  latter  word. 
I  quote  from  memory.  An  English  friend 
met  him  one  morning  in  the  city,  and  asked : 

"How  did  you  come  in?" 

"I  rode  in  a  chaise,"  said  Mr.  White. 

"Ah!"  said  his  friend,  "in  our  country  we 
always  use  'drive'  in  such  a  case." 

"How,"  said  Mr.  White,  "did  you  come 
in?" 

"  I  came  in  a  horse-car." 

"  Did  you  ride  or  drive  ?  " 

With  people  of  fashion  and  quality,  it  is  a 
sufficient  condemnation  of  a  word  to  know  that 
vulgar  persons  use  it.  Hence,  many  strong 
words  and  terse  phrases  of  Saxon  origin  are 
contraband  in  polite  society.  If  a  physician 
were  to  say  to  a  lady  patient,  "  I  must  ad- 
minister an  emetic,"  he  would  cause  no 
offense ;  but  were  he  to  say,  "  I  must  give 
you  a  puke,"  he  would  excite  nausea  without 
the  medicine,  and  yet  the  two  expressions  are 
identical  in  meaning.  It  requires  no  critical 
acumen  to  decide  which  is  the  more  forcible 
assertion  of  these  two:  "You  are  drunk, 
sir,"  or  "  You  are  inebriated,  sir " ;  or  of 
these  two:  "You  lie,  sir,"  or  "You  prevari- 
cate, sir."  But  the  lowest  terms  may  be 
elevated  by  association  with  lofty  thoughts. 
Take  the  inspired  message  to  the  church  ot 
Laodicea  :  "  So,  then,  because  thou  art  luke- 
warm, and  neither  cold  nor  hot,  I  will  spew 
thee  out  of  my  mouth."  No  one  calls  these 
words  low  or  vulgar.  The  thought  gives 
them  dignity.  Take  another  passage  from  the 
Psalms:  "They  shall  bear  thee  up  in  their 


1883.] 


Some   Characteristics  of  our  Language. 


351 


hands,  lest  thou  dash  thy  foot  against  a  stone." 
The  barefoot  boy  says,  "I  stubbed  my  toe 
against  a  rock."  The  first  expression  is 
grand,  by  its  association  with  a  noble  idea; 
the  second  is  mean,  because  the  thought  is 
sordid. 

Wordsworth  maintained  that  the  collo- 
quial language  of  rustics  is  the  most  phil- 
osophical and  enduring  that  our  dictionary 
affords,  and  that  it  is  best  fitted  for  verse. 
He  signally  failed,  however,  in  his  attempts 
to  adapt  the  dialect  of  boors  to  verse. 
Professor  Lowell,  in  his  "Biglow  Papers," 
has  made  it  the  vehicle  of  his  inimitable 
humor,  and  thus  rescued  it  from  the  charge 
of  unfitness  for  popular  poetry.  The  lan- 
guage of  clowns  cannot  be  dignified  by 
measure.  The  very  words  are  degraded  by 
association. 

Still  the  best  thoughts  of  the  most  ap- 
proved English  authors  in  prose  and  poetry 
are  clothed  in  words  of  Saxon  origin.  It  is 
sufficient  to  name  Milton  and  Bunyan  as 
authors  whose  prevailing  habit  is  to  use  the 
Saxon  words;  though  Milton  liberally  em- 
ploys the  more  sonorous  Latin  element. 
"Big  thoughts,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "re- 
quire big  words.  As  a  brief  specimen  of 
eloquent  Saxon,  I  will  quote  two  stanzas  of 
Mrs.  Barbauld's  address  to  "Life": 

' '  Life,  we've  been  long  together, 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather: 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear, 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear. 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time; 

Say  not  good  night;  but,  in  some  brighter  clime, 
Bid  me  good  morning." 

The  Anglo-Saxon  words,  except  when 
compounded,  or  rather,  placed  in  juxtaposi- 
tion (as  lead-pencil,  horse-shoe,  and  the 
like),  are  for  the  most  part  monosyllables. 
Hence  they  are  more  pithy,  forcible,  and 
expressive  than  the  long,  high-sounding  clas- 
sical derivatives.  Compare  such  duplicates 


as  pierce  and  penetrate,  wrench  and  extort, 
die  and  expire,  kick  and  recalcitrate,  do  and 
perpetrate,  work  and  operate,  kill  and  ex- 
terminate, wrinkle  and  corrugate,  and  a  host 
of  others,  which  give  to  our  language  such 
marvelous  copiousness  and  variety. 

The  Latin  element  also  supplements  the 
Saxon,  where  the  latter  is  deficient  in  quali- 
fying words  or  abstract  terms.  For  every - 
part  of  the  human  form  we  have  adjectives 
from  the  Latin;  as,  capital,  frontal,  ocular, 
nasal,  labial,  dental,  lingual,  pectoral,  pulmo- 
nary, femoral,  pedal,  and  the  like.  The  old 
Saxons  had  little  occasion  for  abstract  or  sci- 
entific terms ;  consequently  we  borrow  these 
from  the  dead  languages.  Macaulay  some- 
where says,  in  substance,  that  these  terms 
have  increased  so  rapidly  within  the  present 
century,  that  were  Bacon  to  revisit  the  earth, 
he  would  need  a  dictionary  to  enable  him  to 
read  modern-  philosophical  works.  The  en- 
tire English  vocabulary,  in  his  day,  would 
not  equal  the  number  of  technical  terms 
which  a  modern  scientist  is  required  to  know 
and  use. 

The  English  language  is  also  making  con- 
quests geographically.  It  is  now  spoken 
more  extensivelythan  any  other  living  tongue. 
Three  centuries  ago,  the  Latin  was  the  lan- 
guage of  scholars  and  philosophers.  It  is 
now  almost  disused,  even  in  works  of  science. 
M.  de  Candolle  asserts  that  in  less  than  two 
centuries  English  will  be  the  dominant  lan- 
guage, and  will  be  almost  exclusively  used 
in  scientific  works.  The  French  naturalist 
certainly  cannot  be  prejudiced  in  favor  of 
the  scientific  supremacy  of  our  tongue.  His 
opinion  will  not  be  deemed  extravagant  when 
we  consider  the  area  now  occupied  by  men 
who  speak  English.  The  entire  North  Amer- 
ican continent  will  soon  be  under  their  con- 
trol. England  has  strongholds,  forts,  facto- 
ries, and  trading-posts  on  all  the  mainlands 
of  earth,  and  in  many  of  the  islands  of  the 
oceans. 

Edwin  D.  Sanborn. 


'352  In  a  Great  Library.  [Oct. 


IN   A   GREAT    LIBRARY. 

As  Ali  Baba  in  the  cave  of  treasure, 
When  he  had  proved  the  password,  stood  alone, 

With  gems  and  gold  around  in  boundless  measure, 
And  could  not  tell  which  first  to  make  his  own  : 

So,  standing  'mid  these  cases,  where  the*  learning 

Of  all  the  past  the  ordered  books  contain, 
I  know  not  what  to  seek,  nor  whither  turning 

I  shall  the  richest  of  these  treasures  gain. 

But  nay:  too  low  the  thought  for  place  so  holy, 

This  is  a  shrine  of  all  the  great  of  old ; 
For,  though  in  temple  grand,  or  church-yard  lowly, 

Or  grave  unknown,  is  laid  their  earthly  mold, 

By  wave  vEgean,  or  where  Avon  plashes, 

Or  where  Italian  skies  their  dome  uprear, 
It  matters  not  where  rest  their  mortal  ashes, 

The  best  they  left  on  earth,  their  thoughts,  are  here. 

Here  may  I  learn  what  worthy  acts  achieving 
Great  men  of  old  have  helped  their  fellow-men; 

And  here  rehearse  what  lofty  thoughts  conceiving 
Wise  men  have  toiled  to  widen  human  ken. 

Thus,  like  ^Eneas  in  the  realm  of  shadow, 

I  may  hold  converse  with  the  noble  dead; 
Here  is,  for  me,  a  true  Elysian  meadow, 

Where  souls  are  lifted  up  and  comforted. 

And,  as  ^Eneas  from  the  field  Elysian 

Saw  at  the  last  the  wraiths  of  men  unborn, 
And  from  the  past  attained  prophetic  vision 

To  know  the  heroes  of  a  future  morn : 

So  here,  amid  the  throng  of  elder  sages, 

Who,  living,  wrought  not  only  for  themselves, 

Appear  the  mighty  shades  of  coming  ages, 
Whose  words  and  deeds  shall  crowd  the  waiting  shelves. 

And  each  on  me  his  earnest  look  is  bending, 

As  twilight  shadows  fill  the  solemn  place, 
Each  to  my  heart  the  silent  question  sending, 

Canst  thou  do  naught  to  benefit  thy  race? 

Charles  S.  Greene. 


1883.] 


Rudimentary  Society  among  Boys. 


353 


RUDIMENTARY   SOCIETY   AMONG   BOYS. 


IT  has  been  facetiously  suggested  that  a 
satire  on  war  might  be  made  out  of  the  con- 
tests of  two  rival  schools  for  the  possession 
of  a  snow  fort.     The  fierceness  of  the  strug- 
gles, the  enthusiasm  of  the  combating  forces, 
the  heroic  deeds,  the  profound  strategy,  the 
humiliation  of  defeat,  the  glow  of  victory, 
and  the  importance  of  the  object  striven  for 
— all  would  be  paralleled  in  the  two  cases. 
However  great  a  fund   of  mirth-provoking 
incident  may  be  found  in  child-life,  in  equal- 
ly large  quantity  do  the  acts  and  opinions  of 
children  furnish  material  for  serious  thought. 
As    shown   in   the   recent    lectures    and 
papers  of  Dr.  G.  Stanley  Hall,  pedagogy  and 
psychology   are   striding  forward,  with    the 
aid   of  observation   and   experiment    upon 
the  children  in  the  public  schools.     Follow- 
ing this  example,  other  sciences  may   well 
make  use  of  the  same  methods  of  research. 
With   careful  handling,  the  biological  doc- 
trine that  the  development  of  the  individual 
gives  a  picture  in  little  of  the  development 
of  the  race  may  be  used  as  a  basis  for  work 
in  the  study  of  moral  and  social  phenomena. 
It  is  easy  to  adduce  facts  bearing  out  this 
assertion;  some   must   be   known  to  every 
parent  and  to  every  teacher.     In  the  minds 
of  children  are  to  be   found  many  of  the 
notions  of  the  savage.     The  boy  that   de- 
lights in  shooting  sparrows  with  his  India- 
rubber  "sling"  is  passing  rapidly  through  a 
stage  from  which  large  portions  of  our  race 
never  emerge.     We  may  fitly  compare  the 
youthful   depredator  on  our   orchards  with 
the  primitive  stealer  of  wives.     The  ethics 
of  childhood,  unless  among  precocious,  un- 
healthy children,  is  at  best  the  ethics  of  a 
low  civilization.     A  like  relation  may  be  dis- 
covered between  the  economic  phenomena 
of  primitive  communities  and  the  like  phe- 
nomena shown  among   groups   of  modern 
children. 

Such  an  expression  as  the  last  may  sound 
fanciful,  and  yet  it  is  made  in  sober  earnest. 
VOL.  II.— 23. 


To  be  sure,  all  the  property  enjoyed  by 
most  children  comes  by  gift  from  parents 
or  friends;  but  occasionally  some  unusually 
enterprising  child  begins  to  traffic  with  the 
capital  he  has  thus  acquired;  and  there  is 
scarcely  any  school  but  has  at  least  one  boy 
ever  ready  to  swap  knives  or  to  sell  marbles. 
Sometimes  a  school  community  is  so  situ- 
ated as  greatly  to  develop  such  tendencies 
among  its  members.  An  instance  of  this 
kind  has  fallen  under  the  observation  of  the 
present  writer,  and  furnishes  some  remark- 
able instances  of  the  workings  of  a  rudi- 
mentary society. 

Among  the  boys  of  a  school  near  Balti- 
more, several  forms  of  property  have  sprung 
up.  The  boys  own  walnut  trees,  bird's- 
nests,  and  squirrel's-nests.  They  have  also 
a  system  of  exchange,  and  a  currency  of 
their  own  devising.  Moreover,  they  have 
appropriated  portions  of  land,  and  the  land 
ownership  has  passed  from  the  stage  of 
community  of  interest  to  that  of  individual 
holdings;  has  become  concentrated  in  the 
hands  of  monopolists,  and  has  been  de- 
manded by  a  socialistic  party  as  the  inalien- 
able right  of  the  whole  body  of  scholars. 

The  school  is  in  the  center  of  a  farm  of 
eight  hundred  acres,  and  over  this  tract  the 
boys  are  permitted  to  roam  at  will.  It  is 
now  ten  years  since  the  first  party  of  boys 
were  received  at  the  opening  of  the  institu- 
tion, and  they  soon  discovered  that  in  au- 
tumn walnuts  were  to  be  had  for  the  taking, 
and  that  in  spring  bird's-eggs  and  young  squir- 
rels were  treasures  that  would  recompense  the 
seekers.  All  who  took  the  trouble  to  search 
were  rewarded  with  an  abundant  harvest  of 
the  coveted  articles.  The  boys  were  in  the 
condition  of  early  man  before  the  earth  had 
become  so  crowded  as  to  require  him  to  toil 
for  bread  or  to  fight  for  a  hunting-ground. 
The  golden  age  did  not  last.  The  school 
grew,  and  not  even  eight  hundred  acres 
could  supply  nuts  and  nests  enough  for  fifty 


Rudimentary  Society  among  Boys. 


[Oct. 


adventurers.  Competition  and  disputes 
arose,  and  these  led  to  warlike  consequences, 
until  some  youth  devised  a  method  of  de- 
cision better  than  that  of  the  fist.  Then 
the  age  of  force  and  violence  passed  away, 
and  the  age  of  custom  and  law  succeeded. 
The  ages  were  short,  it  is  true,  but  they 
were  comprehensive. 

Just  after  dawn,  some  morning  late  in 
September  or  early  in  October,  when  the 
first  frost  has  ripened  the  nuts,  parties  of 
two  or  three  boys  may  be  seen  rushing  at 
full  speed  over  the  fields  towards  the  walnut 
trees.  When  a  tree  is  reached,  one  of  the 
number  climbs  rapidly  up,  shakes  off  half  a 
bushel  of  the  nuts,  and  scrambles  down  again. 
Then  they  go  to  the  next  tree,  where  the 
process  is  repeated,  unless  that  tree  is  occu- 
pied by  other  boys  doing  likewise,  in  which 
case  the  first  party  hurries  to  another  tree. 
Any  nut-hunters  coming  to  a  tree  after  the 
first  party  has  been  there,  and  wishing  to 
shake  it  still  further,  are  required  by  custom 
to  pile  up  all  the  nuts  that  lie  under  the  tree, 
for  until  this  is  done  the  unwritten  law  does 
not  permit  their  shaking  more  nuts  upon  the 
ground.  Any  one  who  violated  this  rule, 
and  shook  the  nuts  off  a  tree  before  piling 
up  those  beneath,  would  be  universally  re- 
garded as  dishonest,  and  every  boy's  hand 
would  be  against  him.  The  society  is  as 
yet  too  rudimentary  to  possess  courts  of 
justice;  but  just  as  the  frontiersmen  are  able 
to  protect  themselves  against  horse-thieves, 
so  the  injured  boy  or  his  friends  can  usually 
maintain  his  rights.  It  is  true,  a  weak  or 
friendless  boy  sometimes  loses  his  heaps  of 
nuts;  but,  in  like  circumstances,  similar  ob- 
jections are  occasionally  made  to  the  results 
of  the  best  systems  of  judicial  administra- 
tion. To  collect  all  these  nuts  into  a  pile 
costs  no  small  labor,  and  rather  than  undergo 
this,  the  second  party  will  usually  go  off  in 
search  of  another  tree.  Consequently,  this 
partial  shaking  enables  the  boys  that  first 
climb  a  tree  to  get  possession  of  all  its  fruit. 
A  certain  justice  underlies  this  custom. 
Labor  has  been  expended  in  the  first  shak- 
ing, and  the  moral  sense  of  the  community 
agrees  that  no  part  of  the  labor  should  be 


lost  to  the  shaker.  But,  as  will  be  shown 
farther  on,  no  moral  feeling  began  the  usage. 
With  boys  and  with  men  morality  is  of  late 
growth,  and  it  is  not  until  customs  of  owner- 
ship have  been  long  established  that  either 
class  begins  to  question  the  ethical  propriety 
of  the  status  quo. 

As  to  bird's-nests  and  the  dens  of  squir- 
rels, another  usage  prevails.  Before  the  first 
bluebird  has  laid  in  April,  the  egg-hunters 
provide  themselves  with  little  strips  of  paper 
bearing  their  names  and  the  date,  thus: 


Miller  &*  Crook. 
1883. 


These  tickets  and  some  tacks  they  take 
with  them  whenever  they  go  into  the  woods. 
When  a  hole  in  a  tree  betrays  a  brood  of 
squirrels,  one  of  these  tickets  is  nailed  upon 
the  trunk  beneath ;  and  under  any  bird's- 
nest  they  see,  another  ticket  is  placed.  No 
other  honest  boy  will  molest  nests  thus  iden- 
tified; and  when  the  eggs  are  laid  or  the 
squirrels  born,  Masters  Miller  and  Crook  go 
at  leisure  and  collect  specimens  for  their 
cabinets  or  pets  for  their  pockets.  In  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  the  school- 
house,  the  boys  place  boxes  for  the  birds  to 
build  in,  in  order  that  eggs  may  more  easily 
be  gotten.  When  a  boy  has  put  in  a  tree 
one  of  these  traps  for  unsuspecting  materni- 
ty, no  other  boy  is  permitted  to  use  the  tree 
for  the  same  purpose.  Lately  a  case  oc- 
curred in  which,  amid  general  approbation, 
the  second  box  was  destroyed  by  the  owner 
of  the  first. 

Neither  the  rights  to  the  nests  nor  the 
rights  to  the  walnuts  last  longer  than  one 
season.  To  acquire  a  good  title  for  the  time 
being,  new  tickets  with  the  date  must  be 
nailed  up  every  spring;  and  every  autumn 
the  walnut  trees  must  again  be  shaken. 
The  nuts  and  the  nests  are  recognized  as  in 
the  common  mark,  open  to  all  the  residents. 
They  are  the  property  of  the  whole  com- 
munity, which  is  careful  to  keep  strangers 
from  any  use  of  the  products  of  the  place. 


1883.] 


Rudimentary  Society  among  Boys. 


355 


So  far  as  any  rational  basis  can  be  found, 
the  title  to  the  nuts  and  to  the  eggs  seems 
to  rest  upon  the  act  of  appropriating  these 
articles.  The  mere  appropriation,  however, 
is  not  enough.  The  evidence  of  its  per- 
formance must  be  clear,  or  the  title  will  not 
vest.  In  one  instance  the  ticket  that  had 
been  nailed  beneath  a  hawk's-nest  afterwards 
blew  off,  and  a  boy,  coming  along  and  see- 
ing no  ticket,  took  the  eggs.  Although  the 
missing  paper  was  found  by  the  owner  lying 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  tree,  the  other 
boy  refused  to  return  the  property,  saying, 
"There  was  no  ticket  on  the  tree  when  I 
got  the  eggs,  and  they  are  therefore  mine." 
Public  opinion  seemed  to  sustain  him  in  his 
position,  and  with  a  regard  for  precedent 
common  among  holders  of  disputed  proper- 
ty, he  quoted  other  cases  where  he  had  been 
so  treated.  He  may  seem  a  hard  and  aus- 
tere boy,  "oologizing"  where  he  had  no 
rights;  but  unless  strictly  enforced,  the  sys- 
tem would  be  useless.  The  tenant  who  does 
not  keep  the  receipt  for  his  rent  may  be 
compelled  to  pay  again,  because  observation 
proves  that  the  word  of  an  interested  witness 
cannot  be  relied  on.  If  a  boy  were  per- 
mitted to  assert  a  title  resting  solely  upon 
his  declaration  that  he  had  at  one  time  tick- 
eted the  tree,  doubtless  frauds  would  be 
made  easy;  and  though  injustice  may  be 
occasionally  done  by  the  present  method,  in 
the  long  run  the  results  are  good. 

No  direct  evidence  can  be  brought  on  the 
point,  but  there  need  be  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  neither  of  these  systems  arose 
from  any  ethical  ideas.  Tradition  among 
the  present  scholars  declares,  and  from  what 
is  known  of  boys  in  general  it  may  be  said 
without  fear  of  contradiction,  that  some  mus- 
cular members  of  the  community  enforced 
the  observance  of  these  methods  so  far  as 
their  own  interests  went.  Other  boys,  struck 
with  the  plan,  took  it  up,  and  in  a  few  years 
it  was  generally  used.  A  few  repetitions 
alone  are  needed  to  establish  a  custom 
among  boys ;  and  with  boys,  perhaps  more 
than  with  primitive  man,  what  is  customary 
is  right.  Sir  Henry  Maine  tells  us  that  the 
Hindoos,  when  adjusting  the  difficulties  of 


land  tenure  that  arise  in  their  village  com- 
munities, never  appeal  to  equity,  but  always 
to  custom.  Such  is  exactly  the  process  of 
the  American  bdys  in  question.  As  soon  as 
a  dispute  begins,  each  party  asserts  that  he 
or  some  one  else  yesterday  or  last  week  was 
treated  just  as  he  now  treats  his  opponent. 
The  boy  making  out  the  best  body  of  prece- 
dents usually  obtains  for  his  position  the 
support  of  public  opinion. 

Beside  this  ownership  of  trees,  property 
in  land  has  been  developed.  Almost  the 
whole  process  here  is  known,  and  conjecture 
is  scarcely  needed.  We  can  see  clearly  the 
stage  of  common  land-holding;  of  individual 
ownership;  of  the  monopolizing  of  land;  and 
last  of  all,  the  rise  of  a  socialistic  party  clam- 
orous for  a  redistribution.  When  the  ex- 
plorations of  the  boys  revealed  the  presence 
.  of  nuts,  eggs,  and  squirrels,  numbers  of  rab- 
bits were  also  discovered.  Attempts  were 
at  once  made  upon  the  lives  of  these  ani- 
mals, for  the  purpose  of  adding  a  delicacy 
to  the  commonplace  round  of  boarding- 
school  fare.  But  here,  too,  the  demand  ex- 
ceeded the  supply,  and  it  soon  came  about 
that  air  the  rabbits  fell  into  a  few  hands. 
As  will  presently  be  shown,  this  involved 
exclusive  ownership  in  those  places  where 
rabbits  most  breed  and  haunt.  The  rabbit- 
trapping  season,  it  should  be  premised,  be- 
gins about  the  middle  of  October  and  ends 
early  in  December.  In  the  first  autumn 
after  the  opening  of  the  school,  many  of  the 
boys  had  one  trap,  or  at  most  half  a  dozen 
traps,  to  set.  But  the  spots  where  rabbits 
can  be  caught  are  comparatively  few  even  on 
eight  hundred  acres  of  land,  and  hence  the 
closeness  of  the  traps  interfered  with  the 
amount  of  the  catch.  After  two  years  of 
this  unsatisfactory  state  of  affairs,  a  large 
boy  who  had  set  his  traps  rather  early  pro- 
ceeded to  destroy  any  traps  set  closer  to  his 
own  than  he  thought  desirable.  In  such 
matters  a  great  personage  like  a  hard-fisted 
fellow  of  fifteen  has  much  influence.  His 
example  was  followed  by  others,  and  by 
common  consent  a  limited  distance  between 
traps  was  agreed  on  as  proper.  Within  a 
circle  having  a  radius  of  about  twenty  yards, 


356 


Rudimentary  Society  among  Boys. 


[Oct. 


and  having  for  a  center  a  trap  already  set, 
no  other  trap  was  to  be  placed.  Over  this 
area  the  owner  of  the  trap  became  supreme 
lord.  The  game  inhabiting  it  was  his,  and 
no  other  person  was  permitted  to  trap  there. 
Some  tall  and  muscular  land  owners  even 
forbade  the  general  public  to  walk  within 
their  bounds,  and  the  general  public,  being 
kindly  disposed  toward  these  notabilities, 
and  anxious  to  find  favor  in  their  eyes,  po- 
litely consented  to  .trap  and  to  walk  else- 
where or  nowhere.  If  any  covetous  boy  ex- 
pressed a  continued  desire  for  the  rabbits 
in  these  protected  spots,  their  owners  were 
soon  able  to  convince  him  of  the  dishonesty 
and  impolicy  of  gratifying  his  wishes. 

A  disused  trap,  one  not  baited,  but  merely 
lying  on  the  ground,  gave  its  owner  no  such 
right  as  this  to  the  surrounding  soil.  Nor 
did  a  right  established  in  one  year  last  till 
the  next.  The  trap  must  be  used,  or  no  ex- 
clusive privileges  came  from  its  presence. 

Some  more  grasping  spirits  were  not  satis- 
fied with  even  this  state  of  affairs,  and  de- 
sired to  obtain  greater  numbers  of  rabbits. 
Accordingly,  a  few  of  these  boys  combined 
together  in  early  autumn,  made  as  many 
traps  as  possible,  and  a  day  or  two  before 
the  opening  of  the  trapping  season,  set  them 
at  short  intervals  over  a  valuable  rabbit  dis- 
trict. The  customary  law  did  not  permit  a 
trap  to  be  placed  near  one  already  set,  and 
consequently,  when  the  next  party  of  trap- 
pers went  to  this  place,  they  found  it  already 
occupied.  It  was  'dotted  with  traps  forty 
yards  apart.  All  that  region  was  then  as 
completely  closed  to  ordinary  people  as  if  it 
had  been  a  piece  of  common  land  fenced  in 
under  the  Enclosure  Act  by  some  British 
landlord.  In  this  way,  the  most  enterprising 
and  unscrupulous  boys  obtained  the  owner- 
ship of  an  entire  ditch  or  swamp  or  wood. 
The  common  land  had  then  fallen  into  few 
hands. 

Here,  then,  several  boys  have  succeeded 
in  establishing  an  individual  land  ownership, 
lasting  part  of  the  year.  The  ground  that 
was  before  the  common  property  of  the 
school-community  has  become  for  a  time 
the  property  of  individuals.  If  some  phil- 


osopher had  arisen  among  the  first  boys  in 
the  school,  who  enjoyed  the  land  in  common, 
he  might  have  justified  their  custom  by  say- 
ing that  each  member  of  the  community 
had  a  right  to  gratify  his  desire  for  rabbits 
as  long  as  he  permitted  the  others  an  equal 
opportunity  for  gratification.  If  the  same 
thinker  still  existed  among  them,  perhaps  he 
would  not  find  it  so  easy  to  produce  an 
ethical  basis  for  the  system  of  individual 
ownership.  Such  q-uestions,  however,  did 
not  perplex  the  individual  owners.  These 
monopolists  comfortably  enjoyed  their  more 
luxurious  breakfasts,  and  looked  down  upon 
those  who  had  no  land  and  no  rabbits  as 
poor  devils  who  should  be  glad  to  get  the 
occasional  necks  and  backs  that  were  handed 
them  from  the  tables  of  their  richer  neigh- 
bors. 

At  the  end  of  the  season  in  which  the  sys- 
tem of  individual  ownership  was  adopted, 
the  large  holders  of  land  left  their  traps 
upon  the  spots  where  they  had  been  set,  and 
the  following  autumn  the  same  boys  had 
merely  to  walk  leisurely  over  the  ground  and 
set  them.  Thus  it  was  easy  for  these  boys 
to  be  the  first  in  the  field,  and  again  to  pre- 
vent others  from  trapping  in  the  best  places. 
When  this  occurred,  most  of  the  boys 
ceased  competition  with  these  more  fortu- 
nate rivals.  Others  who  persisted  had  to 
be  content  with  any  "spot  so  poor  in  game 
that  it  had  not  excited  the  cupidity  of  the 
monopolists.  By  this  process  the  land  not 
only  fell  for  a  time  into  a  few  hands,  but 
it  ceased  to  be  redistributed  as  formerly. 
The  few  kept  it  from  year  to  year.  The  old 
system  of  common  enjoyment  disappeared, 
and  in  its  place  came  individual  property, 
heart-burnings,  and  discontents. 

Rights  of  devise  are  also  recognized 
among  the  boys.  By  a  regulation  of  the 
board  of  trustees  of  the  school,  the  boys  all 
leave  the  institution  on  reaching  their  seven- 
teenth year.  When  the  time  came  for 
some  of  the  monopolists  to  depart  their 
little  world,  they  could  carry  nothing  out. 
None  the  less  did  they  continue  to  take  an 
interest  in  what  they  were  about  to  lose. 
They  bethought  themselves  of  bequeathing 


1883.] 


Rudimentary  Society  among  Boys. 


357 


their  possessions  to  their  friends.  Two  or 
three  boys  were  commonly  associated  in 
these  enterprises,  and  when  one  departed, 
the  remaining  shareholders  maintained  the 
testamentary  rights  thus  established ;  for,  in 
truth,  no  opposition  to  their  proceedings 
seems  to  have  been  shown.  In  this  manner, 
the  title  to  the  land  was  not  only  taken  from 
the  community  and  put  into  the  hands  of  in- 
dividuals, but  the  wishes  of  the  individual 
owners  were  respected  after  they  were  no 
longer  present  to  enforce  them. 

The  system  of  individual  ownership  has 
had  a  curious  theoretical  development. 
Upon  one  occasion,  a  landless  boy,  accom- 
panied by  a  dog,  was  crossing  a  field,  when 
the  dog  started  a  rabbit  and  chased  it.  Near 
by  was  a  ditch,  belonging  to  a  monopolist, 
who  chanced  to  be  at  hand.  The  rabbit  made 
for  the  ditch,  as  the  nearest  cover.  There- 
upon the  monopolist  declared  with  much  em- 
phasis that  the  rabbit,  if  it  should  be  caught  in 
his  ditch,  would  belong  to  him.  The  boy  with 
the  dog  refused  to  admit  the.  justice  of  this 
pretension,  and  announced  himself  prepared 
to  maintain  his  right  to  the  rabbit  by  force. 
Fortunately  for  the  interests  of  peace,  the 
rabbit  stopped  in  a  corn-shock,  and  the  dog 
seized  it  as  it  came  out.  Of  course,  it  then 
belonged  to  the  owner  of  the  dog,  and 
could  not  be  claimed  by  the  owner  of  the 
ditch.  However,  the  interesting  question  of 
the  true  title  to  rabbits  chased  into  and 
caught  upon  the  lands  of  monopolists  re- 
mains unsettled. 

After  two  or  three  years  of  this  system  of 
individual  ownership,  it  came  about  through 
devises  and  judicious  purchases  that  all  the 
land  available  for  catching  rabbits  fell  into 
the  hands  of  half  a  dozen  owners.  They 
found  it  too  laborious,  however,  to  visit  all 
their  traps,  and  to  relieve  themselves  of  the 
burden,  they  hit  upon  the  scheme  of  leasing 
or  selling  portions  of  the  land  to  other  boys. 
A  swamp  famous  for  its  game  was  let  in 
consideration  of  the  payment  of  half  the  rab- 
bits caught.  On  another  occasion,  a  boy 
found  a  great  treasure,  the  eggs  of  a  hum- 
ming-bird. These  he  gave  up  to  a  land  mo- 
nopolist for  some  other  minor  consideration, 


and  the  right  to  catch  rabbits  forever  on  a 
part  of  the  lands  of  the  monopolist.  No 
written  agreement  was  made,  but  the  bounds 
of  the  buyer's  plot  were  carefully  noted,  and 
though  the  purchase  took  place  some  years 
since,  he  can  still  recall  the  position  of  his 
corner-stones.  The  sale  of  a  perpetual  es- 
tate is  not  common,  however,  and  most  land 
owners  prefer  to  lease  their  possessions  for  a 
single  season. 

It  was  at  one  time  the  habit  of  the  trap- 
pers to  eat  the  rabbits  caught,  but  when  all 
the  game  became  the  property  of  half  a 
dozen  boys,  this  method  of  disposing  of  it 
would  no  longer  answer.  It  then  became 
customary  to  sell  the  surplus  to  the  other 
boys.  Money  was  not  very  plentiful  among 
the  scholars,  and  knives,  tops,  slings,  and 
marbles  were  bartered  for  a  rabbit  or  a  piece 
of  a  rabbit.  So  was  another  commodity, 
namely,  butter.  The  butter  given  the  boys 
at  meals  is  divided  into  exactly  equal  parts, 
and  a  piece  weighing  an  ounce  is  put  on 
each  plate.  Butter  is  intrinsically  valuable, 
and  particularly  so  in.  the  youthful  estimation. 
It  is  also  strictly  limited  in  amount.  Here 
there  were  several  of  the  requisites  of  a  cur- 
rency, and  for  currency  they  began  to  use  it. 
A  rabbit's  leg  could  be  purchased  from  a 
monopolist  for  three  "butters,"  a  whole  rab- 
bit for  ten  "butters."  A  knife  cost  from  six 
to  thirty  "butters";  a  pair  of  skates  forty 
"butters."  But  here,  as  before  with  the 
traps,  an  enterprising  dealer  would  often  ac- 
cumulate more  "butters"  than  in  his  own 
person  he  could  conveniently  consume.  In 
that  case  he  permitted  his  debtors  to  keep 
the  "butters"  they  owed  until  he  was  ready 
to  use  them.  Frequently  the  creditor  wished 
to  purchase  some  other  article — a  cake,  an 
apple,  or  a  top.  He  will  then  refer  the 
seller  to  one  of  his  debtors,  with  instructions 
to  collect  from  him  the  butter-value  of  the 
purchase.  Thus  boys  often  pay  debts  with 
amounts  of  butter  that  they  never  see.  A 
case  like  the  following  is  frequent:  Smith 
bought  a  knife  from  Jones,  payment  to  be 
made  in  "butters."  Jones  was  told  to  col- 
lect from  Robinson,  who  owed  Smith  "but- 
ters." Jones,  however,  owed  "butters"  to 


358 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Oct. 


Brown.  Brown  was  then  given  the  claim 
against  Robinson,  and  from  Robinson  he 
obtained  payment.  In  this  way,  as  the 
commercial  transactions  of  the  boys  in- 
creased— partly  because  of  the  development 
of  their  system  of  land  tenure — a  need  for  a 
currency  was  felt,  and  accordingly  they  de- 
vised a  currency. 

But  to  return  to  the  subject  of  the  owner- 
ship of  land.  At  present  all  the  most  pro- 
ductive rabbit  regions  are  in  the  hands  of 
three  boys.  A  year  ago,  envy  of  the  pros- 
perity of  the  monopolists,  and  a  growing 
sense  of  the  injustice  of  their  claims  to  ex- 
clusive ownership,  caused  the  rise  of  a  so- 
cialistic party.  These  reformers  desired  that 
a  redistribution  of  land  should  take  place, 
and  that  every  boy  entering  the  school 
should  have  an  equal  share  with  those  al- 
ready there.  "The  land,"  said  the  leader 
of  the  agitators,  "is  intended  for  all  of  us. 
Every  boy  here  has  a  right  to  catch  rabbits, 


and  no  boy  can  deprive  another  of  his  right. 
Boys  that  have  left  the  school  have  no  right 
to  give  away  their  land.  It  properly  belongs 
to  the  boys  who  come  to  take  their  places. 
We  are  forty-four  to  six.  We  must  combine 
and  force  these  fellows  to  divide." 

These  demands  were  so  vehemently  urged, 
that  the  monopolists  found  it  necessary  to 
make  some  concessions.  Accordingly  they 
picked  out  some  of  the  least  productive 
ditches,  and  gave  them  to  some  members  of 
the  agrarian  party.  This  had  the  effect  of 
quieting  the  agitation  for  the  time,  but  prob- 
ably it  will  soon  be  renewed.  The  three 
boys  who  own  most  of  the  land  have  prom- 
ised to  bequeath  it,  on-  their  departure  from 
the  school,  to  a  single  owner.  Will  he  be 
able  to  resist  the  combined  efforts  of  the 
rest  for  redistribution?  The  sentiment  in 
favor  of  a  return  to  common  ownership  is 
strengthening,  and  the  result  can  hardly  be 
doubted. 

John  Johnson,  Jr. 


A    SHEPHERD   AT   COURT. 

"Why,  if  thou  wast  never  at  court,  them  never  saw'st  good  manners  ;  if  thou  never  saw'st  good  man- 
ners, then  thy  manners  must  be  wicked;  and  wickedness  is  sin,  and  sin  is  damnation.  Thou  art  in  a 
parlous  state,  shepherd." — As  You  Like  It. 


SOME  warlike  ancestor  must  have  handed 
down  to  Steven  Gurney  a  certain  military 
bearing,  which  made  his  patrician  lady 
friends  assert  that  he  had  been  in  the  "regu- 
lar army."  At  any  rate,  this  spurious  repu- 
tation lent  him  high  favor  and  harmed 
nobody,  the  wearer  of  invisible  spurs  being 
wholly  unconscious  of  the  social  niche  al- 
lotted him.  Indeed,  he  mostly  accepted 
polite  attentions  with  polite  indifference.  It 
was  the  not  uncommon  selfishness  of  a  man 
who  cared  nothing  for  society  as  society, 
who  was  oblivious  to  the  good  qualities  of 
any  outside  his  chosen  circle  of  friends,  who 
won  regard  and  held  it  without  effort,  and 
was  yet  modest  enough  to  undervalue  this 
best  of  gifts.  He  had  cool  gray  eyes,  which 
looked  into  and  beyond  the  surface-show  of 
the  fashionable  world,  and  whose  changing 


lights  misled  many  a  woman  into  innocent 
heart  fiutterings,  and  made  her  sure  she  had 
found  the  clew  to  his  love. 

The  warm,  soft  hand-clasp  told  how  un- 
emotional he  was — how  steadily  his  blood 
flowed;  but  it  was  easy  enough  to  under- 
stand that  when  his  -pulses  stirred  it  would 
be  to  some  purpose.  He  was  called  hand- 
some, but  his  reviewers  only  meant  that  he 
had  broad  shoulders,  long  limbs,  and  a 
manly  presence:  a  stupid  but  common  mis- 
take in  word-fitting.  Few  of  Gurney's  friends 
knew  that  his  chief  charm  lay  in  his  deep, 
steady  voice  with  its  caressing  intonations, 
and  in  the  rare,  slow  smile  that  made  his 
grave  face  like  a  glint  of  sunshine.  Perhaps 
I  have  given  him  too  many  graces  with  no 
blemish  at  all ;  but  whoever  poses  for  a  hero 
needs  all  the  softened  lights  and  retouching 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


359 


our  poor  art  can  give,  and  the  good,  indul- 
gent public  will  find  the  blemishes  fast 
enough. 

Not  far  from  the  coast  in  one  of  our  lower 
counties,  and  set  in  the  loveliest  of  all  the 
picturesque  valleys  abounding  in  the  Coast 
Range,  is  a  curious  Spanish-American  resi- 
dence, that  has  an  air  of  the  ancien  regime. 
The  trees  of  foreign  growth  that  overshadow 
the  house  must  have  taken  a  long  time  on 
their  journey  .upward,  and  are  stout,  full- 
naturalized  citizens.  The  close-trimmed 
orchard,  the  orange  and  olive  groves,  the 
giant  trunks  of  the  climbing  roses,  and  the 
gnarled  bark  of  the  trellised  grape-vines,  all 
say  emphatically  to  the  passer-by:  "We  are 
wiser  than  you;  we  have  ministered  to  the 
wants  of  a  generation  you  could  not  know. 
In  this  land  of  butterfly  towns  and  dissolv- 
ing fortunes  we,  at  least,  can  make  you  be- 
lieve that  there  has  been  a  past." 

Everywhere  on  the  place  can  be  heard  the 
sullen  roar  of  the  breakers  ten  miles  away, 
as  they  roll  up  to  dash  themselves  on  the 
rocks,  and  one  can  fancy  how  they  fall  away 
in  foamy  fantastic  shapes  on  the  long  lines 
of  crinkled  sand.  But  the  hills  between  put 
up  their  broad  shoulders,  and  shut  off  the 
wild  wet  winds  and  white  fog — holding  the 
valley  close  and  warm  in  their  arms.  And 
here,  when  we  meet  him,  Steven  Gurney  had 
lived  for  fifteen  years  a  careless,  unambitious 
existence,  which  would  have  fossilized  a 
man  of  less  latent  energy,  but  which  had 
come  to  this  man  like  pardon  after  a  death- 
sentence. 

Had  he  so  willed,  he  might  have  made  one 
of  the  noble  army  of  martyrs  who  devote 
themselves  to  the  good  of  the  Common- 
wealth without  hope  of  reward;  but  he  was 
not  made  of  martyr  stuff,  so  he  let  another 
man  represent  .his  district  in  Congress.  He 
hunted  and  fished  and  smoked  and  read, 
and  rode  among  his  flocks  and  herds,  as 
contentedly  as  though  life  could  hold  noth- 
ing more.  He  liked  the  freedom,  the  isola- 
tion— the  somber  old  house  that  held  a 
tragedy  sad  and  bad  enough  for  a  mediaeval 
romance,  if  one  could  believe  the  "oldest 
inhabitant"  —  a  melancholy,  gray-bearded 


Spaniard,  who  was  a  pensioner  on  the  place. 
Stripped  of  Jose's  magniloquence,  the  story 
"was  this : 

At  the  time  when  the  California  Fran- 
ciscans were  at  the  height  of  their  pros- 
perity, and  the  jealous  friars  looked  forward 
to  a  rosary  of  blooming  missions  whose 
beads  should  outnumber  their  holy  days — 
say  seventy  years  ago — there  was  sent  to  mis-, 
manage  the  affairs  of  the  Santa  Barbara  pu- 
eblo a  Spanish  gentleman  of  spotless  lineage 
and  diminished  fortune,  named  Romierez. 
He  brought  with  him  his  wife  and  daughter, 
burning  his  ships  behind  him  with  a  reck- 
lessness that  matched  his  pride.  After  a 
year  of  unhappy  feud  with  priests  and  peo- 
ple, he  threw  up  his  commission  and  re- 
treated to  the  mountains,  where  he  made 
himself  a  home,  and  lived  in  half-barbaric 
splendor,  with  a  swarm  of  Indian  retainers 
and  two  or  three  of  his  own  Spanish  servants. 
His  daughter,  meanwhile,  bloomed  into  a 
rose  that  had  no  rival  in  all  the  length  of 
his  sunny  gardens.  But  the  monotonous 
life  wearied  her,  and  finally  she  fell  in  love 
with  a  handsomeyoung  half-breed,  her  father's 
boldest  vaquero.  Though  foolish  enough 
to  spoil  her  life,  she  was  too  wise  to  expect  a 
smooth  love  path.  So  there  were  stealthy 
meetings,  and  love  messages  borne  by  the 
Indian  waiting-maid.  A  secret  marriage  was 
planned,  but  at  the  last  moment  the  maid 
played  traitor,  and  when  Dona  Luisa  slipped 
out  of  her  room  to  meet  her  bridegroom, 
she  found  her  father  at  the  door. 

"Are  you  waiting  for  your  vaquero?"  he 
said,  coldly.  "Well,  he  is  hanging  at  the 
heels  of  his  own  horse  somewhere  down  in 
the  valley— what  is  left  of  him." 

And  when  the  terrified  girl  pleaded  her 
innocence,  and  begged  for  mercy: 

•  "  Mercy  is  for  the  saints  to  give,"  he  said, 
unmoved.  "A  Romierez  cannot  live  with 
even  the  doubt  of  dishonor  on  her  name. 
Go  and  meet  your  lover."  And  before  she 
could  speak  again,  the  slender  dagger  he 
held  was  thrust  once  in  her  throat,  twice  in 
her  heart. 

Justice  did  not  wait  to  be  blinded  in  those 
days,  but  just  shut  her  eyes  discreetly.  So 


360 


A  SJiepherd  at  Court. 


[Oct. 


when  Don  Romierez  gave  his  home  over  to 
the  church,  and  took  his  heart-broken  wife 
back  to  Spain,  there  was  nobody  to  stand* 
in  their  way.  But  a  cloud  hung  over  the 
place,  and  its  successive  owners  swore  that 
in  the  chambers  of  the  old  house  the  Dona 
Luisa  walked  on  moonlight  nights,  protest- 
ing her  sinlessness,  pleading  to  be  forgiven, 
while  the  blood-drops  trickled  from  her 
slender  throat  and  stained  her  white  dress. 
Gurney  knew  all  these  tales,  and  though  he 
was  not  superstitious,  he  felt  that  a  certain 
pathos  clung  to  the  house,  and  that  the  old- 
time  shadows  in  which  it  lay  made  it  a  fit 
refuge  for  one  whose  life  had  been  darkened 
by  shadows. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"It  is  a  curious  fact,"  said  Gurney,  reflect- 
ively, as  he  threw  away  his  cigar  and  pulled 
down  a  lonely  autumn  spray  of  honeysuckle 
— "a  very  curious  fact,  that  whenever  a  man 
sits  down  to  idle  ease  and  comfort,  some- 
body must  be  at  hand  to  disturb  his  repose"; 
and  he  looked  rather  impatiently  at  the  blue- 
lined  letter  that  had  dropped  from  his  hand 
and  fluttered  half-way  down  the  broad  steps 
of  the  porch. 

He  had  no  audience  but  a  big  brown  set- 
ter, who  was  watching  him  with  wistful  eyes, 
his  nose  on  paws  and  feathery  tail  slowly 
waving;  so  these  views  must  have  been  ex- 
pounded for  the  benefit  of  Max,  in  case  he 
looked  forward  to  an  inglorious  dog-life. 

Gurney  laughed  lazily  as  he  caught  his  fa- 
vorite's beseeching  attitude  and  look.  "Let 
us  gather  our  roses  while  we  may,"  he  mur- 
mured; "come,  old  fellow";  and  sauntered 
slowly  down  the  sunny  walk  with  Max  leap- 
ing about  him  in  joyous  expectation. 

The  dog's  rough,  eager  caresses  were  more 
grateful  to  him  just  then  than  human  com- 
panionship would  have  been. 

He  had  a  womanly  tenderness  for  dumb 
things,  and  children  treated  him  with  a  frank 
friendliness  which  they  rarely  accord  to  grown- 
up people.  They  are  clever  little  things,  these 
mites  of  humanity,  because  they  trust  their 
instincts. 

Now   the   freckled,    blue-eyed   boy   who 


rushed  out  of  the  shrubbery  at  sight  of  Max 
was  about  as  wise  as  the  setter  in  worldly 
knowledge;  but  who  shall  say  he  did  not 
know  friend  from  foe  better  than  the  expe- 
rienced man  of  thirty-five  who  watched  the 
boisterous  greeting  between  the  two  play- 
mates. 

"O,  may  I  go  with  you,  Mr.  Gurney?" 
said  the  child,  entreatingly. 

"Where?"  asked  Gurney,  with  well-feigned 
surprise. 

"Wherever  you  are  going  to  walk." 
"And  the   house-mother — what  will   she 
say  when  she  finds  you  gone?" 

"  O,  we  can  stop  and  ask  her  on  our  way." 
Gurney  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You 
have  settled  it  all  nicely,  haven't  you,  Mas- 
ter Karl,"  he  said,  but  he  followed  the  boy 
as  the  latter  danced  along  the  garden  path, 
and  then  ran  down  a  narrow  lane  to  a  little 
brown  cottage  tucked  snugly  away  among 
the  trees. 

"  See,  Grossmutter.  I  am  going  to  walk 
with  Herr  Gurney,"  he  called  out  to  a  stern- 
looking  old  woman  who  stood  in  the  door- 
way. Her  face  relaxed  somewhat  when  she 
caught  sight  of  Gurney,  and  they  held  a  short 
parley  in  German. 

"Be  a  good  boy,  Karl."  The  child  nod- 
ded, and  kissed  his  hand  to  his  grandmother 
as  they  walked  on. 

"  She  makes  so  much  fuss  about  nothing," 
he  said,  with  childish  naivete. 

"  Yes,  a  great  many  people  do  that,"  an- 
swered Gurney,  gravely.  "  Even  very  young 
children,  wise  as  they  are,  fall  into  the  same 
error  occasionally." 

"You  mean  me,"  said  Karl  promptly,  for 
he  was  used  to  Gurney's  bantering  tone  ;  "  I 
don't  think  I'm  fussy  at  all." 

"  It's  too  deep  a  subject  for  me  to  discuss. 
Turn  this  way — I  want  to  see  Loveatt " ;  and 
they  toiled  up  the  brown  hill  where  the  men 
were  fallow-plowing. 

A  shower  the  night  before  had  made  the 
earth  a  little  moist  and  shaded  the  long, 
smooth  furrows  with  light  and  dark.  The 
faint,  sweet  smell  of  the  loam  mingled  with 
the  more  pungent  one  of  burning  weeds  and 
brush,  and  blue  smoke-wreaths  floated  out 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


361 


here  and  there,  as  the  bronzed  farm-hands 
went  to  and  fro,  sending  up  this  yearly  in- 
cense from  the  altars  of  Ceres.  The  air  was 
still  and  mild ;  the  sun  shone  with  a  curious 
yellow  light.  Distant  sounds  came  floating 
to  them  through  the  hazy  air,  with  a  musical 
cadence  that  was  almost  uncanny.  A  flock 
of  quail  ran  a  little  way  before  them,  and 
rose  with  a  whir  into  the  trees.  It  was  a 
pretty  pastoral  picture — a  very  familiar  one 
to  Gurney ;  but  in  his  wandering  glance  there 
was  none  of  the  eager  air  of  possession  or 
the  keen  calculation  that  marks  the  pro- 
prietor. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Reinecke's  letter  was  flut- 
tered back  and  forth  by  the  soft  autumn 
wind,  until  it  lay  on  its  back  helplessly,  far 
down  the  wide  drive,  where  Gurney,  com- 
ing home  an  hour  or  two  later,  found  it  and 
picked  it  up  with  an  impatient  frown. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  and  left  a  cold 
light  on  the  hills  to  contradict  the  warm, 
bright  day ;  while  in  the  south  an  ominous 
bank  of  cloud  was  rolling  up  steadily.  Fool- 
ish dreamer,  did  you  think  it  was  yet  sum- 
mer? Another  day  shall  show  you  your 
mistake. 

Karl  had  gone  home.  Max,  worn  out 
with  his  unnecessary  exertions,  walked  de- 
jectedly behind  his  master.  A  little  gust  of 
wind  shook  the  trees,  and  two  or  three  brown 
leaves  drifted  down  and  fell  on  the  stiff  pa- 
per which  Gurney  still  held  in  his  hand. 

"We  will  talk  this  over  later,  Mr.  Rei- 
necke,"  he  said  to  the  sprawling  signature, 
and  went  into  the  house  with  the  air  of  a 
man  whose  conscience  and  inclination  were 
at  sword's  points. 

Max  followed  his  master  into  the  hall, 
hoping  in  his  dog-mind  that  he  would  be 
forgotten  until  he  had  fairly  established  him- 
self on  the  rug,  when  he  would  be  in  good 
likelihood  of  retaining  his  position.  Un  for- 
tunately, a  majestic  Maltese  cat  happened  to 
come  out  of  an  opposite  door  just  then,  and 
sidled  up  to  Gurney,  rubbing  against  his  legs 
with  an  assured  air  that  was  too  much 
for  Max's  jealous  disposition.  Instinct  was 
stronger  than  reason,  and  he  made  a  dash 
for  the  interloper.  There  was  a  minute's 


conflict,  a  sharp  staccato  of  growls  and  spit- 
tings, and  then  the  dog  was  thrust  ignomin- 
iously  out,  while  Cassim  was  admitted  to 
the  fire  in  full  fellowship  with  the  owner 
thereof.  It  was  a  funny  epitome  of  the 
irony  of  justice,  and  so  Gurney  possibly 
thought,  for  he  threw  himself  back  in  a  big 
easy -chair  and  apostrophized  Cassim  as  the 
latter  lay  luxuriously  stretched  out,  taking  up 
more  than  his  share  of  the  hearth-rug. 

"  That  was  a  very  feminine  success,  my 
feline  friend,"  he  murmured,  "  in  spite  of 
your  sex.  You  were  quite  as  much  to  blame 
as  Max,  and  yet  he  expiates  his  offense, 
while  you  not  only  go  scot-free,  but  are 
given  what  you  most  desire." 

Then  he  slowly  drew  out  his  letter.  "  What's 
the  use  of  putting  off  the  evil  hour?"  he 
went  on.  "To  say  yes  to  this  summons  means 
to  leave  my  comfort  and  seclusion  for  bare 
rooms  in  a  hotel,  and  the  companionship  of 
people  I  don't  like  and  don't  want  to  like ; 
to  dangle  attendance  on  my  lawyers  all 
winter,  and  pay  roundly  for  the  privilege. 
I  am  like  Max :  I've  done  nothing  very 
bad,  and  yet  I  must  be  punished  by  fate,  who 
is  the  most  capricious  mistress  of  all;  while 
my  wily  neighbor,  who  has  brought  me  into 
trouble,  has  nothing  to  lose  and  everything 
to  gain,  and  lies  down,  so  to  speak,  all  over 
the  hearth-rug. 

"  After  all,  there  can't  be  such  a  furious 
haste.  I'll  go  next  week,  if  it  is  absolutely 
necessary." 

Just  then  there  was  a  quick  tap  at  the 
door,  and  a  smart  servant  girl  brought  in  his 
letters  and  touched  up  the  fire.  The  wind 
had  risen  from  a  fluttering  breath  to  a  ghostly 
sobbing.  It  rattled  the  windows  here  and 
there,  and  wailed  around  the  house  like  a 
Banshee.  Then  there  came  a  hush,  and 
the  rain  pattered  fast  against  the  pane. 

Gurney  opened  the  letters — some  half  a 
dozen — with  the  careless  air  of  a  man  with- 
out any  absorbing  interest.  Among  the  rest 
was  another  note .  from  Mr.  Reinecke,  an 
urgent  plea  for  his  client's  presence.  "  Kis- 
met !"  murmured  Gurney,  reverently  bowing 
his  head.  "  Who  can  resist  such  a  call  as 
that?"  and  without  pausing  a  moment,  he 


362 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Oct. 


scrawled  a  few  words  on  a  piece  of  paper 
and  summoned  the  smart  maid. 

"  I  want  Frank  to  take  this  to  the  tele- 
graph office  at  once,  and  you  may  tell  him 
to  have  Flora  ready  to  drive  me  over  to  take 
the  steamer  in  the  morning." 

Jessie  opened  her  black  eyes  very  wide. 
"The  master"  had  not  been  away  for  so 
long  a  time  that  she  thought  him  a  sort  of 
fixture ;  but  she  only  said,  "  Very  well,  sir," 
and  went  out  hastily,  eager  to  deliver  her 
message. 

"  You  see,  Cassim,"  touching  the  cat  with 
his  foot,  "the  penalty  of  possession.  I 
toiled  that  I  might  have,  and  now  I  must 
toil  that  it  be  not  taken  from  me.  And  I 
am  constantly  beset  with  conscience-pricks 
for  my  negative  goodness.  I  boast  that  I 
do  no  man  any  harm,  but  if  I  hold  back 
when  I  might  do  some  man  good,  what 
then?  A  philanthropist  is  but  a  dreamer 
who  stirs  up  the  slums  that  he  has  not  the 
power  to  purify.  Each  man  who  isolates 
himself  does  some  good,  if  we  may  believe 
Thoreau:  'Not  content  with  defiling  each 
other  in  this  world,  we  would  go  to  heaven 
together.'  That's  it,  I  think.  A  caustic 
theology,  Henry,  for  Walden  Woods  to  teach. 
After  all,  it  resolves  itself  into,  'Am  I  my 
brother's  keeper?'  No,  no;  that's  too  per- 
plexing; we  won't  follow  it  any  farther." 
•  The  cat  here  drew  himself  up  slowly, 
yawned  a  mighty  yawn,  and  climbed  up  on 
his  master's  knee. 

"  Now^w/  represent  conscienceless  prosper- 
ity," said  Gurney,  stroking  the  fine  blue-gray 
fur.  "You  might  be  a  metempsychosed  stock 
manipulator  or  railroad  king.  By  the  way, 
I  wonder  how  my  friend  Graves  is  reconciling 
his  religious  creeds  of  God  and  Mammon 
by  this  time.  He  had  just  joined  the  church 
when  I  saw  him  last,  and  bought  the  highest- 
priced  pew  in  Saint  Mark's  temple.  I  shall 
have  to  brush  myself  up,  Cassim,  and  pay 
my  devoirs  to  his  portly  wife,  and  to  Madam 
Rivers  too,  if  I  go  to  Vanity  Fair.  That 
means  dress-coats  and  silk  hats  and — 

"  If  you  please,  dinner  is  ready,"  said 
Jessie,  at  the  door.  Thereupon,  Cassim  was 
deposed,  and  the  one-sided  discussion  ended. 


The  next  night  found  Gurney  on  the  deck 
of  the  coast  steamer,  with  the  churning  of 
engines  and  the  tread  of  feet  making  monot- 
onous accompaniment  for  his  monotonous 
thought;  the  next  week  found  him  estab- 
lished in  our  arrogant,  sand-swept  little 
metropolis,  and  beset  by  legalities  and  ille- 
galities that  taxed  his  good  nature  to  the  ut- 
most, and  threatened  to  last  beyond  his  own 
lifetime. 

CHAPTER  II. 

Mrs.  John  Rivers  had  ambitions.  To  be 
sure,  they  were  not  very  big  ones,  but  she 
devoted  her  life  to  them  as  sincerely  as 
though  they  were  destined  to  revolutionize 
the  world.  To  give  pleasant  parties,  to 
keep  her  house  furnished  in  the  latest  style, 
to  belong  to  the  most  conspicuous  set,  to 
know  the  latest  gossip,  to  dress  in  the  new- 
est mode — well,  these  were  enough  to  keep 
her  from  ennui;  and  then  came  countless 
minor  desires.  She  had  married,  early  in 
life,  a  gentleman  of  moderate  means,  and  if 
it  was  a  love-match,  it  must  have  been  a 
very  matter-of-fact  Cupid  who  sent  his  arrows 
their  way,  for  neither  of  them  had  sentiment 
enough  to  turn  a  paper  windmill.  However, 
they  lived  happily  enough  to  pass  unscathed 
the  gossip-gauntlet  of  society — which  was 
a  crucial  test.  Mr.  Rivers  was  a  self-made 
man,  but  he  kept  that  fact  out  of  sight, 
cheerfully  believing  that  if  he  forgot  it  every- 
body else  would;  for  with  every  year  they 
grew  more  prosperous,  till  at  last  they  stood 
on  the  small  plateau  where  we  meet  only  the 
"best  people." 

One  day  Mrs.  Rivers  sat  in  her  handsome 
library  with  a  stupendously  big  book  before 
her.  She  was  not  reading.  She  had  not 
even  a  wish  to  be  thought  literary.  It  was 
simply  her  fine  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 
When  she  was  in  the  library,  she  took  up  a 
book — whether  it  was  Plato  or  Peregrine 
Pickle  mattered  not  at  all.  But  her  con- 
science was  elastic  enough  to  let  her  mind 
go  free,  instead  of  dwelling  on  the  printed 
page,  and  her  expression  was  intent  enough 
to  do  double  duty.  In  the  midst  of  her  re- 
flections, her  husband  came  in  with  the 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


363 


children — a  freckled  ten-year  boy,  and  a  girl 
two  or  three  years  younger. 

"Did  you  have  a  nice  ride?"  asked  their 
mother,  abstractedly.  "Don't  pull  up  the 
blind,  Tom ;  the  light  hurts  my  eyes.  Go 
and  get  dressed  for  dinner.  No,  Laura:  not 
your  green  plush ;  the  gray  one  is  quite 
nice  enough  when  we're  alone." 

"O,  by  the  way,  Althea,"  said  Mr.  Rivers, 
"I  met  Gurney  down  town  to-day.  He  has 
come  up  from  his  place  on  business,  and 
will  be  here  several  weeks.  We  must  make 
it  pleasant  for  him,  you  know.  Can't  you 
send  him  one  of  those  things?"  and  he 
pointed  to  a  pile  of  invitations  lying  on  the 
table. 

His  wife  looked  at  him  with  a  perplexed 
wrinkle  in  her  forehead.  "  Gurney,"  she 
repeated — "Gurney — O  yes;  how  stupid  I 
am  —  Fanny  Lawlor's  friend "  —  and  the 
wrinkle  was  smoothed  away  in  an  instant. 
"  Of  course  I'll  send  him  a  card.  He  isn't  a 
dancing  man,  is  he?  I've  forgotten.  Danc- 
ing men  are  so  scarce" — with  a  sigh  of  re- 
sponsibility— "and  there  are  dozens  of  girls 
coming  out  this  winter  who  only  live  to 
dance.  Where  did  you  say  he  is  staying? 
What  a  blessing  it  would  be  if  Fanny  could 
marry  him ! " 

When  Gurney  found  the  imposing  in- 
scription, "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Rivers  re- 
quest the  pleasure,"  etc.,  under  the  door  of 
his  room  that  night,  he  looked  anything  but 
grateful;  but  after  deliberating  for  full  fifteen 
minutes,  he  tossed  up  a  shiny  half-dollar 
and  took  "heads"  as  a  fatalistic  sign  that 
society  wanted  him. 

He  had  spent  half  a  dozen  non-consecu- 
tive winters  in  San  Francisco,  and  knew  a 
good  many  people.  He  had  money  enough 
to  make  him  an  object  of  interest,  both  to 
business  men  and — yes,  and  business  women. 
He  was  born  a  man  of  the  world,  just  as  he 
was  born  a  gentleman;  but  fifteen  years  of 
seclusion  had  made  him  a  little  provincial. 
That  is  a  fate  the  wisest  recluse  cannot 
escape.  The  timid  or  bold  overtures  of 
bashful  "buds"  and  matchmaking  mothers 
amused  for  a  while,  and  then  bored  him. 
To  himself  he  called  these  festas  of  kettle- 


drum, german,  and  reception  "  sparks  from 
the  Devil's  poker." 

Mrs.  Rivers's  "At  home"  was  one  of  the 
first  sparks  of  the  season,  and  therefore  bril- 
liant. The  ladies  all  had  on  fresh  dresses, 
unless  it  was  the  passees  and  the  poor  rela- 
tions; and  people  were  more  easily  enter- 
tained at  the  start.  Later  on,  just  before 
Lenten  time,  they  grow  captious.  There 
was  a  medley  of  silk  and  lace  and  pearl- 
powder  and  rouge  and  frizettes,  with  dress- 
coats,  waxed  mustaches,  tender-hued  gloves, 
and  boutonnieres  to  match ;  half-tipsy 
army  titles,-  apoplectic  stock  quotations, 
bored  "Benedicts,"  rough,  human  lava- 
stones  thrown  up  by  some  political  upheaval; 
parasites  of  all  kinds,  clinging  snail-like  to 
the  fairest  things  and  leaving  a  trail  of  sticky 
flattery  to  mark  their  path ;  and  a  few  cul- 
tivated, generous  souls,  which  resembled  far- 
off  stars,  inasmuch  as  they  were  not  visible  to 
the  naked  eye;  hot-house  flowers,  music, 
unwholesome  diet,  dancing,  and  small  talk; — 
that  was  the  "spark" — the  party,  german, 
or  what  not. 

Gurney  stood  leaning  against  a  stuccoed 
pillar  of  the  ball-room,  just  outside  the  sway- 
ing throng  of  dancers,  watching  how  many 
came  to  grief  in  their  ever-recurring  collis- 
ions, when  a  rapid  couple  knocked  him  out 
of  his  position  and  sent  him  reeling  into  the 
alcove  beyond,  and  against  a  lady  who  was 
sitting  there  alone. 

"Bedlamites!"  he  muttered,  as  he  re- 
covered his  footing  and  his  self-possession 
together. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me"  said  the  lady, 
cheerfully ;  and  Gurney  looked  down  only  to 
meet  an  expression  of  intense  and  uncon- 
cealed enjoyment  anything  but  soothing  to 
an  angry  man.  He  felt  more  profoundly 
disgusted  than  ever  with  party-givers  and 
party-goers. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  with  an  aggrieved 
air.  "If  I  spoke  your  name  it  was  accident- 
ally, since  we  have  not  met  before,  I  think. 
I  can't  tell  how  to  apologize  for  unintention- 
al rudeness,  so  I  offer  my  sincerest  regrets 
that  I  am  here  at  all";  and  he  bowed  serious- 
ly, and  walked  away. 


364 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Oct. 


Making  his  way  through  the  crowded 
rooms  a  little  later,  he  saw  his  lady  of  the 
alcove  the  center  of  a  gay  knot  of  young 
people,  who  alternately  laughed  and  listened. 
Her  vivid  pantomime,  and  the  glances  that 
followed  him  as  he  passed  the  group,  told 
him  who  was  the  primary  cause  of  their 
mirth.  A  moment  more  and  the  young 
lady  went  down  the  room  in  the  arms  of  an 
effeminate  carpet-knight,  with  a  step  rather 
too  rapid  to  be  "good  form"  in  that  day  of 
languid  waltzes.  Gurney  held  some  antique 
notions  on  the  subject  of  womanhood;  and 
the  fast  young  woman  of  the  period,  of 
whatever  type,  was  peculiarly  distasteful  to 
him.  Without  giving  another  thought  to 
the  special  specimen  he  had  just  encountered, 
he  strolled  into  one  of  the  deserted  rooms 
and  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair,  sheltered  by 
some  friendly,  hideous  Japanese  vases.  The 
waltz  came  to  an  end,  the  dancers  streamed 
through  the  halls  chattering  and  laughing. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  hush,  a  few  bold 
chords  struck  on  the  piano  near  him,  and  a 
clear,  fresh  voice  rang  out  full  and  sweet  in 
"My  Nannie  O."  It  touched  Gurney  in 
spite  of  himself,  and  sent  him  straightway 
back  to  his  college  days.  He  turned  with 
some  interest  to  look  at  the  singer,  but  at 
sight  of  her  lost  his  enthusiasm. 

"Can  I  ever  get  away  from  that  woman?" 
he  said  to  himself  wearily,  but  turning  to  go 
out  was  confronted  by  his  hostess.  She  was 
a  curious  study  to  him  sometimes,  and  he 
admired  her  pluck  in  social  struggles  ;  but  he 
was  not  in  the  mood  just  then  to  take  char- 
acter-notes, and  tried  to  slip  away.  It  was 
too  late.  She  caught  his  arm  with  the  little 
rippling  laugh  that  was  one  of  her  weapons. 

"O,  Mr.  Gurney,  here  you  are  at  last. 
I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere.  Are 
you  having  a  nice  time?  You  must  vow  you 
are,  anyhow,  just  to  be  polite.  Now  come 
with  me ;  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  a  cousin 
of  mine.  She  wasn't  staying  with  me  last 
winter  when  you  were  here,  but  you  must 
have  heard  me  speak  of  her.  Such  a  clever 
girl.  I  know  you'll  like  her";  and  she  led 
him  up  to  the  person  he  most  wished  to 
avoid. 


"  I'm  sure  you'll  like  each  other,"  she  said, 
with  careless  decision;  "two  such  clever 
people  as  you  are  ought  to  be  good  friends  " ; 
and  she  hurried  away  to  hunt  up  more  affini- 
ties. 

The  two  clever  ones  looked  at  each  other 
rather  stupidly,  and  then  Helen  Oulton  bit 
her  lips  to  hide  the  smile  that  trembled  on 
them,  and  played  with  her  fan,  a  la  debutante. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
apologizing  to  you  in  your  proper  name,"  he 
said  at  once,  taking  the  vacant  place  beside 
her. 

She  glanced  at  him  demurely.  "Perhaps 
/  ought  to  apologize  for  laughing  at  you 
when  you  stumbled,  but  only  Mr.  Turvey- 
drop  could  have  resisted  such  temptation, 
and  my  early  education  in  deportment  was 
neglected." 

"Two  such  clever  persons  as  we  are  ought 
to  be  able  to  dispense  with  apologies  alto- 
gether," said  Gurney,  trying  to  make  the  best 
of  his  enforced  tete-a-tete.  "We  must  be 
clever,  you  know,  because  Mrs.  Rivers  said 
we  were.  It  has  placed  us  in  rather  a  re- 
sponsible position,  but  maybe  we  can  keep 
others  from  finding  out  how  brilliant  we  are, 
and  shirk  our  duties  sometimes.  Now,  for 
instance,  if  you  don't  feel  like  doing  Madame 
De  Stael,  I  will  be  satisfied  with  a  little  friv- 
olous gossip." 

Miss  Oulton's  embroidered  fan  fell  to- 
gether with  a  sharp  clash.  "You  are  not 
only  clever,  but  charitable" ;  and  she  looked 
him  squarely  in  the  face  for  the  first  time. 
"Having  discerned  my  inability  to  talk  any 
thing  but  gossip,  you  lead  me  into  my  own 
field.  There  must  be  some  particular  bit  of 
information  you  are  anxious  to  grasp." 

"I  assure  you,"  he  began,  and  then 
stopped  and  sank  back  lazily.  "Well — yes, 
there  are  some  things  I  want  to  know.  How, 
if  you  please,  did  you  choose  to  sing  that 
particular  song  to-night  ?" 

To  his  surprise,  she  blushed  hotly,  and 
answered,  with  some  hesitation:  "To  win  a 
wager.  It  was  in  the  worst  possible  taste,  of 
course,  to  sing  anything — let  me  forget  it. 
'What's  done  is  done.'" 

"I'm   not  sure  of  that,"  he  said  coolly. 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


365 


"The  ghosts  you  raised  for  me  with  that  in- 
nocent little  Scotch  air  are  not  so  easily  dis- 
posed of.  I  hold  you  responsible  for  them. 
But  to  go  back  to  questions:  who  is  the 
discontented  little  beauty  just  opposite?" 

"  Miss  Tina  Graves,"  she  answered  prompt- 
ly; "age  nineteen,  joint  heiress  with  her 
sister  of  two  or  three  millions.  Sister  is  the 
pink  young  lady  standing  in  the  corner. 
Both  eligible.  Miss  Tina,  the  favorite,  is 
capricious  but  clever — not  clever  like  us,  to 
be  sure,  but  she  hath  a  pretty  wit.  Shall  I 
introduce  you?" 

"By  and  by.  I  don't  care  to  have  my 
thirst  for  knowledge  quenched  so  suddenly. 
You  are  a  model  cyclopedia — your  items  are 
so  skillfully  condensed.  The  hall  must  be 
cooler  than  this ;  shall  we  continue  our  ob- 
servations out  there?"  and  he  rose  and 
offered  her  his  arm.  "Now  here  are  five  or 
six  hundred  persons,"  he  went  on,  seriously, 
"each  one  with  a  history  more  or  less  in- 
teresting. At  your  rate  of  boiling  down  and 
by  cutting  those  I  already  know,  we  can  do 
the  whole  party  to-night,  and  have  an  hour 
or  two  left  for  autobiography." 

"Very  well,"  she  said  cheerfully,  "only 
we'll  reverse  the  order,  and  you  will  then  be 
the  first  story-teller.  I  can  borrow  Cousin 
Althea's  invitation  list  to-morrow,  and  you 
may  invent  histories  to  suit  the  names  or 
your  own  fancy,  which  will  dispose  of  the 
rest  in  very  short  measure." 

As  they  walked  back  and  forth  in  the 
long,  white-carpeted  hall,  their  talk  was  con- 
stantly interrupted  by  other  couples,  who 
stopped  to  speak  to  Miss  Oulton.  She  intro- 
duced her  companion  to  all  the  pretty  girls, 
and  there  seemed  an  endless  chain  of  them. 
The  young  men,  as  a  rule,  were  not  pretty. 
Gurney  wondered  what  their  occupation  was 
outside  the  ball-room,  they  seemed  so  wholly 
inseparable  from  it. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Miss  Oulton,  to 
whom  he  confided  his  perplexity,  "society 
keeps  them  down  town  behind  the  railings 
of  dingy  offices  and  bank  and  brokers' 
counters,  'to  be  kept  till  called  for.'  A  doz- 
en or  so  are  professional  men  (by  courtesy), 
and  a  scant  dozen  are  supported  by  rich 


fathers.  They  are  mostly  amiable  and 
harmless,  and  the  only  objection  I  find  in 
them  is  that  I  can't  tell  them  apart.  Now, 
I  have  a  vague  fear  that  the  very  bald 
young  gentleman  on  our  left  is  looking  for 
me — " 

"He  will  look  in  vain";  and  Gurney  drew 
her  quietly  in  another  direction.  He  could 
not  help  seeing  that  the  young  woman  on 
his  arm  shone  down  most  of  the  pretty  girls 
they  passed  and  repassed,  and  his  antipathy 
somehow  melted  rapidly  away. 

They  stood  just  inside  the  ball-room — 
"Would  you  mind  giving  me  one  turn?"  he 
said,  to  her  astonishment,  when  the  waltz 
was  half  over,  "or  are  you  afraid?" 

"Afraid?"  she  echoed  carelessly. 

"Yes,  twice  afraid,"  he  said  laughing,  as 
he  swung  her  deftly  into  line,  and  they 
moved  harmoniously  in  and  out  the  vacant 
spaces,  like  the  pieces  of  a  Chinese  puzzle  : 
"afraid  of  Mr. — Smith,  and  afraid  of  my 
awkwardness." 

"If  there  were  more  such  awkwardness  as 
yours,  I'd  be  willing  to  go  on  to  that  deli- 
cious Strauss  forever  and  forever,"  she  mur- 
mured breathlessly,  her  red  lips  parted  a 
little,  her  eyes  ablaze  with  light. 

Mrs.  Rivers  was  lying  in  wait  for  them 
when  the  waltz  ended.  She  had  but  just 
welcomed  the  last  of  the  coming  guests,  and 
already  her  thoughts  turned  anxiously  supper- 
ward.  Outwardly  she  was  serene  and  ra- 
diant with  smiles,  but  in  her  heart  there 
lurked  distrust  of  her  caterer — and  a  con- 
sciousness that  Mr.  Rivers  had  not  ordered 
enough  champagne. 

"So  many  more  gentlemen  than  I  expect- 
ed," she  said  absently  to  Gurney — "than  I 
dared  to  hope  for,"  she  added  hurriedly,  and 
then  murmured  something  to  Helen,  who 
nodded,  and  said  softly: 

"  I'm  sure  it's  all  right,  but  I'll  attend  to  it 
— ah,  Tina!  I  was  just  looking  for  you. 
Haven't  you  a  waltz  to  spare  for  Mr.  Gurney, 
who  is  anxious  to  know  you?  We'll  change 
partners,  for  I  want  Mr.  Crandall  to  do 
something  for  me.  Yes,  I  must;  I'm  the 
queen's  messenger.  Supper  will  be  served 
in  just  ten  minutes,"  she  whispered  over  her 


366 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Oct. 


shoulder,  "so  possess  your  souls  with  pa- 
tience." 

Gurney  found  the  little  heiress  not  at  all 
responsive,  but  very  amusing.  She  said, 
with  uplifted  eyebrows,  that  she  didn't  care 
to  dance. 

"I'm  so-  tired" — with  a  petulant  drawl. 
Then  she  added,  suddenly,  "Don't  you 
think  it's  nicer  to  sit  on  the  stairs  and  watch 
the  people?" 

So  they  sat  on  the  stairs,  from  which 
vantage-ground  Miss  Tina  flirted  with  a 
group  of  admirers  on  the  banisters.  After 
exchanging  audacious  sallies  with  them  for 
a  few  minutes,  she  turned  to  Gurney  with  a 
wearied  air  that  had  the  effect  of  a  stage 
aside,  and  talked  a  little  to  him  stiffly,  just 
to  show  that  he  was  not  quite  forgotten. 

At  last  the  tide  began  to  turn  toward  the 
supper-room.  Mr.  Rivers,  coming  down 
stairs,  stumbled  over  the  pair,  at  which  per- 
formance Miss  Tina  laughed  immoderately. 

"There,  there,"  he  said  hastily,  "go  in  to 
supper.  Take  her  along,  Gurney.  Yes, 
yes,  go  right  in";  and  he  escorted  them  to 
the  very  door  himself,  so  there  should  be  no 
backsliding. 

They  found  a  vacant  niche,  and  after 
bringing  his  charge- a  plate  of  chicken  salad, 
Gurney  stood  holding  a  glass  of  champagne 
that  she  had  carelessly  rejected,  and  trying 
to  defend  her  from  the  assaults  of  lawless 
raiders.  He  glanced  curiously  around.  It 
was  not  a  new  panorama  to  him,  but  it  im- 
pressed him  more  forcibly  just  then,  because 
he  had  been  so  long  out  of  the  world. 

A  good  many  dowagers  had  secured  seats 
and  established  a  sort  of  sutler's  camp  in 
the  midst  of  the  fight,  keeping  half  a 
dozen  young  orderlies  hard  at  work,  and 
commenting  on  the  various  dishes  with  en- 
gaging frankness. 

From  the  upper  end  of  the  room  the 
scene  was  spirited,  even  if  it  lacked  the 
"fairy-like  splendor"  ascribed  to  it  by 
next  morning's  papers.  The  clatter  of 
dishes,  the  popping  of  champagne  corks, 
the  clamor  of  voices,  made  a  confusion  of 
tongues  that  would  have  put  Babel  to  shame. 
The  black  coats  of  gentlemen  and  gentle- 


manly waiters  struggled  frantically  amidst  a 
billowy  expanse  of  rainbow-tinted  dresses  to 
attack  the  .miniature  fortresses  and  flagships 
of  boned  turkey  and  ice-cream  that  rose  the 
whole  length  of  the  table  from  behind  an 
environment  of  crystal  and  flowers. 

Evidently  time  was  precious  here.  An 
eager  young  gentleman,  bent  on  securing 
some  coveted  dish  for  his  bright  particular 
star,  ran  his  foot  through  the  lace  flounce  of 
one  dress  and  upset  a  glass  of  wine  over  an- 
other, repairing  the  injury  with  a  careless  "beg 
pardon  "  as  he  went  on  his  way.  Through 
an  open  doorway,  Gurney  saw  in  the  punch- 
room  a  bevy  of  sweet  youths  cramming 
their  pockets  with  cigars,  and  reviving  their 
drooping  spirits  by  copious  draughts  of 
something  stronger  than  champagne. 

"Why  are  such  creatures  invited  to  re- 
spectable houses?"  muttered  Gurney,  half  to 
himself. 

"Because  we  have  axes  to  grind,"  said  a 
saucy  voice  behind  him,  and  Miss  Oulton 
gave  him  a  mocking  smile  as  he  turned 
quickly. 

His  attempt  to  talk  to  Miss  Graves  had 
fallen  flat.  In  fact,  he  found  himself  rather 
a  heavy  weight  in  conversation  with  all 
these  young  people.  But  when  the  Mercury 
who  had  been  sent  on  Mrs.  Rivers's  errand 
left  Miss  Oulton's  side  and  began  a  whis- 
pered conversation  with  Tina,  ate  with  her 
spoon,  and  made  himself  generally  familiar, 
she  became  animated  enough. 

Gurney  looked  at  the  new-comer,  and 
gravely  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  flatter  yourself  that  you're  too  pro- 
found for  us,"  said  Helen,  who  interpreted 
his  gesture  in  her  own  way.  "That's  a  mis- 
take the  Arcadian  always  makes — especially 
after  he  has  been  labeled  clever,"  she  added 
slyly.  "The  trouble  is" — looking  at  the 
brimming  glass  he  still  held — "you  won't 
drink  your  Roederer  till  the  pop  is  all  gone 
out  of  it.  This  is  a  pretty  scene,  isn't  it?" 
— following  his  wandering  glance  over  the 
room. 

"  Very,"  he  answered  dryly.  "  I  wonder 
from  what  our  modern  system  of  enter- 
tainment was  derived.  A  man  pays  four  or 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


367 


five  thousand  dollars  for  the  privilege  of  lend- 
ing his  house  for  one  evening  to  a  crowd  of  ill- 
mannered,  over-dressed  people,  a  good  third 
of  whom,  I'll  be  sworn,  he  doesn't  know. 
I,  for  one,  should  never  want  to  occupy  a 
home  again  after  such  a  rabble  had  invaded 
it." 

" Ill-mannered  ?  —  over-dressed?  I  wish 
Cousin  Althea  could  hear  that.  Why,  we 
pride  ourselves  on  our  good  manners  ;  that's 
what  society  is  built  upon.  Do  you  know 
that  you're  talking  high  treason,  and  that  I 
may  betray  you?" 

"There  can  be  no  betrayal  where  there 
is  no  trust,"  he  said  rather  coldly.  "  My 
opinions  are  open  to  inspection." 

"That's  the  valor  of  ignorance,"  said  Miss 
Oulton,  with  something  like  pity  in  her  tone 
"You  don't  know  what  torture-chambers 
this  brilliant  inquisition  holds.  When  you 
are  torn  by  the  rack  and  thumb-screws, 
please  remember  that  I  warned  you.  You 
must  flatter,  not  only  the  king  and  the  court, 
but  the  tiniest  page  and  the  raggedest  char- 
woman. If  you  don't  believe,  you  must  pre- 
tend to  believe.  That's  the  big  secret,  after 
all." 

Gurney  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Miss 
Graves  had  slipped  away  with  her  play-fellow 
some  time  before,  so  they  were  both  deserted. 

"Won't  you  have  something  to  eat?"  he 
said,  waking  up  to  a  bewildered  sense  of  his 
responsibilities — "some  ice-cream?  a  glass 
of  wine?" — but  looked  much  relieved  when 
she  negatived  both  of  these  suggestions. 
"Well,  it's  certainly  your  duty  to  pilot  me 
out  of  this  crowd,  unless  you  want  to  leave 
me  wandering  around  amid  the  debris  of  the 
supper-table  until  morning,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"About  your  warning,"  he  added,  as  they 
made  their  way  back  to  the  little  reception- 
room,  where  Mrs.  Rivers  was  beginning  to 
expect  farewells;  "I  don't  believe  in  this  sort 
of  society,  and  I  won't  pretend  to  believe  in 
it,  so  I  cut  it;  but  by  your  own  confession 
you  hug  your  chains." 

Before  she  could  answer,  they  came  upon 
the  house-mistress,  who  looked  at  them 
keenly,  and  shook  her  finger  at  Gurney. 


"What  have  you  done  with  Tina?"  she 
said,  with  a  fine  pretense  of  anxiety. 

"She  deserted  me  for  a  younger  and  bet- 
ter man,  and  I  was  only  rescued  from  dis- 
grace and  despair  by  this  Good  Samaritan. 
And  now  I  must  thank  you  for  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure,  and  say  good  night." 

Mrs.  Rivers  was  voluble  in  her  regrets 
that  he  should  leave  so  soon. 

"  'He  who  fights  and  runs  away 
May  live  to  fight  another  day,' " 

he  said,  with  a  queer  little  glance  at  Miss 
Oulton. 

"Have  you  been  fighting  with  Helen?" 
asked  Mrs.  Rivers.  "I'm  afraid  she  didn't 
treat  you  nicely.  Didn't  you  agree  about 
things — about  books  and  such  things?" 

"  Miss  Oulton  is  a  pattern  of  politeness," 
he  said  suavely;  "and  we  have  sworn  eternal 
friendship." 

Miss  Oulton  bowed  slightly,  but  with  an 
impassive  face.  "That  sounds  well,"  she 
said — "veryvfQ\\  for  an  amateur;  and  there's 
just  enough  truth  in  it  to  save  you  from 
perjury." 

"  Well,  you  will  come  again  another  day," 
said  Mrs.  Rivers,  leaping  lightly  over  all 
this  nonsense,  which  she  did  not  listen  to. 
"You've  promised,  you  know.  Come  to 
dinner  with  us  some  time  when  you've  noth- 
ing better  to  do — just  to  meet  a  few  friends, 
you  know.  Now  don't  forget.  So  glad  you 
came" — and  then  somebody  else  claimed 
her  attention,  and  he  bowed  himself  out. 

As  he  walked  down  the  deserted  streets  to 
his  hotel,  he  thought  regretfully  of  his  stern 
old  hills  that  the  moonlight  must  be  flooding 
just  then  with  white  glory,  and  the  somber 
house,  vine-clad  and  peaceful.  But  the  echo 
of  the  last  valse  still  rang  in  his  ears,  the 
ebb  and  swell  of  gay  voices  seemed  all 
around  him,  and  Miss  Oulton's  piquant  face 
came  and  went  before  his  eyes.  He  began 
to  realize  how  this  glittering  little  world 
might  have  dangerous  charms,  but  he  calmly 
derided  the  notion  that  they  could  be  dan- 
gerous to  him,  which  was  ih  itself  a  tacit 
confession  of  weakness. 


[CONTINUED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


368  Kate.  [Oct. 


KATE. 

HERS  is  a  spirit  deep,  and  crystal  clear; 
Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  a  fear, 
Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies. 
Far  down  into  her  large  and  patient  eyes 
I  gaze,  deep-drinking  of  the  infinite, 
As,  in  the  midwatch  of  a  clear,  still  night, 
I  look  into  the  fathomless  blue  skies. 

So  circled  lives  she  with  love's  holy  light, 
That  from  the  shade  of  self  she  walketh  free; 
The  garden  of  her  soul  still  keepeth  she 
An  Eden,  where  the  snake  did  never  enter. 
She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have  lent  her 
A  dignity  as   moveless  as  the  center; 
So  that  no  influence  of  earth  can  stir 
Her  steadfast  courage,  nor  can  take  away 
The  holy  peacefulness  that  night  and  day 
Unto  her  queenly  soul  doth  minister. 

In-seeing  sympathy  is  hers,  which  chasteneth 

No  less  than  loveth,  scorning  to  be  bound 

With  fear  of  blame,   and  yet  which  ever  hasteneth 

To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  looks  on  the  wound — 

If  they  be  wounds  which  such  sweet  teaching  makes, 

Giving  itself  a  pang  for  other's  sakes; 

No  want  of  faith,  that  chills  with  sidelong  eye 

Hath  she;  no  jealousy,  no  Levite  pride 

That  passeth  by  upon  the  other  side; 

For  in  her  soul  there  never  dwelt  a  lie. 

Right  from  the  hand  of  God  her  spirit  came 

Unstained,  and  she  hath  ne'er  forgotten  whence 

It  came,  nor  wandered  far  from  thence, 

But  laboreth  to  keep  her  still  the  same, 

Near  to  her  place  of  birth,  that  she  may  not 

Soil  her  white  raiment  with  an  earthy  spot. 

Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm-clouds  seen 
By  sailors,  tempest-tossed  upon  the  sea, 
Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  havens  nigh — 
Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath  been, 
Her  sight  as  full  of  hope,  and  calm  to  me. 
For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high 
A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her  head — 
Earth's  noblest  thing,  a  woman  perfected. 

Annis  Montague. 


1883.] 


Science  and  Education. 


369 


SCIENCE  AND   EDUCATION. 


A  COMMITTEE  appointed  two  or  three 
years  ago  by  the  American  Association  for 
the  Advancement  of  Science  reported  that 
all  efforts  heretofore  made  to  teach  science 
in  the  public  schools  had  totally  failed. 
The  committee  say  that  to  cram  a  child's 
mind  with  the  words  of  a  scientific  text-book, 
when  he  does  not  know  the  things  which 
these  words  represent,  is  delusive  in  the  ex- 
treme. By  this  process,  just  that  result  is 
secured  which  true  science  aims  to  prevent : 
the  name  is  confounded  with  the  thing. 
Nor  does  the  trifling  amount  of  experiment 
and  observation  possible  even  in  high  schools 
suffice  to  correct  the  evil.  In  the  ordinary 
processes  of  teaching  science,  the  mind  is 
almost  wholly  receptive,  and  the  inventive 
faculty  is  neither  trained  nor  aroused.  This 
committee  repeated  with  approval  the  sig- 
nificant remark  of  the  eminent  botanist,  De 
Candolle,  that  the  leaders  in  science  have 
generally  been  born  in  small  towns,  where 
they  were  pretty  much  destitute  of  scientific 
education.  The  disadvantages  of  these  men 
proved  advantages.  Through  deficiency  of 
external  aid,  they  were  thrown  upon  their 
own  resources,  and  thus  obtained  that  fa- 
miliarity with  the  processes  of  nature  which 
was  essential  to  success.  In  obtaining  a 
knowledge  of  nature,  as  in  many  other 
things,  an  excess  of  privileges  is  as  bad  as  a 
deficiency ;  and  people  are  more  likely  to 
starve  to  death  during  a  time  of  flood  than 
during  a  drought. 

The  advantages  of  a  scientific  education 
may  be  regarded  in  two  aspects:  first,  as  re- 
lated to  the  physical  welfare  of  the  race; 
second,  as  related  to  the  interest  and  satis- 
faction of  mental  culture. 

The  practical  value  of  scientific  culture  is 
generally  supposed  to  consist  chiefly  of  the 
ability  given  us,  through  the  knowledge  of 
the  course  of  nature,  to  direct  its  powers  to 
our  service,  and  to  escape  the  dangers  con- 
tinually arising  to  those  who  ignorantly 
VOL.  II.— 24. 


thwart  the  laws  of  nature.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  should  be  observed  that  not  only 
does  a  little  knowledge  widely  diffused  fail 
to  accomplish  the  ends,  but  it  may  breed 
undue  confidence,  and  so  be  a  dangerous 
thing.  The  knowledge  which  leads  to  in- 
vention, and  which  can  protect  us  from 
disease  and  increase  the  productiveness  of 
nature,  is  of  a  highly  specialized  form,  and 
can  be  attained  only  by  the  favored  few.  A 
small  number  of  geniuses  will  invent  all  the 
labor-saving  machinery  which  the  world  will 
ever  require.  A  wise  and  efficient  board  of 
health  will  devise  more  rules  to  prevent  the 
spread  of  contagious  diseases  than  the  peo- 
ple can  observe.  The  drainage  of  a  city, 
and  all  its  other  sanitary  conditions,  can  be 
amply  secured  under  a  centralized  form  of 
government.  It  is  not  necessary  for  the 
production  of  corn  and  cotton  that  every 
man  who  uses  fertilizers  should  be  a  chem- 
ist. A  single  laboratory  or  experimental 
station  will  provide  the  information  neces- 
sary. No  amount  of  ordinary  knowledge 
disseminated  among  the  people  would  have 
discerned  the  value  of  the  phosphate  depos- 
its of  South  Carolina,  or  of  the  deposits  of 
apatite  in  the  older  geological  strata.  It 
was  only  the  highest  order  of  genius  that 
could  have  ascertained  the  cause  of  the 
blight  which  a  few  years  ago  came  upon  the 
vines  of  France,  and  threatened  the  com- 
plete destruction  of  the  grape  industry  in 
that  country.  Evidently,  the  homeopathic 
doses  of  scientific  education  bestowed  upon 
the  pupils  of  our  common  schools  are  not 
destined  to  make  them  fruitful  discoverers 
in  the  realm  of  science.  The  mystery  of 
the  North  Pole  will  not  be  solved  by  any 
number  of  persons  who  go  only  half-way  to 
it.  The  observations  of  one  person  who 
goes  all  the  way  is  what  the  world  awaits. 

Charles  Kingsley  cherished  the  hope  that 
his  children  would  see  the  day  when  igno- 
rance of  the  primary  laws  and  facts  of 


370 


Science  and  Education. 


[Oct. 


science  would  be  looked  on  as  a  defect  only 
second  to  ignorance  of  the  primary  laws  of 
religion  and  morality.  As  we  have  seen, 
however,  it  is  out  of  the  question  for  the 
masses  of  the  people  to  make  original  inves- 
tigations in  science.  For  this,  one  must 
have  laboratories,  and  wide  acquaintance 
with  discoveries  already  made,  and  above 
all,  must  be  a  born  investigator;  for  it  is 
even  more  true  of  scientific  discoverers  than 
of  poets,  that  they  are  born,  not  made.  Sir 
Humphry  Davy  stands  in  the  highest  rank 
as  an  original  investigator  in  chemistry;  but 
he  well  said  that  Michael  Faraday  was  his 
greatest  discovery.  The  world  in  general 
must  be  content  with  receiving  and  using 
at  second-hand  the  occult  facts  and  princi- 
ples of  nature  brought  to  light  by  such  a 
genius  as  Faraday;  and  they  reap  the  prac- 
tical advantages  of  his  work  in  every  depart- 
ment of  the  .arts  which  makes  use  of  the 
marvelous  power  of  electricity.  But  tele- 
graph operators,  lighthouse  keepers,  and 
others  employed  in  electrical  industries,  are 
not  called  upon  to  investigate  much  for 
themselves.  There  is  a  chief  electrician  to 
assume  that  responsibility.  The  telegraph 
operator's  knowledge  of  electricity  need  be 
"no  greater  than  the  engine  driver's  knowl- 
edge of  the  molecular  constitution  of  steam. 
In  every  realm  of  physical  science  the  in- 
ventive genius  of  a  few  places  the  forces  of 
nature  at  the  command  of  the  many.  When 
thus  the  results  of  science  are  applied  to  the 
practical  affairs  of  life,  it  requires  little  more 
intelligence  to  use  them  than  it  does  to  ride 
on  the  cars,  to  strike  a  match,  or  to  shoot  a 
gun.  To  secure  the  highest  practical  re- 
sults, we  should  aim  not  so  much  to  give 
a  smattering  of  scientific  education  to 
everybody  as  to  keep  the  way  open  for  the 
real  geniuses  to  rise,  and  to  persuade  the 
world  to  let  intelligence  rule.  In  this  coun- 
try there  are  scores  of  educational  institu- 
tions continually  upon  the  lookout  for  the 
appearance  of  these  geniuses,  and  there  are 
thousands  of  capitalists  and  corporations 
only  too  glad  to  share  with  the  inventor,  un- 
der the  patent  laws,  the  profits  of  any  dis- 
covery in  physical  science  which  is  of  intrin- 


sic value.  But,  as  the  cumbered  condition 
of  our  patent  office  at  Washington  emphati- 
cally shows,  the  chances  that  the  average  in- 
ventor will  become  a  rich  man,  or  that  he 
will  greatly  add  to  the  wealth  of  the  world, 
are  very  small. 

The  efforts  made  to  disseminate  scientific 
knowledge  are  justified  in  part,  also,  by  the 
intrinsic  interest  of  the  facts  themselves. 
It  would  seem  that  new  dignity  might  be 
given  to  the  life  of  the  agriculturist,  by  call- 
ing his  attention  to  the  nature  of  the  forces 
which  prepared  for  him  the  soil,  which  bring 
to  him  the  needed  moisture,  and  which 
condense  in  the  plant  and  animal  the  sub- 
stances upon  which  man  is  dependent  for 
his  livelihood  and  comfort.  It  seems  evident 
that  the  miner  in  his  camp  might  find  it  ex- 
tremely useful,  in  whiling  away  his  lonely 
hours,  to  know  of  the  means  by  which  the 
gravels  have  been  deposited,  the  veins  se- 
creted, the  mountains  elevated,  and  the  val- 
leys formed,  in  connection  with  which  he  is 
constantly  caused  to  labor.  It  seems  clear, 
also,  that  the  merchant  or  the  banker  might 
have  much  of  the  drudgery  of  the  routine 
of  his  occupation  removed  by  being  able  to 
array  before  his  mind  the  widely  operating 
forces  of  history  and  political  economy 
which  produce  the  fluctuations  in  business 
and  commerce.  Nor  is  it  extravagant  to 
suppose  that  the  housewife  might  not  only 
improve  the  quality  of  her  cookery  and  in- 
crease the  success  of  her  efforts  to  extermi- 
nate vermin  and  dirt,  but  she  might  add  a 
vast  amount  of  delight  to  her  life  by  study- 
ing the  natural  history  of  the  objects  with 
which  she  has  to  deal.  The  yeast  plant  and 
the  cockroach  are  deserving  of  study  for 
their  own  sakes,  as  well  as  for  learning  how 
to  use  the  one  and  exterminate  the  other. 
And  so  on,  throughout  the  whole  range  of 
occupations — all  furnish  fruitful  fields  for 
study  and  investigation.  The  chief  pecu- 
liarity of  the  scientific  mode  of  contemplat- 
ing commonplace  things  is,  that  in  the  use 
of  such  a  method  we  come  to  view  these 
objects,  not  singly,  but  in  their  relations  to 
the  wide  range  of  facts  with  which  they  are 
causally  connected. 


1883.] 


Science  and  Education. 


371 


For  example :  when  I  was  a  boy  upon  my 
father's  farm,  my  attention  was  attracted  by 
some  large  granite  bowlders  which  were 
scattered  over  the  limestone  ledges  and  clay 
deposits  of  which  the  general  surface  was 
composed.  My  interest  in  these  chiefly 
centered  in  the  question  whether  they  grew 
or  not,  and  in  the  observation  that  fragments 
from  these  bowlders  were  sharp  enough  and 
hard  enough  to  scratch  glass  (which  I  had 
supposed  was  a  peculiar  property  of  the 
diamond),  and  I  was  not  sure  but  that  my 
father  possessed  a  diamond  'as  big  as  any 
that  Sindbad  the  Sailor  encountered  in  his 
travels.  But  in  later  years  I  have  come  to 
have  new  interest  in  such  bowlders,  because 
of  a  more  correct  knowledge  of  the  marvel- 
ous forces  by  which  they  have  been  formed 
and  distributed.  It  has  been  my  fortune  to 
trace  for  hundreds  of  miles  the  exact  south- 
ern limits  of  that  vast  ice-movement  which 
picked  up  these  granite  bowlders  from  their 
northern  places  of  abode,  and  transported 
them  to  the  latitude  of  New  York  on  the 
Atlantic  coast,  and  of  Cincinnati  in  the  val- 
ley of  the  Mississippi,  and  even  carried  them 
across  the  Ohio,  and  landed  them  upon  the 
hills  of  Kentucky.  Working  men  and  chil- 
dren all  along  the  line  have  been  interested 
to  know  where  these  wandering  stones  came 
from,  and  how  they  traveled,  and  why  they 
went  no  farther  south.  So  that,  when  asked 
by  friends  who  had  a  keener  eye  for  business 
than  for  science,  what  was  the  use  of  this 
line  of  investigation,  and  why  I  did  not 
apply  myself  to  studying  the  limits  of  the 
oil-belt,  and  the  peculiarities  of  the  coal 
measures,  I  have  had  this  ready  reply:  The 
knowledge  of  the  facts  give  pleasure  in  itself, 
and  will  erelong  enter  as  an  element  of  de- 
light into  the  life  of  all  educated  persons, 
and,  indeed,  of  every  youth  who  shall  here- 
after study  physical  geography.  In  this 
view  the  scientific  discoverer  may  regard 
himself  as  a  philanthropist,  adding  an  un- 
told amount  to  the  stock  of  human  happi- 
ness, and  by  so  much  making  the  life  of 
every  rational  being  more  worth  living. 
Daniel  Webster  is  reported  to  have  said  to 
President  Hitchcock  that  he  would  gladly 


exchange  all  his  political  laurels  for  the 
honor  of  having  discovered  the  "bird-tracks  " 
in  the  limestones  of  the  Connecticut  valley; 
for  that  was  a  clear  addition  of  unalloyed 
pleasure  to  all  the  world  and  to  all  genera- 
tions. 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  this 
view  of  the  case  is  not  fully  sustained  by 
facts.  Truths  obtained  at  second  hand  do 
not  produce  the  thrill  of  joy  which  accom- 
panies their  first  discovery;  and  familiarity 
with  even  the  most  wonderful  facts  is  pretty 
sure  to  breed  indifference,  if  not  contempt. 
The  astonishing  astronomical  discoveries  of 
Copernicus,  Galileo,  and  Newton  are  now 
unconsciously  absorbed  from  the  text-books, 
and  looked  upon  as  commonplace  things. 
Even  the  lecturers  who  attempt  to  galvanize 
these  facts  with  new  interest  by  unlimited 
use  of  the  multiplication  table,  and  who 
can  inform  us  just  how  many  tons  of  coal 
the  sun  would  consume  each  day,  and  just 
how  many  candles  would  be  required  to 
compete  with  it  in  brilliancy,  and  if  a  man 
were  tall  enough  to  reach  the  stars,  and 
should  reach  them  and  burn  his  hand,  can 
inform  us  just  how  many  thousand  years 
it  would  take  for  the  pain  to  traverse 
the  nerves  and  report  to  the  brain ;  even 
these  ingenious  men  are  not  able  to  retain 
perennial  interest  in  astronomical  facts. 
There  is  a  degree  of  truth  in  the  assertion 
that  the  search  for  knowledge  gives  more 
delight  than  the  knowledge  itself  does 
when  obtained.  One  of  the  happiest  par- 
ishioners I  ever  had  was  an  imbecile  in  the 
poor-house,  who  thanked  God  for  a  poor 
memory.  He  loved  to  read  the  Bible  dearly, 
and  had  read  it  through  fifty  times;  and 
since  he  forgot  it  each  time  as  soon  as  he 
read  it,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  fifty 
new  Bibles,  and  of  finding  each  one  as  in- 
teresting as  the  other.  If,  in  some  such  way, 
traditional  knowledge  of  scientific  things 
could  be  disposed  of,  and  each  generation 
could  have  the  pleasure  of  discovering  every- 
thing new,  there  would  be  unbounded  satis- 
faction in  the  study  of  science.  But  as  it  is, 
the  most  marvelous  facts  become  common- 
place, and  we  receive  the  contents  of  the 


372 


Science  and  Education. 


[Oct 


text-books  with  far  less  clamor,  and  with 
not  much  more  satisfaction,  than  is  mani- 
fested by  young  robins  over  the  morsels  of 
food  which  their  mothers  drop  into  their 
open  mouths. 

The  fact  must  forever  remain  that  the  in- 
crease of  scientific  knowledge  and  of  ma- 
terial comforts  cannot  greatly  modify  the 
main  motives  upon  which  human  beings 
act.  Man  is  most  of  all  a  social,  a  political, 
and  a  religious  being,  and  his  keenest  inter- 
est must  ever  center  about  the  problems 
connected  with  those  departments  of  activ- 
ity. In  these  departments  science  seems  to 
have  very  little  direct  influence.  There  are 
no  well-defined  rules  to  regulate  social  cus- 
toms, or  to  direct  in  the  formation  of  those 
friendships  upon  which  the  larger  part  of 
human  happiness  depends.  Who  can  tell 
us  where  the  fashions  originate?  Where  is 
the  weather  bureau  that  can  foretell  what 
pattern  of  calico  will  please  the  eye  of  young 
maidens  a  year  from  now?  and  can  tell  us 
why  it  will  no  longer  please  them  ten  years 
later?  Of  all  things  in  the  world  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage  is  that  upon  which  it  would 
seem  that  science  should  bring  relief  from 
stupendous  and  growing  evils;  and  from 
Plato  down  to  Francis  Gallon,  it  has  been 
the  dream  of  philosophers  and  philanthro- 
pists to  devise  some  method  or  invent  some 
motives  that  should  induce  people  to  marry 
upon  scientific  principles.  It  seems  the 
height  of  folly  that  persons  afflicted  with 
certain  hereditary  diseases  should  marry, 
and  should  transmit  to  their  offspring  their 
physical  debilities.  It  is  unspeakably  un- 
fortunate that  the  vicious  and  poverty- 
stricken  should  marry  early  and  multiply 
with  exceptional  rapidity ;  yet  such  seems 
to  be  the  inevitable  tendency,  and  science 
is  able  to  apply  no  remedy  for  the  relief  of 
the  world  that  is  not  worse  than  the  dis- 
ease. 

The  Chinese  have  endeavored  to  provide 
against  an  overcrowded  population  by  allow- 
ing or  encouraging  infanticide.  But,  under 
the  operation  of  a  curious  law,  this  has 
tended  to  a  direct  increase  rather  than  a 
diminution  of  population.  It  has  encour- 


aged couples  to  an  early  marriage,  under 
the  belief  that  if  mouths  multiply  faster  than 
they  can  _  feed  them,  they  have  a  lawful  way 
of  diminishing  the  number ;  yet  when  the 
trial  comes,  maternal  instinct  is  almost  cer- 
tain to  prevail  over  the  dim  forebodings  of 
future  evil.  In  Europe  the  efforts  made  to 
repress  improvident  marriages  lead  to  a 
marked  increase  of  social  evil  among  the 
poorer  classes,  and  prevent  the  educated 
and  well-to-do  (who  of  all  classes  should  be 
encouraged  to  propagate  their  kind)  from 
having  a  numerous  progeny. 

The  difficulty  of  depending  upon  scien- 
tific courses  of  study  in  any  general  system 
or  education  is  twofold:  first,  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  secure  the  proper  breadth  of 
discipline  under  them ;  second,  the  studies 
themselves  do  not  concern  those  matters 
which  are  of  most  absorbing  interest  to  the 
human  race.  When  students  of  Harvard 
College  were  first  allowed  their  present  large 
liberty  in  selecting  their  studies  in  the  course, 
Professor  Gray  complained  that  they  seemed 
likely  to  make  a  "Botany  Bay"  of  his  de- 
partment, to  which  all  those  should  be 
driven  who  could  not  pass  muster  in  other 
departments.  So  special  pains  had  'to  be 
taken  to  render  the  study  difficult,  by  com- 
pelling them  to  learn  hard  things  without 
much  regard  to  the  question  whether  it  was 
profitable  to  the  majority  who  elected  the 
study.  It  remains  a  fact,  that  no  course  of 
study  has  yet  been  devised  in  which  scien- 
tific subjects  have  formed  the  staple,  and  in 
which  the  general  demands  for  discipline 
and  culture  have  been  satisfactorily  met. 
The  study  of  classic  literature  bids  fair  to 
maintain  its  place  in  educational  systems, 
not  only  because  of  the  nobleness  of  the 
subjects  to  which  it  introduces  students,  but 
fully  as  much  because  the  translation  of 
an  unknown  tongue  compels  one  at  every 
step  to  consider  and  apply  the  principles 
of  inductive  reasoning  upon  which  we  are 
most  dependent  in  .  our  ordinary  dealings 
with  men.  The  evidence  upon  which  a  partic- 
ular shade  of  meaning  is  assigned  to  a  word 
or  phrase  is  not  demonstrative,  but  probable; 
depending  for  its  force  upon  a  concurrence 


1883.] 


Science  and  Education. 


373 


of  indications,  either  one  of  which,  and  even 
all  together,  may  possibly  be  inconclusive. 
Correctly  to  ascertain  the  train  of  thought, 
regard  must  be  had  to  the  etymology  of  the 
word,  to  the  ordinary  use  of  the  word  at  the 
period  of  writing  (gathered  from  the  litera- 
ture of  the  time),  to  the  general  style  of  the 
writer,  to  the  nature  of  the  subject  under 
discussion,  to  the  views  regarding  it  current 
at  the  time  and  place  of  writing,  and  to  the 
general  progress  already  made  in  art,  science, 
politics,  religion,  and  literature.  All  this 
brings  the  student  very  close  to  human 
nature  and  its  varied  activities,  and  those 
are  the  subjects  of  perennial  interest. 

But  even  the  study  of  the  languages  may 
be  too  scientific  to  be  profitable.  The  study 
of  Greek  and  Latin  as  conducted  in  many 
schools  is  not  the  study  of  the  literature  of 
those  tongues,  but  of  philology  and  of  the 
grammars  of  those  languages  which  Bullion 
and  Andrews  and  Harkness  and  Crosby  and 
Hadley  have  prepared,  and  of  the  lexicons 
with  which  others  have  provided  us. 
Whereas,  the  chief  value  of  linguistic  study 
lies  in  its  introduction  to  the  literature  of 
other  peoples  and  to  the  subtle  turns  of 
thought  in  which  they  differ  from  us.  The 
proper  study  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  indis- 
pensable in  securing  the  broadest  culture, 
because  in  pursuing  those  studies  the  mind 
is  forced  to  contemplate  the  history  of  the 
noblest  human  thought,  and  of  the  most 
varied  human  action,  and  is  thereby  intro- 
duced to  the  most  finished  eloquence,  to 
the  most  charming  poetry,  and  the  most 
tragic  dramatic  art  that  uninspired  man  has 
ever  produced  or  is  likely  to  produce. 

The  physical  laws  of  nature  are  tolerably 
uniform,  and  when  once  we  have  explored 
them  they  lose  their  mystery,  and  we  use 


them  as  matters  of  mere  convenience.     But 
the  development  of  human  destinies  is  sub- 
ject to  no  fixed  laws.     In  the  history  of  indi- 
viduals the  unexpected  is  pretty  sure  to  hap- 
pen, and  every  generation  of  mankind  has 
in    it  tragic  elements  of  intensest  interest. 
In  the  millennium  of  the  future,  we  fancy 
the  absorbing  topics  of  conversation  will  be, 
not  the  latest  discoveries  of  science,  for  all 
discoveries  will  then  be  old,  since  scientists 
will  long  since  have  reached  the  end  of  their 
tether  in  sounding  nature's  secrets;  but,  in 
that  happy  day,  as  now,  men  will  still  talk 
chiefly  of  the  behavior  of  their  fellow-men, 
of  their  loves  and  hates,  of  their  heroism 
and  deeds  of  bravery.     They  will  exercise 
themselves  in  the  production  of  new  con- 
ceptions in  art,  will  invent  continually  new 
forms  of  beauty  in  sculpture  and  painting, 
and  new  and  nobler  combinations  of  melody 
and  harmony  in  music.     They  will  attempt 
loftier  flights  of  imagination  in  the  region  of 
poetry  and  eloquence.     In  philosophy  they 
will  delve  deeper,  and  in  fiction  will  devise 
more  charming  plots,  and  execute  them  in 
more  perfect  detail.    The  stage  will  be  puri- 
fied  and   rendered   more   attractive.     And 
since  time  is  short,  though  art  is  long,  the 
daily  paper  will   be  reduced    in   size,   and 
immeasurably   elevated  in  character.     The 
monthly  magazine,  with  its  judicious  assort- 
ment of  literary  food,  will  be  least  changed 
of  all,  and  will  be  read  and  preserved  as  the 
compendious,  popular  repository  of  scientific 
discovery  and  of  progressive  thought,  and  as 
the  indispensable  exponent  of  man's  purest, 
deepest,  and  most  ineradicable    sentiments 
on  all  social,  political,  and  religious  subjects. 
Then,  as  now,  what  we  know  will  be  far  less 
interesting   to  us  than  that  for   which   we 
hope. 

G.  Frederick  Wright. 


374 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Oct. 


THE    SWITZERLAND    OF   THE   NORTHWEST.— II.     THE   RIVER. 


WE  were  stretched  on  the  greensward  at 
the  foot  of  the  lighthouse  on  Cape  Hancock. 
"We"  were  a  New  England  clergyman, 
whose  internal  goodness  and  keenness  of 
humor  were  surpassed  only  by  his  external 
coldness  and  decorum;  a  New  Yorker,  who 
was  viewing  the  West  patronizingly,  after  the 
manner  of  his  nation  when  in  distant  lands; 
an  Illinois  maiden  of  that  delicious  mingling 
of  gravity  #nd  wit,  thought  and  fancy,  which 
characterizes  the  best  products  of  the  Prairie 
State;  next,  and  in  his  own  judgment  con- 
ditional for  all  the  rest,  a  young  Oregonian, 
to  whom,  with  the  sister  who  accompanied 
him,  was  appointed  the  delightful  task  of 
exhibiting  his  native  land  to  the  uncle  and 
cousins  from  the  "States."  We  had  all 
come  the  day  before  on  the  stout  ship 
Oregon  from  San  Francisco.  After  spend- 
ing one  night  at  Astoria,  we  had  embraced 
the  earliest  opportunity  to'  visit  "the  Cape" 
and  see  the  great  river  fall  into  the  arms  of 
the  ocean. 

Cape  Hancock  is  the  northern  promontory 
of  the  river.  Its  height  of  three  hundred 
feet  commands  a  magnificent  view.  The 
ocean  rolling  inimitably  to  the  west  and 
south;  Point  Adams  seven  miles  southeast, 
long,  low,  and  barbed  with  a  sand-spit;  be- 
tween these  two  capes  the  stately  flood  of 
the  Columbia,  the  water  away  eastward  for 
thirty  miles  shimmering  amid  the  woody 
solitudes ; — such  was  the  scene  that  the  hazy 
air  of  the  sea  revealed. 

The  New  Yorker  was  making  some  com- 
parisons as  to  the  amount  of  commerce  here 
and  on  the  Hudson.  He  was  also  ventur- 
ing the  assertion  that  as  yet  we  had  seen  no 
heights  equal  to  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson; 
which  assertion,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  we 
had  yet  seen  none  of  the  heights  of  the 
Columbia,  was  readily  admitted.  The  Doc- 
tor, who  was  the  uncle  of  all  the  rest  of  the 
party,  was  viewing  with  a  deep  and  wholly 
unmanifested  interest  the  vast  breadth  and 


volume  of  the  river,  varying  in  that  part  of 
it  that  was  visible  to  us  from  four  to  eleven 
miles  in  width.  lona  was  looking  across  the 
shimmering  sea,  on  which  the  sunbeams 
rested  like  fiery  hands.  They  seemed  to 
beckon  as  if  to  some  hidden  treasure.  She 
was  trying,  too,  to  catch  the  wailing  of  the 
whistling  buoy,  a  sound  sometimes,  though 
rarely,  heard  at  the  lighthouse. 

This  buoy  is  a  singular  contrivance,  the 
first  one  of  the  kind  in  the  world.  It  whistles 
by  the  automatic  action  of  the  waves — the 
heavier  the  sea  the  louder  being  the  sound. 
To  a  ship  drifting  on  these  dangerous  coasts, 
with  a  December  fog  enshrouding  all  things, 
nothing,  I  imagine,  could  sound  more  dis- 
mal than  this  sudden  crescendo  and  wailing 
diminuendo  rising  from  the  midst  of  the 
waters.  As  the  long  waves  quiver  with  the 
agitation  of  six  thousand  miles  of  unbroken 
sea,  the  wild  sobbing  of  the  buoy  seems  to 
come  from  the  ocean's  very  heart — an  inar- 
ticulate cry  for  rest. 

As  the  sea-sounds  fill  our  ears  and  the 
sea-lights  fill  our  eyes,  historic  phantoms  be- 
gin to  stalk  upon  the  heights  and  walk  upon 
the  water.  But  to  the  Doctor  the  Colum- 
bia did  not  seem  a  very  historical  stream. 
Until  within  fifteen  years,  he  tells  us,  very 
few  people  had  any  idea  of  the  Columbia, 
except  a  vague,  general  impression  that  it 
was  on  thejwestern  side  of  North  America. 
And  yet,  as  we  sat  there  and  saw  a  dozen 
ships  standing  toward  the  Bar  or  the  close- 
hauled  sails  beating  down  the  river,  those 
old  stories  of  Gray,  Vancouver,  Bodega,  and 
Juan  de  Fuca  came  to  us  faint  and  dim, 
like  the  odor  of  flowers  from  some  distant 
forest.  We  thought  of  old  Caspar  Cortereal, 
the  Portuguese,  who,  away  back  in  the  year 
1500,  discovered  on  the  eastern  side  of  the 
continent  what  he  called  the  Strait  of 
Anian,  which  he  maintained  extended  clear 
through  the  continent.  It  was  probably 
some  part  of  Hudson's  Bay,  if  indeed  it 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


375 


existed  *t  all  outside  the  imagination  of  the 
brave  old  navigator.  But  at  any  rate,  this 
Strait  of  Anian  seems  to  have  wonderfully 
exercised  the  minds  of  those  fiery  men  with 
bodies  of  iron  and  hearts  of  steel — those 
poetical  desperadoes  who  daily  lived  in  El 
Dorado,  even  when  about  to  die  of  starva- 
tion. In  1592  came  Juan  de  Fuca,  a  Greek, 
whose  real  name  was  Apostolos  Valerianos. 
He  sailed  past  the  great  river  without  mak- 
ing any  discovery.  But  some  days  later  he 
entered  the  straits  which  now  bear  his 
name,  and  probably  penetrated  even  into 
Puget  Sound.  He  says  that  "he  passed  by 
divers  islands  in  that  sailing,  and  at  the  en- 
trance of  said  strait,  there  is,  on  the  north- 
west coast  thereof,  a  great  headland  or  island, 
with  an  exceedingly  high  pinnacle  or  spired 
rock  like  a  pillar  thereupon."  Then  Aguilar, 
eleven  years  later,  found  in  latitude  43°  "  a 
rapid  and  abundant  river,  which  they  could 
not  enter  on  account  of  the  strength  of  the 
current."  He  thinks  this  to  be  connected 
with  that  famous  Strait  of  Anian.  It  is 
quite  probable  that  it  was  the  Columbia, 
though  he  had  it  three  degrees  too  far  south. 
The  Spaniards  found  no  gold.  Cruel, 
beautiful,  unconquerable  fanatics  that  they 
were,  they  seldom  looked  for  anything  else. 
But  their  El  Dorados  fled  before  them,  and 
strange  to  say,  they  passed  and  repassed  with- 
out entering  the  mythical  great  river  of  the 
West.  In  fact,  Meares,  an  English  navigator, 
actually  entered  the  river  and  anchored  inside 
of  this  very  headland  from  which  we  were 
ooking.  Notwithstanding  the  powerful  cur- 
rent, he  did  not  realize  that  here  was  the 
very  object  of  his  search.  Never  did  a  dis- 
covery so  play  the  ignis  fatuus  with  explor- 
ers as  did  this.  Away  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  trappers  heard  mysterious  refer- 
ences to  some  great  stream  that  flowed  to- 
ward the  setting  sun.  All  the  old  navigators 
seem  to  have  had  vague  ideas  of  a  river 
somewhere  on  the  northwest  coast,  the  dis- 
covery of  which  would  be  an  event  in  his- 
tory. But  it  seemed  forever  to  elude  their 
search.  Maurelle,  a  Spaniard,  declared  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  reason  to  believe 
that  such  a  place  existed. 


Nevertheless,  on  the  nth  of  May,  1792, 
Captain  Robert  Gray,  master  of  the  Colum- 
bia of  Boston,  came  to  a  broad  bay,  which 
he  had  noticed  some  months  before  but 
had  •  not  entered.  Setting  all  sail,  he  ran 
boldly  in  between  the  breakers,  and  "at  one 
o'clock  anchored  in  a  large  river  of  fresh 
water."  He  ascended  the  river'  some  dis- 
tance, but,  finding  channels  uncertain,  gave 
up  any  extended  exploration,  and  on  the 
20th  of  May  crossed  the  Bar  and  bade  fare- 
well to  the  great  river — found  at  last.  He 
named  it  Columbia,  from  his  ship. 

The  sun  approaches  his  setting,  but  still 
we  linger,  while  phantom  ships  appear  and 
then  vanish  in  the  darkness,  and  the  ghosts 
of  ancient  sailors  peer  eagerly  out  from  the 
haze  of  approaching  night.  But  the  little 
steamer  is  waiting,  and  while  the  long 
streamers  of  sunset  are  darting  across  the 
water,  we  go  rocking  over  the  waves  to 
Astoria.  This  is  the  oldest  American 
town  on  the  Pacific  coast.  It  was  found- 
ed in  1805  as  a  fur  station.  It  is  now 
the  center  of  the  fishing  interests.  Its  pop- 
ulation varies  from  three  thousand  to  seven 
thousand,  according  to  the  time  of  year  and 
the  activity  of  its  leading  industry.  With 
the  exception  of  The  Dalles,  it  is  perhaps 
the  worst  place  morally  in  the  whole  North- 
west. This  is  due,  however,  to  the  floating 
•population  of  the  fishing  season.  The  per- 
manent residents  are  among  the  most  intel- 
ligent in  the  State. 

Nothing  could  be  more  interesting  than 
an  inspection  of  one  of  the  great  canneries 
at  Astoria.  There  are  probably  nearly  as 
many  salmon  caught  on  the  Columbia  as  in 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  put  together.  Dur- 
ing the  season  of  1881,  over  half  a  million 
cases  of  canned  salmon,  aggregating  about 
35,000,000  pounds,  were  put  up  on  the  Co- 
lumbia. They  find  a  market  in  every  quar- 
ter of  the  globe.  On  a  June  morning,  one 
of  the  prettiest  sights  imaginable  is  a  fleet  of 
fishing  boats  returning  from  their  night's  fish- 
ing. With  the  morning  breeze  striking  their 
mutton-chop  sai  s,  they  fairly  dance  across 
the  water,  and  the  sun  sparkles  on  the  piles 
of  slippery  fish  with  which  they  are  loaded. 


376 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Oct. 


Seines  of  great  length,  sometimes  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  long,  are  employed  in  this  business. 
The  best  fishing  is  just  inside  the  Bar,  and 
many  poor  fellows  are  drowned  every  year 
in  their  eagerness  to  make  a  big  catch  in 
some  dangerous  place.  They  sometimes 
catch  fifty  at  one  haul  on  the  Bar,  which  at 
the  former  customary  rate  of  half  a  dollar 
per  fish  amounts  to  $25,  as  one  night's  work 
for  two  men.  The  rate  is  higher  now,  but 
competition  is  so  great  that  the  profits 
are  less.  The  interior  structure  of  one  of 
these  huge  unpainted  buildings  that  consti- 
tute a  cannery  is  full  of  interest  and  salmon. 

But  we  must  not  forget  that  we  are  bound 
to  the  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest,  and 
cannot  linger  on  the  threshold.  We  cast 
about  as  to  the  cheapest,  pleasantest,  and 
most  profitable  way  to  spend  the  month  that 
was  before  us.  We  finally  concluded  to 
purchase  a  fishing-boat,  provide  ourselves 
with  blankets  and  cooking  utensils,  and, 
bidding  defiance  to  all  the  conventionalities 
and  conveniences  of  the  world,  carry  our 
home  along  with  us.  These  Astoria  fishing- 
boats  are  as  fine  specimens  of  boat -craft  as  I 
know  of.  Pretty,  convenient,  swift,  and  ca- 
pacious, managed  easily  by  either  oars  or 
sails,  they  furnish  by  far  the  best  method  of 
navigation  to  the  tourist  who  wishes  to  spend 
a  long  time  on  the  river.  Just  after  the  fish- 
ing season  is  over,  in  August,  a  little  man- 
aging will  procure  one  for  a  very  reasonable 
sum.  One  hundred  dollars  provided  our 
party  with  one  of  the  daintiest  little  crafts 
imaginable,  two  pairs  of  oars,  a  mutton-chop 
sail,  and  a  little  coffee-stove  in  the  stern. 
Proud  and  happy  as  old  Norman  Vikings 
setting  forth  to  ravage  some  newly  discov- 
ered land,  we  bid  Astoria  adieu,  and  flew 
away  from  the  "Silver  Gate,"  as  it  has  been 
well  suggested  that  the  mouth  of  the  Colum- 
bia might  be  called. 

The  lower  Columbia,  from  the  ocean  to 
the  Cascades,  about  a  hundred  and  seventy 
miles  in  distance,  is  singularly  well  adapted 
to  the  kind  of  travel  which  we  proposed. 
Notwithstanding  the  magnitude  of  the 
stream,  it  is  usually  smooth.  The  summer 
winds  are  almost  uniformly  from  the  sea, 


and  are  just  fresh  enough  for  the  most  de- 
lightful sailing. 

It  is  a  hundred  miles  from  Astoria  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Willamet.  A  sail  of  twelve 
miles  up  this  beautiful  stream  brought  us  to 
Portland,  the  metropolis  of  the  Northwest. 
Its  elegance  and  wealth  are  a  matter  of  pride 
to  its  inhabitants  and  of  surprise  to  strangers. 
A  few  days  of  preparation  passed,  and  on  a 
cloudless  morning  in  the  first  part  of  August 
we  left  Portland. 

As  is  frequently  the  case  on  the  Willamet, 
there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind.  Not  a  rip- 
ple stirred  the  clear  though  sluggish  stream. 
The  lazy  clicking  of  the  oar-locks  was  the 
only  thing  that  broke  the  stillness.  We 
glided  through  infinite  reflected  deeps.  The 
clouds,  touched  with  softer  hues,  looked  up 
to  us  from  the  depths  of  water,  and  the 
green  shores  floating  by  seemed  like  new 
worlds  far  down  below.  Three  hours  of 
alternate  rowing  and  floating  brought  us 
back  to  the  mouth  of  the  Willamet.  The 
richest  imagination  could  not  conceive  a 
finer  gateway  to  the  wonders  which  were  be- 
fore us.  The  Willamet,  stealing  timidly  in 
among  green  islands,  is  gathered  up  by  the 
mighty  sweep  of  water  twenty  miles  long 
and  a  mile  or  more  in  width,  which  lies 
ahead,  washing  shores  fringed  with  groves  of 
fluttering  cotton-woods.  Five  snow-peaks, 
mingling  their  whiteness  with  that  of  the 
clouds,  form  a  fit  background  for  this  noble 
scene.  How  unfortunate  are  the  people 
whose  mountains  lie  stretched  in  indolent 
repose  upon  the  plain,  instead  of  standing, 
like  these,  up  on  their  feet  and  thrusting 
their  faces  into  the  clouds ! 

After  we  had  fairly  entered  the  Columbia, 
we  found  a  light  sea  breeze  blowing.  So 
unfurling  our  quaint  little  sail  (a  sail  similar 
to  those  in  use  along  the  Mediterranean,  and 
introduced  here  by  the  fishermen,  many  of 
whom  are  Italians  and  Sicilians),  we  rapidly 
mounted  the  powerful  current;  passed  Van- 
couver, which  awakens  some  historic  phan- 
toms like  those  of  Astoria;  passed  various 
embryo  towns  and  lonely  farms;  and  just  at 
the  setting  of  the  sun  landed  at  the  first 
great  rock,  called  Rooster  Rock.  This  is  on 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


377 


the  Oregon  side,  and  is  just  at  the  border 
line  between  the  enchanted  land  above  and 
the  land  of  common  day  below.  Thence- 
forward for  fifty  miles — and,  indeed,  at  in- 
tervals for  hundreds  of  miles — the  banks  of 
the  river  are  lofty  walls  of  basalt.  Traces  of 
a  volcanic  origin  are  visible  through  all  the 
basin  of  the  Columbia. 

As  we  basked  in  the  firelight  that  night, 
while  lona  sang  a  song  of  her  far-away 
prairie  home,  and  the  Doctor  picked  in- 
quisitively at  a  volcanic  tusk  protruding 
through  the  soil,  and  Duke,  the  member 
from  the  Empire  State,  told  fragments  of 
his  experience  in  the  Alps,  the  Oregonian 
deemed  it  an  appropriate  moment  to  give  an 
account  of  those  old  volcanic  artists  who 
made  this  dark  and  majestic  architecture, 
along  whose  frowning  friezes  we  soon  shall 
see  all  shapes  of  earth  and  of  imagined 
realms. 

This  was  the  story,  based,  we  may  say,  on 
the  conclusions  of  Professor  Thomas  Con- 
don, of  the  Oregon  University  : 

The  Cascade  and  Sierra  Nevada  ranges 
received  a  partial  elevation  at  the  close  of 
the  Jurassic  period,  prior  to  the  uplifting  of 
the  Rockies.  With  the  formation  of  the 
latter  range,  therefore,  a  vast  sea  in  three 
divisions  was  formed  in  the  space  between 
the  Rockies  on  the  east  and  the  Sierras  and 
Cascades  on  the  west.  The  southern  part 
of  this  great  sea  was  drained  through  the 
Colorado  River.  The  central  part  was  so 
completely  inclosed  as  to  find  no  outlet,  and 
finally  evaporated,  leaving  Great  Salt  Lake 
as  its  chief  relic.  The  northern  part,  cover- 
ing what  is  now  the  Columbia  Basin,  was 
constantly  augmented  by  the  streams  flowing 
from  the  great  mountains  of  the  Far  North. 
The  salt  water  became  brackish,  and  then 
probably  nearly  fresh.  The  waters  of  this 
great  lake  kept  mounting  higher  and  higher, 
peering  up  toward  the  rim  of  their  prison  to 
see  where  they  might  best  break  through. 
Goaded  by  the  wild  torrents  that  rushed  in 
upon  them  from  the  snows  of  the  Rockies, 
they  surged  restlessly  to  and  fro,  and  with 
the  eagerness  of  imprisoned  hosts,  hurled 
themselves  against  every  depression. 


The  adamantine  wall  does  not  yield. 
The  panting  waters  scale  the  wall  and  peep 
over  the  edge.  Far  below  the  fire-scarred 
flanks  of  the  Cascades,  together  with  frag- 
ments of  the  Columbia  hills,  stretch  dimly 
away.  Farther  away  are  shining  bands  of 
water,  for  the  Willamet  Valley  was  then  a 
sound,  like  Puget  Sound;  and  still  beyond, 
the  boundless  levels  of  the  ocean.  "Yon- 
der is  our  home,"  cry  the  mounting  waters 
of  the  lake,  and  with  the  word  they  begin  to 
leap  over  the  crest  of  the  mountains.  They 
cut  slowly  through  the  basaltic  vastness  of 
their  task,  but  constantly  increasing  in 
strength  and  numbers,  they  begin  at  last  to 
tear  away  the  rock  in  mighty  masses.  Cas- 
tles and  cathedrals  go  tumbling,  and  dragons 
plunge  down  seaward;  while  the  torrents, 
swelling  to  monstrous  proportions  as  the 
reservoir  three  hundred  miles  square  and 
two  thousand  feet  deep  crowds  them  from 
behind,  rival  the  warrior  angels  of  Paradise 
Lost  in  "  plucking  up  the  seated  hills  and 
hurling  them  with  all  their  load — rocks,  wa- 
ters, woods." 

Thus  was  the  great  Cascade  Range  cut  in 
two,  and  the  Great  Basin  drained,  and  the 
waters  gathered  into  their  present  channel. 

While  the  shadows  of  the  sun  were  fading 
in  the  brightening  camp-fire,  we  looked  up 
the  black  gorge  and  tried  to  imagine  those 
massive  walls  melted  into  streams  of  fire,  or 
the  calm  majesty  of  the  river  transformed 
into  the  fury  with  which  it  cleft  the  obstruc- 
tions thrown  into  its  pathway.  The  beauty 
and  calmness  of  our  camping  place  made  a 
curious  contrast  with  what  we  could  imagine 
of  the  past. 

Our  seclusion  was  slightly  marred,  how- 
ever, by  a  horde  of  Chinamen  working  on  a 
tunnel  at  Table  Rock,  a  mile  below  us. 
Their  barbarous,  cackling  cries,  mingled 
with  the  occasional  boom  of  a  blast,  were 
the  only  tokens  of  life  around  us.  But  we 
heard  sudden  shouts  just  a  little  way  above. 
Unable  to  resist  the  temptation  to  see  what 
it  was  all  about,  we  unmoored  our  boat  and 
pulled  into  a  glassy  lagoon  or  slough,  as  we 
call  them  here.  In  the  obscurity  we  could 
faintly  see  a  dozen  men  struggling  to  lay  on 


378 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Oct. 


the  beach  a  huge  white  object.  Coming 
nearer  we  saw  that  it  was  an  immense  stur- 
geon. It  looked  almost  as  large  as  a  white 
whale,  measuring  eleven  feet  four  inches  in 
length,  and,  according  to  the  estimate  of  the 
fishermen,  weighing  five  hundred  pounds. 

These  fish  are  very  annoying  to  salmon- 
fishers,  frequently  completely  winding  them- 
selves in  the  costly  nets,  and  tearing  them 
to  tatters.  They  are  possessed  of  prodigious 
strength,  and  when  they  attain  such  a  size 
as  this  one  it  requires  great  skill  and  activ- 
ity to  dispose  of  them.  A  pistol-shot  or  a 
blow  from  an  ax  at  a  favorable  moment  in 
their  struggles  is  the  common  dependence 
of  the  fishermen.  Rivermen  tell  large 
stories  about  their  strength.  I  have  heard 
one  captain  assert  that  he  had  hitched  a 
sturgeon  to  a  snag  which  had  defied  the 
stoutest  steamer  on  the  river,  and  the  mon- 
ster fish  started  to  sea  with  the  snag  in  tow, 
no  more  regarded  than  if  it  had  been  a  chip. 
The  circumstances  connected  with  the  hitch- 
ing up  of  so  formidable  a  roadster  the  bold 
navigator  did  not  relate.  Hence  I  received 
his  statement  with  some  degree  of  caution. 

That  night  passed  as  a  night  can  only 
pass  in  the  open  air,  after  a  day  wearied 
with  enjoyment.  A  part  of  the  next  morn- 
ing we  spent  in  examining  Rooster  Rock 
and  the  adjacent  cliffs.  Rooster  Rock  is 
not  over  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high, 
but  is  very  striking  by  reason  of  its  fantas- 
tic shape — bearing,  indeed,  a  curious  resem- 
blance to  the  fowl  from  which  it  is  named. 
Gnarled  and  stunted  firs  find  a  precarious 
lodgment  among  its  moss-grown  crevices. 

Just  behind  Rooster  Rock  is  a  mighty 
palisade,  half  a  mile  long,  and  perhaps 
seven  hundred  feet  in  perpendicular  height. 
Nameless,  so  far  as  we  know,  it  has  that 
look  of  a  serene  eternity  which  is  so  often 
noticed  in  sublime  objects.  Over  its  face 
trickles  a  beautiful  waterfall,  its  course 
marked  by  the  greenest  moss  and  fern. 
Though  insignificant  compared  to  the  cliffs 
above,  this  great  wall  looks  stupendous  to 
eyes  unaccustomed  to  such  sights.  Duke 
admits  that  this  scene  is  very  fine,  though 
he  makes  no  formal  comparison  between 


it  and  the  Palisades  of  his  cherished  Hud- 
son. 

The  broad  river  was  like  glass  as  we  set 
forth  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  for  up- 
river.  The  Doctor  and  Web  (as  the  Oregon 
member  was  dubbed  by  his  fellow-travelers, 
in  allusion  to  the  supposed  peculiarity  of  all 
Oregonians)  took  the  oars,  and  while  lona 
and  Mabel  made  the  walls  of  rock  echo 
sweetly  with  "  Gayly  our  boat  is  now  gliding 
along,"  the  worthy  Doctor  laid  about  him 
with  a  vigor  that  sufficiently  astonished  his 
youthful  compeer,  who  had  deemed  himself 
the  main  muscular  dependence  of  the  party. 

Crossing  the  river  and  proceeding  up 
stream  ten  miles,  we  slipped  past  the  beau- 
tiful cliffs  called  Cape  Horn.  They  are 
only  about  two  hundred  feet  high,  but 
above  them  are  terrace-like  continuations, 
making  the  entire  elevation  not  less  than  a 
thousand  feet.  A  great  part  of  the  struc- 
ture is  of  columnar  basalt.  Its  frowning 
battlements  are  streaked  with  several  beauti- 
ful falls,  their  spray — for  nothing  more  is  left 
— dripping  with  just  the  faintest  little  swish 
into  the  sweeping  current  below.  The  river 
here  is  deep  and  swift  and  wide.  At  Wash- 
ougal,  just  below  Rooster  Rock,  it  cannot 
be  less  than  two  and  a  half  miles  in  width. 
At  Cape  Horn  it  is  a  little  over  a  mile  wide, 
which  is  about  its  average  width  all  the  way 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Snake,  three  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  from  the  sea.  In  view  of  its 
great  width  and  rapidity,  the  depth  is  a  mat- 
ter of  surprise.  At  Table  Rock,  where  the 
tunnel  was  being  made,  the  river  is  a  hun- 
dred feet  deep  within  an  equal  distance  of 
the  shore.  There  is,  indeed,  a  prodigious 
volume  of  water  coming  down  this  gateway 
of  the  West.  Old  rivermen  affirm  that  the 
yearly  amount  of  water  here  is  equal  to  that 
of  the  Mississippi.  Though  not  half  so 
long  as  that  river,  the  Columbia  rises  in  such 
immense  mountains,  and  is  fed  so  largely  by 
mountain  streams  in  its  course,  that  the 
assertion  seems  quite  probable. 

Passing  Cape  Horn,  we  see  that  we  are 
beginning  to  get  into  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tains. Stupendous  outlines  appear  before 
us,  indistinct  and  multitudinous,  crowned 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


379 


with  clouds.  The  Doctor  looked  up  the 
canon  in  mild  wonder  as  the  mighty  cliffs 
shifted  their  places  before  our  advancing 
boat,  like  a  revolving  panorama.  There  is 
the  intense  indigo-blue  of  distant  mountain 
bases,  their  tops  softening  into  an  ethereal 
ultramarine,  lost  in  the  dazzling  whiteness 
of  the  clouds.  Yonder  are  dull  red  pali- 
sades surmounted  by  cathedrals  and  ram- 
parts of  sooty  black.  Here  is  a  cliff  slender 
and  symmetrical  as  a  spire.  It  is  of  grayish 
tint,  banded  with  vermilion.  There  is  a 
massive  pile  like  the  ruins  of  a  mediaeval 
castle  magnified  a  thousand  times.  There 
is  one  of  a  dismal  blackness,  reminding  us 
of  Milton's  description  of  the  gates  of  hell. 
Numerous  waterfalls  add  still  other  ele- 
ments of  force  and  color.  Seven  miles 
below  the  Cascades  we  saw  an  unnamed 
fall,  the  highest  on  the  river.  Its  height  is 
about  fifteen  hundred  feet.  The  stream  is 
a  small  one,  however,  and  in  falling  this 
immense  distance  with  two  or  three  slight 
breaks,  it  becomes  almost  completely  lost. 
In  the  spring,  when  melting  snows  magnify 
the  streams,  this  fall  presents  a  spectacle  of 
astonishing  magnificence. 

Letting  our  eyes  drop  to  rest  after  their 
long  upstaring,  we  were  startled  by  a  cry  of 
delight  from  lona,  who  has  again  lifted  hers. 
Looking  up,  Web  shouts  excitedly,  "Mult- 
nomah!" 

Here  is  the  most  beautiful  fall  on  the 
river,  much  larger  than  the  last,  though  not 
so  high.  Here  will  we  camp  for  the  night. 

We  turned  our  boat's  prow  toward  the 
fall.  As  we  approached,  it  seemed  to  grow 
with  wonderful  rapidity.  The  bank  at  this 
point  is  about  twenty-five  hundred  feet  high; 
but  on  so  grand  a  scale  is  everything  con- 
structed that  we  had  no  idea  of  any  of  the 
real  magnitudes.  We  moored  our  precious 
boat  among  the  willows — Mabel  regretting 
that  she  could  not  take  it  with  us  into  the 
tent,  for  it  was  the  most  "interesting  and  im- 
portant member  of  the  party.  Scrambling 
through  the  dense  brush  that  borders  the 
river,  and  leaving  small  samples  of  our  gar- 
ments as  well  as  portions  of  our  persons 
thereon,  we  found  at  last  a  fine  camping 


place  on4  a  fantastic  knoll  of  rock.  The 
eastern  side  of  the  rock  terminates  in  a  per- 
pendicular descent  of  twenty  feet.  At  the 
foot  of  this  flows  the  pure  and  ice-cold 
stream,  and  on  the  other  side  of  it  is  an 
overhanging  cliff  two  hundred  feet  high,  its 
surface  quaintly  carved  by  fire  and  water, 
and  daubed  here  and  there  with  the  nests 
of  swallows.  A  white-headed  eagle  came 
screaming  from  a  cleft  in  the  rock,  darting 
toward  us  so  defiantly  that  we  involuntarily 
cringed.  This  cleft  rock  is  simply  a  spur 
running  out  toward  the  river  from  the  main 
cliff. 

Looking  southward  toward  the  fall,  we 
could  see  dimly  through  the  trees  a  moving 
whiteness,  seeming  to  drop  from  the  clouds. 
Scrambling  through  the  brush,  we  reached  the 
eastern  side  of  the  rock,  and  the  whole  won- 
drous scene  lay  there  before  us.  Any  exclam- 
ations seemed  inadequate.  Duke  recovered 
first,  and  remarked  feebly  that  he  had  noth- 
ing special  to  offer  about  the  Hudson.  lona, 
with  her  head  lifted  and  her  rosy  cheeks 
moistened  with  the  flying  spray,  leaned  in 
silence  against  a  statue  of  basalt.  Right 
in  front  of  us  was  a  little  grassy  plat  a 
hundred  feet  square,  at  one  side  of  which 
was  a  deep  black  pool.  Into  this  pool 
the  creek  came  roaring  over  a  cedar-fringed 
and  overhanging  cliff  full  sixty  feet  high. 
From  the  edge  of  this  cliff  a  "bench"  ex- 
tends back  three  hundred  feet.  Beyond  the 
bench  we  saw  a  dark  red  wall.  Our  eyes 
were  lifted  up,  up,  up — eight  hundred  feet 
that  awful  parapet  extended  above  us.  On 
its  edge  were  rows  of  frightened-looking  firs 
and  pines.  We  imagined  that  they  were 
kneeling  down  and  peering  over  at  us. 
Their  contorted  arms  were  stretched  back- 
ward to  clutch  the  fingers  of  their  brethren 
behind.  In  a  cleft  a  hundred  feet  deep  in 
this  mighty  wall  flows  the  creek.  Its  bright 
waters  seem  to  shrink  back  as  the  abyss 
yawns  below.  But  urged  from  behind,  it 
can  no  longer  hesitate,  and  flings  itself  in 
mid-air,  a  shower  of  pearls  and  spray.  It 
touches  the  wall  at  one  place  only.  There 
it  turns  into  a  snowy  mass  and  leaps  far  out 
from  the  obstructing  crag.  Little  but  spray 


380 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Oct. 


is  left  when  it  reaches  the  bench,  six  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  below. 

After  having  viewed  the  scene  for  an 
hour  from  our  camp,  we  climbed  the  bench 
and  reached  the  foot  of  the  great  fall. 
The  bench  is  perfectly  saturated  with  the 
flying  spray,  and  the  long  fern  and  moss 
impeded  our  steps.  We  mounted  to  the 
very  foot  of  the  great  wall,  smooth  as 
alabaster  from  the  touch  of  wind  and 
rain.  A  black  crater  a. hundred  feet  in  di- 
ameter lay  before  us.  Into  the  inky  pool 
contained  in  that  crater  the  water  drips  with 
a  hollow,  uncanny  chug,  a  little  relieved, 
however,  by  the  musical  patter  of  the 
spray  which  forms  the  greater  part  of  the 
fall.  It  is  sufficiently  evident  that  the  sun- 
beams never  touch  this  dismal  pool.  Grass 
and  fern,  almost  white  from  their  sunless 
abode,  nod  and  tremble  as  the  chill  gusts 
from  underneath  the  whirling  spray  fly  over 
them. 

This  fall  has  been  variously  named.  The 
pleasant  though  commonplace  name  of 
Bridel  Veil  has  been  attached  to  it.  Some 
bold  genius  dubbed  it  Horsetail  Fall,  a 
name  now  imposed  upon  a  fall  farther  up 
the  river.  But  the  Indian  name,  Mult- 
nomah,  with  its  sweet  musical  sounds  rolling 
off  the  tongue  as  gently  as  these  flecks  of 
foam  drop  through  the  air,  is  the  one  now 
in  common  use. 

We  descended  from  the  bench,  and  build- 
ing a  huge  camp-fire,  stretched  at  full-length 
before  it,  watching  till  far  into  the  night  the 
wild  flickering  of  the  blazing  pitch,  and  lis- 
tening to  the  shrill  cry  of  some  cougar  in 
the  canon  above.  O,  Mother  Earth,  beau- 
tiful though  your  face  may  be  by  day,  how 
more  than  beautiful  it  is  to  listen  to  the 
beating  of  your  heart  by  night!  There  is 
something  radically  wrong  about  the  person 
who  does  not  enjoy  camping  out.  The  hot, 
feverish  rush  of  business  by  day,  and  the 
plastered,  airless,  lifeless  sleep  of  night — if 
this  be  civilization,  let  us  pray  for  a  little 
healthy  barbarism. 

Up  in  the  morning  with  every  nerve 
tingling  with  the  electric  shock  of  perfect 
health,  and  every  muscle  swelling  with  the 


promise  of  infinite  accomplishment.  Duke 
and  Web,  while  striking  the  tent,  happened 
to  look  toward  the  creek  and  saw  a  most 
singular  phenomenon.  The  reverend  head 
of  the  party  had  gone  down  to  the  stream 
to  wash  his  stately  countenance.  He  was 
apparently  proceeding  with  all  due  decorum, 
\rhen  suddenly,  without  a  sign  or  sound,  he 
leaped  madly  into  the  stream  and  began 
clutching  indefinitely,  though  vigorously, 
at  unseen  objects  in  the  water.  Fearing 
that  our  spiritual  guide  was  in  some  great 
need  of  physical  guidance,  we  rushed  to  his 
rescue.  Lifting  his  head  for  a  moment,  he 
shouted  excitedly : 

"Come  in,  boys,  the  creek  is  dammed  up 
with  fish." 

As  he  had  at  all  times  expressed  great  ab- 
horrence for  the  sporting  tendencies  of  the 
younger  members  of  the  party,  his  own  en- 
thusiasm was  a  little  surprising.  He  began 
to  think  so  himself,  as  he  gradually  saw  that 
to  pick  the  fish  up  with  his  hands,  even 
though  they  seemed  to  form  one  solid  mass, 
was  not  within  the  range  of  possibilities. 
We. hastily  prepared  our  lines  and  cast  them 
in.  We  were  eminently  successful.  The  fish 
were  salmon-trout,  one  of  the  finest  species 
in  existence.  At  certain  seasons  of  the 
year  they  e,nter  these  streams  in  schools,  and 
when  checked  in  their  progress  by  falls,  they 
fairly  choke  the  streams,  so  that  the  Doc- 
tor's plan  of  pitching  them  out  by  hand 
might  not  seem  quite  so  unreasonable  after 
all. 

After  an  hour's  fishing  and  another  of 
sketching,  we  gathered  our  all  into  the  boat 
and  bade  farewell  to  Multnomah  Fall.  Beau- 
tiful amid  unspeakable  grandeur,  a  voice  of 
welcome  on  the  edge  of  unknown  solitudes, 
gentle  in  its  tumult  and  bright  arnid  its  per- 
petual gloom,  it  henceforth  occupied  the 
chief  place  in  our  picture-gallery  of  memory. 
Before  the  light  breeze  of  morning  we  gen- 
tly, and  by  almost  insensible  movements, 
draw  near  the  highest  summits.  Colors  as 
of  countless  broken  rainbows  flash  from  the 
sunlit  heights.  The  dazzling  white  of  the 
clouds  deepens  the  intense  blue  of  the 
sky.  That  black  cliff  looks  doubly  grim,  as 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


881 


a  spire-like  crag  of  the  richest  garnet  towers 
behind.  The  heavy,  shadowed  lines  of  tree- 
clad  mountains  are  suddenly  warmed  into 
the  richest  purple  by  the  blinding  touch  of 
the  sun. 

About  six  miles  above  the  Multnomah 
Fall,  there  begins,  on  the  Oregon  side,  a  long 
line  of  cathedral-like  cliffs,  extending  all  the 
way  to  the  Cascades.  They  vary  in  height 
from  a  thousand  to  twenty-eight  hundred 
feet,  and  are  of  all  imaginable  colors,  brown 
and  red  predominating. 

While  passing  the  center  of  this  wonder- 
ful group  of  cliffs,  we  were  overtaken  by 
the  regular  mail  steamer.  She  blew  a  loud 
blast  of  her  whistle  and  slackened  speed. 
A  little  boat  came  from  the  shore  to  meet 
her.  A  man  leaped  into  it  from  the  steamer. 
The  hands  hastily  tumbled  in  after  him  a 
dark  box"1  of  some  sort.  A  shudder  went 
through  as  as  we  saw  that  it  -  was  a  coffin. 
At  the  same  moment  the  rolling  masses  of 
cloud  caught  up  the  sunlight  and  dropped 
heavy  shadows  in  its  place.  The  little  boat 
with  the  coffin  moved  slowly  shoreward. 
A  group  of  fisherman,  still  as  statues,  stood 
waiting  on  the  beach.  Their  red  shirts  and 
long  rubber  boots  made  a  strange  contrast 
with  the  vivid  green  of  the  bushes  behind 
them.  We  then  saw  what  we  had  not  be- 
fore noticed,  a  dead  man  at  the  water's  edge. 
A  poor  fellow  had  tried  to  cross  the  river 
above  the  Cascades  the  day  before,  and  was 
taken  over.  Thus  the  river  gave  up  its 
dead.  It  was  a  strange  sight:  the  shaggy 
crags  that  seemed  of  an  eternity's  age,  the 
clouds  flying  like  unharnessed  squadrons, 
the  few  fiery  blotches  of  sunlight,  the  silent 
figures  on  the  beach  in  rude  attire  the 
white,  upturned  face  and  helpless  body 
swaying  in  the  moaning  little  waves.  The 
day  was  darkened, '  and  we  sailed  away. 
Death  seemed  more  terrible  in  this  wild 
desolation.  Man  seems  so  little  here' that 
we  thought  these  mighty  forces  should  pity 
rather  than  destroy  him.  But  this  river  has 
been  remorseless.  Ever  since  the  old  Cana- 
dian bateaux  went  plunging  down  it  like 
water-fowl,  the  oar-plash  timing  with  the 
carol  of  the  plaintive  French  songs,  the 


Columbia  has  demanded  its  toll  of  human 
life.  Fed  with  melted  snow  through  the 
greater  part  of  its  course,  it  is  so  cold  that 
no  one  can  swim  any  distance  in  it.  At 
any  point  above  the  Cascades,  too,  it  is  al- 
most constantly  so  rough  that  a  boat-crew 
capsized  at  any  distance  from  shore  are 
soon  overwhelmed  by  the  waves.  The 
people  along  the  banks  of  the  river  have, 
indeed,  almost  a  superstitious  fear  of  it. 

We  soon  reached  the  Lower  Cascades, 
sixty-five  miles  from  Portland  and  a  hun- 
dred and  seventy  from  the  sea.  Here  the 
river  is  narrowed  to  a  width  of  not  over  a 
thousand  feet.  There  are  rapids  for  six 
miles,  the  entire  fall  being  about  forty-five 
feet.  Boats  frequently  descend  these  rapids. 
Strong  steamers  have  ascended  all  but  the 
last  half-mile.  A  canal  is  now  in  process  of 
construction  along  this  upper  rapid,  which 
will  render  this  section  of  the  river  navi- 
gable for  vessels  of  any  size,  provided  they 
can  overcome  the  lower  part  of  the  rapids. 
It  is  confidently  expected  that  this  great 
work  will  be  finished  within  the  time  of  per- 
sons now  living. 

Placing  our  boat  on  an  ambitious  little 
propeller  called  the  Fleetwood,  then  "run- 
ning opposition"  here,  we  were  transported 
to  the  Upper  Landing,  on  the  Oregon  side, 
two  miles  from  the  Locks.  On  the  bench 
above  the  landing  we  camped  three  days. 
Two  beautiful  creeks,  Tanner  and  Eagle, 
enter  the  river  at  this  point.  Just  imagine 
two  trenches,  fifty  feet  wide  at  the  bottom 
and  three  thousand  feet  deep,  the  sides 
wrinkled  from  the  fiery  breath  of  volcanoes, 
though,  except  where  they  are  bare  rock, 
clothed  with  trees  and  shrubbery:  such  are 
the  prisons  in  which  these  creeks,  flowing  in 
alternate  pools  and  falls,  are  buried  from 
the  sunlight.  . 

If  such  a  thing  were  possible,  I  would 
describe  the  scene  looking  northward  from 
our  camp.  At  sunset  of  our  last  day  there, 
we  were  standing  on  a  bluff  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  river.  The  intense  yet  softened 
blue  of  the  sky  was  barred  with  flame. 
Down  the  river  the  long  line  of  cathedral 
cliffs,  just  visible  on  their  outer  edges,  blazed 


382 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Oct. 


with  almost  supernatural  brightness.  Just 
across  the  river  from  us  apparently,  but 
really  two  or  three  miles  on  the  other  side, 
stood  the  grandest  of  all  the  cliffs  on 
the  river.  Let  a  New  Englander  imagine 
Mt.  Tom  magnified  five  times  in  all  direc- 
tions, and  he  would  get  an  approximate 
idea  of  this  colossal  crag.  Its  flanks  are 
densely  wooded  and  on  the  shaded  side  are 
almost  black.  The  sunward  parts  have  a 
purple  tint  of  indescribable  richness.  The 
front  is  a  perpendicular  wall,  black,  red,  and 
gray  in  color,  and  pyramidal  in  outline. 
Its  height  is  four  thousand  feet.  This  sub- 
lime emblem  of  volcanic  and  aqueous 
might,  nameless  hitherto,  we  ventured  to 
name  Mt.  Eternity.  Its  sublime  calm  aug- 
mented the  tumult  of  the  panting  river  in 
front  of  us. 

Before  leaving  the  Cascades  we  carefully 
observed  the  strange  phenomenon  of  the 
sliding  of  the  river  banks  toward  the  water. 
In  one  place  the  railroad  bed  sank  four  feet 
in  the  course  of  a  year.  In  another  place 
it  moved  seven  feet  toward  the  water  in  the 
same  length  of  time.  Near  our  camp  a 
number  of  trees  had  been  thrown  down  and 
deep  cracks  made  in  the  wagon  road.  On 
the  Washington  side  the  same  thing  is  ob- 
served, though  not  so  great  in  extent. 
There  the  railroad  track  moves  regularly 
about  ten  inches  a  year,  and  requires  con- 
stant readjusting.  It  is  evident,  therefore, 
that  the  mountains  are  moving  into  the 
river  from  both  sides.  Another  fact  came 
to  our  notice  a  few  days  later.  For  several 
miles  above  the  Cascades,  where  the  water 
is  very  deep  and  rather  sluggish  for  the  Co- 
lumbia, there  are  remains  of  submerged  for- 
ests, indicating  that  the  river  has  recently 
risen  to  a  permanently  higher  level.  From 
this  combination  of  singular  facts,  we  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  the  river  had  at  some 
past  time  accomplished  its  work  of  cutting 
entirely  through  the  mountain  range,  and 
was  subsequently  dammed  up  by  the  cav- 
ing in  of  the  banks.  This  rapid  of  six  miles 
was  the  result. 

This  theory  receives  a  partial  confirma- 
tion in  the  oft-told  tale,  familar,  I  doubt  not, 


even  to  Eastern  ears,  of  a  time  when  a 
natural  bridge  spanned  the  river  at  this 
point.  Underneath  the  mighty  buttresses 
flowed  the  deep,  calm  stream  without  a 
ripple.  Now  Mt.  Hood  and  Mt.  St.  Helen 
were  at  that  time  the  king  and  queen  of  the 
mountains.  The  former  was  a  gloomy  crag 
crowned  with  the  wind;  the  later,  a  smooth 
dome  crowned  with  sunbeams.  But  there 
came  a  time  when  the  king  was  filled  with 
anger  at  his  gentle  queen,  and  flames  burst 
from  his  throat  and  melted  the  icicles  that 
fringed  his  beard.  He  seized  a  monstrous 
rock  and  sent  it  whirling  through  the  air. 
But  it  accomplished  only  half  the  distance 
designed,  and  fell  upon  that  great  bridge  of 
rock.  With  an  awful  crash,  which  frightened 
the  ocean  from  the  shore  so  that  long 
beaches  appeared  above  the  water,  the 
bridge  fell.  The  river  mounted  over  the 
ruins,  and  has  been  endeavoring  ever  since, 
but  in  vain,  to  sweep  them  from  its  path. 

Such  is  the  legend,  and  the  whole  appear  - 
ance  of  things  indicates  that  something  of 
the  kind  took  place.  Now,  as  we  see  the 
prodigious  current  of  the  river  gnawing  into 
its  banks,  we  deem  it  very  probable  that  this 
continual  pressure  and  erosion  may  at  some 
time  tear  the  foundations  from  beneath  these 
mountains.  Railroad  engineers  have  noticed 
here  at  times  a  peculiar  grinding  noise  under 
the  ground,  which  they  have  thought  must 
be  due  to  a  movement  of  a  loose  upper 
mass  of  debris  upon  a  smooth  soapstone 
foundation.  Soundings  just  off  this  point 
gave  three  hundred  feet  of  water.  Twice 
within  five  years  has  the  Columbia  risen 
sixty  feet  at  the  Upper  Cascades.  At  such 
a  time  the  pressure  is  enormous.  During 
the  flood  of  1880  the  massive  masonry  of 
the  Locks  was  in  imminent  danger  of  being 
swept  away.  Not  Niagara  itself  gives  such 
an  impression  of  overwhelming  power  as  this 
cataract  of  the  Columbia  at  high  water.  As 
this  turbid  mass  of  water,  a  mile  wide  and  a 
hundred  feet  thick,  is  squeezed  together  and 
thunders  down  the  rocky  stairway  as  though 
it  were  going  to  split  the  earth,  even  the  cliffs 
three  thousand  feet  high,  catching  the  clouds 
with  their  basaltic  fingers,  seem  to  tremble 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


383 


and  hold  their  breath.  We  started  back, 
nervously  looking  up  at  the  steadfast  crags 
to  see  if  they  were  not  already  about  to  fall. 

"Sometime,"  says  lona,  with  a  prophetic 
glance,  "when  the  railroad  is  finished  and 
some  excursion  train  full  of  happy  tourists 
is  gliding  along  this  loosened  bank,  the  river 
will  growl  to  the  mountain,  and — 

"This  whole  business  will  cave  in,"  adds 
Web,  somewhat  obtrusively. 

"And  the  Moloch  of  Rivers  will  be  satis- 
fied," suggests  Duke,  tragically. 

The  Doctor,  meantime,  after  having 
amused  himself  with  examining  a  large  pet- 
. rifled  stump  on  the  west  side  of  Tanner 
Creek,  spent  some  hours  in  watching  a  cu- 
rious fish-trap  at  the  Middle  Cascades.  It 
consists  of  a  wheel  set  in  a  narrow  channel 
on  the  south  side  of  the  river,  through  which 
the  water  rushes  with  great  velocity.  The 
wheel  is  so  provided  with  paddles  obliquely 
set  as  to  catch  the  fish  that  rush  through  the 
channel  and  slide  them  into  a  large  tank 
where  they  can  be  disposed  of  at  leisure. 
Fish  of  all  sizes  up  to  large  sturgeon  are 
caught  in  this  trap. 

At  noon  a  large  wagon,  previously  secured, 
assumed  the  responsibility  of  carrying  our 
boat  and  various  appurtenances  to  the 
Locks,  better,  or  at  least  more  appropriately, 
known  as  Whiskey  Flat.  To  provide  for  the 
needs  of  the  men  employed  on  the  Locks,  a 
village  consisting  of  five  or  six  private  dwell- 
ings, two  hotels,  one  restaurant,  and  a  dozen 
or  so  saloons,  adds  the  graces  of  civilization 
to  .the  sublime  loneliness  of  nature.  Why  is 
it  that  the  offscourings  of  all  creation  so 
often  soil  the  grandest  scenes?  Our  en- 
trance into  this  beautiful  and  picturesque 
town  excited  great  interest  among  the  in- 
habitants. Even  the  Indians,  unclothed  in 
rags,  dirty,  vile  unspeakably  in  mind  and 
body,  and  without  souls  so  far  as  could  be 
seen,  stuck  their  heads  from  their  smoky  and 
vile-smelling  tents,  and  looked  in  wonder  at 
our  procession  headed  by  the  gaunt  and 
stately  form  of  the  Doctor;  while  Duke,  with 
his  nose  aristocratically  lifted,  eyeglasses  in 
place,  and  sketch-book  in  hand,  brought  up 
the  rear.  Between  the  two  walked  Mabel 


and  lona,  clad  in  pretty  bloomer  suits,  and 
Web,  who  was  giving  the  noble,  red  men — 
nobler  than  nothing  in  the  vicinity  except 
the  white  inhabitants — to  understand  that 
the  Doctor  was  a  hyas  tyee.  But  they  had 
seen  too  many  men  making  such  claims  to 
be  very  much  impressed.  As  we  passed  a 
particularly  vile  saloon,  a  man  standing  in 
the  door  thereof,  dressed  in  red  shirt,  with 
eyes  and  nose  to  match,  and  with  various 
scars  across  his  originally  ugly  countenance, 
inquired  how  soon  our  circus  was  going  to 
perform.  Being  assured  by  the  Doctor's  in- 
dignant glance  that  we  were  not  engaged  in 
such  sinful  practices,  he  commended  us  all 
to  the  region  to  which  it  was  evident  that  he 
himself  was  rapidly  moving,  and  returned 
into  his  den.  The  third  type  of  inhabitant 
of  this  precious  town  appeared  in  the  person 
of  an  elegantly  dressed  young  man,  from 
whose  self-satisfied  and  impertinent  stare  we 
had  no  difficulty  in  inferring  him  to  be  some 
small  railroad  or  government  official.  The 
magnificence  of  bearing  of  these  beings  is  in 
inverse  ratio  to  the  magnitude  of  their  office. 
We  lingered  here  no  longer  than  was  neces- 
sary to  launch  our  boat  from  among  the 
cotton-woods  at  the  river's  edge,  and  pro- 
ceeded joyfully  on  our  way. 

Though  we  were  still  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountains,  it  was  evident  that  we  were  en- 
tering another  climate.  The  air  was  dry 
and  bracing,  the  skies  more  intensely  blue, 
and  the  sun  was  blinding  bright.  A  heavy 
west  wind  drove  us  swiftly  on  our  way. 
About  five  miles  above  the  Locks  we  passed 
two  monstrous  pinnacles  of  basalt,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  river,  rising  perpendicularly 
to  the  height  of  three  thousand  feet.  One 
of  them  is  so  slender  as  to  look  like  an  im- 
mense church  spire.  They  are  nameless. 
To 'say  that  a  cliff  is  three  thousand  feet 
high  conveys  no  impression  to  one  unac- 
customed to  such  sights.  But  if  you  will 
imagine  five  or  six  of  the  Palisades  of  the 
Hudson  piled  up  one  above  the  other,  or 
eight  or  ten  Trinity  Church  spires  set 
"each  to  each,"  you  will  get  some  idea  of 
these  dizzy  heights.  It  makes  one's  head 
swim  just  to  fancy  himself  standing  away  up 


384 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Oct. 


there  where  the  trees  are  dwarfed  to  bushes. 
I  have  never  been  able,  in  fact,  to  imagine 
myself  in  any  other  position  on  that  basaltic 
spire  than  just  slipping  off  the  point.  And 
there  my  imaginary  self  hangs  forever,  the 
awful  abyss  below,  and  here  and  there  boats, 
diminished  to  acorns,  bobbing  on  the  waves. 

A  few  miles  higher  up  are  Wind  Moun- 
tain on  the  north  side  and  Shell  Rock  on 
the  south.  At  all  points  above  here  the 
west  wind  blows  almost  perpetually.  So 
strong  and  constant  is  it  that  the  limbs  grow 
on  the  east  sides  only  of  the  trees.  Shell 
Rock  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  ob- 
jects on  the  river.  It  is  about  two  tbou- 
.  sand  feet  high,  its  upper  part  consisting  of 
pointed  basaltic  crags  of  tne  most  fantastic 
shape.  The  lower  part  consists  of  debris 
which  has  fallen  from  the  pinnacles  above. 
This  debris  lies  at  such  a  slope — about  38° 
— that  any  disturbance  at  the  lower  part  will 
cause  an  avalanche  from  above.  Neverthe- 
less, a  wagon  road,  protected  by  a  wall,  has 
been  made  right  across  the  front  of  the  loose 
mass.  And  during  last  year  (1882),  the 
railroad  company  have  laid  a  massive  road- 
bed, with  a  huge  wall  on  either  side  made 
of  rocks  varying  in  size  from  a  cabinet- 
organ  to  a  walnut.  When  the  railroad  men 
began  their  work  they  found  the  avalanches 
so  dangerous  that  they  drove  piles  into  the 
loose  rocks  above,  and  though  it  was  a  very 
tedious  and  much  of  it  a  fruitless  work,  they 
stayed  at  last  the  sliding  desolation. 

To  their  amazement  they  found  solid  ice 
at  the  depth  of  a  few  feet.  It  is  likely  that 
the  water  percolates  entirely  through  the 
loose  debris  during  the  winter,  and  the  cold 
air  enters  sufficiently  to  freeze  it.  Freezing 
a  little  more  each  winter  than  it  melts  during 
the  succeeding  summer,  it  has  finally  become 
a  monstrous  mountain  of  ice  and  rocks. 

It  is  a  common  impression  that  when 
heavy  trains  pass  along  this  loose  mass  it 
will  slide  downward,  overwhelming  the 
track.  A  hundred-foot  line  cast  just  off 
Shell  Rock  failed  to  reach  bottom.  Into 
that  deep  water  a  chunk  of  rock,  a  hundred 
and  twenty  feet  long,  a  hundred  feet  thick, 
and  sixty-five  feet  high,  was  blown  in  July, 


1 88 1,  by  the  largest  blast,  with  one  excep- 
tion, ever  laid  on  this  coast.  So  great  was 
the  shock  when  the  huge  mass  fell  into  the 
water  that  a  wave  twenty  feet  high  swept 
along  the  shore,  washing  away  a  number  of 
Chinamen  who  were  at  work.  None  of 
them  were  drowned,  however,  much  to  the 
disappointment  of  the  white  employees. 

Above  Shell  Rock  the  whole  character  of 
the  river  seems  to  change.  Below  the  Cas- 
cades the  grandeur  of  the  scenery  is  calm, 
solemn,  soothing.  Above  the  Cascades  it  is 
violent,  v;eird,  terrible,  awe-inspiring.  The 
wind  blows  fiercely,  the  sand  flies  like  smoke, 
the  sun  glares,  the  waves  roll  high,  all  life  is 
stimulated  and  hurried.  Below  the  Cas- 
cades the  rocks  are  draped  with  moss,  and 
even  the  wildest  crags  have  a  soft,  cushioned 
appearance.  Above  the  Cascades  the  cliffs 
are  dry  and  bare,  and  clad  with  a  scarred, 
burnt,  angry,  terrifying  desolation.  This 
appearance  reaches  its  culmination  in  the  ten 
miles  between  Shell  Rock  and  Mitchell's 
Point.  Nobody,  unless  he  were  of  the  lineage 
of  Victor  Hugo  or  Ruskin,  would  dare  to 
describe  the  dark,  turgid  magnificence  of 
the  crag-locked  river  between  these  two 
points.  Mitchell's  Point  is  more  like  the 
abomination  of  desolation  than  anything 
else  on  the  river.  Though  only  about  a 
thousand  feet  in  height,  its  isolated  position 
makes  it  very  conspicuous.  It  is  a  perfect 
knife  blade,  two  thousand  feet  long,  the  up- 
turned edge  not  over  a  foot  thick,  and  the 
back  of  the  blade  buried  in  loose  rocks.  It 
can  be  climbed,  however,  without  great  dan- 
ger, though  no  one  would  want  to  stand  up- 
right on  the  wind-swept  edge.  The  most 
conspicuous  object  on  the  Washington  side, 
in  this  section  of  the  river,  is  Bald  Moun- 
tain. While  its  base  is  of  the  most  rugged 
and  shaggy  character,  it  smooths  away 
above  into  the  softest  waves,  and  is  clad  in 
the  greenest  grass.  At  the  immense  height 
of  its  summit,  four  thousand  feet  above  us, 
we  could  see  cattle  like  white  specks  moving 
on  the  velvety  sward. 

At  the  distance  of  twenty-three  miles 
from  the  Cascades  we  reached  Hood  River. 
This  is  the  most  interesting  point  on  the 


1883.] 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


385 


river,  and  here  we  prepared  to  malce  a  long 
stay.  Hood  River  is  the  headquarters  of 
the  artists  and  correspondents  and  tourists 
who  have  learned  the  attractions  of  the 
Columbia  River.  Many  people  of  intelli- 
gence and  refinement  make  it  their  summer 
resort. 

The  Hood  River  region  consists  of  a 
plain  four  hundred  feet  above  the  river, 
from  four  to  six  miles  wide  and  sixteen  miles 
long,  extending  nearly  to  the  foot  of  Mt. 
Hood.  On  either  side  is  a  beautiful  range 
of  hills,  that  on  the  west  rising  up  to  the 
summits  of  the  Cascade  Mountains.  The 
vegetables  and  fruit  of  Hood  River  are 
superb.  Its  climate,  though  occasionally 
very  hot  (we  saw  the  mercury  deliberately 
climb  up  to  112°),  is  on  an  average  one 
of  the  pleasantest  and  healthiest  on  the 
coast. 

Though  the  means  of  providing  for  tour- 
ists are  as  yet  quite  limited,  they  will  soon 
become  ample.  Hood  River  will  become 
erelong  what  the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson 
now  are — covered  with  villas,  and  very  prob- 
ably the  seat  of  educational  institutions. 
It  may  be  regarded  as  the  radiating  center 
of  the  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest.  Locat- 
ed just  at  the  eastern  edge  of  the  timber- 
line  and  at  the  western  edge  of  the  sunny 
interior,  reclining  just  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains,  while  the  vast  grassy  hills  and 
plains  of  central  Oregon  stretch  eastward 
from  it,  the  snows  of  Mt.  Hood  and  Mt. 
Adams  glowing  on  either  side,  accessible  by 
one  of  the  finest  bodies  of  navigable  water  on 
the  continent  as  well  as  by  a  railroad  soon  to 
be  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the  Northwest, 
Hood  River  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
regions  in  the  world.  I  speak  of  its  native 
attractions,  for  of  course  art  has  as  yet 
done  nothing  for  it.  The  view  down  stream 
from  the  bluff  with  which  the  Hood  River 
plain  fronts  the  river  is  declared  by  artists 
to  be  unsurpassed  in  beauty  and  grandeur 
of  forms  and  richness  and  variety  of  colors 
by  any  scene  in  the  world. 

A  great  contention  exists  among  the  in- 
habitants on  the  two  sides  of  the  river  as  to 
the  fineness  of  this  view.     After  long  gazing 
VOL.  II.— 25. 


in  speechless  admiration  and  wonder  at  the 
view  from  the  Hood  River  side,  we  sailed  up 
the  river  a  few  miles  and  crossed  to  the  op- 
posite shore  to  what  is  called  White  Salmon. 
This  is  a  beautiful  region,  similar  to  Hood 
River  but  not  so  extensive.  A  journey  of 
two  miles  from  the  landing  carried  us  to  a  low 
bluff,  at  the  top  of  which  we  found  a  beau- 
tiful farm.  Again  and  again  did  we  cross  this 
farm  and  stand  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff  to 
see  the  sunset.  To  the  southward  the  Hood 
River  plain,  with  its  long  lines  of  protecting 
hills,  terminated  in  the  jagged,  icy  summit  of 
Mt.  Hood.  Southwest,  the  flowing  lines  of 
Mt.  Defiance,  clad  with  purple  forest,  rose  to 
the  height  of  seven  thousand  feet.  Flowing 
at  our  feet  and  stretching  twenty  miles  west- 
ward is  the  river.  Mitchell's  Point  on  the 
left  frowns  across  the  water  at  the  monstrous 
bulk  of  Bald  Mountain.  The  rough,  gray 
mass  of  Shell  Rock,  softened  in  the  distance, 
fades  into  the  twin  crags,  the  nameless  ones, 
beyond.  We  half  think  we  can  see  to  the 
right  the  outline  of  Mt.  Eternity.  Then  a 
wall  of  crags  seems  to  stretch  right  across 
the  west,  blocking  the  canon. 

Grand  and  beautiful  as  is  this  scene  under 
the  common  light  of  day,  it  becomes  trans- 
figured at  sunset.  The  sun  sinks  behind  the 
northern  wall  of  the  canon,  and  on  a  sudden 
the  mountains  on  that  side  turn  to  a  weird 
blue-black,  while  broad  purple  banners  stream 
from  their  tops.  All  the  south  side  is  wrapped 
in  a  purple  blaze.  The  river,  before'  like  a 
flood  of  molten  lead,  catches  on  the  instant 
the  orange  and  carmine  glory  of  the  sky, 
and  seems  to  move  in  softer  waves,  soothed 
by  the  touches  of  the  fading  light.  The 
deep-blue  tint,  shadowed  with  umber,  dark- 
ens one  by  one  the  sunlit  headlands.  The 
down-fallen  towers  of  Shell  Rock  and  its 
shattered  fingers  clutching  at  the  sky  sink 
slowly  into  dark  blue  mists.  The  conflagra- 
tion of  those  yet  mightier  steeps  beyond  is 
quenched  by  the  dusk  that  flies  like  black- 
sailed  ships  along  the  surface  of  the  river. 
It  creeps  up  the  sides  of  Mt.  Defiance.  At 
last  only  the  summit  of  Mt.  Hood,  blazing 
like  the  rising  sun,  upholds  the  banner  of 
the  day.  But  even  that  banner  trembles, 


386 


The  Switzerland  of  the  Northwest. 


[Oct. 


droops,  and  falls,  and  over  it  trails  the  flag 
of  surrender,  the  ghostly  white  of  unsunned 
snow.  The  sun  has  set  and  the  glory  has 
departed. 

Of  the  grottoes  and  canons  at  White 
Salmon,  the  magnificent  camping  places 
among  the  pines  on  both  sides  of  the  river, 
of  the  road  to  Lucamas  just  at  the  foot  of 
Mt.  Hood,  of  the  view  from  there  of  the 
great  peak  with  a  fall  of  five  hundred  feet 
gushing  from  a  glacier  in  its  side,  of  Lost 
Lake,  lost  amid  the  forests,  time  forbids  us 
to  speak.  But  we  must  delay  a  moment  at 
the  P'inger  Rocks,  for  there  our  boat  lay 
moored  for  half  a  day. 

A  natural  wharf  of  rock  furnishes  a  beau- 
tiful landing  place.  The  waves  lap  against 
the  polished  sides  of  the  rock,  and  we  think 
of  Sir  Bedtvere,  how  "he  based  his  feet 
on  juts  of  slippery  crag."  But  the  Finger 
Rocks — a  monstrous  basaltic  hand  four  hun- 
dred feet  from  its  bracelet  of  cotton-woods 
at  the  water's  edge  to  the  tip  of  its  forefinger ! 
Seen  from  Warner's  Landing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  the  resemblance  to  a  hand 
is  astonishingly  close.  One  would  think 
that  this  was  the  hand  of  some  buried  vol- 
cano giant,  thrust  through  the  stiffened  rock- 
waves,  snatching  at  the  air  for  help.  Web 
and  Duke  climbed  the  "stretched  forefin- 
ger," while  the  Doctor  and  the  girls  looked 
up  from  below  apprehensively,  fearing  that 
the  bold  climbers  might  slip  should  they  at- 
tempt to  stand  upon  the  tip  of  the  finger. 
But  there  was  no  danger  of  their  making 
such  an  attempt.  Their  ambition  was  fully 
satisfied  to  let  their  heads  hang  down  on  one 
side  and  their  feet  on  the  other,  clutching 
desperately  the  edge  of  the  rock  with  their 
hands  meanwhile. 

From  Hood  River  to  The  Dalles,  the 
mountains  diminish  in  height,  though  still 
lofty,  and  there  is  more  of  a  regular  pali- 
sade appearance  than  below.  The  west 
wind  wafts  us  on  and  on,  until  we  pass  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  our  Switzerland.  The 
sun  grows  hotter  and  hotter,  and  the  sand 
flies  more  and  more  wildly,  till  at  last  The 
Dalles  appears,  wrapped  in  a  perpetual  storm 
of  sand,  the  narrowed  sullen  river  at  its  feet, 


and   the  boundless,  treeless,  rolling  prairie 
behind. 

Eight  miles  above  The  Dalles  is  the  most 
singular  place  on  the  river.  It  is  called  the 
"Chute."  Here  the  whole  mighty  current 
of  the  Columbia  goes  through  a  channel  only 
two  hundred  feet  wide.  Owing  to  the  vio- 
lence of  the  current,  the  depth  has  never 
been  satisfactorily  taken.  It  is  supposed  to 
be  very  deep.  Many  believe  the  river  to  be 
turned  on  edge.  Recent  investigations  by  a 
government  engineer  seem  to  indicate,  how- 
ever, that  the  banks  of  the  "Chute"  over- 
hang the  water,  so  that  the  bottom  is  much 
wider  than  the  top.  It  seems  likely  that 
there  has  been  at  some  time  a  natural  tunnel 
at  this  point,  which  finally  fell  in  on  account 
of  the  wearing  away  of  its  supports.  As  we 
crawled  to  the  edge  of  this  frightful  place 
and  looked  over,  we  saw  that  the  water  was 
almost  black.  Streaks  of  foam  gridiron  the 
blackness.  There  is  no  roaring  of  the  wa- 
ter. Only  a  kind  of  choking  gurgle  is  audi- 
ble. The  immediate  surroundings  of  the 
"Chute"  are  sand  and  rock.  No  living 
plant  is  seen..  It  is  a  perfect  desolation. 
Seen  from  the  hills  above,  the  river  has  here 
a  strained,  swollen  look,  as  of  a  vein  about  to 
burst. 

The  railroad  now  extends  all  the  way 
from  Portland  to  the  wheat-fields  of  eastern 
Oregon  and  Washington.  Boats  run  regu- 
larly, however,  from  Celilo  (fifteen  miles 
above  The  Dalles)  to  Ainsworth,  a  hundred 
and  thirty  miles,  and  then  on  the  Snake,  the 
great  southern  branch  of  the  Columbia,  to 
Lewiston,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  farther. 
It  has  also  been  found  that  with  a  few  diffi- 
cult rapids  the  Columbia  is  navigable  to 
Kettle  Falls,  nearly  four  hundred  miles  from 
Ainsworth.  Above  Kettle  Falls  there  is  a 
section  of  over  three  hundred  miles  that  is 
continuously  navigable,  extending  to  Boat 
Encampment,  in  British  Columbia.  Thus 
the  Columbia,  though  somewhat  broken  by 
rapids,  is  in  the  main  navigable  for  a  thou- 
sand or  more  miles  from  the  sea. 

Such  is  the  Columbia.     We  have  consid- 
ered it  chiefly  from  an  aesthetic  standpoint. 


1883.] 


His  Messenger. 


387 


But  from  a  commercial  point  of  view,  it 
might  be  likened  to  the  Pactolus  of  fable : 
only  in  its  case  the  sands  of  gold  are  grains 
of  wheat.  But  as  yet  neither  the  scenic 
grandeur  of  the  river  nor  the  immense  pro- 
ductiveness of  the  two  hundred  thousand' 
square  miles  adjoining  it  are  known  to  any 
great  extent.  But  the  time  is  already  near 
at  hand  when  its  products  will  be  surpassed 
by  those  of  the  Mississippi  only  of  the 
rivers  of  the  continent. 

With  sorrow  our  little  party  ended  its 
month  of  boating  on  the  Columbia.  We 
bade  farewell  to  these  wonders  and  beauties, 
every  day  more  wonderful  and  beautiful. 
Whoever  has  left  these  scenes,  having  once 
learned  to  love  them,  feels  henceforth  a 
thirst  elsewhere  unsatisfied.  All  other 
scenes  seem  weak  and  incomplete.  Where 
is  there  a  river  like  our  river?  Gathering 
its  waters  from  the  shining  mountains  of  the 
far  north,  it  presses  swiftly  on  toward  the 
noonday  and  the  sunset.  It  glides  gently 
beside  the  fairest  valleys,  from  whose  fertile 


fields  the  grain  sacks  pour  like  armies  to 
float  upon  its  bosom;  then  laps  the  barest 
sands  or  rages  around  the  most  forbidding 
crags.  It  wanders  across  vast  plains  with  a 
flood  like  an  inland  sea,  and  then  is  squeezed 
into  rocky  walls,  across  which  a  pebble  can 
be  thrown.  In  its  sublime  progress  it  gath- 
ers every  image  of  flower  and  tree  and  crag 
and  glacial  mountain ;  it  gathers  all  sounds, 
from  the  tinkle  of  the  mountain  rain  to  the 
thunder  of  cataracts,  from  the  wailing  scream 
of  the  cougar  to  the  whistle  of  the  steam- 
boat; it  treasures  up  the  voices  of  ancient 
vanished  tribes,  and  of  the  birds  that  sang 
in  the  days  before  man  was ;  it  bursts  open 
the  sepulchers  where  lay  "the  first  bones 
of  time,"  and  spreads  the  garnered  dust 
upon  the  wheat-fields  and  orchards  of  the 
present  time;  it  catches  the  reflection  of 
every  star  in  the  sky,  and  of  the  sun  and 
moon  and  clouds;  then,  unfolding  all  its 
gathered  treasures  in  one  wide,  shining 
flood,  it  pours  them  into  the  lap  of  the 
sea. 

W.  D.  Lyman. 


HIS   MESSENGER. 


" — from  Naples  to-day."     • 

Only  that  they  were  the  first  words  I  had 
heard  in  my  mother  tongue  for  some  days, 
they  would  not  have  attracted  my  attention. 
For  in  that  circle  of  many  nationalities,  only 
Mr.  Beacoll,  besides  Deane  and  myself, 
were  to  English  speech  born.  During  the 
last  few  days  the  former  had  been  sketching 
at  Paestum,  while  for  a  much  longer  time — 
in  our  pursuit  of  foreign  languages — Deane 
and  I  had  seemed  to  avoid  each  other 
like  two  pestilences  walking  at  noonday. 

I  looked  along  the  line  of  those  curiously 
illumined  faces,  and  discovered  the  speaker 
on  my  side  the  table,  down  among  the 
Rembrandt  glooms  of  the  other  end.  I 
wondered  to  see  her  alone  in  that  place, 
sacred  to  the  eccentricities  of  savant  and 
artist,  for  she  looked  much  younger  than  is 


the  wont  of  independently  voyaging  "  paint- 
resses."  I  saw  Deane  looking  at  her  with 
the  thoroughly  aesthetic  satisfaction  that 
sculptural  lines  and  statuesque  pallor  always 
gave  him  when  united  in  a  woman's  face. 

We  always  dined  thus  in  demi-obscurity, 
the  early  darkness  of  autumn  filling  the  vast 
vaulted  room,  unbroken  save  by  two  feeble 
oil-lamps.  Elsewhere  this  curiously  trans- 
figuring gloom  might  have  indicated  merely 
a  vulgar  parsimony  of  petrole;  but  just 
there,  with  a  murdered  city  but  a  step 
across  the  way,  and  ghostly  sounds  wailing 
over  from  it  towards  us,  the  situation  had 
something  almost  awful  in  it. 

"  \  never  feel  Pompeii  so  thoroughly  tragic 
as  at  this  time,"  Madonna  was  saying — 
Madonna  only  in  this  light :  by  daylight 
a  battered  antique  largely  "restored." 


388 


His  Messenger. 


[Oct. 


"Nor  I.  It  is  that  weirdly  wailing  wind, 
I  suppose,  sobbing  over  the  wall  from 
among  the  ruins,"  said  Galatea,  her  daughter, 
a  marble  embodiment  of  an  artist's  ideal, 
if  never  seen  in  the  plaster-of-Paris  aspect 
which  ordinary  light  always  revealed. 

"And  the  strangely  imaginative  and  mel- 
ancholy influence  of  the  peasants  droning 
out  their  dreary  chants  on  the  way  home 
from  labor,"  added  Mr.  Beacoll — behind 
the  round,  fiery  orbs  of  his  spectacles  the  ten- 
derest  brown-eyed  man  in  the  world. 

"  The  Padrone  and  Francesco  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  flitting  so  mysteriously 
behind  our  chairs,  like  specters  of  waiters," 
said  the  Major,  bald  and  bilious,  but  now 
an  ivory  young  Hylas  on  background  of 
onyx. 

"Even  Miss  Marron's  ghosts  are  shudder- 
ing," added  the  Russian  consul. 

So  they  were,  in  the  draught  from  the 
Roman-arched  doorway,  opening  upon  a 
vista  of  ilexes  against  white  Italian  walls. 
Even  the  peacocks,  blinking  sleepily,  with 
brilliant  tails  furled  and  drooping  out  of  all 
keeping  with  their  decorative  mission  upon 
the  terminal  pedestals  where  they  roosted 
every  riight,  seemed  to  shudder.  So  did 
the  classic  urns,  heaped  high  with  golden, 
amber,  and  limpid  fruit,  as  well  as  even 
the  lava  walls  about  us,  under  the  fitful 
shadows  created  by  our  two  pale  lamps. 

Everybody  looked  at  my  ghosts. 

They  were  a  number  of  tall  reeds  spring- 
ing up  through  the  lava  floor  between  col- 
umns of  arches  which  vaulted  the  roof. 
They  were  sapless,  tremulous  things,  and 
always  waved  their  long,  palm-like  leaves  in 
every  breath  of  air. 

"They  never  'slip  their  grip'  on  their  let- 
ters, under  any  circumstances,"  smiled  Mr. 
Beacoll,  with  lurid  glare  in  my  direction, 
being  a  Shropshire  man,  with  an  Etruscan- 
pottery  mind  and  a  consuming  curiosity  on 
the  matter  of  transatlantic  slang. 

All  in  among  those  drooping  leaves  were 
pinned  letters,  smoke-stained,  age-yellQwed, 
and  bearing  postmarks  in  many  strange 
languages.  They  had  come  hither  from 
different  parts  of  the  world  after  those  to 


whom  they  were  addressed  had  gone  hence, 
never  to  be  heard  of  there  more.  Some  of 
those  letters  had  been  there  for  years.  Both 
the  hands  that  had  written  them  and  the 
eyes  for  whom  they  were  intended  were  now 
perhaps  dust,  yet  still  they  wait,  wait,  wait, 
in  charge  of  those  shuddering  specters,  sigh- 
ing in  every  breeze. 

Occasionally  in  the  lulls  of  that  polyglot 
chatter,  I  could  hear  the  stranger  still  speak- 
ing English  with  burning-eyed  Beacoll.  And 
as  I  noticed  her  growing  consciousness  of 
Deane's  unconscious  stare,  I  could  not  but 
wonder  if  from  where  she  sat  he  looked 
the  ideal  beauty,  with  low,  broad  brow  and 
pensive,  dreamy  eyes — a  sort  of  passion- 
less abstraction  of  beauty,  like  a  Leonardo 
Christ's — that  he  looked  from  my  seat. 

It  chanced  next  day  that  I  did  not  take 
luncheon  with  me  and  work  all  day  among 
the  ruins  as  usual.  Letters  and  papers  had 
come  for  me  from  America,  so  as  soon  as 
breakfast  was  over  I  ran  across  the  lava- 
white  road,  up  a  weedy  bank  upon  which 
the  white  dust  lay  thickly,  across  a  sunny 
field,  beneath  which  part  of  the  ashen  trag- 
edy yet  sleeps  undisturbed  in  its  repose  of 
nineteen  centuries,  to  the  ruins  of  the  Colos- 
seum. There,  established  upon  a  vine-clad 
stone  over  which  airy  .feet  tripped  and 
sumptuous  robes  trailed  before  yet  my  race 
was  born,  I  began  to  read. 

The  first  sound  I  heard,  save  of  bee,  bird, 
rustling  flower,  or  gleaming  lizard  in  the 
grass,  was  a  full  hour  later.  Then  it  was  a 
ferocious  rubbing,  as  if  somebody,  bitten  by 
the  restoring  mania,  were  pumice-stoning 
down  these  pathetic  and  solemn  ruins.  I 
looked  whence  the  sound  came.  An  ele- 
gant figure  was  sitting  upon  a  lower  stone 
than  mine,  with  a  sketch-book  upon  her 
knee,  and  the  weedy  stone  about  her  cov- 
ered thick  with  bread  crumbs. 

I  wondered  to  see  the  beautiful  stranger 
of  the  night  before  hastily  draw  a  short  veil 
over  her  face,  as  with  the  sans  ceremonie  of 
artistic  Bohemia  I  descended  to  speak  with 
her.  A  glance  showed  me  that  she  was 
older  than  I  had  fancied  her  to  be,  and  even 
through  the  thickly  dotted  tulle  I  could  see 


1883.] 


His  Messenger. 


389 


that  her  color  was  more  that  of  creamy  ivory 
than' the  polished  marble  it  had  seemed  in 
last  night's  transfiguring  gloom.  But  won- 
derfully luminous  eyes  looked  at  me  through 
heavy  fringes  of  dark  brown,  and  her  fea- 
tures, as  indistinctly  seen,  seemed  perfect 
enough  to  be  cut  upon  cameo.  I  spoke  to 
her  in  French,  remembering  that  her  Eng- 
lish had  seemed  labored.  She  answered  me 
with  an  unmistakably  French  accent,  but 
with  evident  pride  in  using  my  own  language. 

"I  wish  to  speak  the  English  upon  all  the 
times,  and  to  all  the  occasions.  I  wish  to 
learn  parfaitement  all  the  idiotisms  of  it." 

She  showed  me  her  sketches,  the  "idiot- 
ism"  of  which  accounted  fully  for  the  bread 
crumbs.  I  showed  her  mine,  over  which 
she  smiled  and  sighed  with  gentle  envy. 

11  Malheureusement,  je  suis  Frangaise,"  she 
said:  " '  malheureusement,  because  we  cannot 
study  and  improve  what  talent  le  bon  Dieu 
has  given  us,  as  you  Anglaises  can.  Mot, 
je  suis  tout  a  fait  perdu  comme  dame,  lost  to 
be  a  lady,  among  my  friends,  because  I  call 
myself  artiste,  and  voyage  sans  chaperon, 
moi  at  twenty-eight !" 

There  was  a  simplicity  almost  pathetic  to 
my  larger  experience  in  the  author  of  those 
sketches  calling  herself  "artiste,"  and  I  was 
wondering  if  I  might  dare  offer  a  suggestion 
that  vistas  recede  from  rather  than  project 
upon  the  eye,  and  objects  lessen  in  perspec- 
tive— when  crash  across  the  field  came  the 
sound  of  the  luncheon  bell. 

I  wondered  at  Mademoiselle's  coquetry, 
in  sitting  at '  merenda  with  her  veil  down, 
especially  as  only  Madonna  and  Galatea, 
widow  and  daughter  of  a  Bavarian  officer, 
besides  myself,  were  at  table.  But  in  an 
Italian  albergo,  whose  chambers  are  not  beau- 
tiful, and  rates  but  five  lire  a  day,  '''•pour 
Messieurs  les  artistes"  (Mesdames  included, 
although  not  mentioned),  are  many  eccen- 
tric people — so  I  gave  the  matter  no  second 
thought. 

But  at  pranzo  that  evening,  when  the 
peacocks  blinked  and  shuddered,  the  ilexes 
shivered  against  white  walls,  and  the  mystic 
gloom  and  transfiguring  half-light  possessed 
our  Pompeian  Sala,  she  wore  no  veil.  With 


masses  of  golden  bronze  hair  coiled  low,  and 
waving  upon  a  low,  broad  brow,  and  in  her 
simple  dress  of  pale  gray,  she  looked  a  very 
Psyche,  through  whose  surface  coldness  and 
antique  perfectness  of  form  gleamed  a  pas- 
sionate modern  soul. 

I  saw  Deane  watching  her,  and  heard  him 
address  her  in  an  insane  kind  of  lingo,  which 
I  suppose  he  flattered  himself  was  French, 
inasmuch  as  it  certainly  was  no  other  lan- 
guage under  the  sun. 

After  that  evening  I  noticed  that  they 
talked  much  together.  Deane  always  went 
to  his  work  long  before  she  descended  to 
collazione,  and  never  returned  till  the  dusk 
grew  thick,  so  they  never  met  save  at  dinner. 

One  day  Mr.  Beacoll  came  home  from 
Naples  with  a  permit  for  our  party  to  visit 
ruined  Pompeii  by  moonlight. 

The  big  October  moon  was  full,  silvering 
late  grapes  in  the  vineyards,  chiseling  in 
ivory  each  harsh  blossom  and  sapless  leaf 
upon  the  earth  wall  around  the  dead  city, 
spreading  sheen  of  crystal  upon  our  narrow 
glimpse  of  sea,  purifying  the  road  with  light 
snowfall,  laying  pearly  rim  upon  each  brown 
ruin,  and  idealizing  all  our  mortal  imper- 
fections in  a  veil  of  white  radiance.  Even 
the  walls  of  our  albergo,  scattered  Oriental 
fashion  around  the  court,  were  transformed 
by  that  pure  magic  into  pearly  palaces  of 
fairy  tales — 

"Or  colorless  background  of  some  pas- 
sionless poem,"  murmured  our  Neapolitan 
Major,  as  sentimental  as  he  was  bilious,  and 
whose  idea  of  English-speaking  women  was 
a  tragic  mixture  of  Ophelia  and  the  Bride  of 
Lammermoor. 

The  whole  party  impatiently  waited  two 
missing  ones  in  the  pearly  courtyard.  I 
opened  the  huge  door  of  our  triclinium — 
our  only  public  room.  They  were  standing 
before  the  tall  reeds  examining  the  time- 
stained  letters  those  reeds  had  held  so  long. 

"  Miss  Marron  insists  that  they  are  ghosts 
of  Pompeian  girls,  separated  in  the  madden- 
ing horror  from  their  kindred,"  Deane  was 
saying  as  I  entered.  Even  in  that  dim  light 
I  noticed  that  he  wore  a  new  necktie  of  a 
bleu  criard,  a  color  which  I  knew  set  his 


390 


His  Messenger. 


[Oct. 


teeth  on  edge.  It  was  the  very  shade  of 
the  one  at  her  throat,  hers  softened  now  by 
a  fleecy  "cloud,"  draped  Venetian  fashion 
over  head  and  shoulders.  That  drapery  was 
as  idealizing  as  a  summer  cloud'  floating 
across  the  serene,  fair  moon,  and  out  of  it 
her  violet  eyes  looked  up  at  him  as  flowers 
at  the  dawn. 

The  Pompeian  girls  shivered  and  cried  as 
I  entered.  Said  Deane,  seeing  me : 

"Miss  Marron,  if  ever  I  send  you  a  mes- 
sage from  the  spirit-world,  I  will  confide  it 
to  one  of  these  ghostly  young  ladies." 

"Mais,  Mademoiselle,  you  look  like  a 
ghost  yourself!"  exclaimed  his  companion. 

All  down  the  white  road  the  Major  mur- 
mured sweetly  in  my  ear  of  moonshine  and 
melancholy,  of  the  gall  of  gayety,  the  beauty 
of  bitterness,  and  the  bane  of  things  in  gen- 
eral, to  all  of  which  I  answered  in  monosyl- 
lables. Scarcely  were  we  within  the  pale 
streets,  however,  when  I  managed  to  elude 
him.  I  escaped  to  wander  alone  among 
those  empty  and  roofless  houses  which  in 
the  moonlight  seemed  like  shadows  cast  for- 
ward from  a  past,  real  although  remote,  upon 
a  present  equally  remote  but  far  more  un- 
real. 

Sitting  in  the  shadow  of  a  broken  arch, 
from  which  pendant  vines  cast  warm,  quiv- 
ering tracery  upon  the  mosaic  floor,  I  saw  a 
deeper  shadow  upon  the  pictured  threshold. 
I  held  my  breath  and  shrunk  closer  within 
my  darkness.  The  shadow  moved  noiseless- 
ly, as  shadows  should.  It  gazed  about  the 
illumined  triclinium,  as  if  seeking  some  other 
shadow.  Then  it  faded  away.  As  it  faded 
I  heard  a  long  tremulous  breath  like  a  sigh. 

Afterwards  I  stole  unawares  upon  the 
same  shadow.  It  was  leaning  over  a  wall 
looking  across  the  still  plain  to  where  a 
flaming  giant  towered  against  the  sky.  The 
shadow  this  time  was  materialized  by  a  spot 
of  shrieking  blue,  and  was  looking  downward 
upon  a  white  vaporous  figure  by  its  side. 

"•Nous-nous  aimons"  I  heard  the  white 
figure  say.  Then  shadow-like  in  my  turn  I 
faded  away. 

The  day  following  we  carried  out  our 
plan  of  ascending  Vesuvius  to  see  the  sun 


rise.  We  started  at  two  o'clock  from  the 
inn  courtyard,  shivering  and  half  awake. 
Deane  rode  by  my  side  as  our  donkeys 
crawled  over  the  lava-paved  road.  I  trem- 
bled in  my  waterproof,  and  scarcely  answered 
when  he  spoke  to  me.  But  when  he  said, 
with  tact  pre-eminently  masculine,  "How 
fresh  Mademoiselle  seems!  just  hear  her 
laugh,"  I  burst  out  with — 

"Deane,  are  you  blind?  If  you  saw  her  by 
daylight  as  I  do  you  would  know — " 

"What  are  you  saying,  Margaret?"  he 
asked,  for  my  voice  had  sounded  hoarse  and 
muffled,  and  my  malicious  intention  perished 
at  its  birth. 

Then  the  Major  wabbled  up  beside  me. 
We  spoke  gently  together  of  the  sweetness 
of  dying  among  these  fire-fed  vineyards  so 
symbolic  of  human  life,  passion-nourished 
into  purple  life-blood  strangely  rare  and 
sweet  enough  to  be  called  "Tears  of  Christ"; 
of  the  poetic  beauty  of  the  Marble  Sleep  with 
its  threnody  eternally  chanted  by  yon  hoarse- 
voiced  mountain — hearing  which,  Deane  fell 
back  and  left  us  alone. 

A  morose  silence  fell  gradually  upon  us 
all.  Our  ascent  was  so  gradual  in  the  dark- 
ness, that  to  ourselves  we  seemed  never  to 
have  changed  the  level  upon  which  we  left 
Pompeii.  When  the  dim  dawn  held  upon 
its  bosom  glimpses  of  a  world  almost  infi- 
nitely far  below,  it  seemed  not  we  who  had 
climbed,  but  the  world  that  had  fallen  away, 
deep,  deep,  deep,  a  pale  image  in  the  depths 
of  a  far-reaching  memory. 

We  had  passed  the  golden  zone  of  vine- 
yards, and  reached  that  of  black,  utter  life- 
lessness,  where  no  green  thing  can  live,  no 
creeping  thing  can  come,  no  winged  creature 
lift  its  voice  amid  the  royal  clamor  beating 
down  from  smoking  heights,  and  where  not 
even  the  Major  could  see  any  beauty  in  the 
Marble  Sleep  with  one's  wrinkles  full  of  cin- 
ders, and  every  crow's-foot  accentuated  as 
with  heavy  crayon. 

Here  we  dismounted  from  our  trembling 
donkeys  and  prepared  to  drag  ourselves 
up  the  cone.  Breathless  already,  although 
scarcely  twenty  feet  from  the  bottom,  I 
stopped  to  rest.  Suddenly  Mademoiselle 


1883.] 


His  Messenger. 


391 


overtook  me,  gasping  and  frightened,  laying 
such  eager  hold  upon  me  that  we  both  bur- 
rowed in  the  ashes  together. 

"Pour  I' 'amour  de  Dieu,  Mademoiselle,  lend 
me  your  veil!" 

The  mightiest  issues  of  life  sometimes 
quiver  upon  a  breath — upon  "yes"  or  "no." 

Why  should  I  not  say  "no" — I  who  had 
all  to  lose  as  well  as  she? 

Suddenly  I  saw  a  vision.  Two  shadows 
in  a  silent  city,  and  one  was  speaking. 
"We  love  each  other,"  I  heard  it  say. 

Then  I  handed  her  my  veil.  Straightway 
I  felt  every  one  of  my  thirty  unlovely  years 
staring  grimly  from  my  face,  duller  than  ever 
now,  after  an  unrefreshed  night,  in  this  cruel 
dawn.  Nevertheless  I  even  laughed  as  I 
tied  the  bit  of  lace  about  her  hat,  and 
said: 

"Extravagant  girl,  do  you  reflect  what 
these  foolish  things  cost  \x&  forestitri  in  Italy, 
that  you  give  yours  to  the  wind  so  readily?" 

Slipping,  panting,  breathless,  the  summit 
was  reached  at  last.  Deane  and  Mademoi- 
selle were  waiting  for  me  in  the  dense  smoke, 
as  I  quitted  my  guide  at  the  top.  They  each 
gave  me  a  hand,  and  thus  united,  we  skirted 
the  hellish  crater,  and  came  round  upon  the 
smokeless  side.  As  we  stood  panting  in 
that  free  air  of  the  mountain  top,  suddenly, 
above  the  roar  of  Vulcan's  forge  and  wild 
swish  of  the  wind,  I  heard  a  cry.  I  turned 
to  see  my  companions  gazing  at  each  other 
with  astonished  eyes.  My  veil  had  been  torn 
from  Mademoiselle's  head  in  the  fierce,  hot 
blast,  and  was  now  drifting  far  away  on  murky, 
sulphurous  clouds.  Five  minutes  later,  and 
all  the  gentlemen  of  our  party  were  down  in 
the  crater.  I  watched  Deane  as  he  ran  hither 
and  yon  amid  rifts  of  liquid  fire,  and  I  scream- 
ed to  him  to  beware,  my  voice  thrust  back 
into  my  teeth  amid  that  Plutonian  uproar. 
And  then  also  was  brought  to  my  conscious- 
ness a  figure  lying  in  the  ashes  beside  me, 
its  face  buried  in  blackness. 

"Mademoiselle?" 

The  cameo-like  face  looked  up  at  me  with 
dim  violet  eyes. 

" Did  you  see  how  he  looked  at  me?"  she 
asked  bitterly.  "Ah,  mon  Dieu!  It  is  more 


than  I  can  bear  never  to  be  looked  at  but  with 
pitying  eyes!  Lookatme,  Miss  Marron,  count 
every  disfiguring  mark — they  are  not  many, 
but  so  deep — and  then  tell  me  why  we  should 
call  remorseless  nature  "mother"  and  not 
the  tyrant  that  she  is.  It  was  nature  who 
made  me  care  for  my  sister's  child  in  its 
loathsome  malady — this  is  how  she  rewarded 
me." 

I  knew  not  what  to  say;  I  could  only 
stammer: 

"You  saw  his  face;  he  has  suffered  as 
well  as  you,  for  watching  over  a  lonely  and 
unknown  countryman  last  year  in  Venice; 
surely  he  cannot — he  can — " 

I  ceased,  for  she  was  not  listening. 

"Per  Bacco!  who  would  ever  have 
imagined  to  see  her  at  dinner  that  Mademoi- 
selle looked  like  that!"  exclaimed  the  Major' 
the  first  chance  he  got  at  my  ear.  "She  is 
about  as  much  marked  as  il  Signor  Deane, 
non  e  vero,  Signorina?" 

Going  down  the  cone,  our  party  was 
broken  into  units  scattered  widely  apart  on 
that  desolate  expanse — all  but  Mademoiselle 
and  myself.  She  clung  closely  to  me, 
shrinking  from  the  others,  as  we  sank, 
struggled,  rose  together,  two  bits  of  wreck 
upon  a  black  sea. 

When  near  ten  o'clock  we  crawled  into 
the  court  of  our  albergo,  it  was  Deane  and 
not  the  glaucus-hued  Major  who  helped  us 
dismount.  He  was  unnaturally  pale,  and  his 
voice  sounded  strained  as  he  whispered: 

"Margaret,  did  you  see  the  look  she  gave 
me?  Am  I,  then,  so  hideous — ever  to  win  a 
love  I  crave?" 

"How  should  I  know,"  I  answered  harsh- 
ly, as  I  stumbled  blindly  past  him  to  my 
room. 

There  was  a  stranger  at  dinner  that  night, 
one  with  face  in  that  transfiguring  twilight 
as  passionless  and  pure  as  one  of  Fra  Angeli- 
co's  angels.  I  did  not  speculate  if  he  were 
Tintoretto  butcher  or  Luini  Judas  by  day- 
light, for  my  breath  was  taken  away  when^  I 
saw  that  he  occupied  Deane's  seat. 

"  Si,  il  Signor  Deane  went  away  to  Rome 


392 


His  Messenger. 


[Oct. 


at  noon,  leaving  adieux  for  everybody,"  said 
Padrone  Eer. 

Two  days  later  Mademoiselle  went  back 
to  Rome,  and  I  to  Florence,  to  my  narrow- 
eyed  Giottos,  and  half-mediaeval,  half-pagan 
Botticellis.  I  went  back  feeling  my  sight 
eternally  extinguished  to  the  beauty  of  sim- 
ple existence  with  which  the  Greeks  animat- 
ed their  marbles,  and  preternaturally  quick- 
ened for  recognition  of  the  throb  of  aching 
humanity  which  commenced  to  beat  in  the 
art  of  the  Renaissance. 

When  I  parted  from  Mademoiselle  I  for 
the  first  time  alluded  to  Deane. 

"Be  of  good  cheer,"  I  said,  "he  is  tender 
and  true ;  I  have  known  him  for  years.  He 
will  return  to  you,  for  he  has  told  you  that 
he  loves  you." 

"Loves  me?" 

"  By  moonlight  in  the  street  of  Tombs. 
' Nous-nous  at'mons,'  I  heard  you  answer 
him." 

"Ah!  I  remember;  Monsieur  Deane  was 
learning  a  reflective  verb — he  always  had 
such  difficulty  with  them." 

I  caught  my  breath  for  an  instant,  then  I 
answered : 

"But  he  does  love  you ;  he  has  told  me 
so." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  shudder. 

I  heard  nothing  from  either  of  them  till 
the  following  year.  It  was  in  October  that 
I  went  to  Venice  to  fill  an  order.  Felice — 
our  old  favorite  Felice — was  still  my  model ; 
I  went  out  with  him  every  morning  in  his 
gondola,  and  in  the  shoal  waters  just  outside 
San  Giorgio  Maggiore  I  painted  till  the 
shadows  deepened  with  the  climbing  sun. 

One  morning,  while  Felice  was  arranging 
the  red-and-white-striped  awning  over  the 
end  of  the  gondola,  I  sat  glancing  over  a 
package  of  newspapers  just  received  from 
home.  A  heavy  black  line  caught  my  eye. 

A  sudden  roaring  darkness  fell  upon  me 
in  the  very  heart  of  that  laughing  day. 

"Take  me  home,  Felice,"  I  gasped.  And 
poor  Felice,  who  cannot  read,  before  gather- 
ing up  his  oar,  gave  a  vindictive  toss  into 
the  Lagune  of  all  the  fatal  papers,  that  some- 


how, he  knew  not  how,  had  turned  my  face 
into  death's  image. 

An  irresistible  desire  took  possession  of 
me  as  soon  as  my  heart  beat  again — not,  it 
seemed  to  me,  for  days. 

I  must  go  back,  back  to  the  spot  where 
he  had  passed  from  my  sight  forever.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  shadow  of  his  beloved  pres- 
ence must  linger  yet  there,  where  dwell  so 
many  shadows,  dead  so  many  centuries,  and 
he  dead  —  ah,  God!  dead — but  one  little 
month  ago. 

I  must  go  back  to  deaden  this  horrible 
ache,  for  I  knew  that  in  the  atmosphere  of 
that  mighty  old-time  tragedy  living  and  dead 
seem  phantoms  alike.  And  in'  a  ghost- 
haunted  vapor  like  this  we  call  life,  what 
matters  it  if  joy  or  anguish  flit  by  our  side? 
what  matters  it  when  all  is  done  so  soon? 

It  was  dusk  when  I  descended  at  the  little 
brown  station,  and  walked  heavily  through 
the  lava-dust  to  the  inn.  As  I  drew  near,  a 
well-known  sound  greeted  me — the  dinner- 
bell.  To-night  not  one  face  of  our  old  com- 
pany would  be  illumined  upon  that  ebon 
background;  but  what  mattered  that  to  me? 
— a  shadow  forevermore. 

As  I  entered  my  old  room  at  the  end  of 
the  loggia,  I  saw  that  it  had  been  touched 
by  artistic  fingers  in  my  absence.  An  ex- 
quisite face  smiled  upon  me,  drawn  in  pen- 
cil upon  the  white-washed  wall,  a  face  with 
no  more  blight  of  earth  malady  upon  it  than 
upon  a  statue  fresh  from  a  master's  hands. 

"Si"  said  Padrone  Eer,  "it  is  Mademoi- 
selle— or  rather,  Madame.  She  and  her 
husband  went  away  yesterday  to  Palermo. 
She  left  you  this  note  when  I  told  her  you 
were  coming." 

The  note  was  in  her  own  language,  and 
told  that  she  was  desolee  not  to  present  to 
me  her  husband.  "  C'est  lui  qui  a  fait  man 
portrait"  the  note  concluded;  and  then, 
with  words  in  which  I  saw  a  world  of  pas- 
sionate hope  and  yearning,  "as  he  has 
drawn  me,  perhaps  I  am — to  him." 

At  midnight,  candle  in  hand,  I  crept  like 
a  ghost  across  the  courtyard,  where  ilex 
branches  trembled  in  the  autumnal  air.  I 
knew  the  triclinium  would  not  be  locked, 


1888.] 


His  Messenger. 


393 


for  in  that  soft  climate  the  tousled  facchino 
always  slept  in  an  open  wagon  near  the  en- 
trance, and  no  other  security  was  necessary 
for  pewter  plate. 

"It  is  only  I,  Antonio" — and  the  unkempt 
head,  with  sleepy  grunt,  fell  again. 

The  reeds  shivered  and  cried  as  I  entered; 
I  shivered,  too,  but  did  not  cry  when  they 
waved  their  pale  arms  as  if  to  welcome  me 
to  their  phantom  world.  The  room  was 
unchanged.  We  might  have  left  it  only  an 
hour  ago.  His  chair  was  in  its  old  place, 
half  turned  aside,  as  if  he  had  just  risen. 
Beyond  were  the  chairs  of  Madonna  and 
Galatea,  turned  a  little  aside  towards  lurid- 
eyed  Beacoll.  Here  sat  the  Major,  and 
somewhere  up  there  in  yon  darkness  was  the 
chair  in  which  I  sat  and  watched  a  fair  new 
face,  startled  and  anxious  under  the  shining 
stare  of  eyes  that  saw  nothing  now  in  their 
low-roofed  home. 

I  know  not  how  long  I  had  been  sitting 
there,  with  head  bowed  upon  the  table,  when 
a  feeling  came  upon  me  that  I  was  not 
alone.  Sighs,  low  and  whispered,  wavered 
through  the  darkness.  I  felt  a  cold,  lax 
touch  creep  slowly  over  my  neck  and  hair. 

I  was  not  frightened.  I  remembered  in 
an  instant  that  I  must  have  left  the  door 
ajar,  and  the  night  air  made  the  reeds  sigh 
and  shiver  where  I  sat.  I  rose  to  close  the 
door.  As  I  stood  up,  the  feeble  glimmer  of 
the  candle  in  my  hand  fell  full  upon  one  of 
the  Pompeian  girls  with  her  burden  of  let- 
ters. The  light  seemed  to  concentrate  itself 
upon  one  letter  placed  so  high  above  the 
ordinary  level  of  the  eye  that  in  the  diffused 
light  of  day  it  would  naturally  be  the  last 
one  upon  which  the  sight  would  rest. 

Sitting  there  in  his  chair,  trembling  and 
cold,  I  opened  the  letter.  It  was  dated 
a  year  before. 

"DEAR  MARGARET: 

"When  I  saw  you  last  I  felt  I  could  never  see  you 
again.  But  surely  you  did  not  mean  to  drive  me 
thus  from  you — I,  who  have  loved  you  so  long. 
But  if  I  have  been  too  presumptuous,  if  all  these 
months  since  my  calamity  your  apparent  shrinking 
from  me  has  been  real,  then  have  I  been  mad  in- 


deed. But  no;  I  know  your  true  heart  well  enough 
to  be  sure  that  if  ever  you  could  have  loved  me  you  can 
love  me  now;  if  you  cannot,  it  is  my  bitter  fate  and 
not  my  wrecked  face  that  fails  to  win  the  priceless 
treasure.  Write  to  me,  Margaret,  and  tell  me  if  I 
may  return  to  one  who  loves  me,  or  at  least  that 
I  may  find  once  more  the  friend  of  long  years. 

"  DEANE." 

Thus  had  the  spectral  messengers  been 
true  to  their  trust ! 

Dumb  and  smitten,  I  lay  in  my  room  all 
the  next  day.  At  midnight  I  stole  again 
across  the  ilex-shimmering  court.  Again  the 
night  air  cried  about  me,  and  lax,  dry  fin- 
gers felt  numbly  over  my  forehead  and  hair. 
Again  I  laid  my  face  upon  the  table,  and 
strove  to  remember  my  love  with  other  than 
the  despairing  face  with  which  I  saw  him 
last.  It  was  in  vain.  Ever  the  same  tor- 
turing vision  rose  before  me,  till  I  sobbed 
aloud : 

"Deane,  do  you  not  know  now  that  I  al- 
ways loved  you?  " 

From  out  the  darkness  came  a  voice  . 

"Margaret!" 

Terrified,  I  raised  my  head.  Then  by 
wan  light,  fancy  carved  for  me  upon  ebon 
background  a  blessed  image. 

The  next  moment,  light  and  shadow, 
radiant  image  and  ebon  background,  mingled 
into  nothingness. 

Strong  arms  were  about  me,  tender  ac- 
cents called  my  name. 

"Forgive  me,"  they  were  saying,  "I  have 
watched  under  your  window  all  day.  I 
could  not  resist  standing  at  the  door,  where 
I  could  gaze  upon  you  unseen.  You  would 
never  have  known  it  but  for  your  articulate 
sob—" 

"But,  dear,  your  death  was  in  the  paper," 
I  insisted  later;  "so  how  can  this  be  you?" 

"If  you  had  looked  twice  at  the  announce- 
ment, Margaret,  you  would  have  seen  that 
he  who  died  was  thirty  years  older  than  I. 
Yesterday  I  might  almost  have  wished  to 
have  died  in  my  father's  stead;  but  to-day, 
dear,  you  have  received  my  message,  and  I 
desire  long  years  in  which  to  receive  your 
reply." 

Margaret  Bertha  Wright. 


394 


Pacific  Houses  and  Homes. 


[Oct. 


PACIFIC   HOUSES   AND   HOMES. 


WITH  its  delightful  moods  of  climate,  Cal- 
ifornia ought  to  rejoice  in  the  very  best  con- 
ditions of  social  life  and  housekeeping.  The 
"unceasing  gayety  of  the  Occidental  year," 
of  which  THE  OVERLAND  editor  wrote  years 
ago,  allows  charming  variations  from  the 
utilitarian  style  of  homes  elsewhere  in  the 
Union.  While  the  New  Englander  and  the 
Northwest  settler  must  build  their  houses 
with  a  view  to  winter  or  wintry  weather  full 
half  the  year,  and  expend  most  attention  on 
making  the  walls  thick  and  the  roof  heavy, 
and  the  citizen  of  Atlantic  towns  must  pile 
story  upon  story  in  his  mansion  or  apart- 
ment house  to  save  the  price  of  ground, 
this  side  the  Sierras  only  shelter  enough  is 
required  to  embody  the  idea  of  home,  with 
its  cherished  hearth  and  roof-tree.  The  to- 
tally different  style  of  building  and  ornament 
required  by  the  opposite  climates  opens  a 
wide  field  to  the  American  architect  and 
artist. 

It  will  be  a  happy  day  in  this  country 
when  we  begin  to  study  design  and  decora- 
tion principally  to  find  something  suited  to 
our  time  and  needs,  instead  of  laboriously 
trying  to  force  the  present  into  the  garb  of 
the  past.  It  will  not  be  long  until  the  archi- 
tect will  cease  to  search  portfolios  in  quest 
of  Jacobite  or  Tudor  mansion,  which  he  can 
transfer  bodily  to  the  grounds  of  a  Rhode 
Island  cotton-spinner,  or  some  absurd  im- 
itation of  feudal  halls  for  a  tradesman  who 
has  made  a  good  thing  in  mess  pork.  Rath- 
er, he  will  study  the  character  of  the  region 
where  he  is  to  build,  till  he  knows  its  lovely 
slopes  and  steep  canons  or  natural  terraces 
by  heart  and  each  suggests  to  him  the  type 
of  the  roof,  balcony,  and  ornament  best 
adapted  to  its  vicinage:  whether  the  sharp, 
spreading  roof  of  the  Swiss  inn ;  or  the  gen- 
tle incline  and  square  tower  of  the  Italian 
villa,  rising  among  almond  and  fig  orchards; 


or  the  low  walls,  pierced  for  coolness,  and 
the  delicate  fascination  of  color,  which  make 
the  Moorish  house  the  paragon  for  warm 
climates.  It  is  useless  to  try  to  force  origi- 
nality in  the  art  of  any  people ;  the  lesson  of 
the  past  reads  that  the  perfection  of  style 
grew  and  unfolded  with  generations.  It 
was  not  stimulated,  cultivated,  or  brought 
out  by  prize  competitions,  but  the  Venetian 
copied  the  Saracen,  the  Lombard  the  Vene- 
tian, the  Provencal  carried  the  lesson  to  the 
Norman,  the  Norman  to  England — each  aim- 
ing first  at  nothing  better  than  faithful  re- 
production of  its  models,  but  evolving  the 
changes  which  suited  its  climate,  and  the 
temperament  of  its  people;  so  that  from 
the  Byzantine  rose  the  Italian  Gothic,  the 
pointed,  the  flamboyant,  the  perpendicular, 
the  Tudor  Gothic — one  flowering  from  anoth- 
er, not  by  intention  so  much  as  adaptation. 
No  essayist  of  the  day  urged  people  to 
cultivate  originality  in  the  design  of  their 
houses  and  furniture — as  if  it  were  not  as 
risky  to  set  everybody  designing  decoration 
as  to  set  them  to  write  original  poetry. 
The  utter  absurdity  of  expecting  the  mass 
of  persons  to  be  original  in  decorative  art 
never  seems  to  strike  the  popular  art- 
wrights.  It  is  quite  enough  if  common 
people  can  discriminate  between  good  and 
bad  design  when  they  see  them,  and  have  a 
conscience  of  taste  which  leads  them  to  fol- 
low correct  models  without  hanging  all  sorts 
of  meretricious  ornament  upon  them.  It 
was  in  the  process  of  copying  the  Venetian 
Gothic  conscientiously  for  generations  that 
it  flowered  into  the  perfect  Gothic  of  old 
French  cathedrals.  Here  a  line  was  ex- 
panded or  retrenched,  the  leafage  was  more 
boldly  undercut,  the  form  of  the  arch  re- 
fined and  elevated,  trefoil,  rosace,  and  quin- 
quefoil  were  added  to  the  ornament,  and 
those  ferny,  frond-like  shapes  unrolled,  which 
another  age  tortured  into  the  visionary 
tongues  of  the  flamboyant  style.  It  is  bet- 


1883.] 


Pacific  Houses  and  Homes. 


395 


ter  to  teach  people  to  admire  and  respect 
the  good  things  in  art,  of  which  the  world 
has  store  already,  to  distinguish  the  best  de- 
sign, to  be  sensitive  to  nice  shades  of  taste 
and  intolerant  of  the  false  and  affected,  than 
to  exhaust  themselves  in  desperate  efforts  for 
originality.  As  if  a  grammar  school  teacher, 
instead  of  reading  Arnold  and  Shakspere 
with  her  pupils,  should  be  continually  urging 
them  to  write  critical  essays.  Let  no  man 
or  woman  write  prose  or  poetry,  or  design  so 
much  as  a  sofa-cushion,  unless  he  can't  help 
it — that  is,  unless  drawn  or  driven  to  it  by 
decided  natural  talent. 

It  does  not  take  great  gifts  of  taste  to  find 
styles  of  special  fitness  for  Californian  sea- 
sons of  sunshine.  Robin  and  his  Chispa, 
whom  he  rightly  considers  a  find  more 
precious  than  any  nugget  of  the  Sierras,  have 
been  married  long  enough  to  make  boarding 
tiresome,  and  rented  houses  do  not  come 
up  to  their  idea  of  home.  Indeed,  it  takes 
several  years  of  hard  experience  in  renting 
houses  to  thoroughly  find  out  what  one  really 
does  and  does  not  want  in  a  house  of  his 
own.  Usually  a  freshly  painted  front  and 
newly  papered  parlor,  with  a  bay-window  and 
pretty  best  bedroom,  take  the  eye  of  the 
young  married  pair,  especially  if  the  paper 
be  of  a  novel  "art  pattern,"  and  some  trifling 
touch  of  fresco  or  a  Japanese  lantern  be 
thrown  in  to  make  the  place  look  aesthetic. 
By  this  time,  however,  they  have  learned  that 
the  pretty  little  house  with  the  tiled  mantel 
and  library  recess,  which  was  so  charming 
for  two,  is  not  large  enough  for  three,  and 
that  a  whist-party  can  hardly  find  room 
about  the  center-table  without  crushing 
somebody's  'flounces,  and  that  a  guest  can 
hardly  stay  over  night  without  knowing 
family  secrets  in  the  close  neighborhood  of 
the  chambers;  that  the  kitchen  pervades  the 
whole  house  with  smells  of  soup  and  celery 
and  washing-days;  that  the  living-rooms,  with 
the  rich-looking  dark  paper,  are  gloomy  in 
the  rainy  season,  and  it  tries  the  eyes  to 
read  or  sew  in  them  on  dull  days,  on  account 
of  their  dim  light.  Chispa  is  under  the 
doctor's  care  with  throat  troubles,  paralytic 
symptoms,  and  general  debility,  traceable  to 


the  defective  drainage  about  the  house,  its 
want  of  light  and  sunshine,  and  the  three 
pairs  of  stairs  up  and  down  which  she  has 
to  race  daily  from  chambers  to  basement, 
and  very  likely  from  that  to  the  street  again. 
She  does  not  attribute  her  ailments  to  these 
causes,  and  with  her  coterie  agrees  that 
"  women  in  California  don't  seem  as  strong 
as  they  used  to  be,"  without  going  very  far 
to  find  the  reason  for  it.  Women  were 
strong  in  California  in  the  times  when  they 
used  to  live  in  comfortable  one-story  adobes, 
only  a  step  above  the  ground^  with  snug, 
thick  walls,  and  the  sunshine  corning  full  in 
at  the  windows,  unshaded  by  any  porch 
roof;  when  each  village  house  had  its  half- 
acre  or  more  of  garden  and  orchard  around 
it,  giving  space  and  seclusion  out  of  doors, 
where  the  matron  saw  to  the  washing,  soap- 
boiling,  and  fruit-drying  in  the  back  yard, 
under  the  pear  and  pimienta  trees;  when 
she  gained  the  valley  tan  and  the  large 
freckles  which  designate  her  as  one  of  the 
pioneer  women,  and  likewise  the  robust 
health  which  makes  her  step  elastic,  her 
mind  keen,  and  wit  delightful  at  seventy-five. 
If  with  increasing  wealth  and  culture  you 
will  import  all  the  customs  and  conditions 
of  Eastern  civilization,  with  its  limitations 
and  mistakes,  you  must  submit  to  its  penal- 
ties. If  you  will  build  your  houses  in  narrow 
town  lots,  where  you  move,  breathe,  and  have 
your  being  within  fifty  feet  of  your  own 
drain  and  cesspool,  as  well  as  those  of  the 
three  or  four  neighboring  lots,  you  must 
breathe  air  more  or  less  vitiated,  and  the 
Japan  trade-winds  and  mountain  breezes 
cannot  do  away  with  the  consequences  of 
human  contact  and  existence.  It  is  wonder- 
fully convenient  to  have  a  complete  system 
of  drainage  in  a  thriving  village,  to  have 
sinks,  stationary  washstands,  flush-closets, 
and  all  the  so-called  modern  improvements 
within  your  doors,  which  certainly  dispense 
with  a  great  deal  of  fetching  and  carrying; 
still  it  is  remarkable  how  often  in  California 
one  hears  the  remark  that  such  and  such  a 
town  "isn't  as  healthy  as  it  used  to  be,  since 
the  sewers  were  put  in,"  or  "  since  the  Mission 
slough  was  filled  up." 


396 


Pacific  Houses  and  Homes. 


[Oct. 


I  beg  pardon,  for  the  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished Mrs.  Chispa  is  curling  her  short 
upper  lip  because  the  consideration  of 
the  subject  begins,  not  with  that  alcove 
salon  with  inlaid  panels  of  laurel  and 
walnut  which  rises  in  her  imaginings,  but 
with  such  outside  questions  as  sewers  and 
drains,  which  every  polite  person  knows 
are  no  concern  of  society,  but  wholly  mat- 
ters belonging  to  the  contractors  and  town 
council.  Indeed,  one  would  willingly  leave 
this  branch  of  the  subject  to  sanitary  engi- 
neers and  boards  of  health;  but  the  past 
teaches  that  great  bodies  move  slowly,  and 
as  sewer-gas  penetrates  everywhere,  and 
damp  does  not  wait  for  a  stamped  and 
signed  permit  to  enter  parlors  fitted  in  Re- 
naissance taste,  your  Robin  may  prefer  to 
take  measures  to  prevent  funerals  in  his 
family  just  as  it  is  settled  to  its  mind  in  the 
new  house,  or  having  to  remove  and  begin 
over  again  in  a  new  place,  or  at  least  seeing 
the  frescos  and  inlaid  paneling  torn  up,  and 
the  Turkish  carpets  rolled  away  for  an  in- 
vasion of  hod-carriers  and  plumbers  to  take 
out  the  pipes  and  look  after  the  drains 
every  twelvemonth  or  less.  Malaria,  sewer- 
gas,  bad  air — what  you  please  to  call  it, 
Chispa — has  a  ugly  way  of  stealing  into  fam- 
ily bedrooms  and  robbing  the  bloom  from 
faces  fair  as  yours,  tinting  them  instead  with 
the  thick  sallowness  of  the  "San  Joaquin 
apricots,"  as  one  terms  the  pallid-lipped  sub- 
jects of  chills  and  typhoid.  It  is  very  apt 
to  settle  in  rheumatism,  even  in  lithe  forms 
like  yours,  and  knot  the  joints  of  slender 
fingers  till  they  cannot  wear  their  rings  any 
more;  and  it  gives  that  halting  gait  to  young 
matrons  which  provokes  the  satire  of  satisfied 
belles  of  the  piazza,  or  turns  into  that  racking 
neuralgia,  which  is  sure  to  draw  such  cruel 
lines  on  delicate  faces,  and — O  horrors! — 
makes  a,  woman  actually  look  every  year 
of  her  age !  Women  have  condescended 
at  last  to  learn  how  to  care  for  'their  health 
and  lives,  since  there  is  no  other  way  to  pre- 
serve their  beauty,  the  two  former  being  of 
no  earthly  interest  to  them  without  the  lat- 
ter, if  we  can  believe  accounts.  I  must 
pray  your  attention,  Mrs.  Chispa,  or  at  least 


Robin's  for  you,  to  these  ugly  considerations 
which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  your  future 
home,  with  the  one  comfort,  that  once  prop- 
erly understood  and  provided  they  seldom 
need  be  thought  of  for  half  a  century  or  so. 
Now,  Robin,  as  you  value  the  peachy- 
faced  woman  and  the  pretty  child  or  two 
romping  on  yonder  piazza,  let  me  implore 
you  to  give  that  home  of  theirs  room  enough 
out  of  doors.  You  are  not  yet  rich  as  you 
mean  to  be,  it  is  true,  neither  are  you  as 
poor  as  the  Irish  laborer  or  the  tenement 
people,  that  you  must  scrimp  your  foothold  of 
earth  to  the  narrow  dimensions  of  one  or 
even  two  town  lots.  This  evil  of  crowding 
homes  is  one  of  deep  importance  in  the  in- 
creasing light  of  sanitary  science.  Every 
human  being  born  must,  in  the  natural  waste 
of  his  breath  and  body,  defile  a  certain 
amount  of  air  and  earth,  and  the  conse- 
quences of  crowding  this  debris  tells  fatally 
on  the  health  of  modern  villages.  The  evil 
is  just  beginning  to  be  felt  in  Pacific  and 
Western  towns,  as  they  become  more  closely 
built  up,  and  the  avarice  of  land  owners 
grudges  every  foot  that  goes  beyond  the  allot- 
ment of  50  by  150  to  each  family.  I  have 
known  speculators  refuse  to  sell  one  man 
more  than  a  single  lot,  as  they  fancied  in 
some  mysterious  way  it  might  interfere  with 
the  highest  possible  profit  they  could  wring 
from  selling  to"  separate  families.  The  con- 
sequence is  that  the  air  of  villages  and  towns 
is  laden  with  the  odors  and  volatile  mat- 
ter of  effete  substances,  unnoticed  by  the 
blunted  nerves  of  the  citizens  used  to  it,  but 
plainly  distinct  to  those  fresh  from  the  air 
of  the  plains  and  mountain  sides.  How 
many  times,  passing  through  the  streets  of 
towns  in  the  loveliest  parts  of  California,  by 
walls  overhung  with  sheets  of  ivy  geranium 
and  plumbago,  and  arches  of  golden  roses 
and  Monterey  cypress,  m  the  intervals  be- 
tween wafts  of  orange-flower  or  jasmine, 
comes  the  ugly  fetor  from  the  gratings  of 
sewers,  or  the  primitive  arrangements  of  vil- 
lage back  yards.  The  odor  of  orange  groves 
may  overpower  the  smell  of  evil  things,  but 
unfortunately  it  does  not  take  away  their 
power  for  harm.  The  foul  air  increases  in 


1883.] 


Pacific  Houses  and  Homes. 


397 


density  and  volume,  the  rows  of  walls  con- 
fine it,  it  sinks  into  airless  rooms  and  court- 
yards, till  the  inhabitants  move  in  a  stratum 
of  this  malaria  which  rests  within  twenty  or 
thirty  feet  of  the  ground.  Pure  winds  dilute 
it  with  air  safe  for  breathing,  the  sunshine, 
where  permitted,  is  potent  to  neutralize  it,  or 
the  plague  of  such  towns  would  be  like  that 
of  Sennacherib,  and  its  people  would  be  all 
dead  corpses.  But  the  evil  that  rises  from 
decay  is  so  dangerous,  so  vast  in  proportion 
to  its  origin,  that,  under  common  conditions, 
neither  the  perpetual  sunshine  nor  the  sea 
breeze  is  sufficient  to  remove  it.  Municipal 
councils  cannot  smell  it,  burly  tax-payers, 
who  could  hardly  be  annoyed  with  the  odors 
of  a  tannery  in  the  next  block,  are  unable  to 
imagine  there  is  anything  wrong  in  the  air, 
and  are  prone  delicately  to  insinuate  to  the 
critical  citizen  or  visitor  that  the  smell  is  in 
his  own  nose.  Their  own  children  grow  pale 
and  feeble,  and  a  "change  of  air"  is  pre- 
scribed, the  theory  accepted  being  that  any 
change  is  for  the  better  to  get  away  from 
such  air.  It  is  not  till  a  seven-months  run 
of  fever  or  two  or  three  funerals  have  opened 
the  minds  of  these  worthy  people  to  receive 
the  counsels  of  the  physician  that  they  are 
willing  to  own  that  the  air  of  paradise  is  any 
improvement  over  that  of  their  own  neigh- 
borhood. If  California  is  to  keep  its  repute 
as  a  health  resort  for  unrivaled  purity  of  air, 
its  people  must  look  well  to  their  sanitary 
regulations  and  domestic  habits.  Careless- 
ness, incorrect  systems  of  drainage,  and  the 
mere  conditions  of  closely  settled  places  can 
readily  undo  the  salubrity  which  a  porous 
soil  and  ocean  breezes  have  conferred. 

It  is  very  certain  that  the  system  of  dispos- 
ing of  the  waste  of  cities  in  practice  east  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains  is  not  the  best  adapted 
to  the  rainless  countries  this  side.  The  mode 
of  washing  away  all  the  wastes  of  a  family 
or  a  town  by  pipes  into  the  nearest  body  of 
water  is  pernicious  for  more  than  one  rea- 
son :  first,  that  the  water  supply  is  in  most 
cases  so  comparatively  scanty  that  all  use  for 
flushing  pipes  and  sewers  must  be  limited, 
as  it  is  in  many  cases,  far  below  what  is  re- 
quired for  health  or  inoffensiveness ;  second, 


to  send  such  matter  into  streams  and  ponds, 
to  fester  under  the  steady  sun  of  this  climate, 
is  anything  but  a  safe  experiment.  The 
whole  idea  of  water  sewage  is  indecent  and 
unsafe,  and  I  venture  to  predict  that  sanitary 
science  will  in  less  than  twenty  years  render 
the  present  practice  of  turning  lakes,  streams, 
and  oceans  into  vast  open  cesspools  as  ab- 
horrent as  the  Middle- Age  system  of  keeping 
the  garbage  heap  at  every  man's  door.  The 
only  safe,  convenient  method  of  disposing 
of  the  wastes  of  life  is  that  in  use  from 
ancient  times,  of  burying  them  in  dry  earth 
and  sand.  The  property  of  dry  earth  is  to 
absorb,  neutralize,  oxygenize,  and  convert 
refuse  and  decaying  matters  into  innoxious, 
inoffensive  form,  to  be  reconverted  into  in- 
odorous mold,  fit  food  for  green  and  grow- 
ing life.  Robin,  you  will  strike  out  from 
your  neatly  made  calculations  that  $150  for 
the  brick  cesspool,  the  $250  more  or  less  for 
plumbing  and  stationary  washbowls.  You 
will  instead  buy  at  least  an  eighth  of  an  acre 
for  your  building  lot — better  if  it  is  a  whole 
town  square,  securing  passage  of  free  air 
round  your  domicile,  and  immunity  from  the 
bad  smells  and  sewage  which  filters  through 
the  loose  soil  from  your  neighbors'  drains. 
Surely,  if  a  man  wants  the  truest  idea  of  a 
home  for  his  wife  and  children,  one  square 
is  not  too  much  for  privacy,  outdoor  life  and 
freedom,  and  the  fullest  delights  of  fruit  and 
flowers.  You  want  that  broad-shaven  grass- 
plot  inlaid  with  flower-beds  in  front  of  the 
house,  guarding  it  from  the  noise  and  dust 
of  the  street,  and  giving  home  a  charm  in 
your  children's  thoughts  as  long  as  they  live. 
There  must  be  space  for  the  croquet-lawn 
and  tennis-ground  at  the  side,  where  your 
daughters  will  spend  outdoor  hours  to  the 
gain  of  their  complexions  and  health  forever, 
and  where  your  boys  will  find  attractions  to 
keep  them  from  the  streets  and  lounging 
places.  You  want  a  fruit  garden  in  the  rear 
where  you  can  exercise  after  business  hours, 
and  gain  clearness  of  brain  and  steadiness  of 
nerve.  Every  man  of  studious  employment 
— merchant,  lawyer,  preacher,  editor,  politi- 
cian— should  find  his  garden  as  necessary  as 
his  library,  where  he  can,  in  fresh  air  and  sun- 


393 


Pacific  Houses  and  Homes. 


[Oct. 


shine,  recruit  his  strength  with  the  best  tonics 
and  balance  mental  strain  with  bodily  effort. 
The  added  security  in  case  of  fire  or  con- 
tagious sickness,  the  pleasure,  the  safety  for 
the  children,  more  than  make  up  the  cost  of 
the  land.  That  secured,  you  can  order  your 
own  sanitary  arrangements,  and  enforce  the 
delightful  law  that  there  is  to  be  no  station- 
ary offense  in  any  part  of  your  grounds. 
The  kitchen  garbage  is  to  be  burned  daily 
in  the  stove,  or  carried  away  in  a  tightly 
covered  barrel ;  all  sweepings  are  to  be 
burned  at  once.  The  earth-closet,  outside 
the  house  but  connected  with  it,  will  sup- 
plant the  leaky,  indoor  closet  and  the  old- 
fashioned  vault.  The  kitchen,  laundry,  and 
bathroom  slops  will  be  run  off  by  pipes  into 
the  new  reservoir,  where  all  liquids  pass 
through  a  large  filter  of  sand  and  charcoal, 
which  renders  them  clear,  inodorous,  and  fit 
for  use  in  watering  lawns,  gardens,  or  roads, 
to  the  great  saving  of  water  rates  and  relief 
of  the  town  reservoirs.  This  filtering  of  the 
slops,  in  which  nothing  but  washing  water  is 
allowed,  and  which  is  entirely  and  cheaply 
feasible,  is  an  idea  of  great  utility  in  Califor- 
nia and  all  States  where  water  is  scarce ;  and 
its  safety  in  a  sanitary  point  of  view  recom- 
mends it  everywhere.  It  forbids  the  possi- 
bility of  sewer-gas  by  removing  all  waste 
matter  from  drainage  before  it  has  time  to 
become  fetid.  It  will  simplify  all  questions 
of  city  and  private  drainage,  abolish  the 
complicated  system  of  sewers  and  their  at- 
tendant evils,  diminish  the  consumption  of 
water  by  half  at  least,  set  at  rest  anxiety 
about  health;  and  instead  of  carrying  the 
waste  of  a  town  to  make  a  Golgotha  some- 
where, it  returns  the  filth  from  the  water  in 
a  shape  for  composting  into  valuable  fertiliz- 
ers, to  which  the  most  fastidious  cannot 
bring  an  objection.  The  materials  for  filters 
are  cheap  and  abundant :  sand,  animal  char- 
coal, spongy  iron — the  best  of  all  purifiers. 
Of  course  they  would  need  frequent,  perhaps 
monthly,  changes,  but  once  prepared  for, 


such  change  would  be  far  less  troublesome 
than  the  inspection  necessary  with  drain 
pipes.  The  sieve  which  retains  most  of  the 
solid  matter  from  the  slops  would  be  cleaned 
and  replaced  daily,  the  muck  and  grease 
from  it  composted  with  earth  for  the  benefit 
of  the  garden.  A  later  chapter  will  describe 
at  length  this  mode  of  disposing  of  slops  so 
as  to  preserve  the  home  from  malodorous, 
malignant  surroundings. 

The  water  supply  is  the  next  consideration ; 
and  Robin,  out  of  care  for  the  health  of  his 
family,  will  not  depend  on  the  town  supply, 
in  some  years  uncertain,  brought  from  lake 
or  stream  whose  purity  is  not  unchallenged, 
and  which  by  the  end  of  summer  has  divers 
unwholesome  tastes  and  smells.  The  plan 
of  building  to  be  recommended  has  roof 
enough  to  give  the  rain-shed  necessary  for 
two  cisterns  of  the  largest  size,  which, 
cemented  and  fitted  with  filters,  will  furnish 
abundance  of  the  purest  water  for  family 
uses  the  year  through.  You  want  plenty  of 
water  for  the  household,  not  only  water  to 
use,  but  water  to  waste,  and  two  5oo-bar- 
rel  cisterns,  will  not  hold  a  drop  too  much. 
A  force  pump  will  send  it  to  the  tank  on 
the  roof  and  supply  the  kitchen  boiler.  A 
faucet  and  waste-spout  on  the  chamber  floor 
will  supply  the  bedroom  washstands  con- 
veniently enough,  and  the  family  will  follow 
the  example  of  the  best  houses  East  and 
West  in  returning  to  the  handsome,  old-fash- 
ioned toilet,  with  its  ewer  and  basin  in  place 
of  the  stationary  bowl.  In  San  Jose,  for 
instance,  among  many  of  the  towns  of  our 
State,  the  sewers  have  not  sufficient  fall  to 
carry  off  the  water,  and  in  consequence 
the  sewer-gas  rises  in  the  pipes  with  such 
force  as  to  blow  the  stoppers  out  of  the 
basins  at  night;  and  persons  who  have  fitted 
their  houses  with  stationary  basins  have  been 
obliged  to  guard  them  with  air-tight  covers 
for  the  prevention  of  disease.  Stationary 
basins  are  not  a  safe  luxury — least  of  all  in 
sleeping-rooms. 

Susan  Power. 


1883.] 


The  Art  of  Utterance. 


399 


THE   ART   OF   UTTERANCE. 


IF  we  could  safely  rid  ourselves  of  those 
who  profess  to  teach  us  how  to  read  aloud 
and  speak  with  propriety,  it  would  be  easy 
to  understand  the  frequent  and  flippant 
sneers  at  the  shortcomings  or  overdoings  of 
this  or  that  professional  elocutionist.  But 
as  the  efforts  are  often  disagreeable  of  those 
who,  without  previous  instruction,  inflict 
themselves  upon  the  public,  it  seems  that  we 
should  encourage  the  teacher  to  do  better, 
rather  than  depreciate  his  efforts.  He  may 
not  always  hide  his  art,  but  he  is  at  least 
audible,  and  so  far  worthy  of  general  im- 
itation. 

Plainly,  neither  pulpit,  bar,  platform,  nor 
stage  can  afford  to  dispense  with  artistic 
training  of  the  voice.  The  best*  exponent 
in  each  of  these  departments  must,  whatever 
else,  be  a  good  elocutionist,  using  the  term 
in  its  derivative  sense.  The  late  Rev.  Dr. 
Hawks,  for  example,  was  widely  known  as 
an  excellent  reader  of  the  Episcopal  service. 
He  read  it  with  what  would  be  called  the 
utmost  .simplicity  and  naturalness;  yet,  par- 
adoxical as  it  may  sound,  this  simplicity 
and  naturalness  came  from  the  study  and 
cultivation  of  the  noble  organ  which  he 
possessed.  Those  who  remember  Edward 
Everett's  orations  hold  them  as  models  of 
scholarly  writing  delivered  with  elocutionary 
skill.  Edwin  Booth  owes  much  of  his  suc- 
cess to  his  acquired  knowledge  of  the  finest 
vocal  effects;  and  if  Mr.  Irving's  perform- 
ances should  fall  short  of  our  expectations, 
it  will  be,  to  judge  from  report,  on  account 
of  their  lacking  the  polished  enunciation  of 
his  American  rival.  Hamlet's  advice  to  the 
players  is  the  most  complete  argument  for 
vocal  culture  ever  presented. 

Natural  gifts  may  allow  one  to  do  without 
calling  in  an  instructor;  but  instruction 
per  se  must  be  had.  There  are  a  few  who 
are  better  able  to  teach  themselves  than  to 
be  taught  by  others ;  but  they  must  be  none 
the  less  students — diligent  in  exercises  to 


develop  and  strengthen  the  voice ;  keen 
to  observe  the  faults  of  others,  so  as  to 
detect  their  own ;  taking  valuable  hints 
from  every  sort  of  public  speaker  who  stands 
high  in  general  estimation.  Indeed,  no 
pupil  attains  to  excellence  who  does  not 
finally  cut  loose  from  the  teacher  and  assert 
his  own  individuality.  The  teacher's  office 
is  to  suggest  and  inspire;  not  to  create  a 
mob  of  imitators. 

How  many  able-bodied,  strong-lunged 
men  are  physically  exhausted  after  speaking 
in  public  for  the  space  of  an  hour  or  less, 
merely  because  they  have  not  been  taught 
when  to  pause  for  breath,  and  how  to  take  it ! 
They  don't  know  that  very  frequently  when 
the  breath  is  inhaled  it  should  be  drawn 
through  the  nostrils,  the  mouth  being  firmly 
closed.  This  can  be  done  occasionally,  and 
without  attracting  notice,  at  the  close  of  a 
sentence.  It  is  a  process  which  gives  an  ample 
supply  and  reserve  of  breath  by  full  inflation 
of  the  lungs,  and  it  tends  to  entire  vocality. 
The  trained  runner  or  pedestrian  uses  the 
same  principle  of  inflation;  but  the  man 
who  sneers  at  the  professional  elocutionist 
may  be  content  to  gasp  in  ignorance,  to  be 
physically  prostrate  at  the  close  of  his  dis- 
course, and  to  fancy  his  sentiments  agreeable 
even  if  inaudible.  It  almost  seems  desirable 
that  the  word  "elocution"  should  be  blotted 
from  our  dictionary:  not  but  that  it  is  the 
proper  word,  but  because  of  the  wide-spread 
misunderstanding  of  its  derivation,  history, 
and  scope.  Perhaps  the  word  "utterance" 
could  be  freely  substituted,  as  conveying  a 
meaning  unmistakable  and  emphatic  to  all 
who  are  not  born  dumb.  There  is  warrant 
for  the  substitution  in  the  Bible,  in  Shaks- 
pere,  and  in  Milton. 

"But,"  say  some,  "the  age  of  oratory  is 
gone — we  have  no  time  for  it — the  printing- 
press  is  doing  away  with  the  necessity  of 
speech-making,  other  than  short,  decisive 
expressions  of  opinion."  There  may  be  a 


400 


The  Art  of  Utterance. 


[Oct. 


degree  of  truth  in  this,  so  far  as  brevity  and 
conciseness  are  more  and  more  desirable ;  but 
whenever  momentous  questions  are  to  be  de- 
cided, or  the  souls  of  men  to  be  stirred  to  im- 
portant issues,  the  sympathetic  power  of  the 
human  voice  asserts  itself  above  and  beyond 
the  silent  type.  If  this  is  not  so,  why  encour- 
age oratory  at  all  in  our  systems  of  instruc- 
tion? To  what  end  those  annual  forensic 
displays  common  to  almost  every  school  in 
the  land  ?  It  would  be  a  saving  of  time  to 
have  the  essays  printed.  The  public  would 
not  be  obliged  to  read  them  all;  now,  it 
must  waste  time  and  patience  in  futile 
efforts  to  understand  the  half  of  what  is 
spoken  by  untrained  speakers.  The  obser- 
vations have  no  pertinence  for  such  institu- 
tions as  give  proper  attention  to  the  study  of 
the  art  of  utterance;  but  upon  how  many 
Commencement  days  does  the  youthful 
orator  appear  at  terrible  disadvantage !  For 
the  first  time  he  finds  himself  face  to  face 
with  an  unbiased  public.  For  the  first 
time  he  is  called  upon  to  penetrate  with  his 
voice  the  farthest  recesses  of  a  vast  and  it 
may  be  a  badly  constructed  theater.  With 
no  previous  training,  it  is  expected  that  he 
will  show  distinct  enunciation,  correct  mod- 
ulation, and  fitting  emphasis.  What  wonder 
that  he  "clings  to  the  reading-desk  as  to  a  life- 
preserver" — that  if  he  dares  to  lift  his  arm 
the  gesture  is  worse  than  meaningless,  for  he 
looks  straight  ahead,  instead  of  glancing  at 
the  object,  real  or  imagined,  which  he  is  ges- 
turing about.  No  previous  drill  puts  him  at 
comparative  ease,  so  that  he  can  gauge  the 
space  to  be  filled  by  the  voice;  no  use  of 
pauses  nor  management  of  breath  has  taught 
him  how  to  preserve  the  strength  of  that 
voice. 

He  never  turns  from  side  to  side,  so  as  to 
hold  the  attention  of  the  entire  audience, 
nor  by  gestures  that  are  emphatic,  graceful, 
and  suited  to  his  own  individuality,  enlist 
the  favor  of  his  hearers,  and  do  justice  to  his 
theme  and  himself.  All  the  sympathy  of 
father  and  mother  and  sister  and  sweetheart 
cannot  save  him  from  the  fatal  verdict  of  the 
public.  It  is  a  failure ;  and  through  defects 
in  the  plan  of  education.  The  fact  is,  we 


have  allowed  the  multiplicity  of  studies  to 
crowd  out  one  of  the  most  important. 

Let  us  not  think  that  we  can  speak  our 
English  with  distinctness  because  we  are 
born  to  it.  Therein  certain  races  have  the 
advantage  over  us.  The  laziest  Italian,  for 
example,  can  enunciate  with  ease.  By  the 
genius  of  his  language  his  words  glide 
smoothly  and  easily,  one  to  another;  elision 
with  him  is  a  matter  of  course.  With  us 
precision  of  articulation  is  a  matter  of  neces- 
sity; and  that,  in  spite  of  difficult  syllabic 
combination.  Our  path  can  be  smoothed 
only  by  special  study.  Fortunately,  the 
growing  tendency  in  our  schools  to  give  less 
and  less  attention  to  the  ancient  languages, 
and  more  and  more  to  the  modern,  points 
to  an  increased  interest  in  the  matter  of 
speaking  our  native  tongue  with  propriety — 
whether  it  be  in  colloquial  discourse,  in  the 
scholarly  oration,  or  in  that  important  branch 
of  the  art «— reading  aloud.  Surely  this  last  is 
no  trivial  accomplishment,  if  it  brings  us  into 
closer  companionship  with  the  wit  and  the 
wisdom  and  the  poetry  of  our  literature. 
Those  intellectual  creations  which  we  never 
tire  of  beholding  in  the  cold  and  formal 
type  are  made  familiar,  and  their  creators 
appear  like  living,  breathing,  speaking  friends, 
through  the  sympathetic  modulations  of  the 
cultivated  voice.  Even  Shakspere  himself 
may  be  clearer  in  his  teachings  at  the  fire- 
side of  home  than  he  is  ever  allowed  to  be 
in  the  dramatic  temple.  The  stage  is  a  per- 
petual disappointment,  because  the  principal 
characters  only  are  properly  cast.  We  are 
permitted  to  gaze  upon  Hamlet,  but  when 
do.  we  see  Marcellus  and  Bernardo?  We 
have  Rosalinds  by  the  score,  but  never  a 
single  Phebe.  Shylock,  Portia,  Bassanio, 
Gratiano,  and  Antonio  must  be  satisfactorily 
portrayed,  for  the  main  plot  requires  it;  but 
as  Shakspere  had  a  way,  occasionally,  of 
putting  his  choicest  expressions  into  the 
mouths  of  subordinate  characters,  we  are 
justly  annoyed  if  the  part  of  Lorenzo  is  giv- 
en to  an  illiterate  and  vulgar  actor.  In  that 
charming  love-scene,  what  does  Lorenzo  say 
to  Jessica,  as  he  talks  of  the  harmony  of  the 
spheres? 


1888.] 


The  Art  of  Utterance. 


401 


"  Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls—- 
But while  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it." 

The  stage  has  another  difficulty  to  grapple 
with.  Suppose  the  play  to  be  Hamlet. 
Imagination  receives  a  shock  if  we  are  asked 
to  see  the  ghost  as  well  as  hear  it.  The 
"majesty  of  buried  Denmark"  tricked  out 
by  the  theater  is  hardly  capable  of  distilling 
the  observer  with  any  other  sensation  than 
that  of  the  ludicrous.  And  Prospero's  Ariel ! 
—"a  spirit  too  delicate  to  act  the  earthy  and 
abhorred  commands"  of  Sycorax,  but  power- 
ful enough  to  destroy  the  vessels,  disperse 
the  royal  freight,  restore  the  senses  of  those 
he  had  first  made  mad,  and  in  the  end  to 
reconstruct  the  ship  "as  tight  and  yare  as 
when  it  first  put  out  to  sea" — shall  this  "fine 
apparition"  be  embodied? 

And  so  I  contend  that  Shakspere  him- 
self may  be  better  understood  and  more 
thoroughly  enjoyed  in  the  domestic  circle, 
or  in  the  intelligent,  studious  group  of 
friends,  than  he  can  ever  be  upon  the  stage 
— certainly,  under  its  present  conditions. 
Nor  is  it  necessary  for  such  humble  readers 
to  be  finished  elocutionists;  still  less  that 
they  should  attempt  what  requires  stage  ac- 
cessories. 

Their  aim  should  be  to  suggest  rather  than 
to  personate.  Delicate  ground,  indeed,  it  is, 
and  on  it  many  a  public  reader  has  stumbled 
and  fallen. 

No  extraordinary  spectacular  display  can 
compensate  for  the  lack  of  proper  casting 
of  the  play.  Indeed,  what  with  the  enor- 
mous monopolizing  expenses  of  the  star- 
system,  and  of  modern  stage-mounting,  it 
is  very  doubtful  whether  Shakspere's  plays 
receive  more  justice  in  their  entirety  now 
than  in  his  own  day.  For  some  reason,  the 
"groundlings"  sat  more  patiently  in  the  pit, 
with  glimpses  of  a  real  sky,  and  the  discom- 
forts of  a  leaky  roof,  than  we  in  our  luxuri- 
ous parquet.  Once  it  was  my  good  fortune 
to  listen  to  certain  Shaksperian  interpreta- 
tions perhaps  as  completely  satisfactory  to 
the  audience  as  could  be  desired.  There 
was  no  scenic  display,  no  theatrical  dress. 
VOL.  II.— 26. 


'On  the  rude  platform  were  the  only  "proper- 
ties," a  table  and  a  chair.  You  may  call 
Mrs.  Kemble's  reading  exceptional — a  work 
of  genius — what  you  will;  it  was  certainly 
the  grandest  possible  result  of  a  study  of  the 
art  of  utterance. 

In  view  of  much  neglect,  it  is  easy  to 
understand  why  poor  readers  abound.  But 
how  is  it  that  there  are  so  many  readers  who 
are  mechanically  good  but  not  artistic?  who 
just  fall  short,  and  we  cannot  tell  why, 
of  being  satisfactory?  Probably  the  main 
cause  is  monotony — not  the  frequent  recur- 
rence of  one  tone  throughout  the  sentence, 
nor  yet  that  monotony  which  begins  with 
much  power  and  gradually  weakens  in  tone 
until  the  final  word  is  barely  audible,  as  if 
it  were  not  as  logical  to  begin  with  a  whisper 
and  end  with  a  shout :  but  there  is  a  kind 
of  monotony  more  common  than  any  other, 
because  harder  to  detect.  It  consists  in  at- 
tacking every  fresh  sentence  in  the  same  key, 
and  that,  generally,  a  high  key.  The  occa- 
sional opening  in  a  different  and  low  key 
may  be  all  that  is  wanted  to  transform  me- 
chanical rendering  into  artistic.  And  again, 
to  tell  a  person  who  has  not  studied  the  art 
that  he  need  but  read  "naturally,"  is  to  ask 
him  to  inflict  his  ignorance  upon  us.  In 
one  sense,  it  is  art  alone  which  can  make 
him  natural.  The  theory  of  Delsarte  is 
plausible,  but  it  seems  to  aim  a  blow  at  in- 
dividuality. No  two  persons  display  a  par- 
ticular passion  in  precisely  the  same  manner; 
more  than  that,  no  two  should  be  asked  to 
read  the  simplest  sentence  in  precisely  the 
same  way.  Take,  for  example,  the  opening 
lines  of  Hamlet's  Address — "Speak  the 
speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to 
you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue" — and  try  how 
many  variations  of  tone  and  pause  can  be 
used  without  altering  the  unmistakable  sense. 
These  variations  are  subject  to  the  reader's 
idiosyncrasy — to  his  own  interpretation  of 
the  character  of  Hamlet,  to  his  view  of  the 
condition  of  Hamlet  in  that  particular  scene, 
and  to  numberless  other  conditions  which 
may  be  unforeseen,  and  yet  belong  to  the 
time  and  place  of  delivery. 


402 


The  Angel  on  Earth. 


[Oct. 


The  study  in  question  brings  out  more 
and  more  a  patriotic  love  for  our  native 
accents.  It  elicits  whatever  melody  exists. 
Just  as  instrumental  music  admits  of  cer- 
tain discords  to  increase  the  effect  of  op- 
posite melody,  so  we  find  a  wonderful 
harmony  of  consonant  strength  and  vowel 
sweetness.  As  the  poet  Story  has  well  ex- 
pressed it: 


"Therefore  it  is  that  I  praise  thee,  and  never  can 

cease  from  rejoicing, 
Thinking  that  good  stout  English  is  mine  and  my 

ancestors'  tongue  ; 
Give  me  its  varying  music,   the    flow  of   its  free 

modulation — 

I  will  not  covet  the  full  roll  of  the  glorious  Greek — 
Luscious  and  feeble  Italian,   Latin   so   formal   and 

stately, 
French  with  its  nasal   lisp,   nor   German   inverted 

and  harsh." 

John  Murray. 


THE   ANGEL   ON   EARTH:    A  TALE   OF   EARLY  CALIFORNIA. 


THE  entire  shore  of  California  faces  the 
wide  Pacific  Ocean.  The  waves  of  six 
thousand  miles  of  open  sea  beat  against  the 
coast  incessantly.  There  are  few  harbors. 
Only  where  there  is  a  great  stream  or  a 
grand  bay  can  an  outlet  be  maintained. 
The  waves  pile  up  the  sand  in  one  long 
beach  from  north  to  south.  The  rivers  in 
their  fury  break  through  and  find  the  salt 
water ;  but  in  an  ordinary  stage  of  water 
allow  a  bar  to  be  thrown  across  the  outlet 
that  seals  up  as  it  were  the  inland  naviga- 
tion. Except  San  Francisco,  Humboldt, 
and  San  Diego  bays,  there  is  no  access  for 
water-craft  to  the  interior. 

As  you  journey  north  from  the  Golden 
Gate  and  double  Cape  Mendocino,  you 
speedily  find  the  great  Eel  River.  It  has  a 
few  feet  of  water  on  the  bar,  dangerous  at 
all  times,  though  within  immense  fleets 
might  ride  in  safety.  A  little  farther  north 
Mad  River  meekly  accepts  the  fiat  of  Old 
Ocean,  and  instead  of  running  boldly  out, 
creeps  through  the  sand,  a  dumb  river  most 
emphatically — it  opens  not  its  mouth.  The 
great  Klamath  River  a  little  farther  bows  to 
the  same  sovereign  sway.  It  rebels  and 
washes  the  bar  into  the  sea  when  the  floods 
come,  but  at  times  you  can  almost  walk  dry- 
shod  over  the  sandy  embankment  thrown 
up  by  Old  Neptune.  At  others  a  few  Indian 
canoes  get  in  and  out,  not  without  some 
peril. 

Inside  the  bar  is  a  grand  stream  reaching 
hundreds  of  miles  to  the  northeast.     In  the 


calm  summer  there  are  few  streams  so 
pleasant  for  small  craft,  and  none  with 
scenery  more  grand  and  romantic.  The 
water  margin  fairly  laughs  with  sunshine 
and  flowers;  while  up  above,  the  gloomy 
grandeur  of  the  mountains  is  only  relieved 
by  a  patch  here  and  there  of  perpetual  snow. 
So  high  are  the  mountain  ridges,  and  so 
steep  and  deep  the  glens  between,  that  win- 
ter and  summer  stand  face  to  face  within  a 
few  hours'  ride. 

Once  inside  the  bar,  we  will  take  a  canoe, 
or  join  the  Indians  in  one,  and  paddle  up 
stream.  There  is  little  to  invite  the  white 
man.  Not  a  bench  of  land  to  be  found 
large  enough  to  make  a  cottage  garden,  and 
the  slopes  so  steep  as  to  be  wholly  inacces- 
sible. Here  and  there  a  deep  gorge,  filled 
with  dense  timber  and  brush,  opens  a  path- 
way to  the  country.  But  you  keep  on,  two 
days'  journey — in  1852  two  days'  journey, 
though  now  you  may  take  a  horse,  and  on 
the  open  trail  make  it  easily  in  one.  Here 
you  find  Wichpeck,  the  Indian  capital  of 
the  Klamaths,  a  bold  and  comely  tribe  of 
California  aborigines  who  have  never  yet 
known  the  degradation  of  a  reservation.  In 
1852,  the  time  of  which  we  write,  the  chief 
of  Wichpeck  knew  not  that  on  earth  a  power 
existed  that  could  destroy  his  eagle-nest  and 
scatter  his  warriors  to  the  wind.  But  it  was 
coming.  The  miners  already  scented  the 
gold  on  the  upper  Klamath. 

Wichpeck  was  a  fortress.  It  could  be 
nothing  else.  At  the  confluence  of  the 


1883.] 


The  Angel  on  Earth. 


403 


Trinity  and  the  Klamath  the  two  streams 
are  divided  by  a  bluff  that  rises  out  of  the 
water  to  a  huge  mountain  at  one  jump. 
On  its  face,  a  river  on  either  flank  and  an 
impracticable  peak  in  the  rear,  stands  the 
village,  on  ground  made  level  by  art.  Every 
bit  of  food,  firewood,  and  building  material 
must  be  carried  up  that  steep,  and  first 
brought  from  the  mainland  in  boats.  On 
the  low  land  on  the  farther  bank  of  either 
river  was  a  village  for  use  and  peace.  But 
the  hillside  was  the  stronghold  of  the  chief. 
The  rugged  miners,  as  they  passed  this 
frowning  watch-tower  to  their  golden  claims 
above,  could  see  no  retreat  save  directly 
under  its  fire. 

But  they  cared  not,  these  rollicking  fellows 
with  their  rifles  and  revolvers.  The  Indian 
power  was  contemptible  to  them.  They 
swarmed  up  the  stream.  They  took  up 
their  claims.  They  washed  out  the  gold. 
They  sent  to  Trinidad,  on  the  coast,  for  rich 
loads  of  supplies.  They  hired  the  Indians  to 
carry  for  them  on  the  water.  They  squatted 
on  the  land,  killed  the  game,  caught  the  fish, 
beat  the  Indians,  courted  the  squaws,  and 
reveled  in  the  country  as  if  it  were  their 
own. 

The  mines  were  rich  on  the  surface. 
The  first  adventurers  got  rich,  sold  out  or 
gave  out,  and  were  succeeded  by  others. 
Already  many  of  the  companies  had  poor 
diggings — bad  luck,  as  they  called  it.  They 
had  begun  depredations  on  the  Indians. 
They  killed  the  men,  enslaved  the  women, 
and  became  as  terrible  as  the  fabled  giants 
of  old.  They  had  burned  Wichpeck  for  a 
petty  theft,  trampled  down  the  power  of  the 
chief,  and  let  their  wanton  passions  loose 
on  all  around  them. 

As  yet  only  one  or  two  white  women  had 
been  seen  on  the  Klamath,  and  these  were 
rugged  as  the  miners,  coarse,  and  homely. 
None  others  would  brave  the  dangers  of  the 
Klamath  at  that  time.  Once,  at  the  house 
of  one  of  these  women,  a  Catholic  priest 
had  said  a  mass  and  delivered  a  short  dis- 
course. Some  of  the  Indians  had  gathered 
round.  The  squaws,  emboldened  by  the 
presence  of  the  woman,  had  dared  to  listen. 


They  well  understood  that  this  was  a  holy 
man.  He  spoke  to  them  of  Mary,  the 
queen  of  heaven.  He  told  them  of  her 
love,  her  beauty,  her  heavenly  goodness. 
The  Indians  and  their  women  saw  for  the 
first  time  these  rude,  dirty,,  overbearing 
miners  subdued,  their  pistols  hidden,  'their 
whisky  laid  aside,  their  oaths  omitted,  their 
brutality  put  to  rest.  They  could  not  but 
connect  these  effects  with  the  beautiful 
queen,  the  spirit,  the  angel,  the  fantastic 
and  unreal  being,  who  the  priest  said  could, 
come  down  at  her  pleasure  and  bless  all. 
who  called  upon  her  and  knelt  down  to- 
worship  her.  They  often  spoke  of  her  as 
the  beautiful  spirit,  and  inquired  when  she 
would  come.  They  would  tell  their  wrongs 
to  her.  They  would  have  her 'chide  these 
rude  miners  who  had  no  respect  for  the 
Indian,  his  wife,  nor  his  daughter. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  the  priest  and  his 
sermon  and  the  spirit  were  almost  forgotten. 
The  honest  miner  had  fallen  back  into  his 
evil  ways.  No  Indian's  life,  no  Indian 
maiden's  chastity,  was  safe  in  his  presence. 
War  had  raged.  Peace  was  but  partially  re- 
stored. Neither  party  could  venture  upon 
the  other  except  in  open  day.  There  was 
no  confidence.  The  Indian  was  hidden  in 
the  recesses  of  the  mountains,  and  the  white 
man  stood  guard  over  his  wealth  day  and 
night,  armed  to  the  teeth. 

Away  up  the  river  from  Wichpeck  was  a 
lone  cabin  on  the  south  side.  The  claim, 
on  the  bar  at  its  door  had  been  very  rich. 
Many  a  man  had  filled  his  pockets  with  gold 
and  departed.  But  other  days  had  come. 
It  took  hard  scratching  to  make  the  ordi- 
nary five  dollars  a  day.  The  company  of 
eight  men,  several  of  whom  had  paid  more 
than  they  were  worth  for  diggings  that  were 
declining  more  and  more  every  day,  had 
lighted  up  the  candles  of  industry  and  econ- 
omy, and  were  working  hard  and  living  close, 
in  hopes  to  make  a  pile  before  the  final  break 
came  on. 

They  were  not  chosen  companions,  those 
eig^ht  men.  The  original  eight  had  been 
somewhat  congenial  spirits.  But  each  one 
sold  to  whom  he  would,  and  the  purchaser 


404 


The  Angel  on  Earth. 


[Oct. 


became  a  partner  in  claim  and  cabin,  and 
.  necessarily  a  companion.  Yet,  they  were, 
perhaps,  an  average  party.  Philip  Right- 
mire  was  the  only  one  who  made  any  pre- 
tense to  refinement,  moral  sentiment,  or 
conscientious  deportment.  He  had  a  few 
books,  and  sent  for  a  newspaper  at  every 
-opportunity.  The  rest,  although  not  bad 
men  perhaps,  drank  whisky,  played  at 
cards  for  money,  swore  like  troopers,  would 
swagger  and  draw  their  weapons  on  the 
slightest  provocation.  Being  well  on  the 
frontier,  they  had  taken  a  lively  part  in 
the  Indian  troubles,  and  more  than  once  the 
cabin  had  been  robbed  by  powerful  bands. 
They  kept  a  huge  bull-dog  to  help  them  to 
guard  against  a  midnight  surprise. 

It  was  in  June.  The  river  had  fallen  to  a 
modest  condition.  Work  had  progressed 
all  day,  though  dashes  of  rain  had  made 
things  very  uncomfortable.  After  supper  a 
huge  fire  had  been  built  to  dry  things  off  for 
the  morrow;  the  table  cleared,  whisky  and 
cards  were  produced,  and  the  usual  game 
began.  It  was  twenty-one.  All  hands  were 
expected  to  join,  and  usually  did.  Philip 
Rightmire  was  the  only  one  who  often  re- 
fused, preferring  his  book  or  his  paper. 
This  time  they  were  proceeding  without 
him. 

Fortune  is  very  fickle  at  cards,  as  indeed 
at  everything  else.  At  this  table,  at  this 
game,  two  men  who  had  labored  here  two 
years  had  diligently  lost  at  night  what  they 
had  earned  in  the  day.  Whisky  and  food 
were  all  that  remained  to  them.  They  were 
desperate,  but  resolved  to  get  even  or  die  in 
the  attempt.  Two  others  were  known  as 
the  lucky  dogs,  though  one  more  so  than 
the  other.  The  other  three  were  new-com- 
ers, who  had  recently  bought,  greedy,  un- 
couth, eager  for  the  game,  and  confident  in 
their  skill  to  take  down  the  winners  and 
fleece  the  innocents.  Philip  Rightmire  had 
been  one  of  the  founders  of  the  company. 
He  would  play  occasionally,  never  deeply, 
but  always  with  such  care  as  to  hold  his  own. 
In  vain  did  the  others  seek  to  ply  him  with 
liquor  till  they  could  take  his  pile.  He  said 
he  played  for  amusement  only,  did  not  wish 


to  win  any  amount,  and  surely  would  not 
lose  what  he  did  not  feel  he  could  spare. 
They  were  accustomed  to  sit  down  without 
him,  though  they  never  failed  to  jeer  him  for 
his  want  of  pluck  and  confidence  in  him- 
self. 

This  time  they  sat  down  without  him,  but 
not  without  the  usual  jeers  about  his  timid 
and  miserly  disposition.  As  the  night  wore 
on,  the  cold  increased.  The  snow  was  yet 
on  the  ridge  just  over  their  heads,  though 
the  sunshine  was  almost  intolerable  in  the 
heat  of  day  down  where  they  were.  The 
fire  was  kept  roaring.  The  whisky  passed 
round  freely.  More  than  one  quarrel  had 
resulted  in  drawing  of  knives,  but  no  further. 
The  midnight  approached.  The  winners  felt 
safe  for  this  sitting.  The  losers  were  des- 
perate. And  all  were  far  from  sober. 

Apart  from  the  rest  sat  Philip,  reading. 
He  must  see  all  things  safe  before  going  to 
sleep ;  it  could  not  be '  left  to  these  excited 
gamblers.  And  so  he  read  on  and  on. 
Among  the  rest  a  passage  from  a  San  Fran- 
cisco journal  met  his  eye.  It  read  thus: 
"We  regret  to  record  that  Miss  Cyrile  St. 
Haye,  a  beautiful  young  lady  of  eighteen, 
well  connected  and  highly  educated,  while 
on  her  way  to  the  upper  Klamath,  to  meet 
her  affianced,  a  lucky  miner  and  rancher, 
met  with  an  accident  that  may  have  proved 
fatal.  Making  her  last  day's  journey  on  a 
spirited  mare,  in  company  with  a  pack-train, 
they  were  met  by  a  band  of  Indians  at  a 
sudden  turn  of  the  road.  The  mare  took 
fright,  and  fled  with  her  fair  burden  with  the 
utmost  speed.  The  most  diligent  search  has 
failed  to  discover  where  to.  Such  a  ride 
among  the  peaks  and  defiles  of  the  Klamath 
is  full  of  danger,  and  fears  are  entertained 
that  she  has  been  dashed  to  pieces.  Her 
friends  will  be  deeply  grateful  for  any  news 
of  her,  dead  or  alive." 

After  a  sigh  or  two  for  the  sad  fate  of  one 
so  young  and  beautiful,  and  with  such  joy- 
ous anticipations,  he  passed  on  to  other 
matters  till  after  midnight;  then  looking  at 
his  watch,  exlaimed : 

"Boys,  boys!  it  is  twelve  o'clock.  It  will 
soon  be  six  in  the  morning.  Is  our  work  so 


1883.] 


The  Angel  on  Earth. 


405 


easy  that  we  can  sit  up  all  the  night?  Put 
up  your  cards." 

But  they  demurred,  arrd  wanted  to  build 
up  the  fire  and  go  on  with  the -game. 

"No,  no!"  said  Philip.  "No  more  fire. 
No  more  cards.  We  must  finish  the  hole 
this  week,  and  cannot  do  so  if  we  lose  to- 
morrow." 

"  And  cannot  do  so  at  all,"  said  one  of  the 
gamblers,  "if  it  rains  any  more.  Look  out 
at  the  night.  If  it  does  not  clear  up  we 
may  just  as  well  play  till  day;  there  will 
be  no  work." 

With  that  two  or  three  staggered  to  the 
door  and  threw  it  open.  They  went  out 
upon  the  porch.  A  thick  mist  hung  over 
river  and  hill,  a  sure  sign  of  fine  weather. 
The  moon  rode  clear  in  the  sky  above,  and 
yet  nothing  could  be  seen  through  the  thick 

fog- 
But  the  dog  was  crouched  down  near  the 
water,  and   looking   across   uttered   a   low, 
ominous   growl.     The   open   door   brought 
the  sound  into  the  house. 

"Indians,  Indians!"  was  the  general  ex- 
clamation. 

Men  who  could  hardly  stand  erect  before 
handled  their  pistols  now,  and  flew  to  the 
porch.  The  dog,  having  got  attention, 
broke  into  a  deeper  growl  and  a  low  bark  of 
alarm. 

"Indians,  Indians!"  was  repeated  on  all 
sides.  Guns  were  seized,  and  all  hurried  to 
seek  the  foe.  Philip  Rightmire  threw  down 
his  paper.  He  went  to  the  dog.  He  was 
sober;  even  the  dog  knew  this,  and  spoke  to 
him  as  it  were  with  intelligence. 

"Yes,  indeed!  Indians!  Old  Towser 
never  speaks  like  that  for  nothing.  Arm! 
arm !  Put  out  the  lights !  This  way ! 
Here !  Among  the  rocks  is  the  best  for  de- 
fense. Let  them  attack  the  empty  cabin. 
Every  man  to  his  place,  and  be  still.  Tow- 
ser, down ! " 

But  the  dog  would  not  down;  he  would 
not  be  quieted.  For  full  half  an  hour  they 
waited.  Some  of  them  had  sobered  off. 
No  Indians.  And  still  the  dog  as  soon  as 
he  was  loose  looked  at  the  water  and  repeated 
his  low  growl. 


"  They  are  on  the  other  side.  They  are 
crossing  perhaps.  They  will  have  warm 
work  here.  Quiet  and  steady,  men.  See 
how  the  dog  looks  down.  They  must  be 
nearing  this  side." 

And  still  the  dog  grew  more  and  more 
frantic,  and  looked  more  keenly  at  the  river. 
But  there  was  no  sound  of  oars,  no  sign  of 
Indians.  An  hour  had  gone  in  this  sus- 
pense. 

"What  is  it?  Get  out  the  canoe!  If 
they  will  not  come  to  us,  let  us  go  to  them. 
Some  one  in  distress,  perhaps." 

And  the  boat,  an  Indian  dug-out,  was  soon 
hauled  down  off  the  rocks  and  launched  on 
the  water.  Philip  Rightmire  and  two  others 
stepped  in.  The  dog  followed,  and,  running 
to  the  end  most  in  the  water,  still  gazed  and 
growled. 

The  Klamath  was  not  a  nice  river  at 
that  season  for  midnight  travel.  Sunken 
rocks,  great  trees,  eddies  and  whirls,  and 
cross-currents  were  everywhere.  They  went 
out  into  the  gloom.  The  dog  was  still  the 
guide.  As  he  looked,  so  they  steered.  You 
could  see  only  a  few  yards. 

"Ah!  at  last!  It  is  here!  Something 
white !  In  this  treetop  !  Paddle  round ! 
Here  it  is !  An  arm — a  leg — a  head — a  face 
— a  woman!  Great  God,  a  woman!" 

"Gently,  boys!  Bring  the  boat  round! 
Here!  Hold  on  while  we  lift  her  in!" 

And,  sobered  now,  one  of  them  helped 
Philip  to  lay  hold  on  the  corpse  and  lift  it 
out  of  the  cold,  dripping  water  into  the 
canoe.  Then  the  dog  was  silent.  He 
looked  on,  a  quiet  observer. 

The  boat  made  for  the  shore.  The  word 
was  passed.  A  woman !  A  drowned  woman  t 
When  they  reached  the  shore  she  was  car- 
ried to  the  cabin  and  laid  on  a  table  made 
of  two  benches  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

The  fire  was  made  up  again,  candles  were 
lighted,  and  those  men  stood  round  the  cold, 
dripping  corpse — changed;  how  suddenly 
changed !  No  one  knew  how ;  the  cards  had 
disappeared.  The  liquor  and  the  tumblers 
had  gone.  The  men  were  as  solemn  and  seri- 
ous as  a  funeral  dirge.  The  cabin  was  as 
awe-inspiring  as  some  grand  old  cathedral. 


406 


The  Angel  on  Earth. 


[Oct. 


They  gathered  round  the  corpse.  They 
stretched  the  limbs,  gathered  up  the  strag- 
gling hair,  wrung  the  cold  water  from  the 
dress,  and  gazed  in  profound  silence. 

Oh,  what  a  form  was  that !  Young, 
sylph-like,  and  of  such  exquisite  beauty  that 
those  rude  men  fell  down  with  one  accord  and 
worshiped  her.  For  the  first  time  in  that 
cabin  the  sound  of  prayer  was  heard.  Philip 
found  an  old  book  of  that  ilk  and  read  it 
for  them.  When  they  stood  up,  every 
word  was  a  low  whisper.  Again  they 
gazed.  The  neat  gaiters,  the  white  stock- 
ings, the  dress,  gloves,  jewels,  all  spoke  of 
wealth  and  refinement,  and  the  face  of 
heaven  and  the  angels.  The  hat  was  gone, 
and  the  plentiful  golden  hair  was  still  dripping 
with  moisture.  The  deep  blue  eye,  staring 
wide  open,  was  like  a  star  from  the  firma- 
ment, so  bright  it  seemed  even  in  death. 
They  gazed  long,  and  then  spread  a  sheet 
over  all. 

The  night  was  wearing  fast.  What  must 
be  done  ?  A  funeral !  Of  course  !  And 
the  company  would  bear  the  cost.  No  one 
could  have  that  honor.  The  company  all 
must  share  the  cost  and  the  glory.  The 
whole  country  must  turn  out.  There  could 
be  no  work  till  this  was  done.  At  daylight 
six  messengers  would  start  out;  Philip  and 
the  cook  would  remain  with  the  dead,  and 
•entertain  and  detain  all  comers. 

Who  should  prepare  her  for  the  grave? 
The  squaws,  of  course.  There  was  no  white 
woman  short  of  Trinidad,  and  in  the  pres- 
ent state  of  the  roads  none  could  be  brought. 
Had  it  been  possible  they  would  have  waited 
a  week.  But  no  ordinary  squaw  coujd  do 
this  thing.  The  most  stately  beauty  from 
Wichpeck  must  be  invited  to  bring  in  her 
train  the  flower  of  Indian  comeliness.  Food 
should  abound  for  all — the  best  of  food — 
every  Indian  should  gorge  if  he  chose.  There 
should  be  no  scant  at  this  funeral.  The 
coffin  should  be  the  best  that  could  be  had. 
The  grave — well,  it  must  be  down  the  river, 
about  a  hundred  yards.  It  must  be;  there 
was  nowhere  else;  they  could  not  cross  the 
river,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  going 
far  either  up  or  down.  And  so  a  little 


bench  near  the  river  must  be  the  grave- 
yard. 

At  daylight  the  messengers  set  out.  All 
day  Philip  and  the  cook  kept  lonely  vigil 
with  the  corpse.  It  was  never  alone.  The 
shades  of  evening  closed  over  the  valley. 
The  fire  was  made  up  for  the  night.  The 
candles  were  lighted,  and  the  night  vigil  was 
as  unremitting  as  the  day. 

At  daylight  the  company  began  to  cross 
the  river,  for  the  road  was  on  the  other  side 
— the  goods  from  Wichpeck,  materials  for 
the  coffin,  rough  miners,  Indians,  squaws, 
and  children.  They  could  only  cross  a  few 
at  once.  The  miners  came,  jovial,  laughing, 
joking,  bragging,  and  taking  a  nip  at  the 
bottle.  But  when  they  beheld  that  corpse, 
their  hands  dropped,  their  bottles  were  put 
away,  their  voices  were  subdued.  It  had 
the  same  effect  on  all.  It  made  them 
sad,  tender,  respectful,  religious.  No  sin 
could  lurk  in  such  an  atmosphere.  It  was 
sacrilege. 

Fellows  who  had  never  looked  humanly 
at  an  Indian  before,  or  other  than  as  a  de- 
vouring wolf  to  the  Indian  maid,  met  them 
both  harmless  as  doves.  They  worked  the 
canoe,  they  helped  them  in  and  out,  tenderly, 
respectfully,  with  solemn  and  brotherly  care. 
What  could  it  mean?  The  braves  were 
astounded.  The  squaws  and  the  maidens 
were  amazed.  These  rough,  fearful  men, 
with  their  great  beards  and  deadly  weapons, 
from  whom  they  shrunk  as  from  a  monstrous 
demon,  were  as  tender  and  gentle  as  moth- 
ers. What  could  it  mean? 

And  when  they  entered  the  cabin,  a  spell 
seemed  thrown  over  them.  Though  it  was 
daylight,  some  candles  still  were  burning.  In 
the  center  the  body,  the  beautiful  body,  the 
tiny  feet,  the  sweet  hands,  the  pale  face,  the 
pearly  teeth,  the  glazed  eye,  and  the  grace- 
ful vestments.  And  those  great  stout  men 
bowed  round  in  silence.  What  could  it 
mean?  They  had  but  imperfectly  under- 
stood. 

And  when  the  Indian  princess  came,  and 
her  retinue  of  comely  damsels,  and  Philip 
explained  what  was  wanted — to  take  off  the 
clothing,  to  dry  it,  after  washing  off  the 


1883.] 


The  Angel  on  Earth. 


407 


slime,  to  wash  the  body  and  redress  it  for  the 
grave,  to  bury  the  dead — they  gazed  at  him 
and  the  pale  form  before  him  in  doubt  and 
wonder. 

They  inquired  what  could  it  mean? 
What  body  was  this?  Whence  came  it? 
Was  it  indeed  a  body,  and  dead?  Was  it 
not  a  spirit,  an  angel? 

And  when  he  said  it  was  a  woman,  like 
themselves,  a  sister  of  the  white  man,  of 
himself,  of  these  miners,  and  lost  in  the 
river,  drowned,  they  looked  from  the  one  to 
the  other.  They  thought  of  the  cruel  sav- 
agery of  these  men,  of  their  great  stature 
and  grizzly  beards,  their  huge  hands  and 
strong  boots,  their  sunburnt,  fierce  aspect, 
and  they  could  not  believe.  It  could  not 
be.  Some  angel  had  come  down  and  fallen 
into  the  river,  and  these  men  were  claiming 
her  for  a  sister.  They  would  not  believe ; 
but  they  would  do  what  was  wanted — what 
woman  would  not?  Samaritans  in  every 
station  that  they  are. 

Under  Philip's  direction — the  rest  stand- 
ing round — the  women  began  to  unfasten 
the  clothes.  One  by  one  the  garments  were 
laid  aside,  Philip  instructing  how  to  replace 
them,  till  the  attendants  could  see  for  them- 
selves what  to  do,  and  how  to  replace.  The 
jewels  were  rich  and  costly.  A  watch,  a 
chain  of  gold  hung  round  the  neck.  Brace- 
lets with  precious  stones  clasped  the  wrists. 
Diamond  drops  depended  from  the  ears,  and 
two  ruby  rings  and  one  plain  one  adorned  the 
prettiest  fingers  ever  on  mortal  hand.  The 
value  was  immense,  but  every  gem  was  to 
be  laid  away  with  her — not  a  cent  should 
she  lose  by  calling  at  Lone  Bar  on  her  way 
to  heaven. 

Then  they  left  the  women  to  complete  the 
work.  They  removed  the  garments  one  by 
one,  carefully,  doubtfully.  At  each  new 
revelation,  they  expressed  their  surprise. 
The  form,  the  material,  were  such  as  they 
had  never  seen.  Could  it  be  human?  So 
unlike  the  few  white  women  they  had  seen ! 
So  utterly  unlike  these  men.  Their  sister? 
Never !  It  was  the  queen  of  heaven  spoken 
of  by  the  priest.  They  remembered  now 
his  very  words.  She  had  come  to  them; 


these  men  had  caught  her,  killed  her  per- 
haps, and  were  sorry,  were  afraid.  But  she 
was  their  friend,  and  they  would  be  hers. 

They  began  to  bewail  her  death.  They 
raised  their  voices  in  songs  and  shouts  of 
joy.  Low  and  sweet,  solemn,  sorrowful,  the 
notes  would  croon  along  for  a  while,  and 
then  soar  upward  as  if  in  a  grand  glorifica- 
tion. As  the  Indian  women  came,  they 
passed  into  the  cabin.  The  best  singers 
were  retained,  and  the  grand  requiem  rang 
out  upon  the  air  like  the  choir  of  a  cathe- 
dral. The  miners  were  delighted.  They 
assisted  the  cook.  Good  cheer  was  abun- 
dant ;  a  little  wine  was  distributed,  but 
there  was  no  intemperance.  At  last  all  was 
done,  and  the  jewels  had  to  be  adjusted; 
the  miners  were  admitted.  The  jewels  were 
closely  examined.  On  the  inside  of  the 
bracelets  C.  St.  H.  was  plainly  to  be  seen. 
Philip  looked  at  the  paper  again.  Sure 
enough,  the  name  of  the  lost  lady  was  Cyrile 
St.  Haye.  It  must  be  the  same.  So  the 
jewels  were  not  buried  with  the  body;  there 
was  a  chance  to  restore  them  to  her  friends. 
It  should  be  done;  these  men,  who  would 
have  buried  them  forever  rather  than  appro- 
priate the  value  of  a  cent,  would  be  at  infi- 
nite pains  to  restore  the  costly  ornaments  to 
her  next  of  kin.  But  she  was  to  wear  them 
to  the  last  moment.  She  was  to  be  laid  out 
in  all  her  beauty.  One  night  of  holy  vigils, 
and  at  daylight  the  clay  was  to  be  consigned 
to  the  tomb,  giving  the  mourners  all  day  to 
seek  their  homes. 

When  the  work  was  complete,  noth- 
ing on  earth  could  have  been  more  touch- 
ing or  beautiful.  It  was  afternoon.  The 
sun,  although  on  the  decline,  seemed  to 
throw  a  brighter  beam  than  ever  before. 
The  wind  was  still.  Even  the  water  seem- 
ed to  whisper,  and  glide  along  in  unusual 
silence.  The  groups  around  the  cabin 
were  strange :  the  miners,  armed  to  the 
teeth,  but  gentle  as  lambs;  the  Indians 
cowering  before  them,  but  not  afraid  now 
— helped,  waited  upon,  made  welcome, 
they  felt  that  the  truce  was  perfect  while 
the  funeral  lasted.  The  women  and  the 
maidens,  who  had  never  before  beheld 


408 


To  My  Soul. 


[Oct. 


these  men  without  trembling  with  terror, 
stepped  lightly,  with  conscious  safety,  ac- 
cepted whatever  was  offered,  and  made  them- 
selves at  home.  The  absolute  security  had 
brought  out  those  whom  white  men  had 
never  seen  before,  the  fairest  flowers,  the 
queens  of  the  wigwam. 

Inside  the  cabin,  .on  a  low  bier  covered 
with  white  sheets,  lay  the  beautiful  corpse, 
looking  as  fresh  as  if  asleep.  The  ice-cold 
water  had  preserved  everything.  At  the 
head  stood  Philip  Rightmire,  who  was  to 
be  the  chaplain.  Around,  his  companions, 
when  not  otherwise  engaged — silent,  tearful 
lookers-on.  Kneeling,  praying,  singing,  in 
every  attitude  of  agony  and  despair,  were 
the  attending  squaws.  The  wail  of  grief 
was  incessant — now  low  and  solemn,  now 
wild  with  sorrow — but  through  the  evening 
and  the  night  and  all  the  time  appropriate. 

Their  words  were  extempore,  but  they  were 
poetic.  They  did  not  believe  that  this  fair 
being,  so  beautiful,  so  gentle,  so  like  a  spirit, 
could  be  the  sister  of  these  men.  And  yet, 
lest  they  should  be  mistaken,  they  mourned 
her  as  such.  They  were  sure  it  was  Mary, 
it  was  the  queen  of  heaven,  come  either  to 
reprove  these  ruthless  miners,  or  as  a  mes- 
senger of  love  to  them.  They  praised  her 


beauty.  They  extolled  her  loving-kindness, 
They  bewailed  her  sad  fate  and  failure. 
Sometimes  the  conviction  gathered  in  their 
mind  that  she  had  been  foully  dealt  with, 
and  then  their  wild  screams  awoke  every 
echo  in  that  deep  canon.  They  were  the 
chief  mourners;  they  seemed  to  feel  that 
this  corpse  was  theirs;  they  took  charge  of 
it.  When  the  time  came  they  lifted  it  into 
the  coffin,  carried  it  to  the  grave,  covered  it 
over,  buried  the  little  mound  in  wild  flowers, 
and  for  a  week  the  solemn  dirge  continued. 
Night  and  day  there  was  no  cessation. 
From  the  soft  murmur  of  the  cooing  dove 
to  the  shriek  of  the  furious  wildcat,  every 
moment  had  its  note  of  sorrow. 

That  grave  was  holy  ground.  There  they 
could  meet,  the  pale  face  and  the  red  war- 
rior, in  peace.  There  the  Indian  maiden 
was  safe.  There  they  spoke  of  peace; 
they  met  for  news  of  each  other  and  to  settle 
grievances.  She  was  there,  and  in  her  sight 
no  wrong  was  to  be  thought  of.  It  was  a 
bond  of  peace.  It  was  an  altar  whereon 
both  races  laid  the  homage  of  their  hearts. 

Alas !  a  great  flood  the  next  spring  swept 
all  before  it,  and  so  changed  the  valley  of 
the  Klamath  that  the  sacred  spot  was  lost 
forever. 

H,  L.  Wright. 


TO   MY   SOUL. 

WHAT  profiteth  it  me  that  I  have  fed 

These  many  years  on  noble  thoughts  and  high; 
That  I  so  oft,  in  reverence  drawing  nigh, 

Have  clasped  the  calm  feet  of  the  mighty  dead 

And  heard  the  truth  for  which  they  toiled  and  bled; 
When  my  dear  faith  my  life  doth  so  belie, 
And  none  the  less  with  fierce  and  hungry  cry 

My  wild  desires  pursue,  unwearied? 

O  soul,  is  this  the  end  of  all  thy  care? 
So  many  holy  actions  brought  to  mind, 

So  many  books  by  good  men's  fingers  penned, 

So  much  clear  light  and  knowledge,  rich  and  rare, 
And  thou  so  little  worth,  so  poor,  so  blind! 
O  soul,  is  this  the  end?  is  this  the  end? 

Robertson  Trowbndge. 


1883.] 


Early  Botanical  Explorers  of  the  Pacific  Coast. 


EARLY    BOTANICAL   EXPLORERS    OF   THE    PACIFIC    COAST. 


SUCCEEDING  the  long  and  adventurous 
period  of  Spanish  exploration  by  land  and 
sea  on  the  Pacific  coast,  only  a  stray  ship 
bound  on  distant  voyages  of  discovery 
touched  at  the  port  of  Monterey,  generally 
at  unfavorable  seasons  of  the  year ;  and  the 
few  naturalists  casually  attached  to  such  ex- 
peditions snatched  mere  fragments  of  its 
flora  to  be  transferred  with  other  accumu- 
lated collections  from  remote  regions  to  the 
great  centers  of  scientific  investigation  in 
Europe,  where,  deposited  in  vast  herbaria, 
they  could  only  be  brought  to  light  in  pon- 
derous tomes,  inaccessible  to  the  mass  of 
botanical  students.  To  this  class  belong 
names  still  worthily  commemorated  in  bo- 
tanical annals  in  association  with  some  of 
our  more  common  plants,  including  Haenke, 
Menzies,  Eschscholtz,  Chamisso,  and  others 
less  known,  covering  a  period  from  1792  to 
1825. 

Of  these  it  is  not  my  present  intention  to 
speak.  It  was  at  the  latter  date  of  1825  that 
the  interest  in  Western  American  botany, 
probably  awakened  by  these  earlier  discov- 
eries, culminated  in  a  desire  to  know  some- 
thing more  definitely  of  the  floral  produc- 
tions of  this  region,  and  test  their  adaptation 
to  cultivation  in  corresponding  Eastern  dis- 
tricts. 

Accordingly,  under  the  auspices  of  the 
London  Horticultural  Society,  David  Doug- 
las, a  Scotch  gardener,  who  had  in  1823 
made  a  short  botanical  trip  to  the  eastern 
Atlantic  States,  was  in  1824  sent  by  way  of 
Cape  Horn,  destined  to  the  western  coast  of 
North  America.  The  Columbia  River,  then 
well  known  in  the  commercial  world  in  con- 
nection with  fur-trading  establishments,  was 
the  first  objective  point;  and  after  a  pro- 
longed journey  of  eight  months  and  fourteen 
days,  the  formidable  river  bar  was  crossed 
and  anchor  dropped  in  Baker's  Bay  at  4 
p.  M.,  April  7,  1825. 

Landing  on  the  9th  on  Cape  Disappoint- 


ment, the  plants  first  to  attract  notice  were 
the  showy  salmon  berry  (Rubus  spectabilis), 
and  the  salal  (Gaultheria  Shallon),  so  com- 
mon on  the  hills  in  this  vicinity.  Proceed- 
ing up  the  Columbia  River,  the  magnifi- 
cent firs  and  spruces,  which  then  as  now 
cover  the  face  of  the  country  with  their 
somber  shade,  excited  the  adnliration  of 
Douglas  and  his  companion,  Dr.  Scouler, 
the  former  probably  hardly  realizing  that  the 
largest  of  these  forest  growths  was  destined 
to  receive  the  name  of  the  Douglas  spruce, 
by  latest  authorities  characterized  under  the 
botanical  name  of  Pseudo-Tsuga  Douglasii. 

Passing  rapidly  over  the  successive  steps 
of  this  journey  and  the  arduous  inland  trips 
effected  by  land  and  water,  it  must  suffice 
for  my  present  purpose  to  note  only  a  few 
of  the  more  important  dates  having  a  direct 
relation  to  the  historic  progress  of  botanical 
discovery  on  the  Pacific  coast. 

During  this  first  season  on  the  Columbia, 
Mr.  Douglas  had  his  headquarters  at  what  is 
still  known  as  Fort  Vancouver.  From  this 
point  excursions  were  made  in  various  direc- 
tions, as  far  as  The  Dalles  to  the  eastward, 
and  a  short  distance  southward  up  the  Wil- 
lamet  River,  then  called  Multnomah.  It 
was  on  this  latter  trip  that  his  attention  was 
first  called  to  the  existence  of  a  gigantic 
pine  growing  in  the  inaccessible  wilds  farther 
south,  his  attention  being  called  to  it  from 
some  loose  seeds  and  scales  found  in  an 
Indian  tobacco-pouch.  Following  up  this 
slender  clew  resulted  in  the  discovery  of 
the.  magnificent  sugar-pine,  then  named  by 
Douglas  Pinus  Lambertiana,  after  his  dis- 
tinguished patron,  Dr.  Lambert  of  London. 
Still  later  in  the  season,  on  a  trip  to  Mt. 
Hood,  Mr.  Douglas  collected  and  described 
the  elegant  firs  Abies  nobilis  and  Abies 
amabilis,  and  from  seeds  then  gathered  large 
trees  of  the  same  are  now  growing  in  the 
gardens  of  Edinburgh. 

So,  with  various  mishaps  and  hindrances 


410 


Early  Botanical  Explorers  of  the  Pacific  Coast. 


[Oct. 


resulting  from  exposure  to  drenching  rains, 
and  a  serious  wound  of  the  knee,  was  com- 
pleted the  first  season's  explorations  in  1825. 

The  second  season,  that  of  1826,  was  main- 
ly spent  on  the  upper  waters  of  the  Columbia, 
returning  to  Fort  Vancouver  September  i. 
On  September  20,  Mr.  Douglas  started 
on  one  of  his  most  adventurous  trips  to  the 
head  waters  of  the  Willamet  and  the  rugged 
mountain  region  of  Umpqua,  near  the  pres- 
ent northern  boundary  of  California.  His 
principal  object  on  this  trip  was  to  find 
and  collect  specimens  and  seeds  of  his  new 
pine  (Pinus  Lambertiana)  above  referred  to. 
Not  till  the  26th  of  October,  after  encoun- 
tering numberless  hardships  and  dangers,  was 
this  object  of  his  journey  reached;  and  here 
we  may  allow  Mr.  Douglas  himself  to  take 
the  platform,  and  in  his  own  graphic  language 
give  an  account  of  the  discovery. 

" 'October  26,  1826.—  Weather  dull.  Cold 
and  cloudy.  When  my  friends  in  England 
are  made  acquainted  with  my  travels  I  fear 
they  will  think  that  I  have  told  them  noth- 
ing but  my  miseries.  This  may  be  very 
true ;  but  I  now  know,  as  they  may  do  also 
if  they  choose  to  come  here  on  such  an  ex- 
pedition, that  the  object  of  which  I  am  in 
quest  cannot  be  obtained  without  labor, 
anxiety  of  mind,  and  no  small  risk  of  per- 
sonal safety,  of  which  latter  statement  my 
this  day's  adventures  are  an  instance. 

"  I  quitted  my  camp  early  in  the  morning 
to  survey  the  neighboring  country,  leaving 
my  guide  to  take  charge  of  the  horses  until 
my  return  in  the  evening.  About  an  hour's 
walk  from  my  camp  I  met  an  Indian,  who 
on  perceiving  me  instantly  strung  his  bow, 
placed  on  his  left  arm  a  sleeve  of  raccoon 
skin,  and  stood  on  the  defensive.  Being  quite 
satisfied  that  this  conduct  was  prompted  by 
fear,  and  not  by  hostile  intentions,  the  poor 
fellow  having  probably  never  seen  such  a 
being  as  myself  before,  I  laid  my  gun  at  my 
feet  on  the  ground,  and  waved  my  hand  for 
him  to  come  to  me,  which  he  did  slowly  and 
with  great  caution.  I  then  made  him  place 
his  bow  and  quiver  of  arrows  beside  my  gun, 
and  striking  a  light  gave  him  a  smoke  out 
of  my  own  pipe  and  a  present  of  a  few 


beads.  With  my  pencil  I  made  a  rough 
sketch  of  the  cone  and  pine  tree  which  I 
wanted  to  obtain,  and  drew  his  attention  to 
it,  when  he  instantly  pointed  with  his  hand 
to  the  hills  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  distant 
towards  the  south;  and  when  I  expressed 
my  intention  of  going  thither,  cheerfully  set 
about  accompanying  me.  At  midday  I 
reached  my  long-wished  for  pines,  and  lost 
no  time  in  examining  them  and  endeavoring 
to  collect  specimens  and  seeds.  New  and 
strange  things  seldom  fail  to  make  strong 
impressions,  and  are  therefore  frequently 
overrated ;  so  that  lest  I  should  never  see 
my  friends  in  England  to  inform  them  ver 
bally  of  this  most  beautiful  and  immenselj 
grand  tree,  I  shall  here  state  the  dimensions 
of  the  largest  I  could  find  among  several  thai 
had  been  blown  down  by  the  wind.  Al 
three  feet  from  the  ground  its  circumference 
is  fifty-seven  feet  nine  inches;  at  pne  hun 
dred  and  thirty-four  feet,  seventeen  feet  five 
inches;  the  extreme  length,  two  hundred  anc 
forty-five  feet.  The  trunks  are  uncommonl) 
straight,  and  the  bark  remarkably  smooth 
for  such  large  timber,  of  a  whitish  or  lighi 
brown  color,  and  yielding  a  great  quantit) 
of  bright  amber  gum.  The  tallest  stems 
are  generally  unbranched  for  two-thirds  o 
the  height  of  the  tree;  the  branches  rathei 
pendulous,  with  cones  hanging  from  theii 
points  like  sugar-loaves  in  a  grocer's  shop 
These  cones  are,  however,  only  seen  on  the 
loftiest  trees,  and  the  putting  myself  ir 
possession  of  three  of  these  (all  I  couk 
obtain)  nearly  brought  my  life  to  a  close 
As  it  was  impossible  either  to  climb  the  tree 
or  hew  it  down,  I  endeavored  to  knock  of 
the  cones  by  firing  at  them  with  ball,  wher 
the  report  of  my  gun  brought  eight  Indians 
all  of  them  painted  with  red  earth,  armec 
with  bows,  arrows,  bone-tipped  spears,  anc 
flint  knives.  They  appeared  anything  bu 
friendly.  I  endeavored  to  explain  to  then 
what  I  wanted,  and  they  seemed  satisfied  anc 
sat  down  to  smoke ;  but  presently  I  perceivec 
one  of  them  string  his  bow,  and  anothe: 
sharpen  his  flint  knife  with  a  pair  of  wooder 
pincers  and  suspend  it  on  the  wrist  o 
the  right  hand.  Further  testimony  o 


1883.] 


Early  Botanical  Explorers  of  the  Pacific  Coast. 


411 


their  intentions  was  unnecessary.  To  save 
myself  by  flight  was  impossible,  so  without 
hesitation  I  stepped  back  about  five  paces, 
cocked  my  gun,  drew  one  of  the  pistols  out 
of  my  belt,  and  holding  it  in  my  left  hand 
and  the  gun  in  my  right,  showed  myself  de- 
termined to  fight  for  my  life.  As  much  as 
possible  I  endeavored  to  preserve  my  cool- 
ness, and  thus  we  stood  looking  at  one 
another  without  making  any  movement  or 
uttering  a  word  for  perhaps  ten  minutes, 
when  one  at  last,  who  seemed  the  leader, 
gave  a  sign  that  they  wished  for  some 
tobacco;  this  I  signified  that  they  should 
have  if  they  fetched  me  a  quantity  of  cones. 
They  went  off  immediately  in  search  of 
them,  and  no  sooner  were  they  all  out  of 
sight  than  I  picked  up  my  three  cones  and 
some  twigs  of  the  trees  and  made  the  quick- 
est possible  retreat,  hurrying  back  to  my 
camp,  which  I  reached  before  dusk.  The 
Indian  who  last  undertook  to  be  my  guide 
to  the  trees  I  sent  off  before  gaining  my  en- 
campment, lest  he  should  betray  me.  How 
irksome  is  the  darkness  of  night  to  one 
under  such  circumstances !  I  cannot  speak 
a  word  to  my  guide,  nor  have  I  a  book  to 
divert  my  thoughts,  which  are  continually 
occupied  with  the  dread  lest  the  hostile 
Indians  should  trace  me  hither  and  make 
an  attack.  I  now  write  lying  on  the  grass 
with  my  gun  cocked  beside  me,  and  penning 
these  lines  by  the  light  of  my  Columbian 
candle,  namely,  an  ignited  piece  of  rosin- 
wood.  To  return  to  the  tree  which  nearly 
cost  me  so  dear:  the  wood  is  remarkably 
fine-grained  and  heavy ;  the  leaves  short  and 
bright  green,  inserted  five  together  in  a  very 
short  sheath;  of  my  three  cones  one  meas- 
ures fourteen  inches  and  a  half,  and  the 
two  others  are  respectively  half  an  inch 
and  an  inch  shorter,  all  full  of  fine  seed.  A 
little  before  this  time  the  Indians  gather  the 
cones  and  roast  them  in  the  embers,  then 
quarter  them  and  shake  out  the  seeds,  which 
are  afterwards  thoroughly  dried  and  pounded 
into  a  sort  of  flour,  or  else  eaten  whole." 

On  the  2d  of  March  following  (1827), 
Mr.  Douglas  started  by  the  then  overland 
route  from  Fort  Vancouver  to  Hudson's  Bay, 


thence  taking  ship  for  England,  where  he 
arrived  October  1 1,  of  the  same  year.  After 
a  stay  of  two  years  in  his  native  land,  where 
the  fame  of  his  botanical  discoveries  in 
such  a  remote  region  secured  for  him  dis- 
tinguished notice  and  eminent  recognition 
in  the  highest  circles  of  society,  he  became 
wearied  of  this  unsatisfactory  reward  for 
his  labors,  and  undertook  a  second  journey 
to  the  same  region.  After  a  voyage  of  eight 
months  from  London,  he  again  reached 
the  mouth  of  the  Columbia,  June  3,  1830. 
Then  in  the  full  vigor  of  manhood,  in  his 
thirty-first  year,  proud  of  the  title  by 
which  he  was  known  among  the  American 
aborigines  as  "The  Man  of  Grass,"  he  laid 
out  extensive  plans  of  exploration,  to  include 
California,  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  a  re- 
turn to  England  by  way  of  Siberia,  thus  com- 
pleting a  botanical  circuit  of  the  globe. 

Owing  to  his  late  arrival  on  the  Pacific 
coast  in  the  dry  season,  but  little  in  the  way 
of  botanical  discovery  was  accomplished 
during  the  season  of  1830.  Failing  to  carry 
out  his  original  plan  of  a  land  journey  down 
the  coast  to  Monterey,  Mr.  Douglas  reached 
this  port  by  sea,  and  an  interesting  account 
of  this  first  exploration  in  California  is  con- 
tained in  a  letter  addressed  to  Sir  William 
Hooker,  dated  Monterey,  November  23, 
1831,  from  which  we  extract  the  following: 

"MONTEREY,  UPPER  CALIFORNIA, 
Nov.  23,  1831. 

"On  the  22d  of  December  last  (1830),  I 
arrived  here  by  sea  from  the  Columbia,  and 
obtained  leave  of  the  Territorial  government 
to  remain  for  the  space  of  six  months,  which 
has  been  nearly  extended  to  twelve,  as  the 
first  three  months  were  occupied  in  negoti- 
ating this  affair,  which  was  finally  effected  to 
my  satisfaction.  I  shall  now  endeavor  to 
give  you  a  brief  sketch  of  my  walks  in  Cali- 
fornia. 

"Upper  California  extends  from  the  Port 
of  San  Diego,  latitude  32°  30',  to  latitude 
43°  N.,  a  space  of  six  hundred  and  ninety 
miles  from  north  to  south.  The  interior  is 
but  partially  known.  Such  parts  of  the 
country  as  I  have  seen  are  highly  diversified 
by  hills  covered  with  oaks,  pines,  chestnuts, 


412 


Early  Botanical  Explorers  of  the  Pacific  Coast. 


[Oct. 


and  laurels,  extensive  plains  clothed  with  a 
rich  sward  of  grass ;  but  no  large  streams. 
Well  does  it  merit  its  name !  The  heat  is  in- 
tense, and  the  dry  ness  of  the  atmosphere 
invariable,  29°  not  unfrequently,  which,  if  I 
mistake  not,  is  not  exceeded  in  Arabia  or 
Persia.  In  this  fine  district,  how  I  lament 
the  want  of  such  majestic  rivers  as  the  Co- 
lumbia! In  the  course  of  my  travels  on  the 
western  and  northern  parts  of  this  continent, 
on  my  former  as  well  as  my  present  journey, 
I  have  observed  that  all  mountainous  coun- 
tries situated  in  a  temperate  climate,  agitated 
by  volcanic  fires  and  washed  by  mighty  tor- 
rents, which  form  gaps  or  ravines  in  the 
mountains,  lay  open  an  inexhaustible  field 
for  the  researches  of  the  botanist.  Early  as 
was  my  arrival  on  this  coast,  spring  had  al- 
ready commenced;  the  first  plant  I  took  in 
my  hand  was  Ribes  speciosum,  Pursh,  re- 
markable for  the  length  and  crimson  splen- 
dor of  its  stamens;  a  flower  not  surpassed 
in  beauty  by  the  finest  fuchsia,  and  for  the 
original  discovery  of  which  we  are  indebted 
to  the  good  Mr.  Archibald  Menzies,  in  1779. 
The  same  day  I  added  to  my  list  Nemophila 
insignis,  a  humble  but  lovely  plant,  the  har- 
binger of  Californian  spring,  which  forms,  as 
it  were,  a  carpet  of  the  tenderest  azure  hue. 
What  a  relief  does  this  charming  flower  af- 
ford to  the  eye  from  the  effect  of  the  sun's 
reflection  on  the  micaceous  sand  where  it 
grows !  These,  with  other  discoveries  of  less 
importance,  gave  me  hope.  From  time  to 
time  I  contrived  to  make  excursions  in  this 
neighborhood,  until  the  end  of  April,  when  I 
undertook  a  journey  southward,  and  reached 
Santa  Barbara,  latitude  34°  25',  in  the  mid- 
dle of  May,  where  I  made  a  short  stay,  and 
returned  late  in  June  by  the  same  route,  oc- 
casionally penetrating  the  mountain  valleys 
which  skirt  the  coast.  Shortly  afterwards 
I  started  for  San  Francisco,  and  proceeded 
to  the  north  of  that  port.  My  princi- 
pal object  was  to  reach  the  spot  whence  I 
returned  in  1826,  which  I  regret  to  say  could 
not  be  accomplished.  My  last  observation 
was  latitude  38°  45',  which  leaves  an  inter- 
vening blank  of  sixty-five  miles.  Small  as 
this  distance  may  appear,  it  was  too  much 


for  me.  My  whole  collection  of  this  year  in 
California  may  amount  to  five  hundred 
species,  more  or  less.  This  is  vexatiously 
small,  I  am  aware;  but  when  it  is  remembered 
that  the  season  for  botanizing  does  not  last 
longer  than  three  months,  surprise  will  cease. 
Such  is  the  rapidity  with  which  spring  ad- 
vances, as  on  the  table-land  of  Mexico,  and 
the  platforms  of  the  Andes  in  Chili,  the 
plants  bloom  here  only  for  a  day.  The  in- 
tense heats  set  in  about  June,  when  every 
bit  of  herbage  is  dried  to  a  cinder.  The  fa- 
cilities for  traveling  are  not  great,  whereby 
much  time  is  lost.  It  would  require  at  least 
three  years  to  do  anything  like  justice  to  the 
botany  of  California,  and  the  expense  is  not 
the  least  of  the  drawbacks.  At  present  it  is 
out  of  my  power  to  effect  anything  further, 
and  I  must  content  myself  with  particulariz- 
ing the  collection  now  made. 

"  Of  new  genera,  I  am  certain  there  are 
nineteen  or  twenty  at  least.  As  to  species, 
about  three  hundred  and  forty  may  be  new. 
I  have  added  a  most  interesting  species  to 
the  genus  Pinus,  P.  Sabiniana,  one  which  I 
had  first  discovered  in  1826,  and  lost,  to- 
gether with  the  rough  notes,  in  crossing  a 
rapid  stream  on  my  return  northward.  I 
sent  to  London  a  detailed  account  of  this 
most  beautiful  tree,  to  be  published  in  the 
Transactions  of  the  Horticultural  Society,  so 
that  I  need  not  trouble  you  with  a  further 
description.  But  the  great  beauty  of  Cali- 
fornian vegetation  is  a  species  of  Taxodium, 
[now  know.n  as  the  redwood,  Sequoia  sem- 
pervirens\  which  gives  the  mountains  a  most 
peculiar — I  was  almost  going  to  say  awful — 
appearance:  something  which  plainly  tells 
us  that  we  are  not  in  Europe.  I  have  re- 
peatedly measured  specimens  of  this  tree 
270  feet  long,  and  32  feet  round  at  three 
feet  from  the  base.  Some  few  I  saw  upwards 
of  300  feet  high. 

"I  have  doubled  the  genus  Calochortus. 
To  Miinulus  I  have  also  -added  several, 
among  them  the  magnificent  M.  cardinalis, 
an  annual  three  or  four  feet  high.  It  is  to 
Gilia,  Collomia,  Phlox,  and  Heuchcra  that 
the  greatest  additions  have  been  made. 

"Besides  the  new  genus  Zauschneria  of 


1883.] 


Early  Botanical' Explorers  of  the  Pacific  Coast. 


413 


Presl,  which  exhibits  the  flower  of  fuchsia 
•  and  the  fruit  of  an  epibolium,  I  possess  an- 
other new  genus  and  a  multitude  of  (Enothe- 
ras.  Also  four  undescribed  Pentstemons, 
two  of  which  far  exceed  any  known  species, 
and  are  shrubs.  Among  the  Papaveracea, 
two  if  not  three  new  genera;  one  is  frutes- 
cent  with  a  bifoliate  calyx  and  four  petals  ;  it 
has  the  stamens  of  papaver  and  the  fruit  of 
eschscholtzia,  with  entire  leaves  (Dendro- 
mecon  rigidum,  Benth.).  These,  with  many 
others,  I  trust  you  may  yet  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  describing  from  living  specimens,  as  I 
have  sent  to  London  upwards  of  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  nondescript  plants,  which  I 
hope  may  bloom  next  season. 

"Since  I  began  this  letter,  Dr.  Coulter,  from 
the  republic  of  Mexico,  has  arrived  here 
with  the  intention  of  taking  all  he  can  find 
to  De  Candolle  at  Geneva.  He  is  a  man 
eminently  calculated  to  work,  full  of  zeal, 
•very  amiable,  and  I  hope  may  do  much 
good  to  science.  I  do  assure  you  from  my 
heart  it  is  a  terrible  pleasure  to  me  thus  to 
meet  a  really  good  man,  and  one  with  whom 
I  can  talk  of  plants." 

From  later  letters  of  Mr.  Douglas  we 
gather  as  items  of  interest  in  the  continued 
narrative,  that  being  disappointed  of  secur- 
ing passage  to  the  Columbia  River  in  No- 
vember, 1831,  he  remained  in  California  till 
August,  1832,  when  he  sailed  for  Monterey 
in  an  American  vessel  of  forty-six  tons'  bur- 
den, reaching  the  Sandwich  Islands  in  nine- 
teen days  (then  considered  a  short  passage). 
According  to  these  data,  Mr.  Douglas's  stay 
in  California  extended  from  December  22, 
1830,  to  August,  1832.  In  his  last  year's 
exploration  he  estimates  an  addition  to  his 
California  collection  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  undescribed  species  and  several  new 
genera  of  plants;  he  also  gives  an  account 
of  the  discovery  of  a  species  of  fir,  then 
named  by  him  Pinus  Venusta,  but  which 
was  actually  discovered  previously  by  Dr. 
Thomas  Coulter  in  the  same  district  in  the 
Santa  Lucia  Mountains,  and  described  by 
Don  as  Abies  bracteata,  the  name  by  which 
it  is  now  known.  The  limited  locality  in 
which  it  was  then  found  is  still  the  only 


known  station  of  this  elegant  species,  which 
is  well  worthy  of  being  rescued  from  its 
present  isolated  condition  to  adorn  our  cul- 
tivated grounds.  In  this  connection  Mr. 
Douglas  mentions  his  meeting  with  Dr. 
Coulter  in  Monterey,  who  had  lately  arrived 
from  Mexico,  of  whose  botanical  researches 
we  shall  have  occasion  to  speak  farther  on. 
He  also  casually  notices  his  pleasant  personal 
acquaintance  with  Rev.  Narcisse  Duran,  pre- 
fect of  a  religious  order  in  Monterey,  and 
speaks  in  favorable  terms  of  Mr.  Hartnell, 
an  English  resident,  at  whose  house  he 
lived  when  stopping  here. 

The  above  including  all  which  is  clearly 
known  of  Mr.  Douglas's  botanical  explora- 
tions in  California,  we  have  only  to  add,  in 
conclusion,  that  in  October  of  the  same  year 
(1832)  Mr.  Douglas  returned  from  the  Sand- 
wich Islands  again  to  the  Columbia,  and  in 
the  succeeding  year  (1833)  prosecuted  his 
explorations  though  the  interior  country  as  far 
as  Frazer  River,  on  which  latter  stream  he  was 
unfortunately  wrecked  on  June  13,  losing  at 
that  time  all  his  collections  and  instruments, 
and  barely  escaping  with  his  life. 

On  October  18,  1833,  Mr.  Douglas  again 
sailed  from  the  C6lumbia  for  the  Sandwich 
Islands,  and  being  delayed  by  contrary 
winds,  anchored  off  Point  Reyes  in  Califor- 
nia, in  the  harbor  of  Sir  Francis  Drake. 
The  vessel  remained  there,  trying  to  beat 
out,  till  November  29,  during  which  inter- 
val he  speaks  of  landing  at  Whaler's  Harbor, 
near  the  foot  of  a  high  mountain,  now 
known  as  Mount  Tamalpais.  Finally,  at  the 
latter  date,  they  made  sail  down  the  coast, 
passing  in  sight  of  the  Santa  Lucia  range  of 
mountains,  reaching  the  Sandwich  Islands 
on  the  last  day  of  December,  1833. 

From  this  time  up  to  the  date  of  his 
death,  on  July  12,  1834,  our  indefatigable 
botanist  was  actively  engaged  in  exploring 
the  high  volcanic  peaks  of  these  islands; 
and  at  the  above  date  fell  a  victim  to  his 
zeal  by  accidentally  falling  into  a  pit  in 
which  a  wild  bull  was  captured,  where  he 
was  found  several  hours  afterward  dread- 
fully mangled,  his  faithful  dog  still  keeping 
watch  over  the  bundle  he  had  left  at  the 


414 


Early  Botanical  Explorers  of  ike  Pacific  Coast. 


[Oct. 


side  of  the  pit.  Not  till  a  late  period,  twenty 
or  more  years  after,  a  monument  was  erected 
over  his  remains  by  a  Mr.  Brenchley,  com- 
panion of  the  traveler  Remy,  commemor- 
ating his  death  in  a  French  inscription. 

Dr.  Thomas  Coulter,  whose  name  has  been 
casually  noticed  in  connection  with  Mr.  Doug- 
las, after  extensive  botanical  explorations  in 
Central  Mexico,  reached  Monterey,  probably 
by  way  of. San  Bias,  in  November,  1831. 
During  nearly  three  years'  stay  on  the  coast 
he  made  excursions  in  various  directions, 
especially  to  the  southeast,  and  was  among 
the  first  to  make  known  in  his  collections 
the  peculiar  desert  vegetation  adjoining  the 
Colorado  of  the  West,  Among  his  most 
notable  discoveries  near  the  coast  was  the 
peculiar  ponderous  coned  pine  which  now 
bears  the  name  of  "Coulter's  pine"  (Pinus 
Coulteri),  and  also,  a  little  in  advance  of 
Douglas,  the  elegant  bracted  fir  of  the  Santa 
Lucia  Mountains,  south  of  Monterey,  spoken 
of  above.  Dr.  Coulter,  on  his  return  to  Eng- 
land in  1833,  published  a  short  geographical 
notice  of  California,  accompanied  by  a  map, 
of  which,  notwithstanding  diligent  search 
through  many  public  libraries,  I  have  never 
yet  seen  a  copy. 

Subsequently,  Dr.  Coulter  received  the 
appointment  of  curator  to  the  herbarium 
of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  which  position 
he  remained  till  his  decease,  being  succeeded 
by  the  eminent  botanist,  Dr.  W.  H.  Harvey, 
who  subsequently  so  beautifully  illustrated 
the  marine  algce  of  North  America. 

The  next  prominent  explorer  to  visit  this 
locality  was  the  adventurous  and  distin- 
guished botanist,  Thomas  Nuttall,  a  native 
of  Yorkshire,  England,  born  in  1786.  Mr. 
Nuttall,  on  reaching  this  country  in  his  early 
manhood,  soon  became  specially  interested 
in  its  flora,  and  as  an  active  member  of  the 
Philadelphia  Academy  of  Science,  prosecut- 
ed his  researches  in  the  most  remote  and 
inaccessible  districts  of  the  United  States, 
especially  in  the  western  interior  regions,  in- 
cluding the  upper  Missouri,  as  early  as  1811, 
and  the  Arkansas  Territory  in  1818.  In 
1834,  then  holding  a  nominal  position  of 
professor  of  botany  at  Harvard  College, 


since  so  ably  filled  by  his  successor,  Dr. 
Asa  Gray,  he  accompanied  an  associate 
member  of  the  Philadelphia  Academy  of 
Science,  Mr.  Townsend,  on  a  trip  across 
the  continent  in  connection  with  a  fur-trad- 
ing party  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Wyeth, 
who  is  commemorated  in  a  rather  extensive 
genus  of  plants  dedicated  to  him  by  Nuttall, 
viz.,  Wyethia,  of  which  there  are  several 
species  in  this  locality.  A  detailed  ac- 
count of  this  journey  is  contained  in  Town- 
send's  narrative.  Mr.  Nuttall,  whose  publi- 
cations were  mostly  confined  to  technical 
descriptions  of  plants,  has  left  no  printed 
account  of  this  interesting  expedition,  and 
therefore  we  must  rely  mainly  upon  the 
above  narrative  for  special  details  and  au- 
thentic dates.  From  this  source  we  gather 
that  Mr.  Nuttall  left  St.  Louis,  Missouri, 
March  29,  1834,  reached  Independence,  the 
usual  fur-trading  rendezvous  on  the  frontier, 
April  14,  and  arrived  at  Fort  Hall,  on  Snake 
River,  July  15;  continuing,  after  a  short  stay 
in  this  inland  trading  post,  his  western  jour- 
ney, he  came  to  Walla  Walla  on  the  navigable 
waters  of  the  Columbia,  September  3,  and 
thence  proceeded  by  canoe  to  Fort  Vancou- 
ver, reaching  there  September  16,  where  nine 
years  previous  Mr.  Douglas  had  made  his 
headquarters. 

In  accordance  with  the  prevailing  custom 
of  the  early  explorers,  Mr.  Nuttall  left  the 
Columbia  River  December  n,  for  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  returning  again  to  the  Co- 
lumbia April  1 6,  1835.  This  season,  up 
to  the  latter  part  of  September,  was  spent  in 
the  valley  of  the  Columbia,  when  Mr.  Nuttall 
again  took  ship  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  at- 
which  point  Mr.  Townsend's  narrative  fails 
to  give  us  further  information — the  parting 
notice  of  his  companion  merely  stating  that 
Mr.  Nuttall  left  for  the  islands  on  the  above 
date,  in  company  with  Dr.  Gardener,  from 
which  place  he  would  probably  visit  Califor- 
nia, and  either  return  to  the  Columbia  and 
cross  the  mountains  east,  or  take  the  longer 
voyage  round  Cape  Horn. 

It  is  at  this  serious  gap  in  our  attempted 
continuous  record  that  the  very  interesting 
narrative  of  Dana's  "Two  Years  Before  the 


1883.] 


Early  jBotanical  Explorers  of  the  Pacific   Coast. 


415 


Mast"  comes  to  our  help.  Though  without 
stating  precisely  at  what  time  or  place 
Nuttall  first  landed  on  the  California  coast, 
it  can  be  safely  inferred  that,  following  the 
usual  route  of  trading  vessels,  Mr.  Nuttall 
landed  at  Monterey,  the  only  Mexican  port 
of  entry,  early  in  the  spring  of  1836.  How 
long  he  remained  here,  or  what  explorations 
he  made  in  this  vicinity,  we  have  no  data  for 
determining;  but  from  Dana's  narrative  we 
learn  that  he  shipped  down  the  coast  on 
the  hide  ship  Pilgrim,  stopping  to  take  in 
hides  at  the  ports  of  Santa  Barbara  and  San 
Pedro,  and  reaching  San  Diego  April  16. 
At  this  latter  point  he  remained  diligently 
pursuing  his  researches  and  making  collec- 
tions till  May  8  (barely  twenty-four  days), 
when  he  sailed  on  the  Boston  ship  Alert,  on 
the  voyage  so  graphically  described  by  Dana, 
around  Cape  Horn ;  he  reached  Boston 
September  20,  having  been  one  hundred 
and  thirty-five  days  on  the  passage.  Gladly, 
did  time  and  opportunity  offer,  would  I  fill 
up  the  details  of  this  important  exploration; 
but  it  must  suffice  here  to  say,  in  correction 
of  the  ordinary  published  accounts,  that  Mr. 
NuttalPs  actual  explorations  in  California 
were  confined  to  the  spring  months  of  1836, 
and  extended  only  near  the  coast  between 
Monterey  and  San  Diego,  closing  on  May 
8,  in  that  year.  That  during  this  limited 
period  Mr.  Nuttall  should  have  accom- 
plished so  much  for  Californian  botany 
speaks  volumes  to  his  credit,  and  we  may 
derive  some  satisfaction  from  the  fact  that 
a  shrub  common  to  the  Monterey  hills  will 
to  all  time  commemorate  his  enthusiastic 
labors,  under  the 'name  of  Nuttallia  cerasi- 
formis. 

The  next  botanical  explorer  to  establish 
his  headquaters  at  Monterey  was  a  German, 
Theodore  Hartweg,  in  the  employ  of  the 
London  Horticultural  Society,  who  after 
spending  several  years  in  Mexico  came 
(probably  by  sea)  to  Monterey  in  1846. 
From  this  point  Mr.  Hartweg  extended  his 
explorations  as  far  as  the  upper  Sacramento, 
probably  not  a  little  interrupted  by  the  un- 
settled state  of  the  country  in  connection 
with  the  American  invasion.  His  explora- 


tions in  the  upper  Sacramento  extended  as 
far  as  Chico,  and  included  several  rare 
species,  to  which  his  name  has  been  at- 
tached. The  results  of  this  collection  were 
described  by  Mr.  Bentham  in  Plantce  Hart- 
wegiance,  and  comprised  about  four  hundred 
species.  This,  with  the  exceptions  of  a  few 
transient  travelers  casually  touching  at  this 
point  and  gathering  here  and  there  a  stray 
plant,  completes  the  brief  history  of  botani- 
cal exploration  up  to  our  own  era  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  present  century. 

It  was  the  privilege  of  the  writer,  then  in 
the  service  of  the  Mexican  Boundary  Sur- 
vey, to  spend  several  weeks  in  the  vicinity 
of  Monterey  in  the  spring  of  1850,  as  the 
guest  of  Dr.  Andrew  Randall,  then  collector 
of  the  port,  who  subsequently  met  with  a  sad 
fate  in  a  murderous  assault  from  one  of 
the  outlaws,  who  expiated  his  crimes  at  the 
hands  of  the  Vigilance  Committee.  At  this 
time,  Dr.  T.  L.  Andrews,  who  only  survived 
a  few  years  later,  was  diligently  engaged  in 
making  botanical  collections  at  this  and 
adjoining  districts,  being  more  or  less  asso- 
ciated with  the  veteran  Pacific  coast  bota- 
nist, Dr.  A.  Kellogg,  who  up  to  the  present 
time  has  continued  uninterruptedly  his  en- 
thusiastic labors,  and  who  more  than  any 
one  else  is  identified  with  Californian  bota- 
ny. Dr.  Andrews's  early  collection  included 
several  discoveries,  with  which  his  name  is 
associated,  one  of  the  most  interesting  of 
which  is  the  fine  liliaceous  plant,  Clintonia 
Andrewsiana,  Torr. 

At  this  same  time,  in  the  spring  of  1850, 
Mr.  William  Lobb,  an  experienced  collector, 
who  had  spent  several  years  in  South  Amer- 
ica, was  also  stopping  at  Monterey  making 
collections  of  seeds  for  Mr.  Veitch  of  Exe- 
ter, England.  It  was  the  pleasure  of  the 
writer  to  accompany  this  gentleman  in  vari- 
ous botanical  rambles  in  this  vicinity,  and  to 
listen  to  his  accounts  of  exploration  in  other 
remote  regions,  while  making  frequent  ref- 
erence to  the  early  pioneers  in  whose  foot- 
steps we  were  daily  tre.ading.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  Mr.  Lobb  was  planning  a  trip  into 
the  interior,  which  afterwards  resulted  in 
the  first  collection  of  seeds  of  the  big  tree 


416 


Drifting. 


[Oct. 


(Sequoia  giganted}.  It  is  now  well  known 
that  Mr.  Lobb's  first  information  of  the  ex- 
istence of  this  botanical  giant  was  derived 
from  specimens  shown  him  by  Dr.  Kellogg 
at  San  Francisco.  Soon  after  getting  this 
information,  Mr.  Lobb  started  for  the  inte- 
rior, and  reached  the  big-tree  grove  (proba- 
bly at  Calaveras),  made  collections  of  seeds 
and  dried  specimens,  and  sent  the  same  with 
a  description  of  the  tree  to  his  English  pa- 
trons, under  the  name  of  Wellingtonia  gigan- 
tea. From  seeds  then  collected,  large  trees 
are  now  growing  in  English  parks,  but  the 
name  of  Wellingtonia  has  been  superseded 
by  the  older  genus  Sequoia. 

A  fact  not  generally  known  in  reference 
to  the  earliest  discovery  of  this  most  magnifi- 
cent forest  monarch  was  communicated  to 
me  by  General  John  Bidwell  of  Chico,  who 
stated  that  on  his  pioneer  journey  to  Cali- 
fornia, in  1841,  while  pushing  his  way  on 
foot  with  his  straggling  party  on  the  upper 
Calaveras,  he  came  upon  one  of  the  largest  of 
these  trees,  to  which,  under  the  circumstance 
of  threatened  starvation  and  Indian  attacks, 


he  could  give  only  a  casual  notice,  though 
the  impression  then  made  remained  per- 
manent till  verified  long  after  by  a  revisit  to 
this  scene  of  his  youthful  adventures.  In 
1843,  General  Bidwell,  then  at  Sutler's  Fort, 
mentioned  the  fact  of  the  existence  of  such 
giant  trees  to  Captain  Fremont,  then  on  his 
adventurous  explorations,  who,  however,  paid 
little  attention  to  the  matter,  probably  re- 
garding it  as  a  big-tree  "yarn." 

It  only  remains  to  add  in  this  connection 
that  Mr.  Lobb,  becoming  reduced  in  cir- 
cumstances, died  some  years  subsequently, 
and  now  rests  in  an  unmarked  grave  in  Lone 
Mountain  Cemetery.  Here,  then,  properly 
this  paper  should  reach  a  close.  Coming 
back  once  more  after  an  interval  of  one-third 
of  a  century — the  lapse  of  an  entire  human 
generation — I  am  confronted  by  the  same 
features  of  natural  scenery.  I  have  gathered 
to-day  plants  that  were  fresh  to  my  early 
view  thirty-three  years  ago;  but  the  human 
changes  that  rise  up  before  me  suggest 
other  reflections  that  may  more  properly 
take  the  form  of  unutterable  thoughts. 

C.  C.  Parry. 


DRIFTING. 

THERE  was  a  bark: 
Beneath  a  hard,  unpitying  sky  it  lay 
From  the  swift  dark  till  dawn,  from  dawn  till  dark, 

Day  after  day. 

Upon  the  masts  the  dusky  sails  hung  dead; 
The  sun  upon  a  sea  of  molten  lead 

Gazed  with  a  brazen  glare. 

An  ocean  stream— 

A  mighty  hidden  current  of  the  deep — 
Bore  on  that  vessel,  like  a  baleful  dream, 

With  silent  sweep, 

Away  from  haven  and  hope.     And  not  one  breath 
Waked,  succor-bringing,  in  that  realm  of  death 

And  pallid,  mute  despair! 

Arthur  F.   J.   Crandall. 


1883.] 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


417 


SMALL   LATIN   AND   LESS   GREEK. 


IF  the  supereminence  of  Shakspere  could 
be  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  fortunately 
attained,  in  Jonson's  phrase,  to  but  "  small 
Latin  and  less  Greek,"  the  advocates  of  a 
study  of  the  ancient  classics,  as  the  best  gift 
to  man  to  fit  him  for  the  probable  work  of 
life,  would  be  shortly  silenced  by  the  louder- 
mouthed  millions,  who  would  like  to  be  sure 
that  mere  education  cannot  make  a  differ- 
ence between  men.  The  happy  time  for 
those  millions  seems  to  be  approaching  a 
step  nearer  every  time  they  can  get  one  to 
batter  at  the  walls  of  the  castle  of  learning,  in 
an  attempt  to  close,  or  half  close,  the  ancient 
entrance,  and  to  make  a  breach  for  another 
and  wider  entrance.  Call  it  a  mere  superstition 
if  you  will,  the  fact  that  another  has  or  has 
had  a  knowledge  that  you  have  not,  of  what 
are  now  called  the  dead  languages,  gives  him 
in  the  minds  of  almost  all  men,  a  place 
in  the  domain  of  culture  many  steps  in  ad- 
vance of  you.  Your  own  cultivated  imagi- 
nation and  consciousness  warn  you  of  this 
fact,  and  the  best  cultivated  minds  concede 
it. 

That  any  man  of  fifty  years  of  age,  a 
graduate  of  Harvard  College,  one  who  has 
hitherto  been  esteemed  a  person  of  consider- 
able culture,  of  average  ability,  and  possi- 
bly a  fair  representative  of  the  result  of  the 
course  of  studies  at  Harvard  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  slrould  take  his  best  opportunity 
to  proclaim  his  utter  lack  of  appreciation 
of  the  methods  of  mental  discipline  at  his 
Alma  Mater,  and  take  a  position  (which  he 
attempts  even  in  doing  it  to  disclaim)  with 
those  who  belittle  the  classics  and  espouse 
in  opposition  thereto  the  study  of  the  lighter 
modern  languages,  is  a  matter  of  momentary 
wonder.  The  place  and  the  occasion  and 
the  family  name  he  bears  give  temporary 
prominence  to  the  fact.  The  insignificance 
of  the  fact  itself  is  apparent  from  the  utter- 
ances themselves.  If  we  think,  neither 
place  nor  occasion  nor  name  will  influence 
VOL.  II.— 27. 


our  thought,  but  only  the  wisdom  of  the 
speaker's  speech.  If  it  lacks  wisdom,  we 
feel  that  the  place  has  not  been  honored  as 
has  been  its  wont,  that  the  occasion  must 
be  recorded  as  a  lost  opportunity,  and 
that  the  name  must  share  the  fate  of  many- 
names 

"That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 
And  break  it  to  our  hope." 

On  the  28th  of  June  last,  Mr.  Charles 
Francis  Adams,  Jr.,  delivered  before  the 
Harvard  Chapter  of  the  Fraternity  of  the 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  an  address  which  he 
calls  "A  College  Fetich."  It  bears  no  sec- 
ondary, alternative  title,  but  seems  to  us 
susceptible  of  one,  and  might  be  called  also 
"A  Plea  for  Rather  Dull  Men."  The 
"fetich"  is  the  requirement  on  the  part  of 
the  college  government  of  certain  attain- 
ment in  the  Greek  language  as  a  requisite  to 
admission  to  the  college.  The  reason  of 
this  designation  by  Mr.  Adams  is,  that  his 
experience  assures  him  that  the  requirement 
of  the  study  of  Greek  is  a  worthless  "super- 
stition "  on  the  part  of  the  Faculty;  that  it  is 
worse  than  worthless,  inasmuch  as,  while  of 
no  advantage  to  him  and  some  others,  it 
was  a  positive  detriment ;  that,  by  reason  of 
it,  he  has  been  "incapacitated  from  properly 
developing"  his  specialty;  that  "the  mischief 
is  done,  and  so  far  as  he  is  concerned  is  irrep- 
arable." At  fifty  years  of  age  Mr.  Adams 
comes  back  to  the  college  and  makes  it 
known  that  the  Faculty  is  the  scape-goat 
which  "shall  be  presented  alive  before  the 
Lord  to  make  an  atonement  with  him." 
Mr.  Adams  confesses  to  have  made  a  failure 
in  life,  "not  only  matter  of  fact  and  real, 
but  to  the  last  degree  humiliating."  As  re- 
luctant as  any  one  may  be  to  believe  such  a 
wretched  state  of  things,  the  very  fact  that  he 
has  so  little  prudence  as  to  stand  up  in  such 
a  place  and  say  such  a  thing,  and  give  such 
a  reason  as  he  does  for  it,  and  lay  the  blame 
therefor  where  he  does,  seems  t.o  take  some- 


418 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


[Oct. 


what  from  our  reluctance,  and  to  add  an  ex- 
planation and  reason  for  his  failure  which  he 
himself  does  not  give.  The  burden  of  his 
lament  is  in  these  words : 

"  I  have  not,  in  following  out  my  specialty,  had 
-at  my  command — nor  has  it  been  in  my  power, 
placed  as  I  was,  to  acquire — the  ordinary  tools 
which  an  educated  man  must  have  to  enable  him  to 
work  to  advantage  on  the  developing  problems  of 
modern  scientific  life With  a  single  excep- 
tion, there  is  no  modern  scientific  study  which  can  be 
thoroughly  pursued  in  any  one  living  language, 
....  with  the  exception  of  law.  I  might  safely 
challenge  any  one  of  you  to  name  a  single  modern 
calling,  either  learned  or  scientific,  in  which  a  worker, 
who  is  unable  to  read  and  write  and  speak  at  least 
German  and  French,  does  not  stand  at  a  great  and 
always  recurring  disadvantage.  He  is  without  the 
essential  tools  of  his  trade." 

It  seems  very  simple  for  a  man  who  has 
graduated  twenty-seven  years  to  say  that  the 
study  of  Greek  before  entering  college,  and  for 
the  first  two  years  of  the  college  course,  has 
prevented  him  from  learning  the  French  and 
German  languages.  We  think  we  have  a 
right  to  say,  that  a  defect  of  his  address  is, 
that  it  does  not  point  out  in  what  way 
his  imperfect  knowledge  of  Greek  in  those 
early  years  has  prevented  him  from  acquir- 
ing a  perfect  knowledge  of  these  two  modern 
languages  since  then.  A  very  careful  ex- 
amination of  the  address  will  make  no  such 
revelation.  A  reading  between  the  lines 
will  make  reasonably  clear  the  reason  Mr. 
Adams  did  not  learn  those  languages ;  but  it 
was  not  because  he  had  previously  studied 
Greek.  To  be  sure,  he  claims  that  these  two 
languages  "could  be  acquired  perfectly  and 
with  ease"  only  during  the  time  he  was 
studying  Greek.  But  this  seems  like  a  kind 
of  ipsedixisse.  It  is  only  as  a  child  that  one 
can  get  the  perfect  accent  of  a  foreign 
tongue ;  but  did  Mr.  Adams's  power  of  acqui- 
sition fail  about  the  time  the  college  Faculty 
relieved  him  from  the  study  of  Greek?  No, 
indeed;  for  it  must  have  been  after  this  that 
he  achieved  a  task  which  it  was  pardonable 
for  him  to  brag  about:  "Yet  I  studied 
Greek  with  patient  fidelity ;  and  there  are 
not  many  modern  graduates  who  can  say,  as 
I  can,  that  they  have,  not  without  enjoyment, 
read  the  Iliad  through  in  the  original  from 


its  first  line  to  its  last."  Here  is  a  confession 
that  this  was  not  in  the  curriculum,  for 
"  there  are  not  many  modern  graduates  who 
can  say"  they  have  so  read  it.  It  seems  as 
if  he  was  thinking  of  this  feat  when  he 
wrote  that,  "as  far  as  I  am  able  to  judge,  the 
large  amount  of  my  youthful  time  devoted 
to  the  study  of  Greek,  both  in  my  school  and 
college  life,  was  time  as  nearly  as  possible 
thrown  away."  After  reading  in  his  diatribe 
against  the  study  of  this  language  the  rev- 
elation of  this  fact,  which  may  have  been 
made  in  a  moment  when  his  vanity  got  the 
uppermost,  it  seems  as  if  he  were  not  only 
inconsistent  and  not  true  to  his  hate,  but  in- 
sincere, and  as  if  a  desire  to  say  something 
which,  being  said  in  that  place,  would  prove 
sensational,  whether  wise  or  not,  was  a  con- 
trolling factor,  rather  than  a  desire  to  ad- 
vance the  cause  of  the  best  education. 

We  had  intended,  in  a  few  extracts,  to  have 
included  all  the  articles  of  Mr.  Adams's 
arraignment  of  what  he  calls  the  "poor  old 
college  " — all  the  grounds  of  his  opposition 
to  the  study  of  Greek  ;  but  our  limits  forbid. 
The  story  which  he  tells  seems  pathetic:  and 
if  it  is  true  that  the  reason  of  his  failure  in  life 
lies  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  living  "  sacrifice 
to  the  college  fetich,"  and  that  all  his  grounds 
of  complaint  can  be  substantiated  by  undoubt- 
ed facts,  the  college  is  a  hindrance  instead  of 
a  help  to  education,  and  it  must  be  a  cruel 
superstition,  or  a  thralldom  to  the  general 
custom  of  partially  intelligent  and  imperfectly 
educated  people,  that  causes  every  year  so 
many  youths  to  be  brought  to  the  sacrifice, 
so  many  lives  wrecked  upon  the  rock  of 
conservatism,  so  many  careers  purposely 
steered  toward  the  abyss  of  failure.  But  we 
take  issue  with  Mr.  Adams  upon  every  one 
of  his  essential  facts.  We  know  that  his 
Alma  Mater  is  no  scape-goat,  and  that  the 
blame  of  the  failure  of  any  man  who  has 
intelligence  enough  to  make  it  important 
whether  his  career  is  a  success  or  a  failure, 
lies  not  within  the  limits  of  Mr.  Adams's  in- 
dictment. It  is  only  for  the  reason  that,  at 
his  intervals  of  lucid  and  earnest  thought, 
he  seems  to  be  very  much  in  earnest,  and 
that  he  has  been  listened  to  and  applauded, 


1883.] 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


419 


with  limitations,  by  men  whom  the  world  is 
accustomed  to  honor,  that  we  feel  compelled 
to  answer  him  seriously.  Of  all  his  stated  ob- 
jections to  the  study  of  the  classics  as  a  fun- 
damental, there  is  scarcely  one  that  does  not 
seem  ridiculous.  We  say  this  somewhat 
timidly,  after  the  warning  he  has  given  all  who 
dare  differ  from  him,  when  he  said  that  "not 
one  man  in  ten  thousand  can  contribute  any- 
thing to  this  discussion  in  the  way  of  more 
profound  views  or  deeper  insight."  We  do 
not  propose  to  indicate  profounder  views  or 
deeper  insight,  but  we  propose  to  express 
truer  views,  and  to  indicate  such  insight  as 
finds  a  different,  and  as  it  seems  to  us  more 
correct,  conclusion. 

The  complaint,  that  the  study  of  Greek 
before  and  for  two  years  after  he  entered 
college  kept  Mr.  Adams  from  attaining  a 
solid,  practical,  and  useful  knowledge  of 
French  and  German — at  least,  in  time  to  pro- 
vide him  with  these  necessary  tools  of  his 
trade — seems  not  to  have  the  dignity  of  a 
fair  grievance,  but  sounds  more  like  a  dull 
schoolboy's  whine.  When,  being  "accredited 
to  France  as  the  representative  of  the  strug- 
gling American  colonies,"  but  suffering  from 
a  "partial  defect  in  the  language,  ....  at 
forty-two  John  Adams  stoutly  took  his 
grammar  and  phrase-book  in  hand,  and  set 
himself  to  master  the  rudiments  of  that  liv- 
ing tongue,  which  was  the  first  and'  most 
necessary  tool  for  use  in  the  work  before 
him,"  no  one  ever  heard  him  whimper,  that 
because  he  had  not  learned  French  when  he 
was  young,  "  the  necessary  tools  are  not  at 
my  command;  it  is  too  late  for  me  to 
acquire  them,  or  to  learn  familiarly  to  han- 
dle them;  the  mischief  is  done";  nor  did 
the  result  of  his  mission  show  that  his  early 
lack  was  "irreparable." 

At  first  blush  it  would  appear  from  Mr. 
Adams's  tone,  that  the  acquisition  of  two  of 
the  modern  languages  was  a  difficult  and 
tedious  labor;  but  he  himself  comes  before 
long  to  our  rescue,  when  he  suggests  that  in 
place  of  the  requirement  of  a  "  quarter-ac- 
quisition of  Greek,"  a  requisite  for  admission 
to  college  be  the  thorough  mastery  of  Ger- 
man and  French.  If  a  boy  can  acquire,  as 


Mr.  Adams  seems  to  imply,  such  a  knowl- 
edge of  two  modern  languages  as  needs  not 
to  be  further  supplemented,  while  he  would 
be  acquiring  this  imperfect  knowledge  of 
Greek,  having  it  in  place  of  Greek  at  the 
age  of  eighteen  when  he  enters  college,  the 
acquisition  is  according  to  this  complainant 
himself  not  difficult,  nor  one  demanding  a 
long  period.  But  every  one  knows  that  the 
attainment  of  both  these  languages,  to  such 
an  extent  that  they  shall  be  serviceable 
"  avenues  to  modern  life  and  living  thought," 
is  a  trifling  task  beside  that  of  acquiring 
either  of  the  so-called  dead  languages.  Mr. 
Adams  says  that  his  engagements  with  the 
Greek  language  kept  him  from  learning 
these  two  languages,  and  suggests  that,  had 
it  been  otherwise,  life  would  not  have  been 
a  failure  with  him.  Was  he  prohibited  or 
deterred  by  the  conservatism  of  the  college, 
"so  unreasoning,  so  impenetrable?"  A  bit 
of  history  in  the  unwritten  life  of  Mr.  Adams 
will  help  us. 

While  Mr.  Adams  was  in  Harvard,  in  the 
class  of  1856,  French  was  one  of  the  prescrib- 
ed studies  of  the  Sophomore  year.  What  was 
Mr.  Adams  doing  that  he  did  not  learn  his 
French  lessons?  Performing  his  self-im- 
posed task  of  reading  the  twenty-four  books 
of  the  Iliad — a  very  willing  sacrifice  to  the 
fetich?  The  recitations  in  French  were 
three  times  a  week.  Given,  the  capacity  of 
Mr.  Adams,  a  learned  teacher  in  the  lan- 
guage— a  Frenchman — and  three  recitations 
per  week  at  hours  not  occupied  in  the  pur- 
suit of  Greek,  and  may  not  one  expect  some 
solid  acquisition  at  the  end  of  the  year? 
This,  too,  in  his  second  year  in  college.  In 
his  Junior  year  he  was  graciously  permitted 
to  forego  the  pleasure  of  the  Greek  recitation, 
and  in  its  place  was  permitted,  if  he  so 
elected,  to  study  German  under  a  teacher  of 
fine  accomplishments,  a  native  of  Germany. 
This  study  he  was  permitted  to  pursue  also 
during  his  Senior  year.  Given,  a  sum  like 
that  previously  given,  with  the  element  of 
time  doubled,  and  why  should  Mr.  Adams 
so  ungraciously  complain  that  the  college 
fetich,  the  prescribed  Greek,  prohibited  him 
from  acquiring  his  pet  modern  language 


420 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


[Oct. 


number  two?  Cannot  a  person  of  Mr. 
Adams's  capacity  get  a  useful  knowledge  of 
German  in  two  years?  This  was  before  the 
college  course  was  over.  We  trust  it  is  not 
cruel  to  thus  ring  an  old  college  catalogue 
into  the  discussion,  and  we  wonder  what 
Mr.  Adams  would  say  if  he  knew  it. 

"But  in  pursuing  Greek  and  Latin  we  had 
ignored  our  mother  tongue."  Mr.  Adams 
couples  Latin  with  Greek  in  uttering  his 
condemnation.  But  he  .  feels  that  he  is 
stepping  on  slippery  ground,  and  is  not  firm 
in  his  determination  to  get  rid  of  that  other 
hindrance  to  his  rapid  progress  up  the 
avenues  to  modern  science  and  modern 
thought.  He  is  half  inclined  to  say  that  the 
"poor  old  college"  kept  on  hand  two  fe- 
tiches— one  with  a  Roman  nose — that  every- 
body had  to  be  sacrificed  to;  but  he  feels 
that  if  he  does,  all  known  basis  of  a  liberal 
education  will  be  gone,  and  his  old  friends 
will  never  speak  to  him  again.  He  really 
feels  as  strongly  opposed '  to  Latin  as  to 
Greek — posssibly  a  little  more  strongly — 
but  he  is  circumspect.  He  doesn't  think  it 
a  "well-selected  fundamental";  he  "cannot 
profess  to  have  any  great  admiration  for  its 
literature";  he  "prefers  the  philosophy  of 
Montaigne  to  what  seem  to  him  the  plati- 
tudes of  Cicero,"  and  asks  "how  many  stu- 
dents during  the  last  thirty  years  have  grad- 
uated from  Harvard  who  could  read  Horace 
and  Tacitus  and  Juvenal,  as  numbers  now 
read  Goethe  and  Mommsen  and  Heine," 
but  on  the  whole  concludes  thus:  "Latin,  I 
will  not  stop  to  contend  over;  that  is  a  small 
matter.  Not  only  is  it  a  comparatively  sim- 
ple language:  ....  it  has  its  modern  uses, 
....  is  the  mother  tongue  of  all  south- 
western Europe,  ....  has  by  common 
consent  been  adopted  in  scientific  nomen- 
clature." So  "with  a  knowledge  of  the 
rudiments  of  Latin  as  a  requirement  for 
admission  to  college  I  am  not  here  to  quar- 
rel." The  reasons  of  his  concession  to 
Latin  are  the  last  that  any  one  else  would 
offer  in  favor  of  retaining  it.  If  it  is  a  sim- 
ple language  and  therefore  easily  learned, 
any  other 'task  exacting  little  time,  attention, 
industry,  or  thought  would  do  just  as  well. 


It  is  its  practical  use  that  redeems  it.  Mr. 
Adams,  by  the  soft  phrases  that  he  has  to 
utter  as  a  sop  to  the  Cerberus  of  the  best- 
educated  world,  would  like  us  to  believe  that 
he  believes  in  what  is  well  enough  known  to 
be  a  discipline  of  the  mind,  a  laying  the  foun- 
dation of  trained  faculties  on  which  to  build 
the  structure  of  practical  education  which 
shall  serve  the  needs  of  life;  but  when  he 
thinks  of  grammar  and  the  dead  languages, 
and  remembers  that  he  did  not  understand' 
the  one  and  never  could  learn  the  other,  and 
that  there  is  no  chance  in  his  specialty  for 
either  to  make  an  impression,  and  that 
"representing  American  educated  men  in 
the  world's  industrial  gatherings,  ....  Lat- 
in and  Greek  were  not  current  money  there," 
he  lets  go  all  thought,  if  he  had  any,  of  dis- 
cipline and  foundations,  and  his  mind  dwells 
upon  the  needs  of  practical  education,  and 
he  gets  cross  and  sarcastic,  and  calls  the  an- 
cient university  the  "poor  old  college,"  says 
that  he  "silently  listens  to  the  talk  about  the 
severe  intellectual  training,"  cries  out  that 
"we  are  not  living  in  any  ideal  world.  We 
are  living  in  this  world  of  to-day;  and  it  is 
the  business  of  the  college  to  fit  men  for  it"; 
that  it  does  not  do  it  and  cannot  do  it  be- 
cause it  "starts  from  a  radically  wrong  basis, 
.  .  .  .  a  basis  of  fetich  worship,  in  which 
the  real  and  practical  is  systematically  sacri- 
ficed to  the  ideal  and  theoretical,"  and  that 
"the  members  of  the  Faculty  are  laboring 
under  a  serious  misapprehension  of  what 
life  is." 

The  man  who  takes  pride  in  being  a  prac- 
tical man  generally  lords  it  in  rather  loud 
tones  over  the  man  who  is  susceptible  to 
the  influence  of  ideas  and  theories.  The 
practical  man  is  narrow  and  hates  broad 
things,  but  if  he  has  one  other  idea  beside 
that  of  the  intensely  practical,  it  is  that  his 
neighbors  must  not  understand  that  he  is 
above  their  fine  theories.  Mr.  Adams  ex- 
hibits his  unanswered  craving  for  what  is 
practical,  but  does  not  intend,  if  professing 
will  prevent  it,  to  be  thrust  from  the  company 
of  those  who  have  always  advocated  a  prep- 
aration of  the  mind  before  the  reception  of 
knowledge.  It  is  certain  that  he  cannot 


1883.] 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


421 


occupy  the  position  of  both  the  practical 
man  and  the  man  of  theory,  so  by  turns  he 
takes  each  position,  and  on  each  occasion 
defines  his  position,  "so  that  I  shall  be  mis- 
understood only  by  such  as  willfully  mis- 
understand in  order  to  misrepresent."  He 
says  he  is  "no  believer  in  that  narrow  scien- 
tific and  technological  training  which  now 
and  again  we  hear  extolled,"  yet  will  not 
have  Greek  because  it  is  not  of  practical 
use.  He  would  have  us  think  that  he  is 
true  to  the  old  theory  of  a  liberal  education 
which  has  always  meant  a  preparation  of  the 
mind  for  acquiring  knowledge  and  other- 
wise doing  its  work  in  life,  and  is  stoutly 
and  directly  opposed  to  looking  first  and 
directly  to'  the  useful  and  practical,  and  yet 
he  early  in  his  address  states  as  one  of  the 
"  conclusions  hammered  into  us  by  the  hard 
logic  of  facts,"  that  "when  one  is  given 
work  to  do.  it  is  well  to  prepare  one's  self 
for  that  specific  work,  and  not  to  occupy 
one's  time  in  acquiring  information,  no  mat- 
ter how  innocent  or  elegant  or  generally  use- 
ful, which  has  no  probable  bearing  on  that 
work."  The  Turks  have  a  proverb,  "  Two  wa- 
termelons cannot  be  held  under  one  arm," 
and  Mr.  Adams  reminds  us  of  it.  He  is  loath 
to  give  up  the  old  theory  of  classical  educa- 
tion, and  yet  is  enamored  of  the  modern 
languages  in  place  of  it.  How  happy  would 
he  be  with  either !  We  fear  we  must  doubt 
the  sincerity  of  any  of  the  several  good 
things  he  has  said,  by  way  of  concession,  in 
favor  of  the  old  fundamentals.  He  has 
poured  poison  into  the  ears  of  the  old  sov- 
ereign, and  on  his  new  altar  would  sacrifice. 
That  other  failed  and  ended  with, 

"  My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  remain  below; 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go." 

But  is  it  true,  as  he  says,  that  the  study  of 
Greek  and  Latin  kept  Mr.  Adams  from 
learning  "our  mother  tongue"?  Not  cer- 
tainly, if,  as  he  says,  he  studied  them  "  with 
patient  fidelity."  Such  a  complaint  as  this 
sounds  strangely  from  one  who  has  hadthe  op- 
portunity of  a  liberal  education.  Memorizing 
the  grammars  must  have  so  exhausted  his  fac- 
ulty of  memory,  that  he  remembers  nothing 
now  but  the  exhausting  process  of  that  memo- 


rizing, or  he  would  have  drawn  a  line  through 
that    sentence.       To    any   one    who    ever 
achieved  the  task  of  a  creditable  translation 
from   Latin   or   Greek   into   English,  there 
must  remain  a  happy  content,  and   a  con- 
sciousness that  the  process  which  was  teach- 
ing him  the  ancient  languages  was  teaching 
him  more  and  more  the  meaning  and  worth 
and  breadth  and  variety  and  elasticity  and 
richness  and  strength  and  growth  and  devel- 
opment of  his  mother  tongue.      He  could 
not  learn  a  little  of  Latin  and  Greek  without 
learning  a  little  more  of  his  own  English. 
He  could  not  learn  a  great  deal,  nor  could 
he  learn  as  much  of  those  ancient  and  now 
much-abused  languages  as  was   learned  by 
the  average  student  of  the  "  sixth  decennium 
of    the   century" — Mr.    Adams's   period  of 
mental  incubation — without  acquiring  what 
would  be  to  one  on  the  more  direct  ave- 
nues to  living  thought  and,  modern  science 
a  wondrous  addition  to  his  present  store  of 
knowledge  of  his  own  language.     A  com- 
prehension of  what  a  translation  is,  carries 
with  it  necessarily  a  revelation  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  knowledge  in  the  very  direction 
to  which  Mr.  Adams's  eyes  were  either  un- 
happily closed  or  had  never   been   happily 
opened.     You  cannot  transfer  the  thought 
that  lies  concealed  in  one  language  into  an- 
other,   without    having   your   knowledge  of 
the  other  more  widely  extended  and  more 
deeply  known.     And  the  more  complicated 
the   texture  of  the  one  language,  the  finer 
and   more   subtile   the   shades   of  meaning 
which  its  variety  of  verbal  forms  and  incre- 
ments, the  presence  or  absence  of  its  par- 
ticles, and  the  difference  in  its  phrases  afford, 
the  greater  the  difficulty  of  the  translation, 
the   more   patient  and  considerate   its   ex- 
amination,    the     more   intent    the    weigh- 
ing and  measuring  of  synonyms,  the  more 
acute  and  careful  the  separating  and  select- 
ing  the  words  that  express  the  shades  of 
meaning  in  the  language  into  which  it  must 
be  translated.      The  farther  one  has  gone 
from  his  vernacular,  the  nearer  upon  his  re- 
turn  does  he  find   himself  to  his    mother 
tongue. 

Following  the  charge  that  the   study   of 


422 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


[Oct. 


Latin  and  Greek  compelled  him  to  ignore 
his  mother  tongue,  is  the  charge  that  it  kept 
him  from  gaining  a  knowledge  of  English 
literature  and  English  composition.  Mr. 
Adams  is  not  a  sententious  writer,  and  it  may 
be  that  the  latter  sentence  is,  as  the  gram- 
marians say,  in  apposition  with  the  former, 
and  is  a  translation  of  its  meaning.  We 
read  it,  however,  as  a  new  complaint.  It 
will  so  be  to  Mr.  Adams's  credit,  if  there 
can  be  any  credit  in  such  complaints,  be- 
cause by  adding  to  his  grievances  it  increases 
the  number  of  his  reasons  for  his  position. 
It  does  not  add  a  very  good  reason,  but  it 
is  possibly  as  good  as  any  of  the  others.  If 
his  ancient  classics  did  keep  him  from  pursu- 
ing his  modern  classics,  it  is  not  lamentable. 
For  persons  of  small  capacities,  "one  thing 
at  a  time"  is  a  good  warning;  all  beginners 
are,  in  a  sense,  persons  of  small  capacities; 
and  it  certainly  is  not  a  good  thing  to  lay 
the  foundation  and  erect  the  building  at 
the  same  time.  If  both  are  to  be  done 
at  once,  the  superstructure  will  rest  partly 
upon  the  sand,  and  some  day,  when  the 
rains  descend  and  the  floods  come  and 
beat  upon  that  house,  it  will  fall.  More- 
over, the  study  of  English  literature  is  not 
a  labor,  but  a  pleasure.  Mr.  Adams  knows 
that  better  than  most  people.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ure he  has  pursued  for  most  of  the  fifty 
years  of  his  life.  It  was  what  he  was 
doing  most  of  the  time  when  he  was  in 
college,  and  was  not  exercising  in  his 
metaphorical  gymnasium  with  his  Greek 
weights.  It  was  the  Elysian  Fields  in 
whose  peaceful  shade  he  reclined  after  the 
heat  and  struggle  of  the  day,  and  it  was 
there  he  passed  so  many  of  his  hours  fhat, 
in  the  retrospect,  he  forgets  that  he  had  been 
a  slave  to  a  college  superstition,  that  he  had 
been  a  sacrifice  to  the  fetich ;  but  remembers 
the  college  terms  as  "a  pleasant  sort  of  va- 
cation, rather."  He  apologizes  for  adopting 
that  pleasanter  way  of  passing  the  hours 
when  he  says,  that  "there  is  a  considerable 
period  in  every  man's  life  when  the  best 
thing  he  can  do  is  to  let  his  mind  soak  and 
tan  in  the  vats  of  literature."  It  is  only 
the  very  young  or  the  very  unfortunate 


of  the  English-speaking  race  that  need  to 
have  English  literature  presented  to  them 
as  a  study,  or  to  whom  it  can  in  any 
sense  be  considered  a  task,  a  toil,  a  thing  to 
be  taught.  Mr.  Adams  was  not  of  either 
class.  He  needed  no  tutor  therein.  He 
did  not  need  to  take  it  as  a  required  or  as  an 
elective  study.  He  has  gone  from  Piers 
Ploughman  to  the  last  "  ephemeral  pages  of 
the  despised  review"  without  a  whip  or  spur 
to  hurry  his  steps,  without  a  rein  other  than 
his  own  taste  and  craving  for  the  finer 
thoughts  of  genius  to  guide  him.  It  is  but 
a  passing  fancy  of  his,  that  the  hours  he 
passed  at  the  shrine  of  the  fetich  kept  him 
too  long  away  from  the  lasting  delights  of 
literature. 

And  it  is  a  mistake  to  believe  that  one 
"  ignores  his  mother  tongue  "  if  he  does  not 
devote  a  great  deal  of  time  to  the  study  of 
English  literature,  or  that  the  extended  study 
of  that  literature  is  a  necessity  to  those  who 
would  best  know  their  native  tongue.  It 
is  not  the  quantity  of  food  we  eat  that  de- 
termines the  quantity  of  our  life,  so  much 
as  the  perfectness  of  its  assimilation.  Mod- 
eration is  the  assurance  of  health.  Thought 
more  than  memory  informs  and  develops  the 
mind.  Those  who  have  best  used  the  Eng- 
lish language  are,  we  think,  they  who  best 
know  it ;  and  they  who  are  recognized  as  the 
best  writers  of  the  language  are  not  always 
those  who  have  been  the  greatest  students 
and  readers  of  English  authors.  Mr.  Adams 
knows  well  enough  that  Chaucer  could  not 
have  been  a  great  student  of  English  liter- 
ature, for  there  was  almost  none  for  him  to 
study.  Spencer  and  Shakspere  and  Sir  Phil- 
ip Sidney  and  Bacon  and  Gray  and  Addison 
and  Goldsmith — masters  all  of  English  com- 
position— did  not  learn  it  in  the  way  Mr. 
Adams  complains  he  was  not  permitted  to 
learn  it.  In  fact,  if  Mr.  Adams  thinks  about 
it,  he  will  be  likely  to  shudder  as  the  conclu- 
sion will  be  forced  upon  him,  that  those  who 
have  become  English  classics  were  either 
those  who  by  native  genius  would  have  been 
great  in  any  department  in  which  they  had 
exercised  their  abilities,  or  those  who  by 
dint  of  great  study  and  familiarity  with  the 


1883.] 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


42S 


ancient  classics  gained  the  classic  touch  and 
pen. 

We  know  Mr.  Adams  will  now  jump  back 
to  his  old  ground,  and  will  say  that  we  are 
misrepresenting  him;  that  although  he 
objects  with  all  his  might  and  main  to 
people's  being  compelled  to  study  Latin  and 
Greek,  yet  if  they  will  only  study  it  hard 
enough,  it  is  the  best  thing  they  can  study. 
And  he  will  say  that  he  is  the  person  who 
delivered  the  address  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  last  June,  in  which  he  said  that 
"what  is  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth  doing 
well,"  and  it  must  have  been  his  double,  or 
he  himself  only  incidentally,  who  intimated 
that  this  study  of  the  classics  was  not  worth 
doing  at  all;  that  he  inquired  then  and  there 
"if  the  graduates  of  his  time  could  have 
passed  such  an  examination  in  Latin  and 
Greek  ....  as  should  set  at  defiance  what 
is  perfectly  well  defined  as  the  science  of 
cramming,"  and  he  said  that  if  they  could, 
he  "should  now  see  a  reason  in  the  course 
pursued  with  them";  that  he  distinctly  said, 
"  I  object  to  no  man's  causing  his  children 
to  approach  the  goal  of  a  true  liberal  educa- 
tion by  the  old,  the  time-honored  entrance. 
On  the  contrary,  I  will  admit  that  for  those 
who  travel  it  well,  it  is  the  best  entrance" — 
and  what  more  can  he  say?  that  he  asks  now 
only — &\\&hincill<zlachrim<z — "that  the  mod- 
ern entrance  should  not  be  closed."  But  there 
is  not  any  modern  entrance.  You  cannot  get 
into  the  penetralia  of  the  temple  of  the  best 
education  but  through  the  door  that  compels 
you  to  prepare  your  mind  for  the  reception 
of  these  very  things  which  he  calls  "tools  of 
his  trade,"  and  which  are  easily  gained  beside 
the  effort  needed  to  gain  the  other.  More- 
over, if,  as  Mr.  Adams  says,  the  "old,  time- 
honored  entrance"  is  the  best  entrance,  why 
does  he  want  any  one  to  go  in  by  the  next 
best  entrance,  which  may  be  a  good  way  off 
from  the  best  entrance — a  sort  of  back  door 
that  doesn't  connect  with  the  inner  courts. 
It  seems  like  trifling  for  a  man  who  has  had 
the  best  opportunities  to  try  to  make  people 
think  that  the  best  way  is  not  as  good  as 
the  next  best  way.  The  trouble  is,  that  he  is 
trying  the  harlequin  feat  of  standing  on  two 


horses  that  are  going  around  the  ring  in 
different  directions;  and  his  oration  seems  in 
this  respect  more  like  a  circus-performance 
than  a  wise  utterance  in  the  halls  of  learning. 
Mr.  Adams  now  doubtless  sees  distinctly 
that  we  did  not,  catch  all  of  his  meaning; 
that  while  the  requirement  of  the  study  of 
Latin  and  Greek  he  maintains  to  be  two 
college  fetiches,  he  has  given  up  one  of 
them,  and  is  willing  to  bow  to  the  Latin 
fetich,  but  he  never  will  give  in  to  the  Greek ; 
that  Latin  is  "a  small  matter"  any  way,  and 
is  good  because  it  is  the  mother  of  his  new 
friends,  French  and  German,  and  his  friends, 
the  modern  scientists,  cannot  get  along  with- 
out it  for  a  nomenclature,  but  that,  though 
Greek  has  played  some  part  in  that  same 
sphere,  yet  in  future  they  are  going  to  try 
to  get  along  without  it,  and  that  will  reduce 
Greek  to  utter  uselessness;  that  he  said,  be- 
sides, that  it  would  have  been  well  enough 
if  he  and  his  friends  had  been  compelled  to 
study  harder.  There  is  at  last  the  real  rea- 
son. Mr.  Adams  and  his  fellows  were  not 
treated  as  if  they  were  infants,  but  reliance 
was  placed  upon  them  by  the  college  Faculty 
in  the  fair  and  proper  hope  and  expectation 
that  they  were  like  some  others  who  could  and 
did  do  their  duty  like  men.  And  now,  thirty 
years  afterwards,  Mr.  Adams  comes  back 
and  reproaches  them  because  he  did  not 
avail  himself  of  the  opportunities  which  he 
confesses  are  the  best.  Shades  of  Walker 
and  Felton  and  Peirce  ! 

"Save us,  and  hover  o'er  us  with  your  wings, 
You  heavenly  guards!  " 

Mr.  Adams,  always  leaving  a  way  for  es- 
cape in  case,  by  reason  of  his  condemnation  of 
the  ancients,  those  who-  feel  grateful  to  them 
for  benefit  they  have  obtained  and  could 
obtain  nowhere  else,  should  attack  and  slay 
him  incontinently,  excuses  himself  this  time 
by  saying,  that  "unlike  Latin,  also,  Greek, 
partially  acquired,  has  no  modern  uses." 
Disclaim  the  position  as  he  will,  Mr.  Adams 
in  such  phrases  writes  himself  down  a  victim 
to  the  collectors  of  facts  and  not  the  builders 
of  brains.  He  harps  eternally  upon  imme- 
diate practical  use  for  everything  intellectual. 
He  despises  what  is  called  "intellectual 


424 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


[Oct. 


training,"  for  he  does  not  know  what  it  is. 
If  he  has  something  he  can  use  as  a  tool  in 
his  trade,  he  has  what  is  valuable.  If  it  can- 
not be  so  used,  it  is  of  no  value.  What  is 
the  use  of  intellectual  training?  we  seem  to 
hear  him  ask;  and  we  seem  to  hear  him 
reply,  that  it  is  a  thing  that  the  Faculty  of 
the  poor  old  college  believes  in,  that  all  the 
teachers  he  ever  had  have  talked  about,  that 
John  Adams — a  great  and  useful  man  in  his 
time,  the  greatest  and  highest  of  his  name 
— believed  in  and  established  a  school  to 
forward,  but  which,  in  these  railroad  days  of 
"  modern  life  and  living  thought,"  this  Mr. 
Adams  wants  the  men  who  stood  highest  in 
Latin  and  Greek  in  their  classes,  and  who 
therefore  were  chosen  and  do  now  compose 
the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  society,  to  understand 
is  a  dream  of  the  past.  Study  Latin  a  little, 
so  that  you  can  learn  French  and  German, 
and  you  will  be  among  the  moderns;  and 
though  they  neither  think  nor  write  better 
than  the  ancients,  nor  as  well,  yet  you  can 
handle  facts  in  which  there  is  use,  though 
you  are  not  as  well  helped  to  thinking. 

He  has  received  the  benefit  of  the  classics 
which  were  the  tools  for  building  his  brain 
so  as  'to  be  a  strong  foundation  for  his  mod- 
ern and  necessary  learning,  but  the  old  tools 
have  served  their  purpose  and  now  they  are 
useless  to  him.  and  he  has  dropped  them  or 
lost  them,  and  he  says  they  never  were  good 
for  anything.  He  expects  to  escape  from 
this  conclusion  by  asseverating  at  appropri- 
ate intervals  that,  "while  recognizing  fully 
the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  a  severe  train- 
ing in  these  mother  tongues,  I  fully  appre- 
ciate the  pleasure  those  must  have  who  en- 
joy an  easy  familiarity  with  the  authors  who 
yet  live  in  them";  but  his  side-flings  and  his 
conclusions,  which  would  otherwise  be  non 
sequiturs  to  himself,  show  that  he  not  only 
does  not  recognize  fully,  or  at  all,  "the  bene- 
fit to  be  derived  from  a  severe  training  in 
these  mother  tongues,"  nor  does  he  appre- 
ciate the  pleasure  of  any  in  their  "familiar- 
ity with  the  authors  who  yet  live  in  them," 
for  he  never  mentions  severe  training  with- 
out showing  that  he  depreciates  it,  and  he 
cannot  honestly  consider  that  a  pleasure, 


which  he  shows  he  considers  to  come  from 
"a  very  considerable  amount  of  affectation 
and  credulity."  Thomas  Jefferson  and  John 
Adams,  he  says,  have  weighed  Plato  and 
found  him  wanting,  and  he  thinks  there  is 
no  comparison  between  the  literatures  an- 
cient and  modern,  and  that  "that  is  jealous- 
ly prized  as  part  of  the  body  of  the  classics, 
which,  if  published  to-day  in  German, 
French,  or  English,  would  not  excite  a  pass- 
ing notice."  Mr.  Adams's  real  opinions  will 
be  judged  by  the  positions  he  attempts  to 
maintain,  and  his  offers  of  compassion  and 
sympathy  will  be  lightly  regarded  when  he 
"rubs  the  sore  when  he  should  bring  a  plas- 
ter." 

He  wishes  to  escape  also  the  charge 
of  narrowness,  and  the  penalty  of  being 
placed  upon  a  level  with  the  buyers  and  sell- 
ers and  the  money-changers  in  the  temple, 
by  saying  that  he  is  "not  a  believer  in  that 
narrow  scientific  and  technological  training 
which  now  and  again  we  hear  extolled.  A 
practical,  and  too  often  a  mere  vulgar, 
money-making  utility  seems  to  be  its  natural 
outcome."  Does  he  show  here  a  latent  fear 
and  consciousness  of  his  own  waywardness? 
But  he  knows  no  value  in  the  Greek  because 
it  is  of  no  modern  "use,"  and  does  love  the 
French  and  German  because  they  are  "the 
tools  of  his  trade."  His  use  of  the  latter 
phrase  is  of  course  metaphorical,  but  it  sig- 
nifies the  means  and  information  for  follow- 
ing his  profession  or  occupation  in  life.  A 
man's  profession,  or  occupation,  means  the 
method  by  which  he  supplies  his  earthly 
wants,  and  that  means  the  medium  of  ex- 
change for  those  things  which  life  depends 
on,  and  that  approaches  "vulgar,  money- 
making  utility."  The  man  who  sweeps  clear 
the  ways  of  life  of  everything  but  what  is  of 
use  may  fancy  that  he  is  still  an  intellectual 
being,  but  his  neighbors  will  be  sure,  in 
whatever  fine  phrases  he  puts  it,  that  he  cares 
more  for  what  he  shall  gain  than  for  what 
he  shall  make  of  himself  and  be.  That 
man  certainly  has  a  right  to  say,  "I  am  not 
a  scholar;  I  am  not  an  educator;  I  am  not 
a  philosopher." 

That  Mr.  Adams  is  confused,  as  one  not 


1883.] 


Small  Latin  and  Less   Greek. 


425 


understanding  the  "severe  intellectual  train- 
ing" to  which  he  briefly  and  slightingly 
alludes,  becomes  plain  from  the  way  in 
which  he  repeatedly  talks  about  knowledge, 
and  the  conclusion  that  he  evidently,  after 
his  own  modern  method  of  thinking,  has 
reached,  that  the  object  of  going  through 
college  is  to  accumulate  a  store  of  useful 
things,  facts  for  use  in  actual  life.  But  we 
meet  him  with  the  conclusions  that  most 
men  reach  after  a  course  of  collegiate  study 
— that  it  is  not  for,  and  it  is  not  desirable 
that  it  should  be  for,  the  purpose  of  gaining 
during  that  time  a  vast  or  any  considerable 
store  of  useful  knowledge;  that  the  most 
and  the  best  that  one  obtains  as  the  greatest 
reward  and  result  of  his  course  of  discipline 
is,  that  he  has  learned  the  operations  of 
his  mind,  and  has  learned  how  to  employ 
his  mind.  Briefly,  he  has  learned  how  to 
learn,  and  he  feels  it  to  be  a  blessing  out  of 
all  proportion  greater  than  the  mere  faculty 
of  reading,  writing,  and  speaking  foreign 
tongues.  If  he  has  learned  to  think  and  say 
anything  as  the  result  of  his  own  thinking  in 
his  own  tongue,  the  delay  necessary  to  get 
the  power  of  uttering  it  in  a  modern  foreign 
tongue  is  to  him,  with  his  then  attainments, 
inconsiderable.  What  is  the  need  of  his  tools 
of  trade  before  the  time  of  his  trade  is  near? 
Unless  Mr.  Adams  is  persuaded  from  his 
own  unhappy  experience  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  intellectual  discipline,  it  must 
needs  be  that  the  young  student  with  his 
three  languages  at  command  would  find  two 
of  them  -very  useless.  If  intellectual  train- 
ing, however,  is  simply  cant,  and  a  man's 
mind  is  from  the  beginning  ready  for  the 
reception  of  knowledge  and  all  that  it  can 
hold,  then  college  is,  or  in  his  view  ought  to 
be,  something  which  it  has  never  been  and 
we  trust  it  never  will  be — a  mere  place  for 
the  collection  of  facts,  each  one  of  which 
shall  be  useful,  that  is,  convertible  some  day 
into  bread  and  wine. 

When  one  rightly  talks  of  the  acquisitions 
which  a  boy  at  the  beginning  of  an  intel- 
lectual training  has,  he  cannot  designate  what 
he  has  learned  of  grammar  and  language 
as  stores  of  knowledge  for  future  use, 


any  more  than  one  can  speak  of  a  foun- 
dation of  a  dwelling  as  part  of  the  resi- 
dence until  the  whole  residence  is  built 
upon  it.  Latin  and  Greek  by  themselves 
and  simply  for  themselves  are  for  a  boy 
nothing  but  the  rocks  of  the  hills  against 
which  one  may  beat  out  his  brains,  as  the 
foundations  of  the  building,  left  without  the 
superstructure,  are  not  a  building  nor  a  part 
of  a  building,  nor  are  they  anything  by 
themselves.  The  use  of  Latin  and  Greek 
to  a  man  will  be  made  evident  by  the  super- 
structure of  man  that  he  builds  on  top  of 
them.  To  most  men  they  are  sources  of 
strength  and  consolation,  and  bases  of  future 
hope.  To  Mr.  Adams  they  are  sources  of 
dismay  and  heart-burning,  for  to  them  he 
attributes  his  failure  in  life — a  "mischief 
done"  that  is,  he  believes,  "irreparable." 

But  its  "partial  acquisition"  is  the  burden 
of  the  complaint  against  the  study  of  Greek. 
The  objection,  if  good  as  to  Greek,  is  good 
as  to  everything  ever  studied.  Practical  use 
would  come,  it  is  implied  by  Mr.  Adams,  if 
Greek  even  is  wholly  learned.  How  many 
perfect  scholars  has  it  been  Mr.  Adams's  good 
fortune  in  life  to  meet?  What  study  in  the 
world  that  is  not  more  or  less  "partially  ac- 
quired"? It  is  not  the  way  of  men  to  do 
things  save  according  to  the  finite  ability 
which  is  theirs.  If  they  cannot  acquire 
wholly,  partial  acquisition  of  anything  worth 
acquiring  is  better  than  no  acquisition  at  all. 
And  if  the  fault  attached  to  the  study 
of  Greek,  and  apparently,  in  Mr.  Adams's 
view,  inseparable  from  it,  should  remand 
that  study  back  from  the  curriculum,  what 
assurance  or  basis  of  hope  have  we  that 
the  study  of  two  or  three  modern  lan- 
guages in  their  place,  which  he  prescribes 
as  the  cure  of  the  evil,  is  not  to  be  attended 
with  like  deficiencies?  The  fault,  after  all, 
according  to  Mr.  Adams,  lies  in  the  fact 
that  students  are  not  compelled  to  learn 
their  Greek  thoroughly.  And  in  this  view 
it  does  not  become  clear  to  us  how  a 
substitution  of  two  or  three  easier  studies 
is  going  to  repair  the  difficulty,  unless  we 
become  a  sympathizer  with  Mr.  Adams  in 
his  new  fancy  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


[Oct. 


mental  discipline,  and  that  the  intellectual 
kingdom  must  yield  itself  up  prisoner  to 
the  kingdom  of  uses.  We  are  bold  enough 
to  say,  in  view  of  this  substitution  of  two  or 
three  modern  languages  in  place  of  Greek, 
that  there  is,  malgre  the  dictum  of  Mr. 
Adams,  an  eternal  discipline  of  the  facul- 
ties of  the  mind  in  the  study  of  the 
Greek  language;  that  discipline  comes  from 
any  study  in  great  degree  in  proportion  as 
that  study  is  difficult  to  master,  which  being 
mastered  carries  with  it  the  consciousness  of 
the  mastery ;  that  there  is  no  study  in  the  cur- 
riculum of  schools  of  liberal  education  that 
so  taxes  the  better  faculties  of  the  mind  as 
that  of  Greek;  that  the  best  teachers  of  it 
are  the  most  thorough  and  exacting;  that 
the  richness  of  the  language  is  so  great, 
and  the  problems  that  constantly  arise  are 
so  multitudinous,  that  the  progress  therein 
would  at  times  seem  to  tire  the  patient  slow- 
ness of  the  snail.  Many  a  candidate  at  the 
doors  of  Harvard  can  remember  the  admin- 
istrations of  a  wonderful  teacher  scarcely 
twenty-five  miles  from  Cambridge,  who  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago  held  them  almost 
daily  for  two  hours  over  the  translation  and 
examination  of  two  lines  of  the  Iliad.  We 
venture  to  say  that  the  most  of  those  hun- 
dreds, who  came  from  the  teachings  of  Dr. 
S.  H.  Taylor,  have  no  feeling  but  that  of 
gratitude  for  that  discipline  that  cultivated 
the  intellectual  and  moral  faculties  as  well. 
And  yet  they  do  not  pretend  to  have  been 
perfect  scholars,  nor  to  have  attained  in  the 
end  anything  more  than  a  partial  knowledge 
of  Greek.  But  every  day  our  Greek  car- 
ried its  discipline  and  its  lesson  and  its 
mental  and  moral  gain,  and  that  to  a  degree 
that  no  study  afterwards  undertaken  could 
surpass  or  approximate.  Mr.  Adams  does 
not  claim  for  the  study  of  French  and  Ger- 
man any  resulting  discipline;  but  one  reason 
therefor,  we  suppose,  is  because  he  smiles 
when  people  speak  of  "intellectual  train- 
ing " ;  and  another  is  that  it  does  not  give 
any  training.  Every  one  who  during  or 
after  his  college  course  has  studied  and  ac- 
quired them  sufficiently  for  the  pursuit  of 
literature  or  the  purposes  of  science  or  to 


operate  as  "  tools  of  trade,"  knows  that  there 
is  no  discipline  worth  speaking  of  in  acquir- 
ing French  or  German  or  Spanish  or 
Italian  or  their  allies  on  the  continent  of 
Europe.  These  languages  are  useful,  but 
they  are  useful  when  in  actual  use,  and  when 
not  they  are  evanescent,  like  all  easily 
acquired  learning. 

Mr.  Adams  gives  part  of  his  tears  because, 
as  he  confesses,  "I  have  now  forgotten  the 
Greek  alphabet,  and  I  cannot  read  all  the 
Greek  characters  if  I  open  my  Homer  "- 
an  impotent  conclusion  to  his  unrequired 
plodding,  "not  without  enjoyment,"  through 
the  twenty-four  books  of  the  Iliad !  But 
supposing  he  doesn't  remember  his  alphabet. 
Is  that  the  only  thing  which  he  has  forgotten 
that  he  learned  before  and  during  his  college 
course?  He  complains  that  "to  be  able  to 
follow  out  a  line  of  exact,  sustained  thought 
to  a  given  result  is  invaluable,"  and  that  "in 
my  youth  we  were  supposed  to  acquire  it 
through  the  blundering  application  of  rules 
of  grammar  in  a  language  we  did  not  under- 
stand." A  doubt  arises  as  to  whether  the 
supposition  involved  in  his  last  phrase  was 
not  a  creature  chiefly  of  his  own  brain,  and 
whether  other  purposes  were  not  involved 
in  the  application,  which  was  not  expected 
to  be  "blundering,"  of  the  rules  of  grammar. 
He  adds  in  this  connection  :  "The  training 
which  ought  to  have  been  obtained  in 
physics  and  mathematics  was  thus  sought 
for,  long  and  in  vain,  in  Greek."  We  may 
be  willing  to  yield  to  Mr.  Adams  so  far  as  to 
grant  that  he  may  not  have  acquired  the 
ability  "to  follow  out  a  line  of  exact,  sus- 
tained thought"  through  the  Greek  gram- 
mar, but  with  the  curriculum  of  Harvard  in 
the  "sixth  decennium  of  the  century"  be- 
fore us,  we  perceive  that  it  must  have  lifted 
Mr.  Adams  kindly  off  the  Greek  rack  at  the 
end  of  his  Sophomore  year.  Moreover,  it  is 
not  quite  fair  to  leave  the  world  with  the  im- 
pression that  the  Greek  was  in  the  way  of 
his  getting  "the  training"  to  follow  that  line 
of  thought  "which  ought  to  have  been  ob- 
tained in  physics  and  mathematics";  for 
mathematics  was  a  required  study  during  his 
first  two  years,  and  an  "  elective"  during  the 


1883.] 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


427 


two  remaining  years,  while  physics  was  re- 
quired during  both  Junior  and  Senior  years. 
But  we  cite  these  requisites  only  partly  to 
correct  the  impression  Mr.  Adams's  words 
would  leave,  but  chiefly  to  suggest  an  an- 
swer to  the  query,  whether  or  not  there  is 
nothing,  of  all  the  studies  of  the  course, 
that  he  has  forgotten  but  the  Greek.  Has 
he  kept  active  in  his  mind  the  ability  to 
solve  the  problems  of  mathematics  and  state 
the  truths  of  physics  that  were  to  help  him 
so  surely  on  that  line  of  sustained  thought? 
Where  are  the  Rhetoric  and  Botany  and 
Philosophy  and  History  and  Rules  of  Logic 
that  were,  once  his  ?  If  he  should  test  his 
memory  in  any  of  these  departments  of 
learning,  would  he  not  find  the  chambers  of 
his  brain,  that  were  once  full  of  living  activ- 
ities, now  for  the  most  part  sadly  silent  and 
empty?  It  is  by  such  tests  and  by  the 
knowledge  that  is  sure  to  come,  if  by  no 
quicker  consciousness,  that  Mr.  Adams 
must  finally  conclude  that  the  value  of  any 
study  does  not  depend  upon  the  power  of 
the  memory  to  retain  its  alphabet;  that 
Greek  and  Latin  best,  and  after  that  mathe- 
matics and  philosophy  and  physics,  were  the 
instruments  only  that  laid  the  foundation  of 
after  wisdom;  that  the  mind  is  the  great 
weapon  with  which  we  must  fight  the  battle, 
and  that  the  studies  which  tax  and  disci- 
pline most  variously  are  the  tools  that  temper 
and  prepare  that  weapon  for  the  fray.  The 
tools  may  be  thrown  away  or  become  lost, 
but  the  mind  has  received  the  result  of  the 
use  of  those  tools.  Some  may  be  necessary 
to  occasionally  sharpen  and  repair  the  weap- 
on. If  the  old  are  in  keeping,  they  may 
still  serve  to  do  the  work,  but  if  they  are  not, 
new  ones  may  do  as  well.  Latin  and  Greek 
and  the  studies  that  are  exacting  in  their 
demands  are  the  tools  that  best  serve  at 
first.  After  the  mind  has  become  mature, 
and  they  can  serve  no  longer  their  original 
use,  they  may  be  thrown  away  and  no  ir- 
reparable loss  be  felt.  We  contend  that  the 
use  of  the  two  ancient  languages  is  chiefly 
and  almost  solely  for  the  discipline  they  im- 
part; and  it  seems  a  singular  instance  of  lack 
of  introspection  or  ability  to  understand  the 


operations  of  one's  own  mind  or  the  progress 
of  its  development,  when  one  who  has  fol- 
lowed the  course  of  study  required  by  Har- 
vard, and  has  attained  respectable  rank  as  has 
Mr.  Adams,  even  though  it  was  done  through 
mere  memory  and  in  the  confessed  inability 
to  understand  the  studies  that  engaged  his 
attention,  utters  a  complaint  against  Latin 
and  Greek,  and  their  agency  in  his  mental 
development,  simply  because  there  is  left  of 
one  of  them  not  even  the  memory  of  its  al- 
phabet. As  well  might  the  mason  complain 
that  the  foundations  of  the  building  are  not 
well  laid,  because  he  has  lost  his  trowel  after 
the  work  was  done. 

Mr.  Adams  finds  room  to  express  another 
reason  for  his  opposition,  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  compelled  to  "learn  the  Greek  grammar 
by  heart,"  and  advances  it  as  an  argument 
for  driving  Greek  from  the  requirements  for 
admission,  in  these  words:  "In  the  next 
place,  unintelligent  memorizing  is  at  best  a 
most  questionable  educational  method.  For 
one,  I  utterly  disbelieve  in  it.  It  never  did 
me  anything  but  harm;  and  learning  by 
heart  the  Greek  grammar  did  me  harm — a 
great  deal  of  harm.  While  I  was  doing  it, 
the  observing  and  reflective  powers  lay  dor- 
mant; indeed,  they  were  systematically  sup- 
pressed." In  a  case  where  memorizing 
injures  the  mental  faculties,  instead  of  sup- 
pressing one  of  the  requisites  for  admission 
to  Harvard,  would  it  not  be  better  to  sup- 
press this  one  boy  who  performs  the  feat  of 
unintelligent  memorizing,  or  else  send  the 
lad  to  some  place  where  he  can  havj  his 
head  fixed  ?  It  does  not  seem  as  if  the  col- 
lege machinery  should  be  stopped  for  this 
reason.  But  the  other,  and  perhaps  not  less 
serious,  reason  lies  in  the  fact  that,  while  he 
was  memorizing  this  horrid  stuff,  his  "ob- 
serving and  reflective  powers  lay  dormant: 
indeed,  they  were  systematically  suppressed." 
Mr.  Adams  was  doing  this  sort  of  work 
probably  during  the  years  when  he  was  six- 
teen and  seventeen  years  old.  Then  his 
"observing  and  reflective  powers  lay  dor- 
mant"; and  if  they  had  not  lain  dormant, 
what  then?  With  one  part  of  his  mental 
machinery  going  at  such  a  fuel-eating  speed, 


428 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


[Oct. 


it  was  probably  a  method  of  relief  which 
nature  adopted.  But  it  seems  to  have 
started  up  again.  The  reason  of  our  thus 
smiling  for  a  few  lines  in  a  serious  article  lies 
in  the  apparent  distance  from  which  this  last 
argument  of  Mr.  Adams  seems  to  be  fetched. 
It  does  not  appear  worthy  any  serious  reply. 
If  he  had  slept  all  during  his  Greek  recita- 
tions, it  would  not,  from  his  present  stand- 
point, have  been  an  interruption  of  his 
mental  development. 

Mr.  Adams  appears  to  decry  the  ancient 
languages  and  literatures  only  to  get  our  at- 
tention while  he  insists  upon  the  importance 
of  the  French  and  German  as  "avenues  to 
modern  life  and  living  thought"  of  to-day. 
He  believes  these  are  much  more  important 
than  the  old  wisdom.  He  says,  "I  would 
rather  learn  something  daily  from  the  living 
who  are  to  perish,  than  daily  muse  with  the 
immortal  dead."  He  expresses  dislike  for 
the  "platitudes  of  Cicero,"  and  we  do  not 
like  the  platitudes  of  Mr.  Adams.  He 
speaks  as  if  what  the  living  write  was  all  im- 
mortal, and  as  if  the  great  truths  uttered  by 
the  dead  had  fully  served  their  purpose. 
"Modern  thought  as  it  finds  expression  even 
in  the  ephemeral  pages  of  the  despised  re- 
view," is  the  pabulum  he  most  craves.  He 
wants  to  know  the  news  from  the  halls  of 
science,  and  in  doing  so  he  craves  what  he 
knows  to  be  mostly  "ephemeral,"  as  if  no 
new  conjecture  of  science  could  temporarily 
escape  him  with  safety  to  his  mental  health. 
He  says,  "No  man  can  keep  pace  with  that 
wonderful  modern  thought";  yet  he  himself 
will  find  happiness  amidst  the  eternal  bustle 
where  things  are  lively.  But  it  here  seems 
as  if  the  "observing  and  reflective  powers" 
of  Mr.  Adams  were  still  a  little  dormant. 
The  essential  news  of  science  can  be  kept 
up  with,  and  if  all  of  what  he  calls  "modern 
thought"  cannot  be,  we  know  that  it  is  not 
at  all  desirable  that  it  should  be.  Modern 
thought  includes  the  guesses  and  specula- 
tions and  crudities  of  scientists,  that  no  one 
needs,  or  should  attempt  to  keep  up  with, 
outside  of  his  specialty.  The  conclusions  of 
science,  the  matured  speculations,  the  new 
discoveries  and  inventions,  the  results  of  the 


best  scientific  thinKtng,  are  all  that  any  man 
should  wish  for.  The  maturing  thought  of 
to-day  need  not  engage  us,  but  the  matured 
thought  that  will  remain  to-morrow  will  de- 
light us.  How  much  real  wisdom  accumu- 
lates daily?  and  how  often  does  there  come 
an  inspired  word  from  the  tongue  of  modern 
science  ? 

The  truth  of  this  year  will  not  perish  with 
the  year,  and  if  anything  that  has  the  sem- 
blance of  truth  seems  to  have  a  flitting  life 
and  dies,  it  has  no  right  to  gain  our  affec- 
tions and  take  up  our  time,  and  shall  not. 
And  as  truth  and  its  semblances  are  to-day 
mostly  indistinguishable,  we  need  not  fret 
that  we  do  not  clutch,  not  knowing,  the 
truth,  but  can  and  had  better  wait  until  to- 
morrow, when  the  truth  will  be  alive  and  be 
known,  and  the  semblances  will  have  disap- 
peared among  the  shadows.  So  many  more 
are  there  of  semblances  in  the  history  of 
modern  scientific  thought  than  of  realities, 
that  though  the  air  seemed  full  last  night  in 
the  darkness,  the  morning  sunshine  has  dis- 
pelled them  to-day,  and  the  living  truths  are 
few.  And  we  can  see  again  the  mists  gath- 
ering, and  among  them  appear  many  mon- 
sters that  we  know  may  prove  little,  familiar 
truths.  In  this  repeated  experience  of  the 
progress  of  modern  thought,  the  lesson  to  be 
learned  is  simple  enough.  All  of  last  year's 
tidings  that  are  good  and  great  can  be  gath- 
ered in  a  little  space,  and  read  and  learned 
and  made  our  own  within  the  limit  of  a  few 
short  hours.  We  need  not  then  heed  all  of 
to-day's  speculations,  nor  worry  ourselves  to 
keep  up  with  modern  thought,  for  all  of  this 
year's  news  will  next  year  be  garnered  and 
kept,  and  no  essential  truth  will  escape.  We 
can  wait  until  to-morrow,  then,  for  the  real 
news  of  to-day.  Mr.  Adams  need  not  re- 
mind us  that  this  "modern  life  and  living 
thought"  is  expressed  in  the  continental 
languages  and  not  in  our  own,  for  it  is  not. 
That  fraction  which  is,  and  is  worth  knowing, 
does  not  long  remain  locked  up  in  any  for- 
eign tongue ;  in  this  age  there  is  no  great 
truth  but  speedily  will  burst  its  local  barriers 
of  speech  and  become  universal. 

While  we  admit  that  after  the  end  of  his 


1883.] 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


429 


preparation  for  the  activity  of  life,  it  may  be 
well  for  the  once  student  to  have  passes  for 
occasional  excursions,  to  use  one  of  Mr. 
Adams's  figures,  up  the  "avenues  to  modern 
life  and  living  thought,"  when  they  are  found 
only  beyond  the  borders  of  his  native  speech, 
or,  to  use  the  other  of  Mr.  Adams's  figures 
for  the  same  idea,  to  be  possessed  of  for- 
eign "tools  of  trade"  and  a  knowledge  how 
to  use  them,  yet  we  insist  that  before  he 
enters  and  for  the  first  years  of  his  stay  in 
college  he  needs  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  The  best  and  chief  mission  of  the 
boy  to  college  is  to  shape  his  mind.  After 
that  has  been  exercised  by  severe  studies  it 
will  become  formed  for  the  attainment  of 
knowledges  which  shall  be  useful.  If  one 
expects  to  use  the  mind  as  an  instrument  to 
obtain  knowledge,  he  cannot  reasonably  frit- 
ter away  his  opportunities  for  the  perfection 
of  his  instrument  by  attempting  to  put  it  to 
use  before  it  has  been  completely  subjected 
to  the  proper  process  and  period  for  forming 
it.  The  student  before  and  during  his  first 
years  has  only  a  boy's  mind,  a  sensitive, 
plastic,  impressionable  material,  taking  on 
powers  of  action  and  receptivity  as  it  is  pa- 
tiently subjected  to  the  best  formative  agen- 
cies. Minds  differ  in  their  capacity  and 
susceptibility  to  being  formed  by  processes 
of  discipline.  Some  early,  and  after  a  brief 
course  of  discipline,  feel  and  conform  to  its 
best  influences  and  may  be  ready  to  receive 
gradually  that  which  is  called  useful,  though 
still  subjected  to  disciplinary  studies;  but 
most  young  minds  are  immature,  and  have 
unknown  possibilities  of  culture,  and  should 
remain  to  the  latest  period  under  the  rigid 
influence  of  these  studies  which  most  tax 
their  patient  industry,  investigation,  and 
thought.  Among  the  former  are  certainly 
not  those  who  "memorize  unintelligently," 
who  do  not  understand  the  lessons  they 
learn,  who  do  "not  understand  themselves 
nor  know  what  they  want." 

It  seems  folly  to  talk  of  expecting  such  as 
these  to  be  put  to  learning  modern  lan- 
guages for  use,  when  they  have  not  a  mind 
mature  enough  to  learn,  or  to  use  anything 
intelligently.  A  student  at  college  wants  no 


increased  "avenues  to  modern  life  and  liv- 
ing thought."  He  wants  to  know  first  the 
ancient  life  and  to  find  an  avenue  to  his 
own  thoughts.  He  wants  most  of  all  to 
learn  the  use  of  his  own  mind,  to  attain  to 
the  process  of  thinking,  perceiving,  examin- 
ing, judging,  weighing,  reasoning,  before  he 
wants  any  accumulation  of  knowledge  to 
use,  or  misuse,  or  disuse.  Prepare  first  the 
instrument  so  that  it  can  use  whatever  is 
useful.  The  things  to  be  used  are,  then,  of 
trifling  labor  to  attain.  That  his  pet  tools 
can  be  so  attained  is  proved  by  Mr.  Adams 
himself.  He  asks  feelingly,  "  How  many 
students  during  the  past  thirty  years  have 
graduated  from  Harvard  who  could  read 
Horace  and  Tacitus  and  Juvenal,  as  num- 
bers now  read  Goethe  and  Mommsen  and 
Heine?"  In  endeavoring  to  make  a  point 
against  the  Latin,  he  thus  finds  himself 
showing  that,  however  the  "  superstition " 
affected  his  career,  the  same  experience 
worked  no  mischief,  in  the  case  of  "  num- 
bers," which  was  "irreparable." 

It  is  an  added  and  a  consolatory  value  in 
those  ancient  languages,  to  most  students, 
that  they  preserve  for  us  literature  that 
almost  everybody  but  Mr.  Adams  considers 
immortal.  But  we  will  not  contend  with 
him  upon  this  point.  What  he  says  of  it 
sounds  like  a  kind  of  spiteful,  final  fling  at  a 
couple  of  old  dead  things  that  he  would 
have  all  of  us  think  never  were  good  for  any- 
thing. He  thinks  there  is  "a  very  consider- 
able amount  of  affectation  and  credulity  in 
regard  to  the  Greek  and  Latin  master- 
pieces"; that  "there  are  immortal  poets 
whose  immortality  is  wholly  due  to  the  fact 
that  they  lived  two  thousand  years  ago"; 
that  he  would  "rather  be  familiar  with  the 
German  tongue  and  its  literature  than  be 
equally  familiar  with  the  Greek";  and  he  is 
"  unable  to  see  how  an  intelligent  man  having 
any  considerable  acquaintance  with  the  two 
literatures  can,  as  respects  either  richness  or 
beauty,  compare  the  Latin  with  the  French." 
With  pur  view  of  the  great  use  of  the  two 
ancient  languages,  we  do  not  think  it  of  any 
great  consequence  what  is  the  comparative 
value  of  the  literatures  of  ancient  or  modern 


430 


Small  Latin  and  Less  Greek. 


[Oct. 


times.  Certainly,  those  of  ancient  times 
need  not  our  indorsement  to  maintain  their 
position  among  the  wisest  works  of  mankind. 
Not  the  limits  of  a  magazine  article,  but 
whole  libraries,  would  be  necessary  to  hold 
all  the  commendations  of  them  that  have 
come  from  the  best  and  greatest  minds. 
They  stand  like  a  solid  wall  before  the  face 
of  civilization,  and  against  them  Mr.  Adams 
may,  if  he  will,  butt  his  head. 

This  attack  upon  classical  education  by 
the  advocates  of  what  they  call  useful  learn- 
ing, which  learning  appears  to  be  useful  only 
as  its  sounds  mingle  with  daily  clang  of 
active  life,  is  intermittent.  They  keep  feed- 
ing the  fires  of  opposition,  and  at  intervals  it 
bursts  into  flame;  though  we  believe  no  other 
modern  Prometheus,  bearing  a  torch  lighted 
at  the  fire  of  this  new  heaven,  has  dared, 
recently,  to  attack  classic  learning  in  its  own 
stronghold,  yet  the  watchmen  are  in  waiting. 
And  at  one  of  the  summer  gatherings  of  edu- 
cated men  held  one  week  before  the  address 
by  Mr.  Adams,  the  orator  of  the  occasion 
spoke  his  mind  finely  and  briefly  thus: 
"There  is  spme  confusion  in  the  common 
mind  concerning  what  constitutes  the  higher 
education  of  which  we  hear  so  much.  That 
education  only  which  looks  upon  man  im- 
aginatively, kindles  his  mental  power,  in- 
spires his  reason,  and  binds  his  will  in  the 
happy  freedom  of  self-control,  can  be  called 
the  higher  education.  It  may  not  be  techni- 
cal or  professional,  but  human.  It  may  not 
be  impractical,  but  it  must  be  ideal.  The 
truth  that  fronts  the  sun,  undazzled  in  that 
insufferable  light,  is  that  man  is  greater 
than  anything  he  does,  and  treating  him 
prosaically  and  practically  only  is  like  apply- 
ing the  surveyor's  chain  to  the  sunrise  or 
undertaking  to  find  the  square  acres  of  the 
beauty  of  the  world." 

In  this  expression  at  the  centennial  cele- 
bration at  Exeter,  Dr.  Horatio  Stebbins 
seems  to  have  placed  himself  on  the  side  of 
John  Adams,  who  endowed  an  academy, 
and  made  a  special  provision  that  "a  school- 


master should  be  procured  learned  in  the 
Greek  and  Roman  languages,  and,  if  thought 
advisable,  the  Hebrew";  of  John  Quincy 
Adams,  who  so  reverenced  the  ancients  that 
"in  lectures  and  formal  orations  he  modeled 
himself  on  Demosthenes  and  Cicero";  of 
Charles  Francis  Adams,  the  father  of  the 
orator,  who  learned  German  first,  and  forgot 
it,  and  learned  Greek  afterward,  the  reverse 
of  the  method  his  son  would  adopt ;  of  the 
Faculty  of  Harvard,  a  learned  and  respec- 
table body  of  gentlemen  who  believe  in 
culture  first  and  utility  afterwards ;  and — 
of  some  others  beside.  Mr.  Adams  rever- 
ences his  ancestors  in  matters  wherein  he 
agrees  with  them,  but  has  a  wisdom  that 
laughs  at  their  folly  concerning  education. 
Their  experience  of  the  "fetich"  did  not 
deter  them  from  advising  a  repetition  of  it 
for  their  descendants,  as  if  it  were  a  bless- 
ing. 

Mr.  Adams  is  firm  in  his  position,  and  is  not 
to  be  put  down  by  the  opinions  of  any.  The 
man  who  reasons  without  reasons  will  pooh- 
pooh  at  all  the  universities,  domestic  or  for- 
eign, in  the  world.  To  the  assertion  that 
"the  compulsory  study  of  Greek  has  not 
been  discontinued  in  foreign  colleges,"  he 
"  holds  it  sufficient  to  reply  that  we  have  to 
deal  with  America,  and  not  with  Germany 
or  France  or  Great  Britain,"  because  their 
"educational  and  social  conditions,  home 
life,  and  schools"  are  "different."  But  do 
students  there  need  any  different  education  ? 
Education  means  primarily  and  always  a 
"leading  forth"  of  the  faculties,  and  the 
things  "different,"  cited  to  excuse  Mr. 
Adams  from  meeting  the  force  of  the  fact, 
do  not  remove  the  need  of  educating  hu- 
man beings  having  similar  faculties  and  the 
necessity  of  meeting  essentially  the  same 
wants  in  life  as  the  graduates  of  Harvard, 
in  the  same  way.  With  Mr.  Adams,  not 
"small  Latin  and  less  Greek"  shall  here- 
after produce  our  Shaksperes,  but  large 
Latin  or  no  Latin  at  all,  and  no  Greek  in 
the  world. 

George  B.  Merrill. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


431 


ANNETTA. 


XVII. 


AN  unerring  instinct  told  Annetta  exactly 
what  Tom  dumbly  prayed,  in  his  terrible 
strait,  to  hear.  Nay,  more  :  it  told  her  that 
no  garrulous  reassurances,  no  hopefulness 
merely  of  the  lips,  would  serve.  She  listened 
for  some  murmur  of  cheer,  and  caught  only 
mutterings  of  curiosity,  of  horror. 

"Sis?" — huskily.  •  "I  am  going— hold  me 
back."  That  faintness  was  as  the  faintness 
of  death. 

She  knelt  beside  him  and  seized  a  hand, 
holding  it  hard. 

"Think,  dear,  how  frightfully  mangled 
Barney  Flynn  was  when  they  brought  him 
into  camp  last  spring.  We  did  not  dream 
that  he  could  live  an  hour." 

"Yet  he's  none  the  worse  for  his  hurt 
now."  He  caught  eagerly  at  that  poor  string 
to  stay  his  heart  by. 

"None  the  worse,"  she  agreed.  "Why, 
he  doesn't  even  limp." 

A  stir  and  bustle  at  the  outer  edge  of  the 
still  enlarging  crowd  began  to  thrill  inward. 
It  brought  to  Annetta's  anxious  sight  a  short, 
stout  man,  ruddy  of  face,  unwieldy  of  figure 
— the  surgeon. 

"What  have  we  here?  what  have  we 
here?" 

He  asked,  but  did  not  listen  to  such  re- 
sponse as  Tom  could  make,  or  any  other. 
He  laid  firm,  investigating  hands  upon  those 
crushed  limbs,  and  found  for  himself  the 
answer  sought. 

"Humph!" — straightening  up  and  eying 
his  patient  with  professional  disfavor — "did 
you  think  your  bones  were  tough  as  cobble- 
stones, young  man?" 

Bartmore,  to  whom  the  new-comer  had 
brought  a  certain  degree  of  courage  and  con- 
fidence, acknowledged  this  grim  pleasantry 
by  the  .ghost  of  a  smile. 

"I'm  better  than  a  dozen  dead  men,  yet; 
eh,  Doctor?" 


If  the  query  was  intended  to  draw  forth 
some  decided  expression  of  opinion,  if  it 
was  accompanied  with  a  glance  sharp  enough 
to  have  found  and  read  the  slightest  change 
in  the  surgeon's  countenance,  it  failed  to 
provoke  aught  save  a  perfunctory  reassur- 
ance. 

"Better  than  twenty,  for  that  matter.  We 
will  get  you  home  immediately." 

In  saying  this,  why  should  the  speaker's 
glance  wander  from  Tom  to  Annetta?  She 
divined  that  he  wished  a  word  with  her  in 
private,  and  followed  him  as  he  fell  back. 
She  was  right.  The  nearest  of  the  throng 
having  been  made  to  intervene  as  a  wall  be- 
tween them  and  any  troublesome  overhear- 
ing, the  surgeon  said,  placidity  at  his  lips,  a 
shrewd  measuring  and  weighing  gleam  in  his 
black  eyes: 

"Tell  me  exactly  how  far  it  is  from  here 
to  your  house." 

The  hurried  drive  thither  having  been 
void  of  any  outward  impressions,  Annetta 
could  not  answer. 

"The  gentleman  who  brought  me" — she 
began,  stopping  to  glance  around  with  a 
tense,  white  calm,  until  she  found  the  looked- 
for  face  at  her  very  side. 

The  person  thus  dumbly  invited  and 
urged  replied  promptly  to  the  surgeon's 
query.  Annetta  was  then  vouchsafed  the 
following  guarded  opinion : 

"I  think,  madam,  with  proper  care,  the 
distance  being  short,  we  may  get  your  hus- 
band home  alive." 

It  is  doubtful  whether  a  mistake  in  regard 
to  relationship,  which  Annetta  had  joyously 
laughed  at  before  now,  was  even  mentally 
recorded.  Her  pupils  dilated,  and  her  nos- 
trils quivered  over  the  fearful  meaning  she 
was  quick  to  gather  from  the  surgeon's 
words.  But  she  betrayed  none  of  the 
dreaded  femininet  symptoms  of  giving  way. 
Nothing  could  be  freer  from  tremor  than 
her  voice  as,  going  back  to  Tom's  side,  she 


432 


Annetta. 


[Oct. 


replied  to  him,  when,  imperious  of  tone  and 
of  eye,  he  endeavored  to  draw  from  her  all 
that  had  been  said. 

"The  verdict,  sis — what  is  it?" 

"You  are  in  no  immediate  danger.  Mr. 
Elston  is  waiting  to  drive  me  on  ahead." 

Annetta's  first  glimpse  of  the  house  showed 
it  open  and  lighted.  The  garden,  which  she 
had  left  quite  deserted,  was  plentifully 
sprinkled  with  groups  of  people  whom  the 
bad  news,  traveling  with  its  proverbial  rapid- 
ity, had  brought  together.  As  one  might 
anticipate  in  such  a  neighborhood,  the  rude 
shapes  of  laborers  predominated  over  gen- 
teeler  figures;  nor  were  women  with  shawls 
over  their  heads  and  children  at  their  skirts 
wanting.  Among  these  sympathizers  the 
very  worst,  that  superlative  being  far  more 
dramatic  than  its  comparative,  was  taken  for 
granted,  and  the  ejaculations  all  pointed 
to  an  acceptance  of  Bartmore's  death.  In 
strange  contrast  this  to  the  desperate  cling- 
ing of  Annetta's  thoughts  to  the  old  saying, 
"While  there's  life,  there's  hope." 

Staying  to  answer  a  score  of  crowding 
questions  only  by  declaring  that  her  brother 
still  lived,  and  would  soon  be  there,  the  girl 
flitted  indoors.  Had  Tom's  longer  lease  of 
existence  been  entirely  dependent  upon  her 
exertions,  she  could  not  have  been  more 
zealous  in  arranging  his  bed-chamber  accord- 
ing to  the  surgeon's  directions  for  that 
sorrowful  reception.  At  sight  of  Maggy's  un- 
disguised anxiety  and  perturbation,  she  said: 

"We  must  not  think  of  ourselves  for  one 
instant." 

A  hollow  moaning  and  groaning  from  the 
garden  soon  sent  her  flying  thither.  But 
Tom  was  not  yet  at  hand.  A  boy  on  horse- 
back had  stopped  at  the  front  fence  to  in- 
quire if  that  was  the  way  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Bartmore's  stable,  and  a  second  animal 
which  he  led  was  instantly  discovered  to  be 
none  other  than  Nelly. 

"  I  knowed,  begorra ! "  mumbled  Jerry 
McArdle,  "as  the  vicious  baste  wud  be 
afther  killin'  the  poor  boss  wan  day  or 
d'other — an'  a  more  ginerous  man  niver 
seen  the  botthom  iv  a  schooner  o'  beer ! " 

To  either  part  of  his  assertion  other  ex- 


clamations were  added  of  like  portent. 
Concerning  Nelly,  there  came  a  shrill  fem- 
inine suggestion  that  the  "depredatin' 
crayther"  be  shot. 

But  hark !  what  solemn  sounds  were  those 
drawing  near  and  nearer  through  the  fallen 
night?  How  many  false  alarms  soever  there 
had  been,  who  could  doubt  the  genuineness 
of  this?  How  impossible  for  hearts  in 
human  bosoms  not  to  beat  thickly  and  hard, 
answering  so  the  muffled  and  measured  thud 
of  heavy  footfalls!  What  a  home-coming 
for  him  whose  vigorous  motions  were  known 
wherever  he  was  known. 

Gotten  upon  his  bed,  Bartmore  groaned 
deeply  and  fell  away  into  unconsciousness. 
Was  this  the  last?  Annetta  feared  it,  and 
would  have  flung  her  factitious  courage  to 
the  winds,  but  Dr.  Jory  rebuked  her  with  a 
roughness  born  of  his  responsibilities.  She 
erred  no  more. 

Rallying  after  a  while,  Tom  seemed  quite 
bright,  even  cheerful.  He  nodded  to  one 
friend  and  another  crowding  about,  but  when 
Dr.  Bernard  arrived,  breathless  with  haste, 
having  just  heard  of  the  accident,  a  deeper 
feeling — a  mournful  conviction — manifested 
itself. 

"You  see  my  turn's  come  first,  after  all, 
Jim,"  Bartmore  said,  probably  referring  to 
some  conversation  held  between  them.  The 
smile  with  which  this  was  accompanied  de- 
ceived no  one. 

Dr.  Jory  interposed  his  authority,  forbade 
further  talking,  and  had  the  room  cleared  of 
all  save  such  as  were  needed  for  immediate 
attendance. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  surgeon  had  gone  home, 
leaving  an  old  woman  of  the  neighborhood 
installed  as  nurse.  Annetta  sat  silent  and 
watchful  beside  the  bed,  except  when  called 
away  to  answer  the  inquiries  made  touching 
Tom's  condition  by  some  belated  friend. 
Let  the  summons  from  the  front  door  be 
never  so  soft  and  guarded,  Bartmore  was 
sure  to  hear  it. 

"  Maybe  it's  Bell,"  he  would  say  excitedly. 
"Bring  him  right  in,  sis."  And  more  than 
once  he  reiterated,  "  He'll  be  out  the  mo- 
ment the  news  reaches  him." 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


433 


Truth  to  tell,  Bartmore's  terror  of  instant 
death  having  been  assuaged,  he  found  him- 
self racked  by  business  anxieties,  by  dread 
of  the  to-morrows  when  he  must  lie  there 
and  know  his  work,  if  not  at  a  standstill, 
yet  not  progressing  as  he  would  have  it. 

Three  hours  past  midnight,  Tom  being 
then  in  a  troubled  doze,  Annetta  felt  rather 
than  heard  a  muffled  step  in  the  hallway, 
and  was  gone  like  a  shadow  from  her  place. 
She  encountered  Rodney  Bell  in  the  dining- 
room. 

"The  front  door  was  ajar,"  he  explained. 

"  I  left  it  so  that  you  might  enter  without 
ringing.  Tom  is  quieter  just  now.  He  has 
been  wild  to  see  you.  I  fancy  he  will  feel 
calmer  after  you  and  he  have  had  a  business 
chat." 

And  Annetta's  eyes  hung  with  heaven 
knows  what  of  hopefulness  upon  the  fresh 
young  face,  to  which  her  words  had  brought, 
even  in  that  very  moment,  an  accession  of 
self-importance. 

"  It's  that  darn  contract,  of  course.  He 
wants  me  to  push  it  through  for  him,  I  sup- 
pose," Rodney  said,  busying  a  thumb  and 
finger  about  his  upper  lip,  his  voice  uncon- 
sciously rising. 

Annetta  whispered,  "Hush!"  and  he 
dropped  again  into  tones  suited  to  the  dim 
light,  the  hour,  and  Tom's  condition. 

"Twas  the  mare,  wasn't  it,  Annetta?  I 
knew  she'd  get  away  with  him  sooner  or 
later.  What  surgeon  have  you?  Pentfield's 
the  best." 

"Dr.  Jory." 

"  He  doesn't  compare  with  Pentfield. 
Why,  I  never  heard  of  him  before.  What 
does  he  say?" 

"  Nothing." 

"Pentfield  would  tell  you  plainly  in  the 
start.  What  has  he  done?" 

"Nothing  yet.  He  will  bring  another 
surgeon  for  consultation  in  the  morning." 

"I'd  dismiss  him  and  send  for  Pentfield. 
How  did  it  happen,  anyway?  I  was  just 
coming  out  of  the  theater  with — ahem! — 
Miss  Wicks,  when  Bosley  Jones  told  me 
that  both  Tom's  legs  were  cut  clean  off  by 
the  truck — or  car:  which  was  it?" 
VOL.  II.— 28. 


"The  half-past-five  Mission-bound  car, 
Rodney,  crowded  from  platform  to  platform. 
He  was  thrown  between  the  wheels,  you 
know." 

"  Bosley  had  his  version  from  Lem  Whit- 
more,  who  had  seen  Ben  Leavitt,  who  had 
been  here.  They  got  the  story  twisted 
somehow.  Bernard  corrected  things.  I 
saw  him  after  I  had  taken  Miss  Wicks  home. 
Had  to  take  her  home.  That's  what 
helped  to  make  me  so  late.  Hark!  Who's 
that  ?  " 

Bartmore  ;  he  was  calling,  "  Sis  !     Sis  !  " 

The  business  talk  held  at  that  untoward 
hour  did  not  last  so  long  as  Annetta  had  an- 
ticipated. She  left  Rodney  with  her  brother 
while  she  ran  up-stairs  to  see  that  all  was  in 
readiness  in  the  room  designed  for  her  guest. 
When  she  hurried  down,  young  Bell  had  al- 
ready thrown  himself  upon  the  dining-room 
lounge. 

"  Let  me  sleep  here,  Annetta,"  he  said, 
drowsily.  "  I'm  too  tired,  'pon  honor,  to 
stir."  And  he  presently  forgot  his  employer's 
terrible  needs  in  sweet,  calm-breathing  slum- 
ber. 

He  rose  fresh  and  buoyant  in  the  morning 
to  go  ou.t  with  the  teams.  The  entire  super- 
intendence of  Bartmore's  street-work  had 
been,  perforce,  intrusted  to  him. 

"The  only  man  alive  who  could  take 
right  hold  understandingly,"  Bartmore  de- 
clared. 

Dr.  Jory  arrived  at  eleven  o'clock  to  find 
a  confrere  awaiting  him.  That  was  a  dread- 
ful half-hour  during  which  the  two  walked 
the  parlor,  talking  in  tones  sounding  loud 
and  excited  even  from  behind  closed  doors. 
Perhaps  they  reached  no  conclusion.  None 
was  ever  known.  The  strange  surgeon 
walked  out  of  the  parlor  and  the  house. 
Dr.  Jory  merely  remained  to  prescribe  a 
tonic  and  to  give  certain  dietetic  directions, 
and  went,  promising  to  call  again  toward 
evening. 

Many  persons  came  and  went.  Few  were 
admitted  to  see  Tom,  but  Annetta  spoke 
with  all,  answering  their  thousand  and 
one  questions  with  indefatigable  interest. 
Evening  brought  scores  of  visitors,  among 


434 


Annetta. 


[Oct. 


whom  were  two -who  had  evidently  come  to 
stay. 

Why  should  Annetta's  heart  sink  down 
so  dismally  at  sight  of  that  mangy  gray 
overcoat,  that  sleek,  old-fashioned  fur  vic- 
torine  with  cuffs  to  match,  and  their  respect- 
ive wearers? 

"The  last  time  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Calson 
visited  us,  it  was  to  attend  my  poor  sister's 
funeral."  So  Annetta  told  Rodney  Bell,  in 
a  little  outburst  of  melancholy  confidence. 
"She  had  been  to  visit  them  only  a  fortnight 
before.  Poor  Carrie !  When  her  physician 
ordered  her  to  leave  town,  Tom  immediate- 
ly packed  her  and  me  off  to  the  Calsons  in 
Haywards.  Such  a  month  as  we  passed 
there!" 

But  by  the  time  this  was  saying,  Calson 
and  his  wife  were  both  quite  at  home  in  the 
sick-room.  Far  from  sharing  his  sister's 
feelings  concerning  them,  Tom  seemed  to 
derive  comfort  and  satisfaction  from  their 
continuing  presence.  But  Rodney  Bell 
soon  came  to  agree  with  Annetta,  and  quite 
heartily. 

"I  don't  like  them,"  he  said,  vigorously. 
"The  woman's  got  lots  of  venom  under  those 
white  lips  of  hers;  and  the  man — well,  he 
needn't  fancy  he  can  oust  me  from  Tom's 
favor." 

Then  Annetta  further  accounted  for  her 
repulsion  by  a  reminiscence. 

"Poor  Carrie  used  to  have  bad  days,  when 
she  would  lie  abed.  Mrs.  Calson  would 
stalk  into  her  room  as  cold  and  unsympa- 
thetic as — ice,  I  was  going  to  say,  but  that 
melts  sometime  or  other.  'You  ought  to 
git  up  and  bustle  'round,'  she  would  declare. 
'I'd  'a'  been  dead  long  ago  if  I  hadn't  more 
spunk  than  you  have.  Livin's  often  only  a 
question  of  spunk.'  Then,  too,  Carrie's 
doctor  having  ordered  her  to  take  a  fresh 
egg  in  a  glass  of  port  every  morning,  noth- 
ing would  do  but  Mrs.  Calson  must  herself 
prepare  the  dose.  She  would  fetch  in  the 
tumbler,  slap  it  down  on  the  breakfast-table 
anywhere,  and  cry,  without  looking  at  any- 
body, 'There's  your  stuff!'  Carrie  always 
declared  that  the  eggs  were  stale.'  Many  a 
time  I've  seen  her  swallowing  tears  with  her 


wine.  I  told  Tom  once ;  but  the  Calsons 
treated  him  so  generously  that  he  wouldn't 
believe  a  word  of  it." 

John  Calson's  face,  though  unpleasant 
enough  to  Annetta,  was  not  without  a  cer- 
tain rugged  agreeableness  which  pleased 
most  people.  He  considered  himself  a 
marvelous  maker  of  mirth,  and  when  he  be- 
gan to  laugh  at  his  own  jests,  he  kept  it  up 
until  listeners  were  fain  to  join  him.  Young 
women  were  by  him  regarded  as  choice  sub- 
jects for  coarse  pleasantries  of  no  uncertain 
type.  This  fact  alone  was  sufficient  to  ac- 
count for  Annetta's  dislike.  The  relations 
she  regarded  as  peculiarly  sacred  were  by 
him  constantly  profaned.  Now,  indeed, 
Tom's  suffering  presence  was  no  hindrance 
to  a  query,  broken  by  creaking  sounds  sup- 
posed to  be  expressive  of  laughter,  as  to 
whether  she  had  or  had  not  yet  picked  out 
a  man  to  "own  her."  Did  Mrs.  Calson  ob- 
ject to  her  husband's  way  of  looking  at  mar- 
riage? Not  a  bit  of  it.  The  climax  was  put 
to  Annetta's  secret  indignation  upon  seeing 
that  pale,  bloodless  creature  writhe  as  if  in 
pain  and  laboriously  bring  forth  a  lip-distort- 
ing smile. 

The  girl  hurried  from  the  room  and  tried 
to  forget  resentment  in  zeal  for  her  unwel- 
come guests'  entertainment. 

Hope  had  meanwhile  grown  in  her  heart 
for  Tom;  and  in  other  hearts. 

"If  they  were  going  to  butcher  him,  they'd 
have  done  it  immediately,"  Rodney  Bell  de- 
clared, with  an  air  of  thoroughly  understand- 
ing the  case. 

'In  spite  of  his  glaring  self-sufficiency,  this 
youth  was  a  positive  comfort  to  Annetta 
these  weary  days  and  nights  of  waiting  and 
watching.  He  was  so  full  of  hope  and 
courage,  so  confident  of  his  own  powers. 
Didn't  Tom  believe  in  him,  depend  upon 
him?  Besides,  his  manner  toward  her  was 
frankly  fraternal,  save  when  some  pulse  of 
juvenile  ardor  prompted  to  sudden  warmth 
of  look  or  word.  Let  the  prompting  come, 
and  he  obeyed  it  wherever  he  might  be. 

"  You  don't  mean  anything,  of  course,  you 
foolish  boy,"  Annetta  scolded.  "Nobody 
knows  that  so  well  as  I,  yet  I  had  to  endure 


1883.] 


Annctta. 


Mrs.  Calson's  air  of  virtuous  indignation  for 
two  mortal  hours  after  your  kiss-throwing 
this  morning." 

"Pooh,  pooh!"  cried  the  irrepressible 
Rodney.  "I'd  throw  old  Ma'am  Calson 
herself  a  kiss,  but  'twould  curdle  when  it 
reached  those  vinegar  lips.  What  do  you 
care  for  her  airs?" 

"She  forces  me  to  care  for  her,"  returned 
Annetta,  sighing.  "I  would  dearly  love  to 
be  alone  sometimes  with  poor  Tom,  but 
she's  forever  thinking  of  things  for  me  to  do 
in  other  parts  of  the  house.  She  seems  to 
feel  that  my  place  is  in  the  kitchen.  If  I 
cook  anything  I  fancy  he  will  like  and  carry 
it  in,  do  you  imagine  she  will  let  me  feed 
him?  Not  she.  I  wouldn't  give  her  the 
dish  of  cream  toast  last  night,  and  she 
dragged  it  out  of  my  hand." 

Nor  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Calson  the  sole 
persons  who  troubled  Annetta's  peace.  No 
visitor  was  more  frequent  than  Colonel  Fau- 
nett.  He  had  been  burying  his  wife,  wore 
a  broad  weed  upon  his  hat,  and  omnivagant 
freedom  in  his  black  eyes.  Than  his  be- 
havior and  conversation,  nothing,  however, 
could  be  more  respectful.  He  talked  much 
about  Tom's  condition,  of  which  he  took  a 
cheering  view,  albeit  quarreling  with  Jory's 
continued  neglect  to  splint  and  bandage  the 
crushed  limbs. 

"You  ought  to  call  in  Cassidy — Dr.  Ethan 
Cassidy.  He's  an  old  army  surgeon,  and 
knows  what  he's  doing.  I  don't  take  no 
stock  in  this  Jory." 

And  he  would  go  on  to  explain  many  of 
the  terrible  wounds  he  had  seen  gaping  in 
Southern  hospitals,  and  how  each  had  healed 
under  Cassidy's  treatment.  According  to 
Colonel  Faunett,  fellows  whose  names  and 
present  whereabouts  he  could  give  were  still 
going  around  breathing  through  lungs  that 
had  been  riddled  by  bullets,  and  on  legs 
which  had  been  all  but  shot  to  pieces.  Ad- 
mitted to  Bartmore's  room,  he  leaned  on 
the  footboard  of  the  bed,  and,  in  his  dry, 
profound  way,  with  no  thought  of  the  effect 
of  such  a  story  upon  Tom,  detailed  the  sor- 
rowfully similar  case  of  a  war  comrade. 

"I'd  missed  Folnes — I  was  only  a  private 


then" — the  Colonel's  title  was  indeed  a 
post-bellum  one,  obtained  by  gallant  services 
in  the  home  military,  and  was  chiefly  associ- 
ated with  Fourth-of-July  parades — "I  knew 
he  was  hurt  and  in  the  hospital ;  but  active 
duties  prevented  me  from  looking  him  up. 
Passing  by  the  open  door  of  a  ward  one  day 
I  saw  something  like  a  thick  log — Jack  was 
a  fine,  broad-shouldered  fellow — set  upon  end 
in  a  corner.  The  top  of  the  log  had  hair, 
whiskers,  a  mouth,  and  a  pair  of  eyes  that 
opened  just  then  and  looked  at  me.  It  was 
Jack  Folnes,  by  God !  His  entire  underpin- 
ning had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon  ball. 
He  had  gotten  well  of  his  wounds  and  was 
facing  life  with  the  half  of  him  that  was  left. 
Such  a  look  I  never  see  in  man's  eyes  before 
nor  since." 

Strangely  enough,  the  story  did  not  affect 
Bartmore  disagreeably.  Hope  was  stronger 
in  his  breast  than  in  any  other. 

Dr.  Jory  brought  another  surgeon  with 
him  upon  the  third  morning  after  the  acci- 
dent. The  patient  greeted  them  with  an 
easy  nod. 

"I  feel  better  than  I  have  at  any  time," 
he  declared.  "I  haven't  a  particle  of  pain. 
I  just  seem  comfortable  and  sleepy  like." 

Jory  drew  back  the  lowest  edges  of  the 
bedcovers  to  expose  Tom's  feet,  which  bore 
neither  bruise  nor  scratch. 

"Try  for  yourself,  Harkness,"  said  Jory. 

Dr.  Harkness,  a  young-looking  person 
with  a  long  face,  fresh  cheeks,  and  steady 
blue  eyes,  took  a  pin  from  the  lapel  of  his 
coat,  Bartmore  following  his  movements 
clearly,  intelligently,  and  pricked  one  instep 
first,  then  the  other. 

"Do  you  feel  that?"  he  asked. 

"A  bit  sharper  in  the  left  foot,"  Tom  ex- 
plained. 

Harkness  reflected,  then  drew  the  covers 
farther  back.  Something  which  had  been 
dammed  by  a  fold  of  a  blanket  found  its 
way  over  the  bed's  edge  and  to  the  flowered 
carpet,  where  it  gathered  fast  in  a  thick, 
clotted  pool.  The  surgeons'  eyes  met  quiet- 
ly. No  quiver  of  any  feature  betrayed  in 
either  any  unusual  emotion. 

"Ahem — ha !    You   feel   no   pain,    Bart- 


436 


Annetta. 


[Oct. 


more?"  queried  Jory,  in  calm,  even  notes. 
He  was  deftly  rolling  back  his  cuffs. 

"Not  a  bit,"  was  the  cheerful  answer. 

"Ahem,  ha!     To  be  sure." 

Jory's  hands,  moving  dextrously,  were 
crimsoned  to  the  wrists.  When  he  stood  up 
again,  that  ready  machine,  Mrs.  Calson, 
passed  him  a  towel.  Wiping  his  fingers,  he 
soberly  explained  the  situation. 

"Had  I  arrived  twenty  minutes  later,  you 
were  a  dead  man.  You  were  bleeding  to 
death.  But  now  the  artery  which  had  burst, 
you  perceive,  is  tied."  So  saying,  he  joined 
his  confrere  in  the  parlor. 

Harkness  was  the  first  to  reappear,  and 
speedily.  He  seated  himself  close  to  Bart- 
more's  pillow.  Bartmore  was  to  know  the 
capacity  of  that  fresh,  young  countenance  in 
the  direction  of  steel-like  self-control.  His 
glance,  questioning  those  calm  blue  orbs, 
fixed  itself  as  if  fascinated. 

"  My  friend,"  the  surgeon  began  in  a  low, 
vibrant  voice,  "I  have  a  bad  piece  of  work 
to  do  here  which  must  be  done  immediately." 

A  pale  horror  stared  from  Bartmore's 
blanched  face  and  stood  in  a  clammy  ooze 
upon  his  brow.  A  great  shivering  horror 
thrilled  through  the  house,  so  often  wild  with 
mirth  and  wassail,  and  got  somehow  even  to 
"camp."  Strange  figures  gathered  dumbly 
in  the  garden,  fancying  terrifying  sounds 
whence  none  issued.  The  sick-chamber 
was  as  still  as  death.  Mrs.  McArdle  hov- 
ered between  the  back  stairs  and  the  kitchen 
door,  her  visage  bleared  with  copious  tears. 
Maggy  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  dining-room, 
her  apron  over  her  head,  her  fingers  in  her 
ears,  her  face  to  the  wall.  Annetta  sat  in 
the  hallway  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs. 
Some  one  came  and  put  a  light,  caressing 
hand  upon  her  bowed  head.  She  looked  up, 
her  eyes  heavy,  blind  with  misery. 

It  was  Tony  Shaw,  who  had  entered  un- 
announced. 

"Poor  little  girl!  Poor  little  girl!"  he 
murmured,  in  the  gentlest  voice.  "  I  just 
rushed  out  to  say  good  by,  not  dreaming  what 
would  be  going  on  here.  I'm  taking  my 
wife  East  for  a  change  of  scene,  a  glimpse 
of  her  old  home.  I  haven't  been  the  most 


considerate  of  husbands  to  Christie.  I  felt 
that  when  I  saw  our  baby  lying  in  its  tiny 
casket." 

Some  one  came,  and  without  warning 
threw  a  lank  pair  of  arms  around  Annetta's 
neck  to  hug  her  convulsively.  A  hysterical 
voice  shrieked : 

"Pray  for  him,  Annetty!  Pray  for  him!" 
That  human  machine,  Mary  Calson,  had 
been  keyed  up  too  high. 

Colonel  Faunett  was  moved  when  he  heard 
the  news.  "To  think  that  I  should  have 
told  him  about  Jack  Folnes  yesterday! 
These  surgeons  are  nothing  but  ignorant 
butchers.  Cassidy  would  have  saved  one 
leg,  if  not  both." 

Many  others  came — enemies  as  well  as 
friends.  Clay  offered  his  services  as  nurse. 
Barney  Flynn  hung  about  the  yard,  anxious 
to  be  sent  on  whatever  errand.  "Anny thing 
for  the  poor  boss!"  was  his  cry. 

Feuds — friendly  offices,  even — were  little 
enough  to  Tom  Bartmore  now.  His  mind 
wandered.  He  delivered  rambling  mono- 
logues, addressed  apparently  to  the  carved 
medallion  ornamenting  the  bed's  head,  to 
a  bust  of  Webster  on  a  wall-bracket  near. 
Once  he  cried,  out  of  the  terrible  darkness 
fallen  upon  him  : 

"Won't  they  leave  me  my  life,  Calson — 
just  my  life?" 

Then  he  was  off  again,  his  thoughts  busi- 
ly straying  amid  the  shifting  scenes  of  his 
active  days.  His  businesses,  his  pleasures, 
the  pain  and  horror  vaguely  present  with 
him,  were  all  epitomized  in  brief,  crisp 
ejaculations : 

"Send  along  three  picks  and  two  shovels.- 
—Play  it  alone,  Jim. — Come  on,  gents,  come 
on.  Just  one  glass. — Tamp  that  rock,  boys. 
— O,  my  God!  it  is  all  over  with  me.— 
Whoa,  Nelly,  whoa,  lady. — Three  games  and 
I'll  be  satisfied." 

The  unfulfilled  contract  gave  him  little 
peace.  Sometimes  he  shouldered  a  spade, 
and  himself  went  to  work  on  the  road. 
Later,  they  gathered  from  his  mutterings 
that  he  fancied  he  was  driving  the  street-super- 
intendent about,  treating  him  to  champagne, 
and  the  street  was  accepted. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


437 


Awaking  once  out  of  the  stupor  which 
kept  his  eyes  rolling  so  in  his  head,  he  saw 
Annetta  standing  to  gaze  at  him — how  sor- 
rowfully ! 

"Cheer  up,  Netta — little  sis  !"  he  cried. 
"  There  are  happy  days  yet  in  store  for  us." 

At  another  moment,  Mrs.  Calson  having 
gone  to  dinner,  he  saw  Annetta  close  by  his 
pillow,  caught  her  hand,  drew  her  toward 
him,  and  kissed  her  with  dumb,  clinging  ten- 
derness. 

"He  does  not  seem  to  suffer,  Doctor," 
Annetta  said  wistfully  one  morning,  follow- 
ing the  surgeon  to  the  front  door,  whence 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  garden  as  of  a 
beautiful  alien  world. 

"  Very  true,"  returned  Jory,  mildly. 

Not  so  equably  did  he  answer  Calson 
when  the  latter  made  the  same  observation. 

"I  wish,  sir" — his  red  face  further  red- 
dening with  a  rush  of  feeling — "  I  wish  I 
might  hear  him  screaming  when  I  alight  at 
the  garden  gate!" 

Was  it  the  third  or  fourth  day  after  that 
dreadful  surgery  that  Bartmore  laughed  so 
loud  and  long,  such  ringing,  joyous  peals? 
Then,  in  the  very  midst  of  these,  nodding  at 
vacancy  with  all  his  wonted  insouciance,  he 
said  gayly: 

"  All  right,  Carrie  !  What !  the  three 
babies,  too?  I'll  be  with  you  presently." 

Toward  sunset  of  the  same  day,  he  cried 
suddenly,  in  a  clear,  wide-awake  voice : 

"  Take  me  up,  Calson !  For  God's  sake, 
old  boy,  just  let  me  drive  over  the  road 
again!" 

Why  did  the  room  fill  instantly  with  peo- 
ple, and  why  were  all  eyes  wet  ?  Dr.  Jory 
had  come  in  quietly.  He  gave  subdued 
orders.  Somebody  lifted  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  little  blocks  were  thrust  under 
either  leg. 

"Netta,  Netta!  speak  to  them!  Tell 
them  to  let  me  get  up — to  let  me  go !" 

He  lifted  his  head  eagerly.  They  pressed 
it  back  upon  the  pillow  with  soothing  prom- 
ises. Hush  !  his  mind  is  wandering  again. 

"  I'm  the  man  for  your  ticket,  lads. — Hi! 
Dan,  old  fellow !— Stand  ready  to  light  the 
fuse. — Your  deal,  Jim. — I  pass." 


Calson,  standing  intent  at  the  bed's  head, 
lifted  a  warning  hand.  Not  a  sound  broke 
the  silence  of  the  crowded  room,  save  those 
hollow,  pectoral  sighs  growing  fearfully  short 
and  shorter — that  were  even  now  in  his 
throat. 

They  ceased. 

XVIII. 

Annetta  walked  in  the  garden  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  She  had  not  seen  old 
Refugio  for  several  days.  She  looked  at 
him  in  a  sort  of  stunned  amazement  to 
find  him  alive,  one  so  much  younger  and 
stronger  than  he  having  fallen  asleep.  Her 
gaze  wandered  off  beyond  that  fenced  inclos- 
ure.  The  early  day  rejoiced  in  a  matchless 
beauty  of  its  own.  All  the  rich  green  of 
the  hollows  and  up-sweeping  slopes  was 
overlaid  with  hoar-frost.  The  grass  in  the 
slanting  church-yard,  wherein  also  gleaming 
headstones  repeated  the  whiteness,  was  so 
overlaid.  A  thin  haze  hung  low  here  and 
yonder,  like  spirits  of  frost  hovering  in  the 
air.  On  the  rim  of  a  crystalline  sky  the 
red  sun  was  vividly  appearing. 

Rodney  Bell  joined  Annetta  in  the  sweep- 
ing garden  path. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  that  Tom  has  left  a 
will?"  he  asked. 

"  To  prepare  for  what  has  come  so  unex- 
pectedly would  be  quite  unlike  him." 

"Yet  we  must  look  carefully  through  all 
his  papers.  There's  that  desk — " 

"  I  know  every  paper  it  contains,  Rodney. 
Little  did  I  dream  when  I  sorted  them — 
great  heaven !  it  was  the  very  day  he  was 
hurt!" 

"And  you  saw  nothing  like  a  will?" 

Annetta,  still  dwelling  upon  the  reminis- 
cence newly  evoked,  shook  her  head  mourn- 
fully. 

"If  I  had  only  known,  Rodney!" 

"  Better  for  you  you  didn't.  The  blow 
came  soon  enough,"  returned  Bell,  smoothly. 

That  he  had  absorbing  thoughts,  which 
prevented  him  from  entering  deeply  into  An- 
netta's,  might  have  been  surmised  from  his 
gait  alone.  He  walked  with  the  step  of  a 


438 


Annetta. 


[Oct. 


man  pacing  ground  which  he  covets  and  has 
become  certain  of  owning. 

"If  I  had  known  when  he  spoke  to  me — 
it  was  about  a  bill  of  Clay's — as  he  left  the 
office,  that  'twould  be  the  last  time  I  should 
hear  his  voice  in  tones  untouched  by  pain!" 
Then,  instantly,  as  memory  filled  out  the 
picture  :  "But  I  did  hear  his  voice  once — a 
little  later.  He  was  talking  to  Clay — " 

Could  she  find  any  pathos  in  those  re- 
membered accents  of  domination,  of  dis- 
pute? Ay,  the  deepest !  How  differently 
Tom  would  have  spoken  had  he  dreamed ! 

"And  he  walked  away  so  grandly,  Rod- 
ney!" 

"Tom  was  a  magnificently  built  fellow," 
said  Bell.  "Was!"  The  tragic  meaning  of 
the  tense  so  calmly  chosen ! 

"  How  dreadful  to  think,  after  all  his  im- 
patience through  the  rain,  Rodney — 

"Yes,  poor  fellow!  He  did  hate  to  be 
idle.  And  the  very  day  he  got  to  work 
again —  That  contract  just  tortured  him.  A 
dozen  times,  lying  there  helpless,  he  said  to 
me,  'Push  it  through  for  me,  my  boy,  and 
I'll  make  it  worth  your  while.'" 

"Sometimes  I  fancy  that  business  troubles 
helped  to — end  his  life.  The  pressure  upon 
his  brain  was  terrible." 

"  Well ;  his  sufferings  are  all  over.  'Twould 
have  been  dreadful  for  Tom  to  submit  to  be 
a  cripple — and  such  a  cripple!  Bear  in 
mind  what  he  would  have  had  to  endure. 
But  the  work.  Special  letters  of  adminis- 
tration ought  to  be  gotten  out  immediately, 
so  that  it  could  be  gone  on  with.  I  suppose 
I'm  the  only  man  who  could  finish  it  and 
make  it  pay.  Do  you  know,  Annetta,  that 
Calson  expects  to  have  control  of  affairs?" 

Annetta  cried  "  Oh !"  sharply,  and  lifted 
a  distressed  face  toward  her  questioner's. 

"Did — did  Tom  say  anything  to  him?" 

Bell  blurted  out  "No !"  not  purely  in  nega- 
tion, but  as  a  vent  to  so  many  and  complex 
emotions  that  the  vowel  sound  of  that  mono- 
syllable was  entirely  changed. 

"  It's  just  his  cheek.  He  wouldn't  have 
come  to  the  house  but  he  thought  Tom  was 
going  to  die,  and  he  wouldn't  have  stayed 
but  for  the  hope  of  having  the  settling  up  of 


the  estate.    I've  read  him  pretty  thoroughly; 
he's  a  shrewd  old  hypocrite." 

"Has  he  said  anything  to  you?" 

"  No ;  but  this  morning  I  overheard  that 
devoted  wife  of  his  telling  Maggy  how  of 
course  Mr.  Calson  would  see  everything 
straightened  out  for  you." 

"I  dread  him  so.  Why  didn't  Tom 
speak  and  tell  me  what  to  do,  whom  to 
choose  and  to  trust?" 

"He  did  tell  you  pretty  plain,  Annetta"- 
meaningly. 

"But  he  liked  Mr.  Calson,  too." 

"He  didn't  put  him  in  charge  of  the 
work." 

"True.  But — forgive  me — I  must  consult 
some  one  older  and  wiser  than  you,  Rodney." 

"To  be  sure.  You  must  consult  a  lawyer. 
We  can  go  together  to  see  Baring.  You've 
heard  Tom  speak  of  him." 

"Tom  used  to  employ  him  when  there 
was  any  trouble,  I  think." 

"  Not  Tom  only,  but  all  the  contractors, 
every  last  man  of  them.  Baring  can't  be 
beat  in  street  matters,  and  he  fights  like  a 
Turk  for  his  clients." 

Bell  would  have  had  much  more  to  add 
upon  certain  business  themes  highly  inter- 
esting to  him,  but  he  was  called  aside  by 
Terry,  who  had  become  Jerry  Norris's  succes- 
sor as  foreman. 

Annetta  stood  alone  in  the  garden.  Old 
Refugio  tottered  up  to  point  her  attention 
to  those  verbena-beds.  They  were  growing 
rank  as  weeds:  ought  he  not  to  thin  them? 

"Let  them  spread  a  while,  Refugio,"  she 
said  pensively,  answering  scarce  consciously 
from  her  old  habits  of  thought,  from  her 
dislike  of  clipping  and  confining  and  tying 
and  training,  work  which  Refugio's  gnarled 
fingers  delighted  in. 

The  ancient  gardener  disputed  not,  neither 
mumbled.  It  was  just  as  the  Seftorita  An- 
ita chose.  Thus  he  bowed  to  the  great 
change  that  had  come.  She  was  absolute 
mistress  there. 

Rodney  Bell  returned,  Terry  with  him.  It 
appeared  that  Eddie  Gavan  had  that  morn- 
ing been  found  in  a  high  fever. 

"We  thinks  it's  the  tightford,  miss,  an'  I 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


439 


axed  Misther  Bell  \vud  we's  be  afther  havin' 
the  docthor  to  camp;  an'  Misther  Bell  says, 
says  he,  'Pack  him  off  to  the  City  'n'  Coun- 
ty,' so  he  did,"  Terry  explained,  looking  at 
Annetta  and  leaving  the  matter  suspended, 
as  it  were,  high  in  air  by  a  rising  inflection. 

"We  can't  turn  the  camp  into  a  hospital, 
Annetta,"  Bell  interposed. 

Annetta  thought  a  moment,  then  said : 

"That  cottage  next  to  Heavy  weather's  is 
vacant.  Let  Eddie  be  taken  there  and 
made  comfortable.  I  will  see  to  the  nurs- 
ing." 

"But,  Annetta — " 

"But,  Rodney!  Stay,  Terry.  Send  and 
ask  Mrs.  Flynn  to  remain  with  him  to-day 
and  to-morrow.  After  that  I'll  tend  him 
myself." 

No  gainsaying  her  decision.  The  freedom 
she  had  so  often  and  so  passionately  longed 
for  was  hers  at  last.  Did  she  rejoice  in  it? 

No.  Of  all  the  thoughts  crowding  her 
brain  to  a  painful  fullness,  not  one  selfish 
thought  stirred.  She  lived  her  life  with 
Tom  over  again:  lived  it  over  from  the  time, 
her  mother  dying  in  Canada,  she  was  for- 
warded— a  child  of  ten — to  her  California 
brother.  Plenary  joy  in  every  sacrifice  she 
felt;  plenary  sorrow  for  every  disagreement, 
however  trivial.  Old  scenes,  mere  moments 
of  fraternal  kindness,  of  fraternal  pride  in 
her,  were  revived  and  contemplated  anew 
with  a  vibrating  sense  of  the  end  which  was 
come. 

The  day  moved  on  and  unnumbered  peo- 
ple gathered  about  her.  Many  appeared 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  weeks,  months, 
years:  some  whose  very  existence  she  had 
forgotten;  others,  friends  of  Tom,  hitherto 
unknown  to  her ;  and  all  came  to  offer  what 
they  could  of  human  sympathy  and  to  speak 
good  words — good  words  only — of  the  dead, 
who  had  faults  enough,  God  knows. 

Annetta's  schoolmates,  the  girls  from 
whom  she  had  been  gradually  estranged, 
drew  near  to  kiss  her  lips  and  shed  their 
easy  tears.  How  far  removed  seemed  her 
soul  from  the  deepest  soul  of  these!  She 
found  herself  drawn  solely  to  such  persons 
as  Tom  had  cared  for.  It  was  into  Dr. 


Bernard's  countenance,  and  Rodney  Bell's, 
and  Ned  Burwent's,  she  looked,  searching 
for  signs  of  a  grief  something  akin  to  her 
own.  Dr.  Bernard  she  accompanied  to  the 
parlor  when  he  went  thither  for  a  glimpse  of 
that  dear  dead. 

Tom  Bartmure  had  never  appeared  to  so 
great  advantage  as  lying  there  at  one  with 
the  scented  stillness  of  heliotrope  and  tube- . 
roses.  The  face  often  discolored  and  dis- 
torted by  evil  passions  had  now  no  touch  or 
stain  of  any.  The  high  brow  was  corrugated 
by  no  lines  of  calculation.  The  proud  lips, 
the  delicate  nostrils,  the  slightly  cleft  chin, 
showed  as  perfect  bits  of  waxen  sculpture. 
The  rich  curling  locks  of  hajr  lay  thick  and 
dark  against  their  last  pillow.  Where  were 
now  the  fun,  the  force,  the  executive  ability, 
the  strong  bent  toward  pleasure,-  the  money- 
making  faculty,  which  had  animated  that 
clay? 

James  Bernard  stood  gazing,  scarcely  less 
pale,  scarcely  less  passive.  No  hint  of  grief 
or  pain  was  suffered  to  ruffle  his  sallow  pla- 
cidity. But  when  Annetta  was  called  away, 
and  he  was  left  alone,  he  touched  either 
chill  cheek  as  with  an  arousing  forefinger, 
and  muttered  a  husky  query: 

"Is  there  anything  in  it,  old  fellow?" 

A  caustic  smile,  born  at  his  lips  in  the  en- 
suing and  odorous  silence,  rose  to  the  pale 
blue  eyes  under  their  lowering  lids. 

"Nothing  in  it,"  he  said  moodily,  answering 
his  own  question.  "This  is  the  end  of 
you." 

The  funeral  services  were  held  in  a  small 
suburban  church  not  many  blocks  distant 
from  the  Bartmore  house.  Every  pew.  every 
aisle,  was  thronged  when  the  dead  was 
brought  in,  those  who  mourned  him  closely 
following.  Every  eye  was  strained  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  chief  mourner,  and  many  a 
vision  was  blinded  by  a  rush  of  sympathetic 
moisture  on  beholding  the  bright  girl  so 
widely  known  throughout  the  neighborhood, 
making  a  darkness  of  the  sparkling  sunshine 
with  her  shrouding  weeds. 

But  what  heart  was  there  prepared  to 
fathom  the  depth  of  her  desolation,  seeing 
how,  in  that  hour  of  bereavement,  she  had 


Annetta. 


[Oct. 


no  nearer  or  dearer  arm  to  lean  upon  than 
Calson's?  Nay,  she  did  not  herself  fully 
fathom  it,  being  half-stunned,  and  moving  as 
in  a  daze. 

So  still  indeed  was  she,  that  her  behavior 
offended  not  a  few  of  the  critics  from 
"camp"  and  valley,  these  having  every  rea- 
son, save  an  apprehension  of  Annetta's  state 
of  mind,  to  anticipate  something  highly  sen- 
sational. Calson  pleased  the  emotional  on- 
lookers far  better.  He  sent  a  shiver  through 
the  church  by  letting  his  lifted  voice  quaver 
forth  in  a  long,  loud  cry: 

"O  Tom,  Tom;  my  dear  old  friend!" 

Annetta  shed  no  tear.  Later,  when  the 
sealed  coffin  was  lowering  into  a  damp,  deep 
hollow,  rugged  groans  burst  from  the  labor- 
ing breasts  of  Jerry  McArdle  and  his  fellow- 
workmen.  Then,  too,  Mary  Calson  showed 
her  tenderness  of  feeling  in  hysterical 
shrieks.  But  Annetta,  standing  erect  and 
dry-eyed  under  her  veil,  only  turned  a  blank, 
slow  gaze  from  one  face  to  another  of  those 
about  her. 

"Poor  little  thing,  she  can't  cry!"  some 
sympathetic  soul  declared.  But  that  whis- 
per could  not  drown  the  creaking  notes  of 
unkind,  indiscriminating  criticism. 

Reaching  the  garden  gate  of  home,  An- 
netta .alighted  to  pass  lightly  and  swiftly 
through  the  shortest  path,  and  enter  the 
house  alone.  The  atmosphere  of  the  parlor 
was  heavy  with  funeral  odors.  Annetta 
gasped  once,  twice,  as  if  stifling,  but  she 
moved  forward,  flinging  back  her  veil  to  lean 
upon  the  closed  piano,  her  face,  pale,  beauti- 
ful, appealing,  upturned — to  what?  Tom's 
very  self,  his  better  self,  hung  there  in  a 
gilded  frame,  had  hung  there,  smiling 
through  all  these  bitter  hours,  and  smil- 
ed now  with  bright  unconsciousness  of 
death. 

Annetta  could   not  be  long  unmolested. 
.That  moment  of  unspeakable  anguish,  of  in- 
effable prayer  for  God's  mercy,  was  broken  in 
upon  by  jerky  accents. 

"Calson's  goin'  to  miss  Tom  Bartmore 
just  as  much  as  if  they  was  brothers."  • 

Annetta  glided  into  the  dining-room,  sick- 
ening under  an  increasing  sense  of  irrev- 


ocable loss,  and  found  John   Calson  regaling 
himself  with  a  ham-sandwich. 

"  Poor  Tom's  left  everything  in  a  tumble 
muddle — a  turrible  muddle,"  he  began,  as 
soon  as  he  had  finished  his  last  mouthful. 
"Nobody  knows  as  well  as  me  what  a  mix  and 
fix  he  was  in." 

Foreseeing  that  she  must  listen  to  this 
man  later,  if  not  now,  Annetta  patiently 
seated  herself  upon  the  sofa,  suffering  Maggy 
to  remove  and  bear  away  her  dismal  wraps. 

"  If  things  ain't  worked  out  ve-ry  slow 
and  cautious,  you'll  be  left  without  a  nickel." 
Calson  had  a  habit,  which  he  did  not  now 
forbear  indulging,  of  nodding  mechanical 
assent  to  his  own  assertions.  Somebody'll 
have  to  take  hold  here  for  you,  Annetty. 
Of  course  you've  knowed  all  along  how  Tom's 
come  to  me  whenever  he's  been  in  a  tight 
box — an'  I've  al'ays  helped  him." 

Annetta  made  no  answer,  but  sat  nervous- 
ly twisting  her  fingers  together,  her  glance  fall- 
en mournfully  upon  her  black  dress.  She  was 
wondering,  as  only  those  may  who  are  wholly 
unused  to  the  unqualified  yeas  and  nays  of 
business,  how  she  could  possibly  disappoint 
Calson's  evident  expectations. 

"Seein'  you've  no  relations,  Tom's  nearest 
friend  ought  to  administer,  an'  there  could 
be  a  guardeen  app'inted  for  you — 

"A  guardian — Mr.  Calson!"  exclaimed 
Annetta,  startled  into  something  very  like  in- 
dignation. "You  recollect  how  old  I  was 
when  you  first  saw  me?" 

"Yes;  and  how  long  ago  it  was,"  returned 
Calson,  beginning  instantly  to  reckon  aloud. 
"Ten  and  five — stop!  eight,  nine,  ten  year 
— n — no!"  staring  hard  at  her  with  fallen 
countenance. 

"I  was  twenty-one  three  days  ago,"  said 
Annetta,  quietly;  and  then,  with  a  grieved 
quiver  of  the  lip,  "My  birthday  never  passed 
unremembered  before." 

"Do  you  think  you're  capable  of  lookin' 
after  your  own  interests,  Annetty?"  How 
much  gall  and  wormwood  lurked  under  this 
equably  propounded  query  Annetta  could 
only  surmise.  "Naterally,"  Calson  went  on, 
"I  don't  want  the  job  of  windin'  up  the  es- 
tate, but — "  pressing  his  dry  lips  together 


1883.] 


Current  Comment. 


441 


until  they  were  thin  with  determination,  and 
shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side — "I  would 
like  to  see  Tom  Bartmore's  debts  paid  up 
fair  an'  square  from  a  to  zed,  and  when  the 
claims  come  in  you'll  find  there's  a  whole 
alphabet  of  'em.  And,  as  I  said  at  first,  if 
things  ain't  worked  out  ve-ry  slow  and  cau- 
tious, you  won't  have  a  dime  left ;  no,  nor  a 
nickel — not  a  nickel" — carefully  insisting  on 
the  smaller  value  as  if  the  two  coins  men- 
tioned were  separated  from  each  other  by  a 
handsome  difference. 

"Rodney  Bell  takes  a  more  hopeful  view 

[CONTINUED  IN 


of  matters,  Mr.  Calson,"  Annetta  hazarded, 
in  a  heavy  voice  of  increasing  depression. 

Calson  replied  in  terms  quite  dispropor- 
tionate to  his  deliberation  in  choosing  them. 

"Rodney  Bell's  mighty  fresh." 

Annetta  could  not  be  deaf  to  the  unspok- 
en revilings  and  execrations  lurking  beneath 
that  carefully  guarded  expression  of  contempt 
for  Rodney  Bell's  opinion. 

"Tom  trusted  him,  Mr.  Calson." 

"Yes" — wagging  his  head  as  if  it  must 
needs  come  off — "just  as  fur's  he  could  see 
him." 

Evelyn  M.  Ludluni. 

NEXT   NUMBER.] 


CURRENT   COMMENT. 


THE  month  of  August  in  San  Francisco  was  filled 
very  nearly  from  end  to  end  with  the  reception  of 
the  Knights  Templar,  though  only  one  week  was 
formally  given  up  to  that  object.  It  is  gratifying  to 
every  Californian  that  the  reception  of  an  assemblage 
of  guests  counting  up  into  the  tens  of  thousands 
should  have  passed  off  leaving  every  one  in  high 
good  humor,  and  that  this  vast  number  of  people 
are  going  back  to  almost  every  county  in  the  United 
States  with  a  pleasant  impression  of  California. 
That  the  Pacific  coast  fully  redeemed  its  old-time 
reputation  of  hospitality  is,  of  course,  specially  a 
matter  of  interest  to  the  Masonic  fraternity  of  the 
coast;  but  there  are  some  elements  in  the  fact  that 
touch  the  interest  of  every  one  whose  lot  is  cast  in 
with  the  fortunes  of  the  coast.  It  is  pleasant,  for 
one  thing,  to  find  that  the  growth  of  a  narrower 
commercial  spirit  has  not  entirely  extinguished  the 
habit  of  a  lavish  pride  in  the  good  name  of  the  com- 
munity. It  is  by  no  means  the  highest  sort  of 
patriotism  to  be  resolved  that  your  section  shall 
bear  off  the  palm  for  its  pumpkins,  or  its  wines,  or 
its  nuggets,  or  its  climate;  but  the  man  who  spends 
himself  to  secure  for  it  that  small  conquest  is 
several  stages  nearer  to  public  spirit  than  the  one 
who  watches  only  his  opportunity  to  make  an  indi- 
vidual profit  out  of  the  pumpkins,  wines,  nuggets,  or 
climate.  This  crude,  "  big-pumpkin  patriotism  "  has 
been  a  specialty  of  California;  and  much  as  the  wise 
man  might  wish  to  see  it  fade  away  in  the  light  of  a 
more  discriminating  love  of  country,  he  cannot  view 
with  anything  but  dread  any  indications  of  its  disap- 
pearance before  the  darkness  of  an  "  every-man- 
for-himself "  scramble — a  fate  that  always  threatens 
wealth-producing  communities.  Of  course  there 


has  been  much  personal  interest  concerned  in  mak- 
ing a  success  of  the  Conclave;  there  are  many  ways 
in  which  ample  returns  will  come  from  the  bread 
upon  the  waters.  But  there  has  been,  none  the  less, 
a  great  deal  of  disinterested  Pacific-coast  pride  in  the 
expenditure  of  money,  thought,  and  labor  that  has 
been  made. 

THE  direct  public  benefit  that  California  expects 
to  receive  from  the  entertainment  of  so  many  visitors 
is  in  the  good  report  that  will  be  carried  home  of 
her.  Much  stress  has  been  laid  on  the  pleasant 
things  that  will  inevitably  be  said  of  our  climate  and 
of  our  fruit;  and  in  these  days  of  reaction  against 
the  extremely  golden  view  of  California,  it  is  indeed 
probable  that  many  visitors  were  surprised  to  find 
that  in  their  preconception  of  both  these  advantages 
they  had  made  over-allowance  for  exaggeration. 
That  they  have  carried  away  new  ideas  of  the  cli- 
mate is  evident  from  the  rather  neat  incident  of  the 
rush  made  for  umbrellas  by  the  New  England 
Knights  whenever  the  skies  lowered  with  the  high 
fog  of  August.  But  a  far  more  significant  anecdote 
of  the  visit  (though  one  that  bears  on  its  face  some 
Iraces  of  "fixing  up")  is  that  of  the  timid  guest 
who  asked,  after  some  days  of  cautious  clinging  to 
his  hotel,  whether  it  "really  was  so  dangerous,  after 
all,  to  go  out  on  the  streets  alone  in  San  Francisco  "; 
he  had  heard  much  of  the  frequency  and  impunity 
of  violence  here,  but  was  evidently  beginning  to  dis- 
trust, his  preconceptions.  The  anecdote  caricatures  a 
facti  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  many  men  have 
gone  away  surprised  to  find  us  so  far  civilized  as  we 
are;  that  it  has  been  a  source  of  wonder  to  them  to 
see  Chinamen  peaceably  pursuing  their  occupations 


442 


Book  -Reviews. 


[Oct. 


unmolested  on  all  our  streets,  to  hear  no  loud  dema- 
gogues on  the  street  corners  and  no  brawls  in  repu- 
table quarters  of  the  city.  This  is  a  real  advantage 
to  us,  compared  with  which  our  reputation  for  climate 
and  peaches  is  a  small  matter;  for  it  cannot  be  too 
often  nor  too  emphatically  urged  that  quality,  not 
quantity,  is  the  thing  to  be  desired  in  immigration; 
and  while  charming  weather  and  cheap  peaches  ope- 
rate as  an  attraction  equally  to  all  classes,  a  civilized 
state  of  society  is  a  far  more  potent  attraction  than 
these  to  desirable  immigrants,  while  it  is  probably  a 
far  less  potent  one  to  the  undesirable.  The  reputa- 
tion, that  is,  of  a  community  for  high  civilization  is 
as  an  incentive  to  immigration,  a  sort  of  suction 
power  provided  with  sieves;  while  the  reputation  for 
natural  advantages  is  a  thoroughly  indiscriminate 
one,  sucking  in  everything  good,  bad,  and  mediocre. 

THE  past  few  weeks  have  witnessed  the  practical 
application,  in  San  Francisco,  of  the  provisions  of 
the  Civil  Service  Act  of  January  i6th  last.  To  the 
handful  of  public-spirited  citizens  in  our  midst,  who 
have  labored  long  for  this  end,  it  is  a  matter  of  con- 
gratulation; to  the  Pacific  public  at  large,  who 
have  watched  the  progress  of  reform  with  much 
apathy  and  doubt,  it  is  a  matter  of  surprise;  and  to 
the  political  brokers,  who  have  from  the  incipiency  of 
this  movement  opposed  and  ridiculed  all  efforts  to 
purify  the  public  service,  the  business-like  proceed- 
ings of  the  past  month  have  brought  chargrin  and 
disappointment.  The  passive  attitude  of  the  public 
upon  this  important  measure  has  constituted  the 
chief  obstacle  to  be  overcome  by  the  friends  of  Civil 
Service  Reform.  So  deeply  rooted  has  the  spoils 
system  become  that  friends  and  foes  alike  of  reforma- 
tion have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  thinking  a  change 
impossible  under  our  form  of  government.  That 
this  is  an  error  is  susceptible  of  demonstration.  So 
soon  as  the  people  realize  that  reform  is  practicable 
and  possible,  the  thing  will  be  done.  A  step  has 
been  taken  in  the  right  direction;  a  foothold  has 
been  gained;  and  from  this  much  may  be  expected. 
The  legislation  of  January  i6th  last  is  but  the  open- 


ing step  to  the  reform  measures  which  must  neces- 
sarily follow.  Objection  has  been  made  to  the 
standard  and  requirements  fixed  by  the  present  act 
for  admission  to  the  public  service.  Those  require- 
ments are  character  and  a  proper  degree  of  educa- 
tion. The  point  is  raised  that  the  examinations  pro- 
vided are  not  an  invariable  test  of  a  man's  fitness  for 
the  service  sought.  These  things  are  conceded,  for 
perfection  is  not  claimed  by  the  friends  of  this  law. 
It  is  experimental  largely,  and  must  of  necessity  be 
so.  If,  however,  the  educational  test  is  discarded, 
what  better  standard  will  the  dissatisfied  citizen 
suggest  ?  The  friends  of  reform  are  not  particular 
on  this  point.  They  are  ready  to  adopt  any  standard 
which  will  result  in  the  introduction  to  the  public 
service  of  honesty,  fitness,  and  common-sense  busi- 
ness principles.  We  believe  that  the  educational 
standard  is  the  proper  one.  In  the  examinations 
held  in  this  city  during  the  past  month  the  questions 
asked  have  certainly  been  a  test  of  the  applicant's 
general  intelligence,  if  not  of  his  direct  fitness  for  the 
customs  or  the  postal  service.  The  one  leads  to  the 
other.  It  has  been  said  that  the  poor  and  the  un- 
educated will  stand  little  chance  under  existing  tests 
with  the  rich  and  the  highly  educated.  To  this  we 
may  reply  that  the  subordinate  government  positions 
are  not  sought  to  any  extent  by  the  rich  and  the 
highly  educated;  nor  is  it  the  desire  of  any  citizen, 
having  the  public  good  at  heart,  that  places  of  trust 
should  be  given  to  the  low  and  illiterate.  The 
action  of  the  present  Civil  Service  law — without  rais- 
ing the  scholastic  standard  above  that  of  our  grammar 
schools — opens  up  the  government  service  to  a  highly 
respectable,  competent,  and  deserving  middle  class, 
many  of  whom  have  been  debarred  heretofore  from 
entering  government  employ  owing  to  lack  of  politi- 
cal influence.  In  San  Francisco  the  new  law  is  now 
a  fact,  and  the  reformed  method  of  appointment  is 
fairly  inaugurated.  Six  or  eight  vacancies  have 
already  been  filled  under  its  workings  in  the  customs 
and  postal  service,  and  the  general  character  and 
efficiency  of  applicants  thus  far  promises  well  for  the 
future  results  of  the  long-deferred  experiment. 


BOOK   REVIEWS. 


Studies  in  Science  and  Religion.* 

IT  would  seem  almost  unnecessary  to  say  that  he 
who  would  discuss  the  relation  between  any  two 
subjects  must  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  both. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  writers  on  religion  and  sci- 
ence have  not  usually  been  of  this  character.  They 
have  approached  the  subject,  not  in  the  judicial  spirit, 
but  in  the  spirit  of  the  advocate.  They  have  been 

1  Studies  in  Science  and  Religion.  By  G.  Frederick 
Wright.  Andover:  Warren  F.  Draper.  1882. 


either  on  the  one  hand  scientists  whose  only  idea  of 
religion  is  embodied  in  some  extreme  and  childish 
form  of  certain  dogmas;  or  else,  on  the  other,  the- 
ologians who  have  made  themselves  superficially 
acquainted  with  some  scientific  facts  only  for  the 
purpose  of  contesting  certain  conclusions,  but  have 
never  appreciated  the  true  spirit  of  science.  Is  it 
any  wonder  that  the  fight  goes  on  when  the  com- 
batants fight  for  victory,  not  for  truth  ? 

The  author  of  the  book  before  us  is  a  notable  ex- 


1883.] 


Book  Reviews. 


443 


ception  to  what  we  have  said  above.  He  is  a  pro- 
found thinker  and  productive  worker  in  both  these 
fields.  He  is  not  only  acquainted  with  the  facts  of  the 
one  and  the  dogmas  of  the  other,  but,  what  is  still 
better,  he  is  deeply  imbued  with  the  true  spirit  of 
both.  It  is  a  hopeful  sign  that  such  men  are  begin- 
ning to  speak — a  sign  that  the  unnatural,  senseless 
conflict  will  speedily  abate. 

The  work  is  not  a  connected  and  exhaustive  trea- 
tise, but,  as  its  title  indicates,  a  series  of  essays 
written  at  different  times,  but  tending  in  one  general 
direction.  Perhaps  to  the  general  reader  it  will  be 
all  the  more  interesting  on  that  account.  The  most 
important  subjects  discussed  are  :  The  grounds  of  be- 
lief in  scientific  induction ;  Darwinism  as  an  example 
of  scientific  induction ;  the  bearing  of  evolution  on 
the  doctrine  of  final  cause  or  design;  the  antiquity 
of  man  and  his  relation  to  the  glacial  epoch;  and 
finally  the  Bible  and  science.  These  subjects  are  all 
discussed  with  a  fairness  which  is  as  admirable  as  it 
is  rare.  It  is  impossible  in  a  short  notice  to  analyze 
these  chapters.  We  can  only  give  the  general  im- 
pression left  by  a  careful  perusal.  Although  an  ear- 
nest Christian,  our  author  is  so  in  that  liberal  sense 
which  is  not  inconsistent  with,  but  helpful  to,  every 
other  department  of  thought.  Although  an  ardent 
scientist,  he  is  not  one  of  those  who  imagines  that 
science  exhausts  the  whole  domain  of  our  mental 
activity.  Although  not  a  champion  of  Darwinism, 
he  evidently  believes  that  some  form  of  evolution,  i.  e. , 
"  the  origin  of  species  by  derivation  with  modifica- 
tion," is  almost  certain,  though  he  does  not  think 
that  this  belief  imperils  any  fundamental  religious 
doctrine.  There  is  in  our  opinion  no  longer  any 
doubt  that  every  one  of  these  positions  is  well  taken 
and  permanently  tenable. 

One  chapter  we  would  single  out  as  of  especial 
interest,  and  in  fact  a  real  contribution  to  science;  viz., 
that  on  the  antiquity  of  man  and  his  relation  to  the 
glacial  epoch.  There  is  no  subject  more  interesting 
to  American  geologists  at  this  time  than  that  of  the 
existence  and  the  limits  of  the  ice-sheet  of  the 
glacial  epoch.  For  all  the  most  exact  knowledge  on 
the  position  of  this  limit  we  are  indebted  to  our 
author,  together  with  Professors  Chamberlin,  Up- 
ham,  and  Lewis.  The  terminal  moraine  of  the  ice- 
sheet  has  been  traced  off  the  shore  of  New  England, 
then  through  Long  Island,  through  New  Jersey, 
Pennsylvania,  Ohio,  Indiana,  Kentucky,  Illinois,  to 
the  Mississippi  River,  and  thence  westward  and 
northwestward,  with  less  certainty  as  to  exact  posi- 
tion, to  Montana.  After  the  extreme  of  the  glacial 
epoch  had  passed,  the  ice-sheet  retreated  to  the  Great 
Lakes,  and  then  advanced  again  to  a  little  south  of 
the  lakes,  where  it  left  a  second  terminal  moraine  of 
deeply  lobed  form.  The  author  admits  that  man  wit- 
nessed the  scenes  of  the  glacial  epoch,  or  at  least  the 
last  part  of  it;  but  gives  reasons  for  thinking  that  this 
may  not  have  been  more  than  ten  thousand  years  ago. 
For  our  part,  we  think  ten  thousand  years  is  too  short. 


to  account  easily  for  the  great  changes  which  have 
taken  place  since  that  time,  both  in  organic  forms 
and  in  the  configuration  of  river-beds. 

In  his  final  chapter  he  touches  briefly  on  the  burn- 
ing question  of  the  Bible  and  science.  It  is  needless 
to  say  his  views  are  liberal  and  suggestive.  But  we 
believe  that  the  time  is  not  fully  ripe  for  final  ad- 
justment here.  Of  one  thing,  however,  we  are 
meanwhile  certain:  good,  and  nothing  but  good, 
will  come  of  the  freest  discussion,  if  only  it  be  con- 
ducted in  a  reverent,  truth-loving  spirit. 

Briefer  Notice. 

Surf  and  Wave1  is  in  plan  one  of  the  most  admir- 
able verse-collections  ever  made;  it  is  designed  for 
the  seaside  season,  and  intended  to  contain  all  the 
best  poems  about  the  sea.  Such  a  volume  is  most 
admirably  fitted  to  be  a  pleasant  seaside  companion; 
and  not  only  does  the  reader  like  to  see  poems 
collated  with  reference  to  subject,  though  the  same 
poems  may  be  familiar  to  him  in  the  pages  of  their 
author,  but  also,  such  a  collection  always  contains 
several  very  admirable  poems  from  authors  not,  on 
the  whole,  entitled  to  have  their  poems  collected, 
and,  therefore,  hardly  otherwise  accessible.  The 
carrying  out  of  the  plan  is  perhaps  less  happy. 
The  divisions  of  the  subject  are  entirely  fanciful,  and, 
so  far  as  we  can  find,  meaningless.  The  selections 
are  not  perhaps  the  best  possible;  many  poems  are 
contained  that  seem  hardly  worthy,  and  several  of 
the  most  thoroughly  seaside  poems  in  the  language 
are  omitted.  Still,  this  is  a  fault  that  every  one  is 
sure  to  find  with  any  collection  of  verse  made  by  any 
one  but  himself;  for  it  is  hardly  probable  that  two  per- 
sons live  in  the  world  who  would  agree  as  to  the  rela- 
tive rank  of  a  hundred  poems.  Surf  and  Wave  con- 
tains enough  that  is  excellent  to  be  at  least  pleasing  to 
every  reader.  Ballads  of  the  sea,  society  verses  of 
the  seaside,  description,  sentiment,  and  so  on, 
make  up  its  contents;  every  one  has  several  favorite 
sea-poems,  and  he  stands  a  fair  chance  of  finding 

almost  every  one  of  them  here. An  even  better 

idea,  and  hardly  as  well  carried  out,  is  another  collec- 
tion, this  time  one  with  a  specific  educational  purpose, 
Voices  for  the  Speechless?  The  compiler  is  secretary  of 
the  American  Humane  Association,  and  the  object  of 
the  collection  is  the  inculcation  in  children  of  humane 
feeling  toward  the  lower  animals,  especially,  we 
gather,  through  the  use  of  this  book  as  a  school 
"speaker."  This  design  is  excellent:  the  habit  of 
humaneness  is  to  be  acquired  in  childhood,  if  at  all, 
and  is  exactly  one  of  the  habits  that  are  most  affected 
by  the  turn  that  is  given  to  the  feelings  through 
reading  and  precept ;  it  is  a  virtue  that  is  not 

1  Surf  and  Wave;  or,  The  Sea  as  Sung  by  the  Poets. 
Edited  by  Anna  L.  Ward.     New  York:     Thomas  Y. 
Crowell  &  Co.     1883.     For  sale  by  C.  Beach. 

2  Voices  for  the  Speechless.     Selections  for  Schools 
and    Private    Reading.     By  Abraham    Firth.     Boston: 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1883.     For  sale  by  Billings, 
Harbourne  &  Co. 


Book  Renews. 


[Oct. 


greatly  in  conflict  with  self-interest,  and  there- 
fore recommends  itself  naturally  to  the  child  when 
his  attention  is  drawn  to  it.  Moreover,  the  peculiar 
interest  that  children  feel  in  the  animal  world — 
evidenced  by  their  love  for  animal  stories,  the  ab- 
sorbed attention  that  you  can  always'  arouse  by  tak- 
ing up  the  subject  of  the  cows  at  uncle's  farm,  or  the 
little  dog  you  saw  on  the  street,  or  the  big  fishes  in 
somebody's  carp-pond — this  interest  makes  childhood 
a  peculiarly  favorable  time  for  the  acquisition  of  a 
gentle  and  sympathetic  habit  of  feeling  toward  the 
brute  creation;  and  the  importance  to  character  of 
this  habit  of  feeling,  or,  at  all  events,  the  ruinous 
effect  on  character  of  its  opposite,  can  hardly  be 
overrated.  We  are,  however,  sorry  to  find  that  the 
present  collection  is  not  happily  made  with  reference 
to  the  minds  and  tastes  of  children.  It  is  deficient 
in  spirited  and  narrative  selections — of  which  there 
was  great  wealth  to  select  from — it  is  too  much 
weighted  with  heavy  reflections  in  prose,  and  in  the 
didactic,  old-fashioned  verse  of  Pope,  Cowper, 
Akenside,  Milton.  To  any  practical  teacher  of 
children,  it  will  seem  strange  enough  to  find  neither 
Mrs.  Browning's  Flush  nor  Cowper's  spaniel  in  the 
collection,  while  seven  slow,  blank-verse  selections 
represent  Cowper  instead;  Wordsworth  represented 
by  three  purely  descriptive  selections  about  bird's 
songs,  while  only  a  detached  fragment — the  last  two 
stanzas — of  "Harts-Leap  Well  "  appear;  and  so  on 
indefinitely.  With  the  omission  of  much  admirably 
adapted  to  the  subject,  there  is  also  much  included 
that  has  not  the  remotest  bearing  on  it,  except  by 
unwarrantably  wrenching  the  words  from  the  author's 
intention.  Purely  descriptive  poems  about  animals 
may  have  their  use  in  encouraging  indirectly  a  spirit 
of  sympathy  and  interest;  and  it  is  natural  that  any  one 
actually  engaged  in  the  work  and  contests  of  a  hu- 
mane society  should  find  appropriate  to  the  subject 
such  poems  as  Faber's  "  O,  it  is  hard  to  work  for 
God,"  or  Clough's  "Say  not  the  struggle  nought 
availeth,"  of  which  there  are  a  good  many  in  the 
collection,  and  which  were,  of  course,  written  with- 
out the  faintest  reference  to  the  reform  in  question; 
but  the  admission  of  "  Pegasus  in  Pound,"  or  of  the 
sparrow  stanza  from  Emerson's  "Each  and  All," 
is  entirely  incongruous.  Nevertheless,  in  the  hands 
of  a  skillful  teacher  the  defects  of  the  collection  will 
signify  little;  and  even  in  view  of  the  rarity  of  skillful 
teachers,  we  still  should  strongly  urge  the  book  upon 
school  libraries,  parents,  and  all  who  are  interested 
in  its  object,  for  it  is  the  best  to  be  had  in  its  line, 

and   that  is  a  good  line. A   translation   of  the 

second  "cycle"  of  Topelius's  Surgeon's  Stories 
comes  to  us  under,  the  title  of  Times  of  Battle  and 
Rest.1  These  stories  are  a  series  of  Swedish  histor- 
ical romances,  which  follow  the  fortunes  of  one  family 
down  from  generation  to  generation.  The  first  cycle 

1  Times  of  Battle  and  Rest.  By  Z.  Topelius.  Trans- 
lated from  the  Original  Swedish.  Chicago:  Jansen, 
McClurg  &  Co.  1883. 


carried  the  fortunes  of  Count  Gustaf  Bertelskold 
from  the  foundation  of  the  family  through  the  period  of 
Gustaf  Adolf  and  Christina;  the  second,  now  under  re- 
view, ends  Count  Gustaf's  life,  and  carries  that  of  his 
son  also  to  its  end,  covering  the  period  of  Charles  X. 
and  Charles  XI.;  the  third  cycle,  now  in  preparation, 
will  carry  the  fortunes  of  the  same  family  through  the 
reign  of  Charles  XII.,  and  the  remaining  three 
cycles  will  also  be  translated  and  complete  the  se- 
ries. The  style  of  these  stories  is  simple  and  agree- 
able, and  there  is  a  very  pleasant  interest  in  following 
the  fates  of  a  family  instead  of  an  individual;  it 
seems  to  give  a  much  wider  scope  for  the  working 
out  of  complex  forces,  psychologic  and  social;  it 
may  yet  become  a  favorite  form  of  the  philosophical 
novel.  It  gives  also  a  good  opportunity  for  some 
romantic  machinery  in  the  way  of  hereditary  curses 
and  blessings,  family  secrets,  magic  inherited  rings. 
The  historic  value  of  Topelius's  stories  is  somewhat 
marred  for  the  average  reader  by  the  assumption  of 
previous  knowledge  of  Swedish  history,  natural  in 
a  Swedish  writer  writing  for  readers  of  his  own 
nation.  This  assumption  will  have  the  effect  of 
leaving  the  unlearned  English  reader  in  a  constant 
fog  about  the  historic  background,  unless  he  refers 
frequently  to  cyclopedia  or  history.  Moreover, 
he  will  probably  find  the  well-bred  and  restrained 
flow  of  narrative  somewhat  dull.  They  are  excellent 
stories,  however,  and  we  are  very  glad  to  welcome 

the  series  into  English. The  Miseries  of  Fo  /ft'2  is 

a  translation  of  a  French  satire  on  the  civil  service, 
which  contains  incidentally  a  laudation  of  the  English 
system  of  primogeniture  and  hereditary  legislators,  a 
sneer  at  the  study  of  the  classics,  and  a  protest  against 
extending  the  functions  of  government.  It  amounts  to 
nothing  as  an  argument  on  any  of  these  points,  though 
it  illustrates  effectively  the  miseries  of  dependence  upon 
favor  and  flattery  to  keep  in  office,  and  of  being  with- 
out really  valuable  work  in  the  world.  The  inci- 
dent— which  is  quite  without  bearing  on  the  subject 
of  the  satire — of  the  French  missionary  is  the  only 
thoroughly  pointed  thing  in  the  little  book,  and  is 
excellent.  The  whole  ajo-odd  pages  are  bright,  and 
it  is  perhaps  due  to  their  French  origin  that  there  is 
not  a  tiresome  or  halting  one  among  them. -^Sunday- 
school  literature  always  has  to  be  reviewed  with  a 
sort  of  anxious  twofold  consideration  of  its  claims  as 
literature  and  its  claims  as  moral  pabulum:  perhaps 
one  might  say  its  intellectual  effect  and  its  moral  ef- 
fect on  the  child.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  intel- 
lectual consideration  (including  the  question  of 
cultivation  of  taste)  is  pretty  sure  to  be  altogether 
.  secondary  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  of  this  sort  of 
literature.  These  reflections  apply  perhaps  less  than 
usual  to  Martin  the  Skipper, 3  which  has  the  very 

2  The  Miseries   of  Fo  Hi,  a  Celestial   Functionary. 
Translated  from   the   French    of    Francisque   Sarcey. 
Chicago:  Jansen,  McClurg  &  Co.      1883. 

3  Martin  the  Skipper.     By  James  F.  Cobb,  F.  R.  G. 
S.    New  York:  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.     i88y.     For 
sale  by  American  Tract  Society. 


1883.] 


Outcropping^. 


445 


great  recommendation  of  being  a  book  about  the  sea 
written  by  a  member  of  the  Geographical  Society, 
and  therefore  with  some  real  knowledge  in  the  ' '  lo- 
cal coloring."  Briefly,  it  is  a  tale  of  adventure,  a 
little  of  the  Oliver  Optic  order,  written  from  a  defi- 
nitely religious  point  of  view.  The  hero  is  a  very 
good  boy,  who  goes  to  sea  with  his  father  at  the  age 
of  sixteen,  and  is  a  very  good  man  and  in  command 
of  a  large  vessel  at  twenty-three.  That  there  is  a 
shipwreck  (a  good  seaman-like  one  in  this  particular 
case)  is  of  course;  any  boy  would  feel  seriously  de- 
frauded to  have  a  story  of  the  sea  without  a  ship- 
wreck. A  conspiracy  and  mutiny  is  almost  as  much 
of  course;  the  following  up  of  this  by  false  accusa- 
tion, murder  trial,  conviction,  sentence  of  death,  and 
triumphant  proof  of  innocence  at  the  last  moment 
are  perhaps  more  sensation  than  was  to  be  expected; 
'but  so  demurely  are  they  all  narrated  that  we  can 
acquit  the  book  of  any  dime-novel  tendencies.  In 
fact,  we  feel  justified  in  calling  it  above  the  average 

of  Sunday-school  stories. Colonel  Waring's  little 

horse  story,  Vix?-  has  been  reprinted  from  "Whip 
and  Spur,"  and  is,  it  seems,  to  form  the  first  of  a 
series  with  the  title  of  "Waring's  Horse  Stories." 
This  first  one,  with  which  the  rest  will  of  course  be 
uniform,  is  a  little  slip  of  a  ten-cent  book,  bound  in 
stiff  brown  paper. We  note  receipt  of  several  re- 
ports and  monographs  of  interest.  Suicide,  a  study 
of  the  subject  in  California,  by  L.  L.  Dorr,  M.  D., 
is  chiefly  valuable  for  statistical  diagrams  comparing 
the  States  of  the  Union  in  respect  of  suicide,  insanity, 
and  illiteracy,  and  comparing  the  statistics  of  suicide, 
homicide,  and  insanity  in  San  Francisco  during 
different  years.  According  to  these  tables,  Califor- 
nia stands  far  ahead  of  all  other  States  in  number  of 
suicides  and  next  to  Vermont  in  number  of  insane 
cases.  San  Francisco  even  shows  in  1878  a  higher 
per  cent  of  suicides  to  the  population  than  Paris. 
As  often  noticed  before,  there  seems  to  be  an  inverse 
ratio  between  insanity  and  illiteracy,  but  suicide 
seems  to  bear  no  regular  relation  to  either.  The 

1  Vix.     By  George  E.  Waring,  Jr.     Reprinted  from 
Whip   and  Spur.    Boston:  James    R.    Osgood   &   Co. 


table  of  homicide,  insanity,  and  suicide  for  San 
Francisco  alone,  during  nineteen  years  past,  shows 
a  very  traceable  relation  of  all  three  to  stock-gam- 
bling.  The  Glaciated  Area  of  Ohio  is  a  report  by 

Professor  G.  F.  Wright,  defining  minutely  the  south- 
ern boundary  of  the  ice-sheet  in  Ohio,  embodying 
the  results  of  his  explorations  during  the  summer  of 
1882.  The  point  of  most  popular  interest  developed 
is  that  the  ice-sheet  for  about  fifty  miles  up  and 
down  the  Ohio,  including  the  site  of  Cincinnati,  is 
found  to  have  crossed  over  a  few  miles  into  Kentucky; 
and  it  is  Professor  Wright's  opinion  that  instead  of 
having  a  sub-glacial  channel,  the  Ohio  was  for  a  short 
time  obstructed  by  this  glacial  mass",  and  backed  up 
until  the  present  site  of  Pittsburg  was  three  hun- 
dred feet  under  water. The  Greek  and  Latin  In- 
scriptions on  the  Obelisk- Crab  is  one  of  the  most 
scholarly  monographs  ever  published  in  this  country. 
It  is  a  detailed  report  by  Professor  Merriam("  adjunct" 
professor  of  Greek  in  Columbia  College)  of  his  read- 
ing of  these  inscriptions.  The  general  result  of  his 
investigation  was  to  establish  a  reading  of  the  date 
that  had  escaped  both  English  and  American  inter- 
preters, and  by  fixing  the  date  of  the  obelisk  at  13- 
12  A.  D.,  to  clear  up  a  point  of  history  on  which, 
apparently,  even  Mommsen  had  stumbled,  as  to  the 
length  of  certain  Egyptian  prefectures  and  military 
expeditions;  and,  as  a  corollary,  to  establish  some 
probabilities  that  change  our  knowledge  of  a  certain 
prefect  and  a  certain  architect  each  from  a  bare 
name  to  dim  outlines  of  a  man  and  his  history.  It 
is  not,  of  course,  of  the  slightest  interest  to  the  gen- 
eral reader. to  know  at  what  date  P.  Rubrius  Barba- 
rus  took  the  prefecture  of  Egypt,  nor  whether  the 
architect  Pontius  went  to  Rome;  but  it  is  of  the 
greatest  interest  to  know  how  they  do  these  things, 
by  what  painstaking  scholarship  the  evidences  of 
history  are  sifted,  and  how  many  confusing  details 
will  fall  into  intelligibility  upon  the  straightening 
out  of  a  single  erroneous  date;  nor  can  any  one  of 
the  least  antiquarian  taste  fail  to  appreciate  the  fas- 
cinating nature  of  this  sort  of  investigation,  com- 
pelling facts  forgotten  this  two  thousand  years  out  of 
the  stone. 


OUTCROPPINGS. 


A  Spanish  Captain's  Account  of  California. 

IN  the  year  1786  Don  Antonio  De  Alcedo,  Cap- 
tain of  the  Royal  Spanish  Guards  and  Member  of  the 
Royal  Academy  of  History,  published  at  Madrid  a 
valuable  book  on  the  geography  of  America.  He 
dedicated  it  to  the  "  Prince  of  Spain,"  son  of  Charles 
III.,  and  the  long  list  of  subscribers  includes  dukes, 
bishops,  abbots,  generals,  viceroys,  councilors, 
regidors,  and  various  other  officials  of  the  gorgeous 


court.  The  exact  title  of  his  book  is  Diccionario 
Geografico-historico  de  las  Indias  Occidentals  d 
America,  It  is  in  five  volumes. 

Hardly  anything  is  known  of  his  life,  except  that 
he  had  himself  visited  most  of  the  regions  he 
describes,  and  that  for  twenty  years  he  devoted  all  his 
leisure  moments  to  gathering  original  documents  re- 
lating to  the  subject;  and  from  his  official  connec- 
tions had  unusual  facilities  for  this.  In  his  preface 


446 


Outcroppings. 


[Oct. 


he  says  that  he  examined  and  studied  upwards  of 
three  hundred  volumes  of  Mexican  and  South 
American  records,  besides  archives  in  the  libraries  at 
Madrid  (though  he  was  not  allowed  complete  access 
to  all  of  these);  and  he  laments  a  great  loss  that  he 
suffered  in  1734,  when  invaluable  documents  were 
destroyed  by  a  fire  in  the  Escurial.  He  proceeds  to 
give  a  list  of  the  Vice- Royalties,  Governments, 
Corregimientos,  and  Alcaldias  into  which  Spanish 
America  was  divided  in  1784,  or  thereabouts.  His 
descriptions  of  countries  are  often  quite  long — over 
forty  pages,  for  instance,  being  devoted  to  Chili. 
A  revised  translation  of  Alcedo's  work  was  published 
in  London  in  1812,  but  no  statistics  are  brought  down 
to  a  later  date  than  1802.  This  book,  known  as 
Thompson's  Alcedo,  contains,  however,  a  good  deal 
of  additional  information  about  the  British  Colonies 
along  the  Atlantic.  In  respect  to  California,  Alcedo's 
description  is  left  almost  unchanged. 

Alcedo's  chapter  on  California  refers  to  both  the 
old  and  new  divisions,  and  treats  in  a  most  inter- 
esting and  graphic  manner  of  the  characteristics  of 
the  country  and  the  people.  Of  the  peninsula  of 
Lower  or  Old  California,  the  writer,  after  describing 
the  barren  and  mountainous  region  overgrown  with 
pitajaia,  and  other  cactus-like  plants,  proceeds  to 
give  some  glimpses  of  the  inhabitants.  "They 
gather  aromatic  gums  from  the  trees,  and  compose 
drink  from  the  crude  root  of  the  mezcales.  They 
have  a  sort  of  aloes,  from  strips  of  which  they 
make  nets;  and  from  other  herbs,  in  a  manner  which 
is  truly  curious,  they  manufacture  bowls  to  eat  and 
drink  out  of,  and  troughs  or  trays  which  they  call 
coritas."  In  reference  to  the  pearl  fisheries,  he 
says:  "The  most  valuable  pearls  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  Court  of  Spain  were  found  in  1615 
and  1665,  in  the  expedition  of  Juan  Yturbi  and 
Bernal  de  Pinadero.  During  the  stay  of  the 
Visitador  Galvez  in  California  in  1768,  a  private  sol- 
dier in  the  presidio  of  Loreto,  named  Juarj  Ocio, 
was  made  rich  in  a  short  time  by  his  pearl  fishing  on 
the  coast  of  Ceralvo."  (This  village  of  Loreto  was 
founded  in  1697.) 

Upper  California  extended  from  the  Bay  of.  Todos 
los  Cantos  (San  Diego)  to  Cape  Mendocino.  Alcedo 
is  led  into  the  error  of  saying  that  San  Fran- 
cisco Mission,  "is  under  the  same  parallel  as 
Taos,  New  Mexico."  He  refers  to  Sebastian 
Viscaino's  voyage  to  the  coast  of  California  (1554), 
and  says  that  his  maps,  drawn  by  himself,  show  the 
whole  shore  line;  Cabrillo's  examination  of  the 
of  the  country  was  in  1542.  For  one  hundred  and 
sixty-seven  years  the  Spanish  failed  to  occupy  this 
region.  The  first  settlement  of  San  Diego,  Mon- 
terey, and  other  missions  receives  no  additional 
light  from  the  pages  of  Alcedo.  Interesting  glimpses 
of  the  rude  communal  life  of  the  natives  and  of  the 
authority  of  the  mission  fathers  are  given.  "The 
olive,"  we  are  told,  "is  cultivated  near  Santa  Bar- 
bara and  San  Diego,  and  an  oil  is  made  that  is  as 


good  as  the  oil  of  Andalusia."  Good  wine  is  made 
in"*  the  villages  of  San  Diego,  San  Juan  Capistrano, 
San  Gabriel,  San  Buenaventura,  Santa  Barbara,  San 
Luis  Obispo,  Santa  Clara,  and  San  Jose,  and  south 
and  north  of  Monterey  to  beyond  the  37°  of  latitude. 

The  Thompson  Alcedo  says  that  in  the  missions  of 
Upper  California  between  1769  and  1802  there  were 
33,717  baptisms,  8,009  marriages,  and  16,984  deaths. 
The  baptisms  of  course  include  adults  and  children. 
In  1803  the  population  of  the  Intendancy  of  California 
was  15,500,  of  which  all  but  1,300  were  Indians.  The 
following  extract  will  give  an  idea  of  Alcedo's  way 
of  describing  the  natural  characteristics  of  the  coun- 
try: 

"  In  the  cordillera  of  small  elevation,  which  runs 
along  the  coast,  as  well  as  in  the  neighboring  savan- 
nas, there  are  neither  buffaloes  nor  elks,  and  on  the 
crest  of  the  mountains  which  are  covered  with  snow 
in  the  month  of  November,  the  berrendos  with  small 
chamois  horns,  feed  by  themselves.  But  all  the 
forest  and  all  the  plains,  covered  with  gramina,  are 
filled  with  flocks  of  stags  of  a  most  gigantic  size,  the 
horns  of  which  are  extremely  large.  Forty  or  fifty 
of  them  are  frequently  seen  at  a  time.  They  are  of 
a  brown  color,  smooth  and  without  spot.  It  is  af- 
firmed by  every  traveler  that  this  great  stag  of  New 
California  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  animals  of 
Spanish  America."  These  lines  show  a  tolerably 
clear  conception  of  the  Coast  Range,  its  adjacent 
valleys,  such  as  San  Jose  and  Salinas,  the  snow- 
clad  Sierras,  the  Sacramento  clothed  in  wild  oats, 
and  pastured  by  deer  and  elk. 

Sestina. 

IN  far-off  bowers  Jove  heard  the  nightingale, 
And  listening  raptured  to  the  lay  she  sung, 
He  thought  there  never  was  a  sweeter  song; 
For  that  pure  tone,  and  all  but  heavenly  strain, 
Might  calm  the  restless  fever  of  the  heart, 
Or  echo  find  in  lover's  inmost  soul   . 

"  There  is,"  cried  Jove—"  there  surely  is  a  soul 
Within  thy  tender  song,  O  nightingale, 
Else  it  could  not  so  deeply  touch  my  heart 
When  I  thus  hear  it  through  the  silence  sung; 
As  pulses  on  the  midnight  air  that  strain, 
Death's  ear  might  heed  though  deaf  to  earthly  song. " 

One  star-lit  eve  Jove  heard  a  clearer  song 
Than  that  which  first  had  moved  his  soul — 
So  plaintive  was  the  burden  of  the  strain, 
And  yet  he  knew  the  note  of  nightingale; 
Alas  !  in  prisoned  blindness  now  was  sung 
The  lay  that  once  had  burst  from  happy  heart. 

Upon  the  earth  great  Homer,  pure  of  heart 

(His  tales  of  valor  and  his  warlike  song 

Jove  loved),  then  lived  and  nobly  sung 

The  thought  that  burned  within  his  poet  soul; 

Nor  gladder  e'en  the  voice  of  nightingale, 

Than  those  dear  lays,  than  that  high  martial  strain. 


1883.] 


Outcroppings. 


447 


But  when  Jove  heard  the  simple,  touching  strain, 
Evoked  from  blindness  and  an  aching  heart, 
He  said:  "  If  yonder  forest  nightingale 
In  darkness  sings  her  grandest,  purest  song, 
Perchance  such  power  would  wake  the  poet's  soul 
To  higher  harmony,  and  lays  sublime  be  sung." 

Then  sightless,  by  Jove's  will,  the  poet  sung, 
Unwitting  how  the  after  years  would  strain 
To  read  aright  his  fervid,  earnest  soul, 
And  guess  the  inner  dreaming  of  his  heart ; 
Tried  heart  that  threw  its  sorrow  into  song, 
Alike  blind  Homer  and  blind  nightingale. 

Hushed  is  thy  song,  O  Grecian  nightingale, 
But  that  undying  strain,  so  subtly  sung, 
Still  lives  in  every  soul,  in  every  heart. 

Florence  M.  Byrne. 

Uncle  Joshua's  Extraordinary  Experience. 

IN  this  age  of  earthquakes,  cyclones,  and  hurri- 
canes, we  send  you  the  following  as  Uncle  Joshua's 
extraordinary  experience,  as  related  by  himself: 

"I'd  just  mounted  ole  Bones,  and  was  gwine  to 
town  to  buy  de  ole  'ooman  a  caliker  dress,  when  I 
heard  a  mighty  roarin',  and  all  of  a  suddent  I  dida't 
know  nuffin',  till  I  found  myself  a  sailin'  fru  de  air 
a-straddle  ob  ole  Bones.  Off  to  my  right  I  seed  ole 
massa  passin',  hangin'  onto  de  harrow  dat  was 
a-whirlin'  in  de  air,  and  tanglin'  him  up  in  de  teeth. 
I  said:  'Old  Marse,  let  go  dat  harrow';  but  I'm 
sartin  he  didn't  hearn  me,  for  he  staid  wid  it. 

"Bym  bye  I  felt  a  awful  jolt.  De  wind  had  'most 
quit  blowin',  and  ole  Bones  had  drapt  into  de  fork 
ob  a  great  big  cotton-wood  tree  'bout  two  hundred 
feet  high,  right  on  de  bank  ob  de  Mississippi,  and 
'fore  I  could  'zactly  view  de  surroundin's,  and  figure 
out  de  elewated  posish  to  which  I  had  been  promi- 
naded,  I  hearn  a  voice  say: 

"  '  Dat  you,  ole  man?  ' 

"  I  sed,  '  Yes,  honey;  you's  all  right ' ;  for  I  seed 
she  was  gwine  to  drap  in  de  water.  When  de  ole 
'ooman  went  under  I  'gan  to  git  oneasy,  for  she  war 
a  mighty  long  time  a  comin'  up;  presuntly,  I  seed  a 
dark  object  pop  up  'bout  fifty  yards  or  mo'  below 
whar  she  struck,  and  she  blowed  off  like  a  steamboat 
roundin'  to,  and  struck  out  for  de  shore  as  if  she'd 
bin  born  in  de  water. 

"  Me  and  her  started  back  to  de  house,  and — " 

"  But  hold  on,  Uncle  Josh;  how  did  you  get  down 
that  tree?" 

"Lor  !  dat  was  easy  'nough;  you  knows  how  thick 
de  bark  grows  on  dem  big  cotton- woods;  well,  I  jist 
hugged  to  it  and  cooned  down.  As  I  was  tellin'  you, 
me  and  de  ole  'ooman  went  back  to  de  house;  and 
der  wasn't  no  house  nowhere,  but  missus  and  her  two 
chillun  (Miss  Martha  and  her  brudder  Sam)  had 
found  de  cellar  somehow,  and  wasn't  hurt.  But  ole 
Massa — ah,  sah  !  it's  berry  sad  to  'fleet  'bout  dat. 
We  war  fo'teen  days,  sah,  findin'  'nough  ob  him  to 
hole  er  inquest  on." 


"  Uncle  Josh,  is  not  that  a  very  breezy  story?" 

"I  knows  strangers  and  folks  what  doan't  know 
anything  'bout  harrycanes  kinder  suspicions  it  has  er 
heap  er  blow  'bout  it,  but  ef  you  doan't  b'lieve  ebery 
word  I  tells  you,  come  right  along  wid  me  to  de 
bank  ob  de  ribber  not  ober  a  mile  from  heah,  and  I'll 
show  you  ole  Bones's  skeleton  hangin'  dar  in  de  fork 
ob  dat  tree  now.'r 

"Yes;  but  Uncle  Josh,  how  are  we  to  get  across 
the  swamp?" 

"  We  can  go  to  de  upper  eend  ob  it  and  down  de 
ribber  in  de  skift." 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  upper  end?  " 

" 'Leben  miles,  sah." 

"But  the  river  is  high,  and  we  can't  row  back 
against  the  current." 

"O,  we  can  go  on  down  to  de  lower  eend  and 
come  up  on  dis  side. " 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  lower  end  ?  " 

"Sebenteen  miles,  sah." 

"  Uncle  Josh,  do  you  ever  drink  anything  ?  " 

"  No,  sah." 

"  Chew  or  smoke  ?  " 

"My  pipe's  a  great  comfort,  sah,  when  I  has 
plenty  ob  terbacker." 

We  dropped  a  quarter  in  the  extended  palm  of 
Uncle  Josh  as  a  broad  grin  and  a  sly  twinkle  of  the 
eye  lighted  up  his  countenance,  accompanied  by  a 
polite  bow  and  the  remark: 

"  Sarvant,  sah." 

L.  W.  S. 

The  Pretty  Vassar  Senior. 

DID  you  on  the  Campus  pass  her? 
That's  the  finished  maid  of  Vassar, 
Whose  wisdom — like  Minerva's — mighty 
Blends  with  the  charms  of  Aphrodite. 

With  language  eloquent  and  tropic, 
She  can  handle  any  topic; 
And  will  thrill  you  if  it  suits  her, 
Till  your  heart's  not  worth  a  kreutzer. 

Owner  of  a  thousand  graces, 
Decked  in  satins,  silks,  and  laces, 
And  deep  diamonds  that  so  glisten, 
Forth  she  comes;  O,  let  us  listen. 

Now  your  whole  mind  she'll  be  teasing  . 

With  things  Asian,  Roman,  Grecian, 
Take  you  through,  without  apologies, 
All  the  ologies  and  mythologies. 

She  knows  Shakspere's,  Goethe's  fancies,. 
New  books,  pamphlets,  and  romances — 
German  mind-mists  pessimistic, 
And  that  nightmare  nihilistic. 

Every  reign  and  revolution, 
Chemistry  and  evolution, 
Stars  and  suns  and  epochs  during 
Ages  past  to  pre-Silurian. 


448 


Outer oppings. 


[Oct. 


The  very  Crichton  of  a  daughter — 
She  rides  a  horse,  and  rules  the  water — 
Works  at  the  easel,  and  can  play 
Lawn-tennis,  archery,  and  croquet. 

She  can  tell  each  tongue's  declension, 
Talks  of  azimuth,  right-ascension, 
And  gives  you  tunes — there  is  no  fagging  her — 
Of  Schubert,  Mendelssohn,  and  Wagner. 

Fascinating,  fawn-like  creature, 
Fair  in  form,  and  fine  in  feature, 
Sweet  as  a  zephyr  from  Sumatra, 
A  pretty,  rose-lipped  Cleopatra  ! 

Joel  Benton. 

In  Lent. 

'TWAS  Sunday  morning  in  the  Lenten  season, 

A  gold  light  blessed  the  day  ; 
I,  sinner,  in  those  bright  skies  saw  no  reason 

Why  I  should  not  be  gay. 

The  matin  hour  was  passed.     In  true  devotion 

She  prayerfully  had  knelt, 
And  lightly  stepped,  as  if  a  heavenly  potion 

To  her  the  Lord  had  dealt. 

If  you  remember,  they  are  days  of  trial 

And  fasting  all  that  time, 
When  they  who  seek  heaven  make  of  self-denial 

The  rounds  by  which  they  climb. 

Her  daily  life  is  full  of  saintly  beauty  ; 

Her  acts  and  words  accord  ; 
She  dearly  loves  her  church — her  guide  in  duty — 

And  dearly  loves  her  Lord. 

We  met  and  strolled  by  chance  the  city  o'er  ; 

More  blessed  than  wont  was  I. 
She  gave  me  smiling  words.     As  ne'er  before 

The  bright,  glad  hours  flew  by. 

We  parted.     Not  a  word  of  other  meeting 

Did  either  of  us  deign  ; 
I  read  a  promise  in  my  own  heart's  beating, 

Those  hours  would  come  again. 

But  no.     The  birds  that  whisper  secrets  truly 

Told  of  her  needless  trial, 
How,  all  those  hours  that  blessed  me,  bore  she  newly 

The  cross  of  self-denial. 

If  Lenten  season  veils  the  heart,  while  duty 

Makes  sweetness  smile  on  me, 
Lord,  let  my  heart  ne'er  yield  again  to  beauty 

The  bright  hours  stolen  from  thee. 

Gone  are  the  Lenten  days.     Yet  she  no  measure 

Of  solace  doth  afford. 
Ah!  if  I  were — what  she  doth  hold  a  treasure — 

Her  church — or  e'en  her  lord. 

Geo/rey  Burke. 


The  Dying  Heroes. 

Translated  from  the  German  of  Uhland. 

THE  Danish  sword  pressed  Sweden's  host 

To  the  wild  coast. 
Fierce  chariots  dash,  and  north-spears  gleam 

In  the  moon's  beam  ; 
There  on  the  death-field,  dying,  lay 
Young  Sven,  and  Ulf,  the  hero  gray. 

SVEN. 
O  Father!  me  e'er  morning  falls 

The  Norna  calls! 
Never  again  my  mother  dear 

Shall  smooth  my  hair, 
And  vainly,  in  yon  lofty  gate 
The  ancient  harpers  watch  and  wait. 

ULF. 
They  mourn — yet  us  shall  as  of  old 

In  dreams  behold! 
Be  comforted!  this  bitter  smart 

Soon  breaks  thy  heart ; 
Then  gold-haired  maidens  smiling  will 
In  Odin's  hall  thy  beaker  fill. 

SVEN. 

A  festal-song  I  had  begun — 

'Tis  all  undone — 
Of  kings  and  heroes  famed  of  yore, 

Of  love  and  war. 

Forsaken  hangs  my  harp,  in  vain 
The  wailing  wind  awakes  each  strain. 


God  Odin's  hall  gleams  warm  and  bright 

In  the  sun's  light ; 
There  wander  stars,  and  in  those  domes 

No  tempest  comes. 
Feasting,  we  with  our  father  sit ; 
Raise  there  thy  song,  and  end  thou  it. 

SVEN. 

Father!  alas*  e'er  morning  falls, 

The  Norna  calls. 
No  symbols  of  high  valor  shine 

On  shield  of  mine. 

Twelve  judges  throned,  with  one  accord, 
Will  cast  me  from  the  hero-board. 


One  valiant  deed  outweighs  them  all  ; 

For  thee  they  call ; 
Thou  for  thy  country  giv'st  thy  breath 

In  hero-death. 

Behold!  behold!  the  fierce  foe  flies. 
To  heaven  above  our  pathway  lies. 

/.  C.  L. 


THE 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


DEVOTED   TO 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE   COUNTRY. 


VOL.  II.  (SECOND  SERIES.)— NOVEMBER,   1883.— No.  n. 


UNDER  THE   SHADOW   OF  THE   DRAGON.1 


TEN  hundred  fresh  from  China,  their 
faces  turned  with  eager,  absorbed  look  to 
the  shore.  So  many,  so  close  together,  they 
made  one  think  of  the  sand  in  the  sand  hills 
near  by. 

It  was  in  the  days  of  unrestricted  immi- 
gration. The  ship  was  a  little  iron  ocean 
tramp,  an  irregular  trader  chartered  by  Pu 
Hong,  a  Canton  merchant.  The  captain,  a 
dapper  little  fellow,  was  storming  about  and 
swearing  big  oaths.  At  last  he  hauled  in  to 
the  wharf,  and  everything  being  ready,  the 
custom-house  cordon  was  drawn. 

Then  what  a  scene  of  confusion!  The 
hitherto  silent,  patient  mass  broke  into  a 
pyrotechnic  of  language.  They  fired  mono- 
syllabic words  right  and  left,  every  man  for 
himself;  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  old 
saw  would  be  reversed,  and  the  Devil  take 
the  foremost.  The  Chinamen  were  anxious 
to  get  on  shore.  The  gang-plank  was  not 
half  wide  enough,  and,  in  spite  of  the  exer- 
tions of  the  officers,  many  of  them  went  over 
the  sides  of  the  ship,  tossing  their  picturesque 
luggage  ahead.  Some  had  bright-colored 
baskets;  others  had  their  effects  wound  up 
in  curiously  woven  matting;  some  in  sheets 
or  in  bright-colored  pieces  of  cotton.  Some 


had  boxes,  red,  yellow,  brown,  or  canvas- 
covered,  with  bright  decorative  labels.  Some 
had  lacquered  boxes,  others  had  curiously 
inverted  washbowl-hats  tied  up  in  bundles : 
these  were  to  speculate  with.  All  were  in 
confusion,  good  natured,  laughing  at  acci- 
dents; the  victims  loudest.  Sea-legs  on 
shore,  and  a  slippery  gang-plank,  upset  more 
than  half  as  they  came  out.  Bundles  went 
one  way  and  men  another,  the  two  indis- 
tinguishable in  their  Oriental  coverings,  till 
the  effect  was  of  men  split  in  two  on  the 
gang-plank  and  joined  together  again  under- 
neath. One  large  fellow,  with  an  imperial- 
yellow  box,  fell,  scattering  the  curious  con- 
tents right  and  left  as  though  exploded  by  a 
bomb.  He  laughed,  collected  himself  and 
his  property,  and  trotted  off.  Finally  their 
compassionate  consul  spread  resin  on  the 
plank,  thus  removing  the  most  fertile  source 
of  their  troubles. 

Soon  everything  was  out  on  the  wharf  in 
apple-pie  order,  the  bundles  unrolled,  the 
trunks  and  baskets  opened.  The  Chinamen 
had  evidently  known  what  to  expect.  Their 
luggage  contained  little:  seldom  a  change 
of  clothing;  sometimes  a  pair  or  two  of  their 
queer  stockings.  These  are  reinforced  on 


1  See  editorial  comment. 


VOL.  II. — 29. 


450 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


[Nov. 


the  foot,  but  made  only  of  fine  cotton  in  the 
leg;  they  reach  to  the  knees,  where  they  are 
sometimes  self-supporting,  and  sometimes 
tied  with  blue,  red,  or  green  silk  bands. 
Some  had  brought  an  extra  pair  of  shoes  or 
a  blouse,  but  for  the  most  part,  fearing  the 
customs  people,  they  wore  all  their  clothes, 
even  in  some  instances  several  suits,  one 
above  the  other.  Every  one  had  mo're  or 
less  medicine:  dried  herbs  or  roots,  and  al- 
most always  a  box  of  colossal  pills  done  up 
in  a  brittle  coating  easily  cracked  off. 
These  pills  are  used  as  a  tonic  like  our  qui- 
nine. They  are  also  put  on  as  a  plaster,  and 
seem  a  sort  of  universal  remedy.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  Chinese  doctors  on  board, 
traveling  like  common  coolies.  These 
seemed  to  have  little  more  medicine  than 
the  rest,  and  of  what  excess  they  did  have, 
the  customs  officials  relieved  them,  thus  sav- 
ing the  population  from  some  of  their  doses. 
The  Chinamen  are  great  fellows  for  smug- 
gling. They  tie  silk  or  opium  under  their 
arms,  between  their  legs,  or  around  their 
bodies.  They  weave  silk  into  pieces  of  mat- 
ting. They  have  false  bottoms  to  baskets 
and  trunks,  occasionally  a  false  lining  to  a 
hat;  opium  is  sometimes  put  into  their  bam- 
boo sticks — in  short,  they  have  a  thousand 
devices  for  ingenious  hiding.  The  best  off 
of  these  passengers  were  sixty-two  who  were 
returning  after  a  visit  to  China.  Most  of 
these  wore  American  hats,  and  had  red  and 
blue  American  blankets;  otherwise  they 
looked  like  their  compatriots.  The  dress  of 
the  mass  was  bright  in  color.  Blue  predomi- 
nated, but  all  colors  excepting  red  were  rep- 
resented. One  stout  fellow  wore  a  sleeveless 
jacket  of  figured  green ;  another  was  all  in 
butternut;  his  bare  legs  harmonized  well 
with  his  dress,  and  he  had,  moreover,  a  de- 
lightful brown  basket  in  two  stories  that 
could  be  taken  apart.  Those  who  wore 
leggins  or  stockings  tied  with  silk,  knee- 
breeches,  and  blouses  fastened  on  the  side, 
were  the  most  picturesque.  Hats  like  in- 
.verted  dishes  added  much  to  their  effect. 
Some  wore  round  black  skull-caps  with  six 
ribs  or  lines,  and  a  red  button  on  top.  One 
hnd  a  small  red  crown  on  his  cap.  Those 


who  wore  American  hats  had  a  curious  fash- 
ion of  tying  them  on  with  their  queues: 
while  their  hair  lasted,  these  were  sure  of 
their  hats. 

The  customs  officers  were  not  unkind, 
but  most  of  the  seizures  seemed  unneces- 
sary. Hardly  any  of  them  would  have 
been  made  from  whites.  One  poor  fellow 
had  brought  a  bed  lambrequin  with  Chinese 
decorations  to  present  to  his  employer  in 
Oakland.  The  officers  took  it.  Next  to 
him  was  a  man  whose  sole  baggage  con- 
sisted of  half  of  a  decomposing  sheep. 
This  was  not  confiscated.  The  police  and 
customs  people  were  very  polite  to  us,  but 
their  evident  idea  was  that  we  were  looking 
only  for  what  was  repulsive,  criminal,  or 
what  would  pander  to  the  antagonistic  feel- 
ing of  the  masses,  and  one  of  the  officers 
dragged  me  up  and  down  over  boxes  and 
across  the  entire  wharf  simply  to  show  to 
me  a  man  with  a  harelip. 

There  were  on  the  ship  many  boys — little 
fellows  ten  to  eighteen  years  old.  They 
seemed  mature — more  like  little  men  than 
boys.  These  were  mostly  under  contractors 
who  were  bringing  them  over  on  speculation. 
They  were  dressed  like  the  men,  except 
that  their  pig-tails  were  made  long  enough 
for  the  fashion  by  braiding  in  blue  and  red 
cotton  or  silk.  The  pig-tail  regulation  in- 
troduced by  the  Tartars  is,  that  their  ap- 
pendage, without  counting  the  tassel,  must 
reach  to  the  knees. 

There  were  on  board  several  merchants ; 
these  wore  gowns  fastened  at  the  sides  with 
small  brass  buttons  and  silk  loops.  The 
gowns  were  beautiful;  usually  of  delicate-col- 
ored silks,  with  shaded  arabesque  patterns. 
Many  of  them  were  left  open  at  the  sides, 
showing  white  or  colored  trousers  under- 
neath. These  were  often  of  silk  and  tied  at 
the  bottom,  producing  an  effect  similar  to 
that  of  the  Austrian  soldiers'  trousers. 

On  the  steamer's  bridge  stood  a  repre- 
sentative of  the  six  companies,  telling  the 
strangers  what  to  do.  The  Chinese  are 
thoughtful  of  the  wants  of  their  countrymen 
arriving  thus  in  a  foreign  and  unsympathetic 
land,  whose  language  they  do  not  under- 


1883.] 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


451 


stand.  Always  on  the  arrival  of  vessels  with 
Chinamen  on  board,  the  six  companies 
would  send  representatives  to  meet  the  new 
arrivals;  these  registered  each  man  accord- 
ing to  his  province,  and  when  the  revenue 
ordeal  had  been  passed,  loaded  them  on 
express  wagons,  drays,  etc.,  to  be  carried  to 
the  Chinese  quarter.  It  reminded  one  of 
Niagara  or  the  New  York  ferries  to  see 
these  poor  fellows  seized  as  they  came  under 
the  customs  rope,  with  chalkmarks  on  their 
backs  as  well  as  on  their  luggage.  Draymen 
pulled  one  way,  red-shirted  Irish  express- 
men pulled  another;  and  the  poor  coolie 
was  in  despair  at  the  wrangle  till  the  com- 
pany's man  came  to  his  rescue.  Probably 
this  custom  of  the  six  companies  has  given 
rise  to  the  idea  that  it  is  they  who  imported 
the  Chinese.  This  is  a  mistake. 

When  the  Chinese  first  came  to  Califor- 
nia they  formed  guilds  or  clubs,  as  is  their 
custom  everywhere,  and  segregated  them- 
selves according  to  the  districts  from  which 
they  came.  From  this  arose  the  six  com- 
panies, representing  each  one  a  province  of 
Canton.  Each  has  its  president,  vice-presi- 
dent, secretary,  etc.  When  anything  im- 
portant occurs,  the  merchants  who  are  the 
controlling  element  in  them  meet  and  de- 
cide what  is  to  be  done.  Each  company 
takes  care  of  its  new  arrivals,  defends  those 
charged  with  crime,  and  often  sends  back  to 
China  its  helpless  and  indigent.  They  also 
arbitrate  and  settle  difficulties  among  their 
members,  and  allow  no  coolie  to  return  to 
China  until  he  has  paid  his  debts,  charging 
each  man  fromtwo  to  five  dollars  for  his  release 
ticket.  This  sum  is  to  reimburse  the  club 
or  company  for  its  charges  in  taking  care  of 
him  on  arrival,  law  expenses,  etc.  The 
ticket  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  every 
Chinaman  to  have  before  he  can  leave  the 
country.  An  arrangement  with  the  steam- 
boat owners  enables  the  six  companies  to 
exact  their  special  tax.  On  one  side  of 
the  gang-plank  of  every  departing  steamer 
stands  the  ship's  agent  for  his  tickets,  and 
on  the  other  side  stands  the  six  companies' 
man  for  his.  These  companies  are  only 
protective.  They  do  not  import  coolies. 


Occasionally,  Chinamen  come  here  with- 
out engagements;  sometimes  they  come 
under  contract  to  work  for  a  certain  length 
of  time  at  a  small  price,  say  five  or  six  dol- 
lars a  month.  Such  are,  on  arrival,  sent  out 
with  Chinese  bosses  on  the  railroads  or  else- 
where, and  what  they  earn  more  than  the 
contract-price  goes  to  the  importer.  Others, 
again,  give  a  mortgage  on  themselves  or  on 
a  member  of  their  family  to  secure  the  ad- 
vance of  the  passage-money.  The  mort- 
gage generally  amounts  to  treble  the  sum 
advanced.  If  this  is  not  paid  within  a 
specified  time,  the  persons  thus  mortgaged 
become  slaves  by  foreclosure.  Many  of 
those  imported  are  already  slaves.  The 
women  belong  almost  exclusively  to  the  lat- 
ter class.  The  importation  is  done  by  mer- 
chants and  private  guilds,  largely  resident  in 
China,  also  through  Chinese  agents,  by  our 
own  railroad  companies,  and  by  other  large 
corporations.  These  corporations  by  this 
means  obtain  for  a  certain  period  their  labor 
at  about  one-fifth  less  than  the  ordinary 
price  of  Chinese  labor  in  this  country. 

The  Chinese  guilds  often  have  deadly 
feuds  amongst  themselves,  and  it  is  then 
only  that  they  use  our  courts.  They  charge 
individuals  with  debt,  robbery,  or  murder, 
and  swear  away  their  lives  or  liberty  with 
perjured  testimony.  This  is  the  greatest  re- 
proach to  the  Chinamen  here.  Their  failure 
to  comprehend  the  sanctity  of  an  oath  is 
beyond  doubt.  Often,  before  the  grand 
jury,  Chinese  witnesses  swear  to  one  state  of 
facts,  while  at  the  trial  they  turn  about  and 
swear  to  the  reverse.  Lawyers  employed 
by  them  have  frequently  to  answer  these 
questions,  put  in  a  matter-of-fact  way, 
"What  you  want  prove?"  "How  many 
witness?"  The  Chinese  are  also  very  loath 
to  testify  against  each  other.  In  trials  with 
whites  or  the  State  against  them  it  is  hard  to 
obtain  a  conviction.  In  cases  involving  the 
Hip  Ye  Tong  Company,  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  secure  adverse  testimony.  This 
company  is  composed  of  the  highbinders, 
who  import  and  own  lewd  women,  control 
most  of  the  gambling-houses,  and  engage  in 
pretty  much  all  kinds  of  villainy.  These 


452 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


[Nov. 


men  do  not  hesitate  to  raise  from  five  hun- 
dred to  three  thousand  dollars;  and  by  proc- 
lamations posted  on  the  city  walls,  set  that 
price  on  the  head  of  an  enemy.  Besides 
this  price  to  be  paid,  they  declare  further 
stipulations.  Should  the  murderer  be  ar- 
rested, the  company  will  furnish  him  with  law- 
yer and  witnesses;  should  he  be  imprisoned, 
they  will  pay  him  so  much  a  day  while  he  is 
detained;  should  he  be  executed,  they  bind 
themselves  to  pay  so  many  extra  hard  dol- 
lars to  his  family. 

But  to  return  to  our  new  arrivals.  At 
last  in  San  Francisco's  Chinatown,  they  dis- 
appear there  like  sugar  in  water,  and  one 
would  never  dream  that  there  had  been  any 
addition  to  the  population.  The  place  is  a 
hive  that  hums  with  humanity.  The  whole 
quarter  is  solid  Chinese,  all  in  Oriental  cos- 
tumes and  long  pig-tails  :  men  in  all  dresses, 
from  the  silks  of  the  richest  merchant  to  the 
rags  of  the  poorest  mortgaged  coolie ;  wo- 
men with  loose  garments  nearly  identical 
with  those  of  the  men — gold  earrings,  jade 
amulets  and  rings  to  adorn;  children  padded 
out  with  clothes;  the  little  girls,  bangles  on 
their  ankles,  their  hair  cut  to  a  fringe  in 
front,  with  long  love-locks  left  at  each  ear ; 
the  boys,  quiet  little  fellows,  one  or  two  in 
red,  and  all  with  a  wonderful  surplus  of 
clothing,  intended  perhaps  to  represent  their 
importance  in  the  family. 

The  stores  look,  if  possible,  more  Chinese 
than  the  people ;  all  sorts  of  odd  things  in 
them  :  preserves  without  end,  endless  dried 
things,  devil-fish,  smelts,  flounders,  meat, 
clams,  ducks,  and  innumerable  shreds  and 
strings  of  substances  one  never  heard  of — all 
dried  and  in  little  compartments.  The 
whole  appearance  of  the  place  is  of  Cathay. 
Narrow  shelves  run  out  from  upper  floors 
with  flowers  or  piles  of  firewood  on  them  ; 
many-colored  and  many-shaped  lanterns  hang 
in  balconies  with  queer  lattice-work  around 
them,  and  pots  and  vases  on  the  edges. 
Swinging  disks  with  fluttering  fringes;  out- 
houses, additions,  and  projections  added  on 
in  irregular  ways ;  signs — wonderful  signs — 
mystery  in  characters  looking  at  you  on 
every  side — mystery  which,  being  interpreted, 


seems  but  little  less  mysterious,  reading  in 
phrases  such  as  "  The  Pathway  of  Flowers," 
"The  Virgin  Happiness,"  "The  Blessed 
Delight,"  etc.  Most  gorgeous  of  all  is  a 
doctor's  sign.  Hung  around  it  are  his  cer- 
tificates in  large  characters  from  cured  pa- 
tients— green,  on  gold,  red  on  gold,  black  on 
red,  every  possible  combination  of  pictur- 
esque lettering  in  colors ;  above  all,  a  pendent 
mass  of  tinsel  with  peacocks'  feathers  spring- 
ing from  it.  The  very  town  is  denational- 
ized. One  would  never  guess  himself  to  be 
in  America.  It  is  not  only  that  the  build- 
ings are  unrecognizable  :  the  very  smells  are 
unrecognizable.  The  atmosphere  itself  is  of 
Asia.  The  smell  impression  is  half  old  fish, 
a  suspicion  of  sandal-wood,  and  an  unpleas- 
ant remainder  that  no  man  can  analyze. 

Standing  in  a  doorway  is  a  dentist  smok- 
ing a  brass  pipe  with  a  square  bowl;  opposite 
the  bowl  is  a  compartment  for  reserve  tobac- 
co. It  looks  a  double-ender.  On  his  nose 
is  an  immense  pair  of  round  spectacles  in 
heavy  frames;  they  make  his  head  look 
like  a  cobra's;  on  the  door  is  his  sign — a  rich 
affair  supplemented  with  peacocks'  feathers: 
dangling  below  are  hundreds  of  teeth,  proofs 
of  his  skill,  reminding  one  of  scalp  trophies. 
Here  is  an  alley  where  fish  and  poultry  are 
sold,  dried  and  fresh,  with  greens  and  vege- 
tables. Everything  is  saved  ;  not  only  the 
entrails  and  viscera,  but  the  blood  of  the 
chickens  is  kept  curdling  in  bowls. 

In  every  street,  lane,  and  back  room  is 
a  ceaseless  buzz  of  industry.  Sewing-ma- 
chines driving  on  shoes,  on  shirts,  on  clothes; 
cigar-makers,  jewelers,  barbers — every  con- 
ceivable sort  of  worker,  and  every  con- 
ceivable sort  of  seller.  Many  of  the  stores 
are  even  divided  into  two  floors;  sewing- 
machines  are  in  full  blast  where  a  tall  man 
cannot  stand  upright.  On  a  street  corner  is 
an  old  scribe  writing  a  letter  for  a  coolie. 
He  writes  with  a  brush,  holding  it  upright 
and  working  most  with  his  little  finger. 
Five  minutes  sees  the  letter  finished  and  the 
money  paid. 

Twelve  o'clock  comes.  At  each  stroke 
of  the  bell  pour  out  squads  of  docile  work- 
men, who  go  into  various  places  for  their 


1883.] 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


453 


noon  meal.  One  house  that  we  saw  was  es- 
pecially interesting.  Into  it  went  hundreds 
of  men.  For  twenty  minutes  we  watched 
the  constant  stream  entering.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  windows  or  roof  must  burst  and 
let  the  human  current  overflow.  Still  they 
continued  to  pass  in.  Filled  with  curiosity, 
we  followed,  and  went  with  the  crowd  up 
the  dark  stair,  through  a  tortuous  passage, 
into  and  out  of  a  kitchen  whose  only  light 
was  a  dim  veilleuse  ;  on,  still  on,  to  another 
passage;  at  one  side  of  this  was  a  narrow 
trough  filled  with  water ;  into  this  each  man 
silently  dipped  his  hands,  only  shaking  the 
water  off;  from  this  out  on  a  roof  hung  full 
of  fluttering  clothes  and  surrounded  by  walls, 
then  down  another  dark  stair  by  crooked 
ways ;  past  a  cupboard  where  to  each  man 
was  handed  a  bowl  of  tea ;  next  into  a  great 
loft  packed  tight  with  men  eating  rice  out  of 
bowls.  No  one  took  any  notice  of  us. 
Everything  went  on  as  though  we  were  in- 
visible. In  so  strange  a  place,  with  such 
strange  and  stolid  beings,  it  seemed  as 
though  it  must  all  be  a  dream,  that  nothing 
could  be  real. 

We  had  another  remarkable  experience  in 
an  opium  factory.  Through  the  courtesy  of 
a  Chinese  merchant  we  were  enabled  to  see 
the  preparation  of  opium  in  all  its  stages. 
The  way  to  the  factory  was  down  a  long, 
narrow  lane  between  high,  blank  walls. 
Suddenly,  turning  to  the  right  through  a 
small  door,  we  passed  from  the  bright  day 
into  utter  darkness.  Groping  about  in  pas- 
sages, knocking  against  corners,  we  passed 
several  small  cupboard-like  rooms,  in  one  of 
which  a  man  smoking  opium  was  reclining 
on  a  matting-covered  shelf,  his  head  on  a 
little  wooden  pillow;  as  usual,  the  only  light 
was  a  wick  burning  dimly  in  a  tumbler. 
The  appearance  of  these  smoking-rooms  is 
weird  beyond  description.  However  small 
they  are,  they  seem  full  of  endless  vistas; 
the  whole  room  is  dark,  excepting  the  spot 
where  lies  the  smoker's  head.  This  is 
lighted  into  a  low  yellow  glow,  with  the 
heavy  shadows  crowding  in.  Harmonious 
with  the  scene  is  the  sallow,  half-narcotized 
face ;  into  that,  also,  shadows  are  crowd- 


ing fast,  and  the  last   glimmer  will  soon  be 
out. 

We  went  on  through  more  night  into 
another  orderly  littered  room  where  a  book- 
keeper was  painfully  casting  up  his  accounts 
with  paper  and  brush,  referring  often  to  his 
counting-machine  of  wooden  knobs  on  wires. 
He  was  working  in  a  twilight  that  had  to 
struggle  down  a  deep  shaft  and  through  a 
heavily  barred  window.  Nearly  all  of  the 
Chinese  houses  are -thus  protected  by  bars 
six  inches  thick,  against  mobs  and  the  po- 
lice; the  latter,  when  virtue  seizes  them  and 
they  attempt  to  execute  the  city  ordinances, 
being  the  more  dreaded  of  the  two.  After 
a  little  more  stumbling  in  narrow  places  we 
came  to  the  opium  factory.- 

It  had  been  the  yard  between  two  houses, 
the  walls  of  which  were  within  ten  feet  of 
each  other,  and  mounted  high  toward  a  dis- 
tant roof.  The  ends  were  boarded  up,  the 
dim  light  came  in  through  auger  holes  and 
bars.  Along  one  side  was  a  raised  place. of 
cement  in  which  were  many  round  furnaces 
for  charcoal.  Over  one  was  an  immense 
hammered  brass  bowl  with  opium  boiling  in 
it,  the  fumes  curling  away,  and  a  red  light 
underneath.  On  others  were  smaller  brass 
dishes,  in  which  the  opium,  as  the  water  evap- 
orated, was  being  kneaded  by  two  strong, 
half-naked  coolies.  This  was  hard  work. 
After  about  two  hours,  the  mass  becoming 
stiffer  and  stiffer,  the  coolies  were  able  to 
form  it  with  brass  flatteners  into  a  thick 
cake  that  adhered  to  the  bottom  of  the 
dishes.  This  done,  they  turned  the  dishes 
upside  down  over  the  embers,  and,  lifting 
.them  from  moment  to  moment,  peeled  off 
the  outer  skin,  which,  in  becoming  cooked, 
separated  from  the  rest.  Each  cake  in  this 
way  produced  fourteen  or  fifteen  thinner 
ones — an  affair  of  making  pancakes  with  the 
pan  upside  down. 

From  this  place  we  went  to  several  schools : 
some  conducted  by  philanthropic  people  or 
missionaries;  some  paid  by  the  Chinese,  and 
one  or  two  conducted  by  them.  The  only 
object  of  the  scholars  seemed  to  be  to  learn 
English.  It  was  with  surprise  that  we  had 
observed  in  our  wanderings  not  a  single  in- 


454 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


[Nov. 


dividual  reading  a  book  or  a  paper.  Few  of 
the  Chinese  here  read  enough  of  their  own 
language  to  enjoy  a  work  in  Chinese;  still, 
one  would  expect  to  find  some  interested  in 
literature,  if  not  in  their  own,  in  the  English. 
But  no;  not  one  was  reading.  The  truth  is, 
the  Chinese  are  not  nearly  so  intellectual  a 
race  as  is  supposed.  They  are  quick,  indus- 
trious, frugal,  cunning,  imitative.  When 
literary,  they  are  scholastic,  but  not  broad  or 
brave :  dogmatists,  not  investigators. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  men  we  met 
here  was  the  physician  of  an  English  steam- 
er, a  Chinaman  who  had  graduated  in  a 
Canton  college  conducted  by  Europeans, 
and  had  subsequently  passed  an  examina- 
tion in  Hong  Kong,  and  obtained  an  English 
diploma.  He  was  dressed  in  mauve  silk, 
with  long  gown  and  queue,  in  striking  con- 
trast with  the  rough  English  officers.  He 
was  very  bitter  against  the  Tartar  govern- 
ment, saying  that  it  had  caused  the  present 
stagnation  in  China.  He  was  also  outspok- 
en about  several  simon  pure  Chinese  doc- 
tors, who  were  amongst  the  ship's  steerage, 
passengers  from  Hong  Kong.  It  seemed 
that  they  did  not  understand  the  circulation 
of  the  blood,  could  perform  no  surgical  op- 
erations requiring  cutting,  and  altogether 
practiced  quackery.  One  of  them  had 
usurped  a  case  being  treated  by  this  doctor 
himself,  which  doubtless  added  animus  to 
his  remarks. 

From  the  schools  we  went  to  the  principal 
Chinese  Merchants'  Exchange.  The  room 
was  as  neat  as  a  pin,  as  are  all  the  Chinese 
stores  and  clubrooms — and  for  that  matter, 
the  whole  quarter,  considering  its  crowded 
condition,  is  not  so  bad  as  pictured.  It  is 
infinitely  better  than  the  tenement  quarters 
in  New  York;  and  the  smells,  though  pecu- 
liar and  not  pleasing,  are  not  so  altogether 
and  solidly  intolerable  as  those  of  the  gorged 
garbage-barrels  of  Manhattan.  On  the  walls 
of  the  Exchange  were  strips  of  writing  and 
pictures,  one  of  which  represented  two 
smiling  friends  with  arms  around  each  others' 
necks;  one  held  grain  and  oil,  the  other  a 
dish  of  gold.  This  picture  was  to  show  the 
advantages  of  trade.  In  another  place  was 


a  placard  in  Chinese,  announcing  a  fine  of 
ten  cents  for  every  pound  short  in  under- 
weight packages.  Our  merchant  friend  in- 
formed us  that  this  had  the  desired  effect  in 
stopping  cheating.  Around  the  room  were 
ranged  curiously  carved  chairs  and  narrow, 
high  tables,  all  made  of  dark  Calcutta  wood. 
The  lower  end  of  the  room  was  latticed  off 
from  the  rest  by  an  odd-patterned  lacquer- 
work.  In  this  nook  was  the  joss  in  a  gilt- 
tinseled  altar;  peacocks'  feathers  all  about; 
tall  candlesticks;  vases,  some  flowers,  but 
no  images;  deep  in  the  center  the  word 
"  Confucius,"  with  a  heavy  brass  censer  in 
front  of  it,  in  which  smoldered  burning 
sandal-wood  that,  together  with  the  dim 
lamp  overhead,  gave  a  religious  scent  and 
stamp  to  the  place.  Every  company,  every 
shop,  even  every  gambling  hell  or  den  of 
Cyprians,  has  its  joss.  The  theory  is,  as  our 
friend  explained  it:  "You  ketch  heap  joss, 
all  lighty.  Devil  no  can  come."  The  Chi- 
nese usually  translate  their  word  "  Ki," 
spirit,  into  our  Devil.  Of  spirits  they  have 
the  greatest  dread.  Every  house  in  China 
has  a  dead  wall  in  front  to  keep  them  out, 
the  idea  being  that  spirits  cannot  turn  sharp 
corners. 

Over  the  inner  door  of  the  Exchange  was 
a  gilded  frame,  deeply  carved  and  surrounded 
by  a  golden  dragon.  In  this  was  a  letter 
from  the  Emperor  of  China,  constituting 
this  hong  the  governors  of  the  Chinese  in 
California.  The  first  thing  the  Chinese  do 
when  they  come  in  any  numbers  to  a  coun- 
try is  to  form  /tongs,  or  societies.  These 
constitute  the  governing  power  amongst 
them,  and  control  all  affairs  pertaining  to 
their  colony.  We  visited  two  or  three  of 
these  societies,  and  were  particularly  well 
treated  in  the  Sam  Yup  Company  room, 
where  we  conversed  with  several  intelligent 
merchants.  This  is  one  of  the  six  about 
which  so  much  is  heard. 

We  spent  the  quarter  part  of  our  night  in 
wandering  about  in  the  Chinese  quarter. 
The  hum  of  industry  was  still  going  on. 
We  saw  jewelers  at  work,  each  man  at  his 
table ;  an  iron  saucer  containing  oil  fixed  on 
a  rod,  and  a  handful  of  pith  wicks  gathered 


1883.] 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the.  Dragon. 


455 


at  one  side.  These  burning,  furnished  light, 
also,  by  the  use  of  a  blow-pipe,  the  heat  for 
soldering.  One  man,  in  cotton  breeches 
only,  was  hammering  out  a  bar  of  gold.  Be- 
hind all  was  a  fat  controller  watching  from 
an  odd  little  curtained  house  built  in  the 
room.  The  next  shop  was  a  barber's. 
Here  were  men  in  all  stages  of  tonsorial 
manipulation,  being  washed,  having  their 
heads  shaved,  their  ears  cleaned  with  a  fine 
long  wire,  and  their  queues  plaited  :  the  lat- 
ter a  delicate  process,  for  silk  tresses  have  to 
be  insensibly  woven  in  to  obtain  the  fashion- 
able length  of  the  queue.  Some  of  the 
customers  had  splendid  long  scalp-locks 
hanging  to  the  waist,  and,  by  reason  of  the 
plaiting,  very  wavy. 

Hearing  a  great  din  of  gongs  and  a  sound 
like  bagpipes,  the  latter  produced  by  the 
Chinese  clarionet,  we  looked  up  the  cause. 
We  found  that  the  noise  was  in  honor  of  the 
holy  time  of  the  Young  Wo  Company,  and 
would  last  three  days.  In  a  little  crowded 
temple,  where  roast  pig,  rice  cakes,  etc., 
were  set  in  profusion  before  the  images, 
were  three  priests  in  scarlet,  with  black  bor- 
ders on  their  gowns,  and  black  caps  with 
gold  buttons  on  their  heads.  They  went 
through  curious  ceremonies,  waving  live 
chickens  before  the  heroes  or  gods ;  conse- 
crating their  mouths  by  rapid  movements 
of  charmed  wands,  they  tasted  water,  rice 
wine,  or  some  other  of  the  delicacies,  and 
then  spat  out  at  the  images  what  they  had 
taken  into  their  mouths ;  every  now  and 
then  large  paper  effigies  of  men  on  horse- 
back were  taken  out  and  burned.  Behind 
the  crimson-clad  priests  stood  their  acolytes 
in  blue,  with  brass  knobs  on  Tartar  hats. 
The  acolytes  did  the  genuflections,  prostra- 
tions, bumping  the  head  on  the  ground, 
etc.  On  the  outer  wall  of  the  temple,was  a 
red  placard,  thirty  feet  square,  covered  with 
the  names,  in  Chinese  characters,  of  those 
who  had  contributed  to  the  sacrifices. 

Next  we  went  to  the  theater.  The  long, 
narrow  room  was  jammed  with  men  till  they 
flooded  over  and  crowded  the  stage.  On 
one  side  was  a  gallery  for  the  women,  amongst 
whom  were  several  children.  Only  the 


lower  class  of  women  go  to  the  theater  in 
China.  In  fact,  the  theatrical  profession 
is  looked  upon  as  of  a  most  degrading 
character.  Women  are  very  rarely  employed 
on  the  stage;  their  parts  are  usually  taken 
by  men.  The  theater  opens  at  five  and 
closes  at  midnight,  without  any  reference  to 
the  plays.  If  one  ends  between  times,  they 
commence  another.  About  half  an  hour 
after  our  arrival  one  play  ended,  and  we  had 
the  good  fortune  to  see  finished  a  little 
moral  piece  lasting  out  the  allotted  time. 
It  told  the  tale  of  the  love  of  a  student  for 
a  slave  girl ;  he  becomes  acquainted  with 
her  in  a  rain-storm  by  offering  her  the  shelter 
of  his  umbrella.  The  girl,  of  course,  gets 
into  trouble  as  soon  as  her  mistress  finds 
out  how  affairs  stand.  She  is  beaten  un- 
mercifully and  turned  into  the  street.  This 
is  her  culminating  misfortune,  as  in  China 
every  one  must  be  attached  to  some  family: 
a  slave  has  had  all  natural  ties  severed,  and 
belongs  when  sold  to  the  purchasing  family. 
If  slaves  are  freed  and  not  reinstated  in  their 
native  clan,  it  is  the  greatest  misfortune  that 
can  befall  them — one  thus  freed  being  cut 
off  from  the  world  and  having  no  social 
standing  whatever.  So  the  girl  sees  her 
father  die  of  grief  because  he  is  too  poor 
to  take  her  back,  and  she  and  the  boy 
go  through  a  series  of  heart-rending  but 
edifying  horrors  to  the  end  of  the  play.  It 
is  curious  that  freedom  should  be  considered 
a  misfortune  anywhere  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  play  was  partially  chanted 
and  partially  spoken.  The  music  we  found 
much  more  endurable  than  it  is  usually 
thought  to  be,  suiting  well  the  action  of  the 
play.  Naturally,  in  warlike  or  bombastic 
parts  it  is  not  agreeable,  but  the  chants  were 
often  delicate  and  harmonious.  Absence  of 
scenery  is  made  up  by  gorgeousness  of  dress. 
During  the  latter  part  of  the  night  we 
went  through  the  slums  of  Chinatown  :  into 
the  alleys,  the  opium-cellars,  the  crowded 
houses,  into  all  the  places  the  detectives 
show  as  low  and  bad.  We  saw  wicked- 
ness, but  not  disorder  ;  vice,  calm  and  un- 
disguised, apparently  not  thinking  itself  in 
the  wrong.  In  the  alleys  were  the  women, 


456 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


[Nov. 


behind  their  little  grated  windows — poor 
women,  most  of  them  owned  by  masters 
who  force  them  to  earn  money  in  a  dreadful 
way.  Some  are.  actually  slaves,  others  are 
under  contract  for  a  series  of  years ;  only  a 
very  few  are  free. 

The  social  condition  of  China  is  very  diffi- 
cult for  us  to  realize.  One  thousand  years 
ago,  two  Arabian  travelers  visited  the  coun- 
try and  kept  a  diary.  Their  descriptions  ap- 
ply equally  to  the  conditions  of  to-day;  so 
also  the  story  of  Marco  Polo :  it  is  the  story 
of  the  present.  The  deposits  within  the 
artificial  banks  of  the  river  Hoang  Ho  indi- 
cate that  the  country  has  been  in  close  cul- 
tivation for  nine  thousand  years.  Their 
civilization  also  became  fixed  thousands  of 
years  ago.  We  cannot  get  into  our  heads 
the  intensity  of  conservatism  induced  by 
these  conditions.  To  change  a  Chinaman 
or  his  customs  is  next  to  impossible.  The 
laws  and  social  make-shifts  which  have  been 
found  necessary  for  our  temporary  over- 
crowding have  become  with  these  people 
mental  traits.  In  the  cellars  and  in  the 
house-tops  is  the  Chinese  population;  thou- 
sands of  them  in  a  single  house.  They  have 
no  beds  like  ours,  only  shelves  or  bunks,  with 
a  blanket  rolled  up  on  one  side  ready  for 
use.  It  is  like  nothing  so  much  as  the  fore- 
castle of  a  ship.  The  officers  have  testified 
under  oath  to  taking  twenty  men  from  a  sleep- 
ing-room eight  by  twelve  feet  in  size.  This 
massing  is  with  the  Chinese  a  second  nature. 
It  is  not  only  the  poor  workman  forced  to 
it  who  thus  crowds,  but  it  is  equally  the  rich 
merchant.  These  live  in  the  same  quarter 
and  same  houses  as  the  others;  all  of  them 
have  one  good  trait:  they  eat  with  their  em- 
ployees. Once  while  visiting  a  merchant 
whom  we  knew,  we  arrived  just  as  a  boy  was 
drawing  curtains  before  the  door.  This  is 
always  done  at  meal-time.  The  merchant 
and  his  men  were  seating  themselves  to  a 
frugal  meal  within  reach  of  the  counter;  yet 
this  gentleman  had  only  a  few  days  before 
purchased  seventy-four  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  goods  from  a  single  house  and  paid 
cash  for  them.  In  the  provincial  cities  they 
mass  together  just  as  in  San  Francisco. 


Even  in  the  mountains,  where  we  found  a 
colony  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  them 
washing  a  Yuba  River  bar  for  gold  with  old- 
fashioned  rockers,  it  was  the  same.  In  a 
locality  where  there  was  unlimited  space, 
they  had  crowded  themselves  into  a  nest  that 
would  have  been  restricted  for  a  chicken- 
yard.  So  also  in  the  isolated  Chinese  fish- 
ing villages  on  the  coast:  usually  there  is 
not  a  house  within  miles  of  them;  still  they 
herd  themselves  and  their  shanties  till  there 
is  scarce  a  crooked  path  to  get  between, 
often  even  crowding  out  into  their  clumsy 
junks,  whose  unhandy  rig  they  are  too  con- 
servative to  change. 

All  their  institutions,  from  their  religion  to 
their  language,  are  of  the  primitive  types, 
amplified  but  unchanged.  Their  religion  is 
ancestor-worship.  The  images  in  the  joss- 
houses  are  of  heroes,  sages,  and  emperors. 
An  abstract  idea  of  God  few  if  any  Chinese 
have.  It  is  a  religious  necessity  to  have  a 
son  to  perform  the  requisite  rites  to  one's 
spirit  after  death.  This  necessitates  the 
family,  upon  which  is  based  the  whole  theory 
of  government.  The  father  has  complete 
control  over  his  wife  or  wives,  children,  and 
slaves.  He  may  chastise  them,  shut  them 
up,  or  sell  them  into  slavery.  Even  killing 
one  of  them  is  but  a  venal  offense,  as  the 
following  quotation  from  the  penal  code  of 
China  will  show: 

"Whoever  is  guilty  of  killing  his  son,  his  grand- 
son, or  his  slave,  and  attributing  the  crime  to  another 
person,  shall  be  punished  with  seventy  blows  and 
one  and  a  half  years'  banishment." — Sec.  ccxciv. 

The  penalties  for  this,  as  for  many  other 
crimes,  may  be  commuted  by  money.  So 
the  father  and  clan  are  held  responsible,  and 
often  terribly  punished  for  the  deeds  of 
members.  The  government  is  an  absolute 
one  t)n  a  patriarchal  basis.  Their  maxim 
says :  "As  the  Emperor  should  have  the  care 
of  a  father  for  his  people,  a  father  should 
have  the  power  of  a  sovereign  over  his  fami- 
ly." This  system  affects  the  character  of 
the  people.  Very  few  persons  in  China  be- 
ing independent,  they  have  acquired  as  a 
nation  a  docile  disposition,  a  reverence  for 
recognized  authority,  and  a  patience  under 


1883.] 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


457 


injustice  and  hardship  that  no  free  race  can 
have.  These  qualities  make  them  agreeable 
household  servants :  especially  are  they  pleas- 
ant in  this  capacity  if  allowed  to  carry  on 
the  petty  peculations  so  universal  amongst 
them.  Contractors  for  large  undertakings 
like  them  too,  for  they  can  be  packed  in  cars 
like  sheep,  and  moved  about  or  stored  in 
quarters  impossible  fqr  ordinary  laborers. 
For  light  work,  such  as  children  or  women 
perform,  they  are  economically  and  easily 
handled;  for  heavy  work  they  are  not  so 
good. 

The  traits  of  Chinese  character  are  doubt- 
less partially  due  to  the  peculiar  system 
of  slavery  prevalent  in  that  country.  The 
power  of  the  father  to  sell  his  children 
is  very  generally  exercised.  D.  H.  Bailey 
estimates  the  slaves  in  China  at  fifty  mil- 
lions. Chief  Justice  Smale,  in  his  crusade 
against  the  Chinese  slave-trade  which  had 
grown  up  in  the  British  colony  of  Hong 
Kong,  says  he  was  horrified  to  find  that 
a  colony  growing  up  on  a  barren  island, 
after  thirty  odd  years  of  British  law,  should 
contain  ten  thousand  slaves  in  a  total  popu- 
lation of  120,000;  that  kidnaping  cases 
should  be  of  daily  occurrence,  and  Chinese 
placards  for  the  return  of  runaway  slaves  be 
found  on  every  dead  wall  in  the  town.  This 
shows  how  impossible  it  is  to  control  the 
Chinese  by  any  of  our  laws.  If  the  British 
could  not  do  it  with  their  laws,  we  may  well 
doubt  our  capacity  for  the  task.  In  a  free 
government  it  is  most  difficult  to  execute 
laws  against  the  social  usages  of  any  homo- 
geneous part  of  the  population.  Amongst 
the  Chinese  colonies  in  this  country,  whose 
members  regard  us  in  such  matters  as 
though  we  did  not  exist,  it  is  about  impossi- 
ble. In  the  Chinese  quarters  of  California, 
one  sees  the  cubic-air,  the  health,  and  the 
fireor  dinances  continually  violated,  and, 
what  is  most  extraordinary,  slavery  existing 
among  us  who  have  spent  so  much  blood 
and  treasure  in  a  supposed  extirpation  of 
that  institution. 

Some  extracts  from  the  penal  code  of 
China  will  indicate  something  of  the  status 
of  slaves  in  that  country: 


"  I.  All  slaves  who  are  guilty  of  designedly  strik- 
ing their  master  shall,  without  making  any  distinction 
between  principal  and  accessories,  be  beheaded. 

"  2.  All  slaves  striking  so  as  to  kill  their  masters 
shall  suffer  death  by  a  slow  and  painful  execution." 
— Sec.'  cccxiv. 

"A  slave  guilty  of  addressing  abusive  language  to 
his  master  shall  suffer  death  by  being  strangled  at  the 
usual  period." — Sec.  cccxxvii. 

The  Chinese  merchants  of  Hong  Kong 
deprecated  the  sudden  activity  of  the  Eng- 
lish against  their  slave  system,  and  sent  a 
long  petition,  setting  forth  their  views.  The 
whole  of  it  is  intensely  interesting;  I  will 
venture  to  quote  a  few  sentences : 

"In  consequence  of  the  propinquity  of  this  Colony 
of  Hong  Kong  to  Canton,  the  custom  of  which  prov- 
ince is  to  permit  the  people  of  the  various  places 
in  the  province  to  frequently  sell  their  daughters  and 
barter  their  sons,  that  they  may  be  preserved  from 
death  by  starvation,  the  usage  has  become  engrafted 
on  this  colony  also 

"In  China,  amongst  the  evils  heretofore  existing, 
the  custom  of  drowning  superfluous  female  infants 
has  been  rife.  .  .  ,  . 

"If,  as  to  the  buying  and  selling  of  male  and  fe- 
male children,  the  custom  be  terminated,  irrespective 
of  any  considerations,  it  is  to  be  anticipated  with  sor- 
row that  on  a  future  day  the  custom  of  infanticide 
will  of  a  certainty  receive  an  impetus  hitherto  un- 
known." 

The  worst  form  of  Chinese  slavery  is  that 
of  young  girls  from  ten  years  of  age  upwards. 
From  three  to  four  thousand  of  this  miser- 
able class  are  now  living  in  California.  They 
constitute,  with  a  few  exceptions,  the  female 
Chinese  population  of  the  State.  I  have 
talked  with  some  of  these,  and  heard  their 
sorrows,  but  their  awe  of  their  masters  and 
of  the  relentless  highbinders  prevents  them 
from  daring  to  accept  aid  in  an  escape. 
Most  of  them  do  not  understand  the  possi- 
bility of  such  a  thing.  Occasionally  one 
runs  off  with  a  Chinaman,  or  turns  up  all 
bruises  at  the  missions  or  police  court;  but 
their  masters  usually  get  them  again  by  false 
testimony  or  misinterpretation.  The  terror 
in  which  Chinese  interpreters  live  makes  this 
possible.  About  half  of  these  linguists  have 
thus  far  lost  their  lives  by  acting  honestly  in 
cases  opposed  to  the  highbinders.  Their 
fate  has  generally  been  to  be  chopped  to 
pieces  by  hatchets.  Out  of  the  Chinese 


458 


Under  the  Shadow  of  the  Dragon. 


[Nov. 


slave  system  has  also  grown  a  sort  of  polyg- 
amy or  legalized  concubinage.  The  boys 
of  all  the  wives  have  an  equal  standing  be- 
fore the  law;  as  for  the  girls,  a  Chinaman 
never  counts  them  as  children.  When  asked 
how  many  children  he  has,  the  number  he 
mentions  will  refer  to  his  boys;  they  do  not 
speak  of  the  girls.  We  saw  several  second 
and  third  wives.  Nearly  all  the  rich  Chinese 
merchants  in  California  have  two  and  some- 
times three  or  four. 

This  foreign  population  of  the  State  is  al- 
together an  anomalous  one.  It  consists 
almost  wholly  of  adult  males.  Of  these  there 
are  nearly  one  hundred  thousand — about  the 
same  number  as  the  adult  male  whites;  so, 
as  far  as  productive  or  arms-bearing  power 
is  concerned,  we  are  half  and  half — half 
American  and  half  Chinese.  No  people 
should  be  admitted  in  any  numbers  to  this 
country  to  whom  we  cannot  give  the  full 
benefit  and  privileges  of  our  institutions. 
The  suffrage  is  the  root  of  them  all.  No 
thinking  man,  acquainted  with  the  Mongo- 
lians in  California,  advocates  the  extension 
of  this  privilege  to  them.  Scarce  a  China- 
man in  ten  thousand  can  understand  an  ab- 
stract idea  in  our  language.  I  have  never 
met  one  who,  could.  They  do  not  read  our 
literature  or  papers;  and  their  materialism, 
clannishness,  venality,  and  apathy  to  every- 
thing here  except  the  receipt  of  sufficient 
money  to  leave  the  country,  together  with 
the  system  of  personal  mortgage,  which 
places  them  so  much  under  the  control  of 
their  guilds,  would  render  them  unfit  voters. 
There  are  so  many  adult  Chinese  here  that 
a  grant  of  the  suffrage  to  them  would  give 
them,  also,  control  of  every  election.  Their 
vote  would  go  in  a  block,  and  the  elections 
would  be  transformed  into  auctions,  in  which 
success  would  be  to  the  highest  bidder. 
Some  think  that  the  adulteration  of  the  suf- 
frage has  gone  far  enough :  certain  it  is  that 
the  enfranchisement  in  California  of  so  large 
an  ignorant  and  venal  population  would  be 
nothing  less  than  a  calamity. 

These  people  are  not  immigrants ;  they  are 
only  visitors.  While  here,  they  live  in  ho- 
mogeneous societies  in  every  town  in  the 


State.  They  live  under  their  own  laws  and 
customs  as  completely  as  though  at  home  in 
their  own  country.  They  demand  wages 
just  less  than  the  whites;  so,  of  course,  in 
periods  of  distress  it  is  the  whites  who  lose 
employment.  From  this  cause1  discontent 
arises,  often  ending  in  bloodshed:  The  white 
race,  strongest  in  combative  power  to  pre- 
serve itself,  fights  the  yellow  race,  strongest  in 
close  living.  Every  one  laments  this  unfail- 
ing incident  in  the  meeting  of  strong  and 
weak  people,  but  the  part  of  wisdom  would 
be  to  prevent  the  conditions  causing  it. 
All  minorities  of  homogeneous  people  living 
in  countries  with,  but  not  of,  the  controlling 
power  have  been  ill  treated  by  the  masses 
and  indifferently  protected  by  the  govern- 
ments under'  which  they  lived.  It  is  to  be 
expected  that  such  will  always  be  the  case. 
A  compact  foreign  body  in  a  nation  is  a 
source  of  weakness  and.  danger.  Self  pres- 
ervation being  the  first  law  of  nature,  such 
bodies  must  expiate  their  offense  against  the 
community  they  threaten. 

The  Chinese  have  been  eminent  sufferers 
from  this  law.  In  Saigon,  Siam,  Singapore, 
Sumatra,  Java,  Borneo,  Manilla,  Australia, 
here— in  fact,  wherever  they  have  gone — 
restrictions  have  been  put  upon  them  and 
they  have  been  hardly  used.  In  Borneo, 
Batavia,  and  Manilla  they  have  been  mas- 
sacred— in  Manilla  repeatedly  so  ;  on  one 
occasion,  the  whole  Chinese  population  of 
that  colony,  twenty-five  thousand,  were  de- 
stroyed. The  massacre  in  Batavia  was 
caused  by  a  conspiracy  against  the  govern- 
ment. It  occurred  about  the  time  the  Dutch 
lost  their  prosperous  colony  of  Formosa. 
The  Chinese  went  to  that  island  after  the 
Hollanders  were  well  established.  Event- 
ually becoming  powerful  enough,  they  killed 
the  whites  scattered  in  the  country,  and, 
after  a  nine  months'  siege,  captured  the  forts, 
which  have  since  remained  theirs.  In 
Borneo  their  troubles  began  through  a  part- 
ly executed  conspiracy  to  massacre  all  the 
natives  in  Sir  James  Brooks's  little  kingdom 
of  Sarawak ;  but  the  tables  were  turned,  and 
it  was  the  Chinese  who  were  exterminated. 
In  other  countries  where  they  have  gone, 


1883.] 


A   Christian  Turk. 


459 


trouble  has  always  occurred.     It  is  for  our 
statesmen  to  meditate  on  this  record. 

The  most  objectionable  feature  of  the 
presence  of  the  Chinese  in  California  is 
their  effect  on  our  own  people.  The  poor 
native  whites  are  in  a  more  unsound  moral 
and  industrial  condition  than  in  any  other 
Northern  State.  It  reminds  one  of  the  con- 
dition of  affairs  in  the  South  in  slavery  times, 
and  the  cause  in  both  instances  is  doubtless 
the  same.  Once  while  traveling  in  the  foot- 
hills we  stayed  at  a  little  house,  where  the 
woman  keeping  it  was  much  overworked; 
but  she  said  she  could  obtain  only  Chinese 
help.  There  were  pl.enty  of  poor  white 
girls  in  the  neighborhood  in  want  of  money, 
but  when  asked  to  take  any  menial  position 
they  uniformly  replied  that  they  were  not 


going  to  do  a  Chinaman's  work.  It  was  the 
same  in  old  times  in  the  South  ;  there  it 
was  the  negro  slave  who  degraded  labor. 
The  effect  of  the  Chinese  in  California  has 
been  to  degrade  labor,  to  weaken  the  politi- 
cal body,  and  to  injure  morally,  in  the  broad 
sense  of  that  word,  both  the  rich  and  the 
poor.  They  are  a  most  undesirable  people 
for  us  to  open  our  doors  to:  any  people 
must  be  that  will  not  amalgamate  with  us. 

If,  however,  contrary  to  all  experience, 
such  an  amalgamation  should  take  place,  it 
would  be  like  two  rivers  I  knew  well  in  my 
school  days.  Their  currents  met,  and,  to 
my  childish  delight,  ran  side*  by  side,  unal- 
tered, for  many  miles — the  clear  blue  Rhone 
and  the  muddy  Arve.  At  last  the  contest 
ended.  One  conquered :  it  was  the  mud. 

,  Abbot  Kinney. 


A   CHRISTIAN  -TURK. 


I  LIVE  on  the  corner  of  a  village  street, 
and  directly  opposite  is  the  dwelling  of  Mr. 
Ferreti — a  pretty  white  cottage  with  a  porch 
in  front  half  hid  by  honeysuckle  vines. 
The  front  yard  is  laid  out  in  beautiful  flower 
beds,  where  many  plants  bloom  luxuriantly; 
and  every  morning  and  evening  Mr.  Ferreti 
may  be  seen  watering  and  cultivating  them 
with  assiduous  care.  In  the  rear  of  the  cottage 
are  many  fine  fruit  trees  and  grape-vines; 
and  beyond  them  a  poultry-yard  which  seems 
to  require  considerable  attention  from  its 
owner. 

My  neighbor  and  I  were  on  friendly  terms, 
though  all  that  I  knew  about  him  could  be 
summarized  in  a  few  words :  he  was  a  tailor, 
and  a  Turk.  A  dingy  sign-board  informed 
the  village  people  of  his  business,  and  through 
the  window  I  could  often  see  him  seated 
on  his  table  busily  sewing.  He  himself  in- 
formed me  of  his  nationality,  and  the  asser- 
tion was  emphasized  by  the  red  fez  that  he 
wore  constantly.  He  was  a  short  man  with  a 
dark  complexion,  dark  hair,  and  fiery  black 
eyes. 

Mr.  Ferreti  was  not  a  popular  person ;  in 


fact,  he  had  few  friends,  for  he  was  of  a 
jealous,  suspicious  disposition;  he  seemed 
to  be  always  troubled  with  a  fear  that  some 
designing  person  would  seek  to  deprive  him 
of  his  property.  Though  he  was  a  Turk,  I 
think  he  had  abandoned  the  Mohammedan 
religion. 

Diagonally  opposite  my  home  was  an  un- 
occupied house  in  a  state  of  general  dilap- 
idation. It  had  been  deserted  for  a  long 
time,  but  one  day  a  strange  family  arrived 
and  took  up  their  abode  there.  There  was 
an  old  man  and  an  old  woman,  both  short 
of  stature,  and  with  faces  deeply  wrinkled; 
they  were  apparently  husband  and  wife. 
Another  old  woman,  tall,  bony,  and  haggard, 
seemed  to  officiate  as  housekeeper.  The 
fourth  and  last  person  was  a  girl  who  seemed 
about  sixteen  years  of  age.  She  was  of 
small  figure,  and  remarkably  quick  in  her 
movements.  Her  hair  was  decidedly  red, 
and  flew  about  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  defy 
subjection;  her  face  was  thin  and  very  much 
freckled,  and  her  eyes  were  very  large,  keen, 
and  dauntless.  In  the  course  of  a  few  days 
I  learned  that  the  name  of  the  family  was 


460 


A   Christian  Turk. 


[Nov. 


Priggs,  and  that  the  daughter  was  called 
Lucine.  The  latter  name  seemed  absurd 
enough  at  first,  but  I  soon  came  to  regard  it 
as  quite  appropriate. 

Every  morning  at  six  o'clock  there  would 
arise  a  great  bustle  in  the  stranger's  house. 
The  chimney  would  send  forth  smoke,  and 
the  tall,  wild-eyed  housekeeper  would  be 
seen  hurrying  about  in  discharge  of  her 
duties.  At  seven,  the  little  old  man  and 
his  wife  would  hurry  away  to  the  depot,  and 
take  the  early  train  to  the  neighboring  city, 
returning  at  seven  in  the  evening.  They 
always  carried  with  them  a  small  valise, 
and  it  was  a  matter  of  great  speculation  to 
the  gossips  of  the  town  what  their  business 
could  be.  After  the  old  man  and  his  wife 
were  gone,  the  housekeeper  would  disappear 
and  remain  invisible  the  entire  day. 

The'effect  produced  upon  Mr.  Ferreti  by 
this  new  arrival  was  extraordinary.  He  seem- 
ed to  believe  that  it  was  the  development  of  a 
plot  against  his  peace  and  welfare.  I  occa- 
sionally saw  him  standing  in  the  shade  of  his 
honeysuckles,  and  watching,  with  an  appre- 
hensive air,  the  people  across  the  way.  For 
some  days  I  think  his  flowers  suffered  from 
lack  of  care.  Then  he  consulted  a  carpen- 
ter, and  had  heavy  wooden  shutters  put  on 
his  windows  that  faced  toward  the  new 
neighbors,  and  afterwards  appeared  some- 
what reassured. 

Not  many  days  had  elapsed  before  the 
girl  attracted  my  attention.  V/hile  the  other 
members  of  the  strange  family  were  very 
shabby,  she  was  dressed  richly,  but  gaudily 
and  without  the  least  taste.  I  had  seen  a 
piano  carried  into  the  house  when  the  family 
came,  and  twice  a  week  a  pale  lady  came  to 
give  the  young  barbarian  a  music  lesson. 
Then  would  be  heard  desperate  attempts  at 
scales,  a  jangle  of  discords,  and  finally  a 
series  of  crashes,  followed  by  the  teacher's 
departure  with  despondent  looks.  The  girl, 
having  thus  disposed  of  an  irksome  duty, 
would  come  out,  vault  lightly  upon  the 
gate-post,  and  sit  there,  viewing  with  ap- 
parent interest  the  beautiful  garden  of  Mr. 
Ferreti. 

One  afternoon  as  I  sat  at  my  table  writing, 


I  saw  my  Turkish  neighbor  come  into  his 
garden  with  a  hoe  and  watering-pot,  wearing 
his  red  fez  as  usual.  In  a  moment  I  heard 
a  peculiarly  shrill  voice  calling : 

"Hullo,  red-head!     Hullo,  red-head!" 

Looking  out,  I  saw  Lucine  sitting  on  the 
gate  post,  repeating  at  intervals  her  rather 
questionable  salutation.  Mr.  Ferreti  ig- 
nored her  presence  for  a  time,  though  he 
was  evidently  ill  at  ease.  At  last  he  said 
severely : 

"Little  girl,  go  away.  You  are  rude.  Go 
away." 

Then  he  retired  to  his  house  with  great 
dignity. 

That  night  he  came  over  to  see  me,  and 
began  to  recount  his  troubles. 

"I  haf  been  so  mad  to-day,"  he  sighed. 
"Dat  girl  over  here — she  is  rude — she  is 
saucy.  She  sit  on  the  post  of  the  gate,  and 
say  to  me:  'Hullo,  red-head.'  O,  I  feel 
all  hot,  like  fire  inside.  She  call  me  red- 
head, but  her  head  is  more  red  than  mine. 
Ah,  I  vas  so  mad!" 

"Why,  Mr.  Ferreti,"  I  replied,  "she  is  but 
a  child,  and  you  should  not  notice  her. 
Children  will  be  children.  Perhaps  she  is 
not  taught  to  do  better,  for  you  see  her  pa- 
rents go  away  every  day.  Children  some- 
times say  saucy  things  to  me  on  the  street, 
but  I  do  not  mind  them.  I  keep  cool." 

"Ah!  you  Americans  are  always  cool.  I 
wish  I  could  be  so.  But  no;  anything  like 
dat  make  me  burn  inside.  I  could  take  the 
whip  —  the  pistol  —  but  there  is  the  law. 
There  should  be  law  that  children  should 
not  be  rude.  I  say  to  myself,  '  Can  this  be 
America,  where  a  man  cannot  go  in  his  gar- 
den without  getting  insult?'" 

And  with  that  he  departed  in  deep  afflic- 
tion. 

The  next  day  I  saw  Lucine,  attired  in  a 
red  silk  dress,  busily  engaged  with  a  coffee- 
pot and  fire-shovel  in  cultivating  a  consump- 
tive rosebush  that  grew,  or  rather  existed,  in 
their  yard.  She  was  so  interested  in  her 
new  occupation  that  she  positively  refused 
to  take  her  lesson  when  the  music-teacher 
came,  and  that  unfortunate  lady  went  away 
with  an  expression  of  joy  on  her  pale  face. 


1883.] 


A  Christian   Turk. 


461 


The  rosebush  received  a  great  deal  of  atten- 
tion for  a  week,  and  then  something  new 
agitated  the  Priggs  residence.  One  morn- 
ing the  old  man  and  his  wife  went  away  as 
usual,  but  instead  of  the  deathlike  silence 
which  usually  fell  upon  the  place,  there  arose 
a  clamor  of  voices,  the  shrill  tones  of  Lu- 
cine  predominating.  They  ceased  presently, 
and,  wondrous  to  relate,  the  chimney  again 
sent  forth  a  cloud  of  smoke.  About  two 
hours  afterwards,  I  saw  Lucine  in  earnest 
consultation  with  one  of  the  neighbors'  girls; 
then  she  entered  the  house,  and  soon  re- 
appeared, bearing  an  object  covered  with  a 
snow-white  cloth.  The  girl  took  it  very 
carefully,  and  went  across  the  street  to  Mr. 
Ferreti's  gate,  while  Lucine  retired  to  a  win- 
dow where  she  stood  watching.  The  girl 
had  hardly  reached  the  gate,  when  Ferreti 
came  hurriedly  down  the  walk  and  met  her. 
A  short  parley  ensued,  during  which  he 
waved  her  away  in  the  most  emphatic  man- 
ner, and  she  returned  to  Lucine.  Immedi- 
ately Lucine  came  out,  banged  the  gate,  flew 
across  the  street,  and  planted  herself  in  front 
of  Ferreti's  house. 

"You  red-headed  fool!"  she  cried,  shak- 
ing her  fist  at  the  house;  "come  out  here 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you.  Come 
out,  or  I'll  come  in  there." 

She  tried  the  gate,  but  it  was  fastened  in 
some  way.  Then  Mr.  Ferreti  leaned  for- 
ward from  his  table,  and  opened  the  window. 

"Ah,  little  cat!  Ah,  little  cat!"  he  said; 
"Go  away.  I  would  not  hurt  you.  Go 
home  right  away." 

Lucine  stood  on  the  gate.  "Ain't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself,  you  unpolite  old  scis- 
sors-snipper; after  all  the  trouble  I  took — " 

"Ah,  little  red  catF  cried  Mr.  Ferreti, 
with  a  black  scowl;  "your  tr-r-r-r-rouble  vas 
failure  dis  time!"  He  reached  up  quickly, 
and  took  down  a  long,  ancient  horse-pistol, 
cocked  it,  and  took  deadly  aim  at  Lucine. 

She  did  not  move.  "Who's  afraid?" 
she  said,  throwing  her  head  on  one  side,  and 
pouting  her  lips. 

Mr.  Ferreti  lowered  his  pistol,  and  shut 
his  window  with  a  bang;  and  Lucine,  after 
reflecting  a  moment,  slowly  returned  home. 


That  evening  Ferreti  came  over  to  see 
me. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "I  do 
not  feel  well.  To-day  I  haf  trouble  again. 
I  haf  insult.  Dis  morning  I  see  one  little 
girl  come  to  my  gate  with  something  covered 
with  a  cloth,  a  white  cloth.  I  know  not  vat 
it  vas,  so  I  go  to  the  gate  and  I  say : 

"'Ah,  little  girl!  what  haf  you  there?' 

"She  say,  'It  is  a  nice  pie  that  Miss  Lu- 
cine send  to  you,  and  she  hope  you  will  like 
it.' 

"I  say,  'Give  to  Miss  Lucine  my  thanks, 
my  gratitude,  but  take  the  pie  back  again, 
and  say  I  haf  no  use  for  such  things.' 

"Then  the  girl  go  back,  and  soon  Miss 
Lucine  run  over  and  stand  on  my  gate,  and 
call  me  'red-head  fool.'  Oh,  I  vas  so  mad ! 
I  open  my  window  and  say,  'Little  cat,  go 
home.'  Still  she  talk,  so  I  point  my  pistol 
at  her,  but  she  vas  not  afraid ;  then  I  shut 
my  window,  for  I  did  not  wish  to  hurt  her, 
and  she  go  away.  Why  did  she  send  the 
pie  to  me?  She  is  not  my  friend.  How 
can  I  know  that  it  is  all  right?  With  my 
friend — with  you,  for  instance — it  is  different. 
I  would  sit  at  your  table,  I  would  eat  of  your 
food,  and  place  my  life  in  your  hands ;  but 
we  would  not  do  dat  with  a  stranger;  so 
when  the  girl  send  a  pie  to  me,  I  think 
there  vas  something  wrong." 

I  felt  some  surprise  at  this  outcropping  of 
mediaeval  ideas,  but  tried  to  convince  him 
that  the  pie  was  sent  out  of  simple  motives 
of  kindness.  In  spite  of  all  I  could  say, 
however,  he  went  away  with  an  expression 
of  doubt  on  his  face;  and  I  did  not  know 
but  he  thought  me  a  partner  in  the  plot. 

Soon  afterwards  I  used  frequently  to  see 
Lucine  standing  at  Mr.  Ferreti's  fence  watch- 
ing him  as  he  tended  his  flowers.  He  took 
no  notice  of  her,  and  she  did  not  speak  to 
him.  One  evening  she  ventured  to  climb  to 
the  top  of  the  post  at  the  corner  of  the  fence, 
and  from  that  elevated  seat  observed  his 
operations  with  greater  ease.  She  sat  with 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  with  an 
expression  of  deep  interest  on  her  face. 
Presently  Mr.  Ferreti  saw  her,  and  stood  for 
a  moment  aghast.  Then  he  seemed  to 


A   Christian   Turk. 


[Nov. 


make  up  his  mind  that  the  time  had  come 
for  action. 

"Girl,  get  down  and  go  home." 

"I  ain't  hurtin'  nothin',"  was  the  imper- 
turbable answer. 

"Go  away  immediately.  I  might  hurt 
you.  You  would  not  like  to  be  hurt." 

"I  want  to  see  you  water  the  flowers." 

"Go  home,  I  say!" 

"I  won't!" 

Mr.  Ferreti  grasped  a  hoe  and  advanced 
toward  her  with  hasty  steps.  She  turned  a 
little  pale,  but  did  not  move.  Ferreti  paused 
within  two  paces  of  her  and  stood  surprised 
and  irresolute.  They  conversed  in  a  low 
tone  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he  retired 
to  the  house  and  shut  the  door,  leaving  Lu- 
cine  mistress  of  the  situation. 

After  that,  Lucine  made  the  fence-post  her 
throne  every  evening.  She  always  opened  a 
conversation  of  which  I  could  hear  portions, 
like  the  following,  Ferreti  generally  answer- 
ing one  question  out  of  half  a  dozen  : 

"What's  that  thing  with  the  red  flower? 
Who  laid  out  your  garden?" 

"I  did,"  answered  Ferreti. 

"How  long  did  it  take  you  to  do  it? 
Where  did  you  learn  to  garden?" 

"In  Rome." 

"Rome!     O-o-o-oh!"     A  silence. 

"Where's  Rome?" 

"  In  Italia." 

"  Where's 'Talyah'?" 

"In  Europe." 

"  How  big  is  Europe  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Are  you  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"No." 

"  What  are  you  ?  " 

No  answer.     And  so  on. 

One  evening  Lucine  mustered  all  her 
courage  and  boldly  walked  into  Ferreti's 
garden  when  he  was  watering  his  flowers. 
That  roused  him  to  a  last  desperate  effort. 
He  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  both  came 
flying  out  of  the  gate  like  a  whirlwind. 
Then  she  sat  down  on  the  ground  as  the 
best  way  of  stopping  her  headlong  career, 
and  he  sprang  back  inside  and  fastened  the 
gate.  With  three  leaps  she  cleared  the  fence 


and  was  in  the  garden  again.  He  darted 
one  look  at  her,  then  turned  away  and  took 
up  his  watering-pot.  Having  gained  an 
entrance,  she  walked  about  examining  the 
plants  and  flowers  with  great  delight.  Every 
evening  afterwards  she  was  there,  and  after 
a  time  I  occasionally  heard  him  talking  to 
her. 

One  night  he  called  on  me.  He  seemed 
preoccupied,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before 
he  broached  the  real  object  of  his  visit.  At 
last  he  began  : 

"Dat  girl  over  here  make  me  great  trou- 
ble. She  is  not  a  bad  girl,  but  she  come  in 
my  garden  every  night.  I  try  to  make  her 
go  away,  but  she  come  all  the  same.  I 
lock  my  gate — she  climb  over  the  fence. 
She  walk  around  and  ask  me  questions,  but 
I  do  not  care  for  dat  very  much.  Dat  girl 
is  smart,  but  she  has  not  been  much  to 
school.  But  now  I  think  dat  it  is  not  right 
for  the  girl  to  come  there.  In  Europe  it 
would  be  considered  not  proper.  It  would 
be  very  bad.  In  America  it  is  different,  but 
still  the  people  will  look  from  their  windows 
and  talk.  I  like  not  to  haf  the  people  say 
bad  things  about  dat  girl;  but  what  shall  I 
do  ?  Shall  I  stay  in  my  house?  My  flowers 
will  die.  They  must  haf  water.  What  shall 
I  do  ?  " 

"Mr.  Ferreti,"  I  replied,  "go  to  Mr.  Priggs 
and  ask  him  to  use  his  authority  to  keep  his 
daughter  at  home." 

"His  what?     Use— eh?" 

"Ask  him  to  keep  his  girl  at  home." 

"O — but  what  good?  I  think  the  girl 
do  just  what  she  like." 

"It  would  do  no  harm  to  try." 

"No,  it  would  do  no  harm.  I  shall  try 
it." 

The  next  morning  I  saw  my  afflicted 
friend  accost  Mr.  Priggs  as  he  left  his  gate. 
Ferreti  with  tragic  gestures  seemed  to  recount 
his  troubles,  and  Mr.  Priggs  replied  with  an 
abject,  deprecating  attitude.  The  results  of 
the  conference  were  not  apparent,  for  Lucine 
appeared  with  great  regularity  in  the  garden. 

One  evening  my  friend  did  not  appear 
among  his  flowers.  His  door  was  closed, 
and  the  shutters  all  fastened.  He  had 


1883.] 


A  Christian   Turk. 


463 


either  gone  away,  or  else  beaten  a  retreat 
and  intrenched  himself.  Lucine  appeared 
at  the  usual  hour,  but  waited  in  vain  for  Mr. 
Ferreti ;  and  after  walking  about  and  calling 
a  few  times  she  went  home. 

About  nine  o'clock  the  door  was  opened 
cautiously,  and  Ferreti  appeared,  carrying  a 
lantern  and  a  watering-pot.  He  came  down 
amongst  the  flowers.  Then  a  figure  stole 
along  the  fence,  the  gate  clanged,  and  a 
shrill  voice  said: 

"Where  you  been?  What  makes  you  so 
late?" 

Then  I  heard  a  series  of  ejaculations  in 
an  unknown  language.  It  was  evidently  a 
wail  of  despair,  and  after  that  Mr.  Ferreti 
submitted  to  his  fate. 

About  a  week  afterwards,  my  friend  came 
to  see  me  again.  He  appeared  like  a 
changed  man.  His  face  beamed  with  good 
nature,  and  he  talked  gayly  and  laughed  con- 
stantly. He  did  not  once  mention  Lucine 
nor  his  troubles. 

He  brought  me  as  a  present  two  bottles 
of  wine.  He  set  them  on  the  table,  and 
then  asked  for  a  corkscrew  and  glass. 
When  they  were  brought,  he  opened  both 
bottles,  and  drank  a  little  wine  from  each. 

"There,"  he  said,  as  he  replaced  the  glass 
on  the  table,  "I  haf  tasted  the  wine.  You 
may  know  it  is  all  right." 

"Confound  your  heathenish  customs," 
thought  I. 

Mr.  Ferreti  having  performed  his  duty  in 
regard  to  the  wine,  entered  into  conversa- 
tion, in  the  course  of  which  he  recounted 
many  incidents  of  his  travels,  and  informed 
me  of  many  customs  of  European  countries. 
In  return,  he  desired  me  to  enlighten  him  in 
regard  to  some  American  customs,  which  I 
did  as  well  as  I  could.  He  departed  in 
high  spirits,  and  that  evening  I  saw  him  pick 
the  finest  rose  in  his  garden  and  give  it  to 
Lucine ;  at  which  I  wondered  not  a  little,  for 
Ferreti  was  usually  very  miserly  with  his  roses. 

On  my  return  home  one  afternoon,  I  was 
surprised  on  entering  my  sitting-room  to 
find  Mr.  Ferreti  and  Lucine.  They  arose 
as  I  entered.  Ferreti  held-an  open  paper  in 
his  hand. 


"My  friend,"  he  said,  as  he  advanced 
leading  Lucine,  "  it  is  with  pleasure  that  I 
introduce  my  wife,  Madame  Ferreti." 

"Is  it  possible!"  I  said  in  astonishment. 

"Ah !  you  are  surprise,"  cried  Ferreti, 
laughing,  "but  it  is  true.  See,  I  have  the 
deed — the  bond";  and  he  held  out  the  mar- 
riage certificate. 

"I  congratulate  you  both,  and  wish  you  a 
great  deal  of  happiness.  This  is  so  unex- 
pected that  it  did  surprise  me." 

"It  is  done  a  little  quick,  but  it  could 
be  no  other  way.  Lucine  like  the  flow- 
ers, and  she  please  me  with  the  questions. 
What  could  we  do  better?  We  go  away 
and  are  married.  But  still  we  have  a  little 
difficulty.  I  say  to  Lucine  before  we  are 
married:  'Shall  we  not  tell  your  parents? 
Shall  we  not  haf  the  wedding  feast?' 

"She  say:  'My  father  cares  nothing  for 
me.  My  mother  give  me  fine  clothes,  and 
she  buy  me  a  piano;  but  I  do  not  care  for 
such  things.  They  eat  little  that  they  may 
save  money.  They  say  nothing  to  me,  but 
go  away  every  day,  and  at  night  count 
money.  At  home  I  see  nobody  all  day  but 
my  aunt,  who  smokes  a  pipe  that  makes  her 
sleep.  Why  should  I  tell  my  parents? 
Would  they  stop  counting  money  to  make  a 
wedding  feast?  Would  my  aunt  leave  her 
sleepy  pipe  that  she  loves  better  than  any- 
thing? No,  never.  It  is  ridicule.  I  am 
eighteen  years  old,  and  I  can  do  as  I 
please.' 

"So  we  tell  nobody,  but  go  away  and  are 
married.  Now  we  sail  go  and  tell  them, 
and  would  wish  you  to  go  with  us,  if  you 
will  be  so  kind." 

So  I  accompanied  my  friends  to  Mr. 
Priggs's  residence,  when  that  mysterious 
gentleman  and  his  wife  returned  from  the 
city.  Mr.  Ferreti  led  the  way  with  his  wife 
on  his  arm.  In  the  other  hand  he  held  the 
open  marriage  certificate  fluttering  in  the 
breeze.  I  followed,  feeling  much  amused 
at  the  whole  affair. 

We  found  Mr.  Priggs  and  his  wife  in  the 
front  room,  and  presently  the  wild,  haggard 
face  of  the  housekeeper  appeared  at  the 
kitchen  door.  They  all  stood  in  silent 


464 


Song. 


[Nov. 


amazement  at  our  appearance.  The  room 
was  furnished  with  a  few  rude  chairs  and  a 
dilapidated  sofa ;  and  in  sharp  contrast  to 
these,  a  fine  piano  stood  at  one  side.  There 
were  no  books,  no  pictures,  no  orname  nts  of 
any  description. 

"Mr.  Priggs  and  madam,"  said  Ferreti, 
gravely  saluting  them,  "I  haf  the  honor  to 
announce  that  your  daughter  Lucine  has 
become  my  wife,  and  is  now  Madame  Fer- 
reti. We  were  married  to-day,  as  the  bond 
will  show." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then 
the  old  man  said  in  a  lachrymose  tone,  as 
he  nursed  one  hand  in  another :  "Is  that  so? 
Is  that  so  ?  " 

"Here  is  the  bond,"  said  Ferreti. 

There  was  another  silence. 

"I  am  very  poor,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a 
whining  tone;  "I  can't  give  her  any  money, 
any  goods;  nothing  at  all." 

"I  ask  nothing,"  said  Ferreti, proudly ;  "I 
haf  my  house,  my  vines,  my  trees,  my  flow- 
ers. We  sail  be  happy.  I  haf  the  honor 
to  say  good  by." 

They  turned  to  go,  when  Mrs.  Priggs 
caught  Lucine  by  the  hands,  and  there  was 
a  trace  of  tears  on  her  leathery  face  as  she 
said,  in  a  dazed  way  : 

"  Little  Lucine  married !  It  can't  be.  It 
can't  be.  Why,  she's  but  a  child —  " 

"Tut,  tut,"  whispered  the  old  man 
anxiously,  taking  her  arm;  "it  is  done  now." 

Ferreti  .silently  held  aloft  the  marriage 
certificate. 

"But  little  Lucine  must  have  something," 
said  the  poor  old  woman  in  a  broken  voice, 


while   the   tears   rolled    down   her   cheeks. 
"We  must  give  her — 

"O-o-o-o-o!"  cried  the  old  man,  with  a 
hypocritical  expression  of  woe.  "We  are  so 
poor.  Shall  we  give  her  a  broken  chair? 
See  the  tinkling  piano  you  would  hire. 
We  cannot  pay  the  rent.  The  good,  kind 
husband  will  provide  all  things." 

Lucine  seemed  overcome  with  astonish- 
ment at  this  unusal  expression  of  feeling  on 
the  part  of  her  parents;  but  they  now  relaps- 
ed into  silence,  and  we  took  our  departure. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Priggs  and  his  wife  did 
not  go  to  the  city.  The  day  after,  they 
packed  their  scanty  furniture,  and  silently 
stole  away  in  the  early  morning.  No  one 
knew  where  t'hey  went. 

Mr.  Ferreti  and  Lucine  live  happily  to- 
gether. Every  evening  they  talk  and  laugh 
in  the  garden  as  they  water  the  flowers.  I 
often  see  them  taking  their  tea  on  the  porch 
under  the  honeysuckles. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  in  the  city,  and  while 
I  was  talking  to  a  friend  on  the  street,  two  re- 
markable persons  passed  us.  One  was  a  little 
old  man  with  a  wrinkled  face,  who  appeared 
to  be  blind.  His  faltering  steps  were  guided 
by  a  little  old  woman  who  was  very  lame. 
From  curiosity  I  asked  my  friend  who  they 
were. 

"A  pair  of  beggars  who  have  frequented 
these  streets  for  many  years.  Humbugs,  I 
dare  say.  They  ought  to  be  as  rich  as 
Croesus  by  this  time." 

In  spite  of  their  disguise  and  affected  in- 
firmities, I  recognized  Mr.  Priggs  and  his 
wife. 

C.  E.  B. 


SONG. 

O  WIND,  stir  not; 

O  singing  bird,  be  still; — 
Let  but  this  surging  love 
The  senses  fill. 

O  stars,  be  fixed; 

O  day,  forget  to  dawn — 
Since  night  hath  seen 
Love  born. 


E.  B.  P. 


1883.] 


Census  of  our  Indian  Population. 


465 


CENSUS   OF   OUR   INDIAN    POPULATION. 


ONE  may  get  interesting  and  important 
views  of  "the  Indian  problem"  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  United  States  census  for 
1880,  aided  by  a  study  of  the  annual  reports 
of  the  Office  of  Indian  Affairs  for  1879, 
1880,  1881,  and  1882.  The  Compendium 
of  the  Tenth  Census  (1880)  has  at  last  come 
to  hand  in  the  shape  of  two  ponderous  oc- 
tavo volumes  of  nearly  one  thousand  pages 
each.  The  delay  in  publication  is  attributed 
to  the  immense  amount  of  statistics  gath- 
ered, and  the  inadequacy  of  appropriations 
by  Congress.  It  is  foreign  to  our  present 
purpose  to  attempt  a  review  of  these  vol- 
umes. A  leading  object  of  the  writer  of 
this  article  is  to  cull  from  this  immense  pile 
of  statistics,  furnished  both  by  the  Census 
Office  and  Indian  Office,  such  statistical 
facts,  dry  but  important,  as  pertain  to  the 
Indian  problem  in  our  own  State,  and  to 
compile  a  series  of  tables  and  other  statis- 
tics, and  place  them  in  print — not  in  the 
columns  of  a  daily  newspaper  to  be  used  on 
the  morrow  for  kindling  the  household  fire, 
but  in  a  magazine  which  can  be  bound  and 
preserved  for  future  reference.  They  are 
intended  to  become  the  basis  for  future 
practical  operations  in  solving  the  Indian 
problem  in  the  several  counties  of  the  State. 
The  first  thing  in  the  solution  of  any  prob- 
lem is  to  know  its  fundamental  facts  and 
factors.  One  important  fact  is  that,  while 
the  Federal  Government  is  supposed  to  be 
looking  after  all  our  18,000  Indians  as 
"  wards  of  the  government,"  more  than  three- 
quarters  of  them — 13,788 — are  outside  of  all 
connection  with  or  control  of  any  Agency  or 
Reservation,  and  attending  to  their  own 
business  and  getting  a  living  in  their  own 
way — a  way  not' tending  very  rapidly  tow  ards 
their  civilization.  But  the  discussion  of 
such  questions  I  postpone  for  another  day. 
We  are  dealing  now  with  dry  statistics. 

In  order  to  show  the  relations  of  Califor- 
nia to  the  other  States  and  Territories,  as 
VOL.  II.— 30. 


regards  her  proportional  burden  of  the  In- 
dian problem,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  com- 
pile a  table — No.  I. — showing  the  total 
population  of  each  State  and  Territory,  in- 
cluding \h&  Agency  Indians  ;  the  number  of 
Indians  outside  of  Agencies,  taken  from  the 
United  States  Census  ;  the  number  of  Agen- 
cy Indians,  taken  from  the  reports  of  the 
Indian  Office;  and  the  total  number  of 
Indians  pertaining  to  each  State  and  Terri- 
tory. No  such  table  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Census  Compendium,  for  reasons  which  may 
be  gathered  from  the  remarks  following. 

The  work  of  taking  the  census  of  the 
Indian  population  is  peculiar,  differing  from 
that  for  all  the  other  classes  of  population. 
In  order  to  get  an  accurate  estimate  of  the 
total  Indian  population  of  the  States  and 
Territories,  as  well  as  the  separate  totals  for 
each  State,  Territory,  or  county,  one  re- 
quires to  go  through  a  special  education  in 
the  science  of  enumerating  Indians.  In  our 
schoolboy  days  we  were  taught  how  to  test 
the  accuracy  of  a  sum  in  addition  by  a  pro- 
cess called  "casting  out  the  nines."  The 
Census  Office  in  enumerating  Indians  seems 
to  work  by  some  similar  process  of  casting 
out,  not  the  nines,  but  the  Indians,  or  three- 
quarters  of  them. 

In  one  of  the  "  Census  Bulletins,"  issued 
in  advance  of  the  Compendium  volumes,  is 
found  this  note  of  explanation :  "  The  fig- 
ures for  Alaska  and  the  Indian  Territory 
are  omitted,  as  their  inhabitants  are  not  con- 
sidered citizens.  All  Indians  not  subject  to 
taxation  are  also  omitted  in  conformity  with 
the  census  law.  The  column  headed  '  col- 
ored '  comprises  persons  only  of  African  de- 
scent." The  table  referred  to  has  separate 
columns  for  Chinese  and  Japanese,  and  no 
mention  is  made  of  any  omission  of  Chi- 
nese "  because  they  are  not  citizens."  The 
clause  of  "  all  Indians  not  subject  to  taxa- 
tion "  requires  the  omission  of  "  all  Indians 
not  taxed,  i.  e.,  Indians  in  tribal  relatibns 


466 


Census  of  our  Indian  Population. 


[Nov. 


under  the  care  of  the  government  " — mean- 
ing thereby  all  under  the  care  of  United 
States  Indian  Agents  and  usually  living  on 
Indian  Reservations.  These  excepted  In- 
dians were  reported  by  the  Indian  Office 
Report  of  1882  as  numbering  261,851,  ex- 
clusive of  those  in  Alaska,  which  have  been 
estimated  by  an  official  agent  in  December, 
1882,  at  31,240.  The  great  "Indian  Terri- 
tory," containing  an  area  of  69,830  square 
miles  (larger  than  the  State  of  Missouri) 
and  an  Indian  population  of  79,024  (larger 
by  10,000  than  the  entire  population  of  the 
State  of  Nevada),  is  not  allowed  to  appear 
in  the  population  tables  of  the  Compendium, 
-not  even  by  a  line,  nor  has  it  a  line  in  the 
index.  In  Table  CVIII.  (second  volume)  of 
Areas  and  Land  Surface,  it  is  allowed  one 
short  line  showing  its  square  miles;  but  is 
not  allowed  to  enter  into  the  aggregate  area 
as  a  basis  of  computation  of  population  to 
the  square  mile.  And  yet  every  schoolboy 
finds  this  Indian  Territory  laid  down  on  his 
map  of  the  United  States.  Does  it  belong 
to  Mexico  or  Great  Britain  ?  Not  even  its 
small  white  and  negro  population  is  noticed. 
The  exclusion  of  Indian  population  amounts 
to  a  monomania  in  the  Census  Office. 

According  to  the  tables  presented  by  the 
Compendium,  to  the  mind  of  a  foreign  stu- 
dent of  our  national  statistics,  the  total  Indian 
population  of  the  United  States  and  Terri- 
tories amounts  to  only  66,407,  and  all  these 
are  "civilized"  by  the  magic  agency  of  the 
heading  of  a  column  in  the  table. 

One  might  be  disposed  to  censure  the 
Hon.  Francis  A.  Walker  for  this  absurdity, 
he  having  been  the  superintendent  not  only 
of  the  census  of  1880,  but  of  that  of  1870 
also;  and  having  also  been  Commissioner  of 
Indian  Affairs  in  1872.  But  this  is  what 
he  himself  thinks  about  the  subject,  as 
quoted  from  the  Introduction  to  Vol.  L, 
page  xvi,  Census  Reports  for  1870: 

"It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  census  law 
of  1850,  while  extending  the  enumeration 
required  by  the  Constitution  to  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  Territories,  should  have  followed 
the  narrower  rule  of  that  instrument  in  respect 
to  the  Indian  population.  The  phrase  of 


the  Constitution,  'Indians  not  taxed,'  seems 
to  have  been  adopted  by  the  framers  of 
the  census  law  as  a  matter  of  course.  Now, 
the  fact  that  the  Constitution  excludes  from 
the  basis  of  representation  Indians  not  taxed 
affords  no  possible  reason  why,  in  a  census 
which  is  on  its  face  taken  with  equal  refer- 
ence to  statistical  as  to  political  interests, 
such  persons  should  be  excluded  from  the 
population  of  the  country.  They  should 
of  course  appear  separately,  so  that  the  pro- 
visions in  regard  to  the  apportionment  of 
representatives  may  be  carried  out ;  but  they 
should  appear,  nevertheless,  as  a  constituent 
part  of  the  population  of  the  country,  viewed 
in  the  light  of  all  social,  economical,  and 
moral  principles.  An  Indian  not  taxed 
should,  to  put  it  upon  the  lowest  possible 
ground,  be  reported  in  the  census  just  as 
truly  as  the  vagabond  or  pauper  of  the  white 
or  the  colored  race.  The  fact  that  he  sus- 
tains a  vague  political  relation  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  be  recognized  as  a  human 
being  by  a  census  which  counts  even  the 
cattle  and  horses  of  the  country.  The  prac- 
tical exclusion  of  the  Indians  from  the 
census  creates  a  hiatus  which  is  wholly  un- 
necessary, and  which  goes  to  impair  that 
completeness  which  affords  a  great  part  of 
the  satisfaction  of  any  statistical  work." 

General  Walker,  in  order  to  complete  his 
"table  of  the  true  population"  of  1870, 
which  he  inserted  in  his  Introduction,  was 
obliged  to  resort  to  the  records  of  the  Indian 
Office  for  a  more  correct  estimate  of  the 
Indian  population.  In  that  table  the  Indian 
Territory  holds  its  proper  place,  as  well  as 
other  Territories  having  a  large  Indian  pop- 
ulation. Even  Alaska  v;as  admitted,  but 
with  a  greatly  exaggerated  figure. 

Such  a  table  is  lacking  in  the  Census 
Compendium  of  1880;  and  we  are  obliged 
to  supply  its  place  by  our  Table  No.  L,  in 
which  needed  corrections  have  been  made. 
It  appears  by  this  table  that  the  total  of  both 
Outside  and  Agency  Indians  in  California  is 
17,925,  being  the  largest  number  in  any 
organized  State,  Michigan  being  second,  with 
17,044.  And  it  also  appears  that  only  4,324 
United  States  Agency  Indians  are  to  be 


1883.] 


Census  of  our  Indian  Population, 


467 


deducted  from  the  total  for  California,  leav- 
ing, of  outsiders,  or  free  Indians,  13,891. 
There  are  only  seven  of  the  organized  States 
that  contain  over  5,000  Indians ;  namely, 
California,  17,925;  Michigan,  17,044;  Min- 
nesota, 6,682;  Nevada,  10,634;  New  York, 
5,935;  Oregon,  5,813;  Wisconsin,  10,411. 
If  Washington  Territory  should  be  admitted 
as  a  State,  she  would  have  17,542,  ranking 
next  below  California.  The  number  in 
Dakota,  if  admitted,  would  depend  upon 
the  new  boundaries.  Over  one-sixth  of  the 
population  of  the  State  of  Nevada  is  Indian, 
or  was  in  1880. 

The  most  obvious  fact  derived  from  the 
general  census  is  the  small  proportion  which 
the  Indian  class  bears  to  the  other  classes  in 
the  republic.  As  compared  with  the  whole 
fifty  millions  of  the  United  States,  counting 
the  Indians  at  one-third  of  a  million,  there 
is  only  one  Indian  to  every  one  hundred 
and  fifty  inhabitants;  and  as  compared  with 
the  colored  population,  only  about  one  to 
eighteen.  The  Indians  in  California  are 
not  quite  equal  in  number  to  one-quarter  of 
the  Chinese  population  of  the  same  State. 
The  number  of  immigrants  arriving  from 
foreign  countries  in  the  year  ending  June 
30,  1882,  was  780,000,  more  than  double 
all  the  Indians,  even  including  those  of 
Alaska.  These  immigrants  are  distributed 
all  over  the  country;  and  probably  one-half 
of  them  do  not  speak  English  any  better 
than  the  Indians.  All  the  Agency  Indians 
do  not  amount  to  more  than  one-third  of 
our  annual  immigration. 

In  compiling  the  Table  No.  II.,  I  have 
added  the  Agency  Indians  in  their  proper 
counties  to"  the  Outside  Indians,  so  as  to 
show  the  total  of  Indians  in  each  county, 
whether  under  Agency  or  not.  They  have 
been  added  in  the  total  population  of  the 
counties  where  Agencies  exist.  In  the 
counties  of  Los  Angeles,  San  Diego,  and 
San  Bernardino  there  was  a  double  enumera- 
tion, one  by  the  United  States  census 
enumerator,  and  the  other  by  the  United 
States  Indian  Agent,  each  reporting  to  a 
different  office  at  Washington.  The  United 
States  Indian  Agent  at  San  Bernardino  has 


TABLE  I. 

Shozuing  total  population  of  each  State  and  7^erritory, 
and  the  Indian  population  of  each;  compiled  partly 
from  the  Compendium  of  the  U.  S.  Census  for  1880, 
and  partly  from  the  Indian  Office  Report  of  1881- 
82,  with  some  necessary  corrections  suggested  by  a 
comparison  of  the  two  documents. 


States  and 
Territories. 

Total 
Jopulat'n, 
including 
Agency 
Indians. 

Indians 
Outside. 

Agency 
Indians. 

Total 
[nd'ns. 

1,262,505 
802,525 
866.342 
I95>252 

213 

195 
13  601 

154 

213 

195 
'7,925 
1,079 
255 

180 
124 
140 
246 
816 
i,7M 
5° 
848 
625 
15 
369 
17,044 
6,682 
i.8S7 
H3 
4.174 
10,634 
63 
74 
5-935 
1,230 
130 
6,165 
184 
77 
13' 
352 
1,100 
ii 
85 
29 
10,917 

4.324 
925 

146,608 
269,493 
1.542,180 
3-°77,87i 
1,978,301 
1,624,965 
996,995 
1,648:690 

939.Q46 
648,936 
934-943 
1,783  085 
1,646,732 
785.155 
M3I.597 
2,168,380 

456,34' 
70,097 

346,991 
1,131,116 
5,087,987 
i  399-75° 
3,198,062 
179,239 
4,282,891 
276.531 
995.577 
1,542,359 
i  591.857 
332,286 
1,512,565 
618,457 
I.323.253 

1  80 
124 
140 
246 
466 
815 
5° 
848 
625 
15 
369 
7,249 
2,300 
',857 
"3 
235 
2,803 

63 
74 
819 
1,230 
130 
1,694 
184 
77 
131 
352 
992 
ii 
85 
29 
3,161 

Florida  

Indiana  

35° 
899 

Massachusetts  

9-795 
4,382 

3,939 
7831 

New  Hampshire.  .. 

5,116 

North  Carolina.  .  .  . 
Ohio  

4,47' 

Pennsylvania  
Rhode  Island  

South  Carolina 
Tennessee  

108 

Virginia  

West  Virginia  
Wisconsin  

7.756 

Total  in  States.  .  .  . 

49,418,560 

41,890 

49-896 

91,786 

57,66i 
166,273 
177,624 
36,862 
57,864 
146,242 
M6  334 
88,219 
22,562 

79,024 

3.493 
i,39i 
5 
765 
1,663 
9.772 
807 
1,405 
140 
(5  tribes  
I  Other  tribes 

17,221 
31,096 

20,714 
32,487 
5 
4,4i7 
20,368 
36.449 
3,178 
14,508 
1,922 

79,024 

Dakota  

Dist.  Columbia.  .  .  . 

3,652 
18,705 
26,677 

2,371 
13,10^ 
1,782 
1    60,036 
\    18,988 

New  Mexico  
Utah  

Washington  

Indian  Territory.  .  . 

Total     Organized 
Territories  
Alaska  (estimated) 

978,665 
33.426 

19,441 
31,240 

193.631 

213,072 
31,240 

1  otal   Territories 
with  Alaska  

1,012.091 

50,681 

193.631 

244.312 

Grand  Total  

50.430  651 

92-57' 

243-527 

336.098 

Total  Indians  without  Alaska — States 91,786 

Territories 213,072 

Total  without  Alaska 304,858 

Total  with  Alaska 336,098 

Agency  Indians— States 49,896 

Territories 193,631 

Total  Agency  Indians 243,527 


468 


Census  of  our  Indian  Population. 


[Nov. 


TABLE  II. 

Showing  the  aggregate  poptilation  and  the  Indians  in 
each  county  of  California,  as  shown  by  the  Com- 
pendium of  the  U.  S.  Census  for  1880,  and  by  the 
Kef  art  of  the  U.  S.  Indian  Office  for  1881-82,  with 
some  necessary  corrections  suggested  by  a  comparison 
of  the  two  documents. 


Counties. 

Aggregate 
popula- 
tion . 

Indians. 

TT   • 

539 
62,976 
11,384 
18,721 
9.094 
13,118 
12.525 
2,584 
10,683 
9,478 
16,022 

2.928 
5,601 
6.596 
3.34° 
33  420 
",324 
4-339 

13,445 
S.656 
4.399 
7,499 
11,302 

13,235 
20,823 
14-232 
6,180 
34,390 
5,584 
7,868 
8,831 
233,959 
24.349 
9,142 
8,669 
9.513 
35.039 
12,802 
9,492 
6623 
8,610 
18,475 
25,926 
8.75' 
5,159 
9.301 
4,999 
",440 

.      7,848 
5.073 
11,772 
11,284 

i°3 
272 
522 
169 
353 
47 
411 
193 
794 
I    1-935 
I       51° 
637 
332 
774 
33° 
355 
162 
184 
i    1,265 
I      645 

7 
404 

35 

222 
64 
101 
91 
538 

.               8? 

740 
1,915 
45 
34 
'53 
8 
88 
73 
131 
1,037 

12 

493 

21 

339 
27 
13 
167 
261 
(       118 
1       159 
347 
80 

47 
67 

A          rl 

PI 

P        t         P 

Humboldt  and                        ) 

Hoopah  Valley  Reservation  J    ' 

M     '       a 

Mendocino  and                   1 

Round  Valley  Reservation  J 

M   A 

M 

„                    . 

2                  T 

Tulare  and                      ) 

Tule  River  Reservation  )  '  ' 

Yolo     

Yuba  

Totals  

866.342 

17.925 

Hoopah  Valley  Res'n..    510 
Round  Valley        "  645 

Tule  River  "  159 

Mission  Indians  S.  Cal. 3,010 

Total  of  Agency  Inds.  4,324 


-added  to  pop.  of  Humboldt  Co. 

"      Mendocino  Co. 

"  "  Tulare  Co. 


Of  the  Mission  Indians,  39  added  to  Los  Angeles  County ;  82 
to  San  Bernardino  County;  and  213  to  San  Diego  County. 
The  others— 2,676— were  already  included  in  the  U.  S. 
Census. 


charge  of  what  are  called  the  "  Mission  In- 
dians," about  3,010  in  number,  scattered 
throughout  the  counties  of  San  Bernardino, 
Los  Angeles,  and  San  Diego,  and  living  in 
small  bands  under  tribal  chiefs  upon  little 
reservations  provisionally  set  apart  for  them 
by  the  old  Mexican  priests  or  alcaldes,  or 
by  the  kind  indulgence  of  the  old  Mexican 
rancheros.  At  the  time  the  United  States 
census  was  taken  in  the  summer  of  1880, 
the  laboring  adults  were  probably  scattered 
among  the  different  ranchos,  working  on 
wages  for  white  people.  The  United  States 
census  enumerators,  probably  not  knowing 
the  relation  which  they  held  to  the  United 
States  Indian  Agent,  has  listed  them  as  Out- 
side Indians,  and  assigned  them  to  the  three 
counties  respectively:  Los  Angeles,  316; 
San  Bernardino,  658;  and  San  Diego,  1,702; 
total,  2,676 — according  to  the  Compendium 
table.  Now  the  Indian  Agent  claims  that 
all  these  Indians  thus  listed  are  included 
in  his  census  of  3,010  reported  to  the  Indian 
Office;  and  he  says  "there  are  no  Outside 
Indians  in  the  three  counties,  except  about 
200  Pah  Utes  and  Chemihuevas  living  on 
the  extreme  border  of  the  desert  in  the 
mountains,  which  I  do  not  think  are  in- 
cluded in  any  census."  In  constructing  the 
table,  I  have  omitted  the  200  mountain 
desert  Indians  on  account  of  indefiniteness, 
and  because  a  part  of  them — the  Chemihue- 
vas—  belong  to  the  Arizona  Reservation. 
Striking  out  the  returns  of  the  census  enu- 
merator, 2,676,  I  have  distributed  the  3,010 
proportionately  among  the  three  counties. 
I  cannot  learn  that  any  such  double  entry 
has  taken  place  at  the  other  three  United 
States  Indian  Agencies  in  the  State. 

We  learn  from  this  table  that  there  are 
four  counties  containing  each  more  than 
1,000  Indians:  Humboldt,  including  Hoo- 
pah Valley  Reservation,  2,445 ;  Mendocino, 
including  Round  Valley  Reservation,  1,910; 
Shasta,  1,037;  and  San  Diego  (all  Agency), 
1,915.  Of  counties  containing  over  500 
there  are  six:  Butte,  522;  Fresno,  794; 
Inyo,  637;  Lake,  774:  Plumas,  538;  San 
Bernardino  (all  Agency),  740.  Three  coun- 
ties contain  over  400:. Del  Norte,  411 ;  Mo- 


1883.] 


Census  of  our  Indian  Population. 


469 


doc,  404;  Siskiyotl,  492.  In  the  four  COUn- 
ties  containing  the  largest  Indian  population, 
more  than  one-fifth  of  the  total  population 
of  San  Diego  County  is  Indian;  in  Hum- 
boldt  County,  more  than  one-seventh  ;  in 
Mendocino  County,  one-seventh;  and  in 
Shasta  County,  more  than  one-tenth.  It  will 
be  noted  that  the  largest  masses  of  Indians 
live  in  the  counties  more  remote  from  the 

center  of  the  State,  San  Francisco  County 
,  -  ,  ,  ~  .-, 

havmg  only   45,    and   Sacramento    County 

only  14. 

STATE   SCHOOL  STATISTICS. 

The  State  of  California  provides  no  other 

. 
official  table  of  her  Indian  population  than 

the  meager  returns  taken  by  the  school 
census  marshals,  a  summary  of  which  is 
embodied  in  the  Report  of  the  State  Super- 
intendent  of  Public  Instruction.  These  re- 
turns,  by  reason  of  a  State  law,  only  profess 
to  give  the  numbers  of  such  Indian  children 
as  are  "living  under  the  guardianship  of 
white  persons"  (Sec.  1858,  Political  Code). 
The  children  of  wild  or  Outside  Indians,  as 
well  as  those  of  the  Indian  Reservations,  are 
not  included.  Here  again,  as  in  the  United 
States  census,  there  is  a  casting  out  of  the 
Indians;  but  it  is  more  justifiable,  because 
the  State  school  moneys  are  apportioned  to 
the  several  counties  "  in  proportion  to  the 
number  of  school  census  children  between 
the  ages  of  five  and  seventeen  years  of  age"; 
and  it  does  not  seem  just  that  counties  hav- 
ing  a  large  proportion  of  wild  Indian  chil- 
dren,jfor  whom  nobody  provides  any  schooling 
whatever,  should  therefore  receive  an  extra 
proportion  of  -school  money  with  which  to 
educate  their  white  children.  This  matter, 
however,  needs  looking  into.  Can  there 
not  be  some  organization  devised  in  the 
several  counties  by  which  these  straggling 
Indian  children  can  enjoy  the  benefit 
either  of  the  common-school  system  or 
of  some  private  school  apart  from  the 
others? 

Number  of  Indian   children  (by  State  census) 
between  the  ages  of  5  and  17  years,  June  30, 


Indian   census   children    who    attended   public 
at  any  dme  during  the  Sch°°l  year 


842 
Indian  children  under  5  years,  in  1882  ........  234 


2 

'children  who  a't'tended'  only  PVi-  2 
vate  schools  at  any  time  during  the  school  year    74 
Indian  census  children  who  did  not  attend  any 
school  during  the  school  year  1882-83  .......  525 

Amount  of  State  apportionments  per  census 
child  ..................................  $8.73 

Amount  of  county  apportionments  per  census 

chlld  ..................................     3-25 

Cost  of  tuition  per  scholar  enrolled  in  the  pub- 
licschools..   ......................   ...  I4<32 

Cost  of  tuition  per  scholar,  average  number 

belonging  .............................   20.  74 

Cost  of  tuition  per  scholar,  average  daily  at- 

_  tendance  •  •  •  22-45 

Cost  tuition  added  to  other  current  expenses 

scholar  enrolled  .....................  17.27 

Cost  tuition  added  to  other  current  expenses 
per  average  belonging  ...................  25.00 

Cost  tuition  added  to  other  current  exPenses 

,  per  daily  a"e,ndance  • 
Average  monthly  salary  paid  to  male  teachers 

(1882).  79.67 

Average  monthly  salary  paid  to  female  teachers 
(1882)  ..............................  ..  64.48 

THE  u-    s-    INDIAN    RESERVATIONS   IN    CAL- 
IFORNIA. 

The  following  summaries  are  made  up 
from  the  annual  reports,  with  their  accom- 
panying  tables,  of  the  superintendents  to 
the  Indian  Office  for  the  year  ending  July 
30,  1882;  for  the  general  remarks  and 
opinions  of  the  superintendents  reference 
must  be  made  to  the  reports. 

Hoopah  Valley  Reservation,  in  Humboldt 
County.  —  Agent,  1881-82,  Lieutenant  Gor- 
don  Winslow,  U.  S.  A.  After  July  30,  1882, 
Captain  Charles  Porter,  U.  S.  A. 

Total  Indians,  510.  All  wear  citizen's 
dress.  Can  speak  English,  345.  School 
population,  120;  no  boarding-school;  day- 
school  accommodation  for  60.  Average  day- 
school  attendance,  42  ;  i  teacher.  Indians 
who  can  read,  13;  have  learned  to  read 
during  the  year,  2.  Acres  cultivated  by 
school,  6,  raising  150  bushels  vegetables. 
Annual  cost  of  school  to  government,  $720; 

contributed  in  addition  by  the  wife  of  Lieu- 

.  TTT-     •,         *.  .    ,  ,4.  oui 

tenant  Winslow,  $1500  ;  total.  $1,220.   School 

J 
cost  per  head  of  average  attendance,   $29. 

Industries   taught,    sewing   and   gardening. 


470 


Census  of  our  Indian  Population. 


[Nov. 


All  the  children  vaccinated.  In  reading, 
writing,  and  copying,  children  have  made 
fair  progress.  Among  the  pupils  ate  five 
"  very  smart  ones,"  whom  the  superin- 
tendent recommends  to  be  transferred  to 
Carlisle  School.  (Why  not  to  Forest  Grove 
in  Oregon  ?)  Acres  in  Reservation,  89,572  ; 
of  which  are  tillable,  900 ;  cultivated  by  gov- 
ernment, 300;  by  Indians,  100.  Acres 
under  fence,  506.  Allotments  in  severally, 
50.  No  land  occupied  unlawfully  by  white 
intruders,  i  church  building ;  houses  occu- 
pied by  Indians,  126;  houses  built  by  In- 
dians during  the  year,  8.  Lumber  sawed,  75 
thousand  feet.  Saw-mill  and  flour-mill  re- 
moved to  safe  ground.  Births,  n;  deaths, 
15.  Of  total  subsistence  of  the  Indians,  one- 
third  is  earned  or  obtained  by  them  in  civ- 
ilized pursuits,  one-third  by  hunting,  fishing, 
root-gathering,  etc.,  and  one-third  by  issue 
of  government  rations — of  these  rations,  a 
part  are  supposed  to  be  the  product  of  the 
Agency  farm  cultivated  by  Indians.  Male 
Indians  who  undertake  labor  in  civilized 
pursuits,  1 86.  Harvests  fair;  Indians  en- 
couraged, and  Indian  farming  has  increased. 
Peltries,  the  product  of  hunting,  sold  for 
$2,000.  Salmon-fishing  prospects  were  un- 
favorable for  the  season.  They  depend  upon 
this  for  nearly  one-third  of  their  yearly  sub- 
sistence. Incidental  expense,  $15.  Sala- 
ries of  regular  employees,  $4,360;  salaries 
and  incidentals  amount  per  Indian  to  $8.54. 
There  are  no  data  furnished  by  the  super- 
intendent by  which  can  be  estimated  the 
proportion  of  cost  of  articles  furnished  from 
outside  by  the  Government  to  this  Agency — 
such  as  clothing,  medicines,  subsistence  sup- 
plies, agricultural  machines,  wagons,  shop 
materials  and  tools,  horses,  mules,  and  cat- 
tle. For  all  the  four  Agencies  in  California, 
Congress  appropriated  for  the  last  fiscal 
year  a  total  of  $32,000,  of  which  were  ex- 
pended $3 1,119. 54.  There  is  a  table  in  the 
general  report  of  the  Indian  Office  which 
shows  that  the  objects  for  which  this  amount 
was  expended  were  as  follows:  Medicines  and 
medical  supplies,  $672.09.  Annuity  goods, 
$8,293.16.  Subsistence  supplies,  $6,096.48. 
Agricultural  and  miscellaneous  supplies,  $5,- 


956.77.  Transportation  and  storage,  $110. 
Pay  of  regular  employees  at  Agencies, 
$9,322.60;  pay  of  temporary  employees  at 
Agencies,  $69.  Support  of  schools  (outside 
of  salaries),  $260.91.  "  To  promote  civiliza- 
tion generally,  including  labor,"  $60.  Trav 
eling  expenses  of  Indian  Agents,  $163.73. 
Incidental  expenses  of  Agencies,  $114.80. 
In  hands  of  Agents,  $10.06. 

The  total  expenditure,  $31,119.54,  di- 
vided by  the  4,324  Agency  Indians  of  this 
State,  gives  about  $7.20  per  head.  But  we 
have  the  data  for  deducting  the  pay  of  em- 
ployees and  incidental  expenses  at  each 
Agency,  the  total  for  the  four  Agencies  being 
$9,670.13.  This  deducted  from  the  $31,- 
119.54  leaves  $21,449.41,  or  $4.96  (close  to 
$5)  per  head.  How  much  each  Agency  has 
received  per  head  we  have  not  the  data  to 
determine. 

Round  Valley  Reservation,  in  Mendocino 
County. — Agent,  H.  B.  Sheldon.  Indians 
on  Reservation,  645.  All  wear  citizen's 
dress.  Acres  in  Reservation,  102,118. 
Acres  tillable,  2,000.  Whites  unlawfully  on 
Reservation,  12.  Acres  occupied  by  white 
intruders,  8,000.  Acres  cultivated  during 
year  by  government,  1,210;  by  Indians, 
460.  Acres  broken  in  year  by  Indians,  20; 
by  government,  10.  Lumber  cut,  181  thou- 
sand. Fencing,  506  rods.  Bushels  of  grain 
raised,  1,600.  Male  Indians  who  undertake 
manual  labor  in  civilized  pursuits,  150. 
Indian  apprentices,  n.  Houses  occupied 
by  Indians,  85.  Houses  built  by  Indians 
during  past  year,  19.  No  church  building; 
i  missionary.  Contributed  by  religious 
societies  for  other  purposes  than  education, 
$622.  Have  received  medical  treatment 
during  the  year,  737.  Births,  13;  deaths, 
22.  Proportion  of  subsistence  obtained  by 
Indians  in  civilized  pursuits,  75  per  cent; 
by  rations  from  government,  25  per  cent. 
Educational. — Indians  who  can  speak  Eng- 
lish, 500.  Children  of  school  age,  81.  Can 
read,  76.  Have  learned  to  read  during  the 
year,  5.  Boarding-school  accommodation 
for  75  scholars.  Day-school  accommodation 
for  25;  only  one  day-scholar.  Attending 
boarding-school  one  month  or  more,  57. 


1883.] 


Census  of  our  Indian  Population. 


471 


Average  attendance  at  boarding-school,  43. 
Cost  of  maintaining  schools  to  government, 
$2,009.  Teachers  and  employees,  8.  Cost 
of  schools  per  head  on  44  average  attendance, 
$45.61.  Acres  cultivated  by  school,  4.  In- 
dustries taught,  domestic  work,  sewing,  care 
of  stock,  carpentering,  cobbling,  gardening. 
No  allotments  in  severalty.  Stock  owned 
by  Indians,  75  horses,  10  mules,  25  cattle, 
20  swine.  Pay  of  regular  employees,  $2,- 
203.25;  of  temporary  employees,  $69;  total, 
$2,272.25,  which  amounts  to  $3.52  per  head 
of  Indians  on  Reservation.  Five  dollars 
more  per  head  for  miscellaneous  expendi- 
tures from  outside  by  government  would 
amount  to  $3,225;  but  whether  more  or  less 
was  actually  expended  does  not  appear  in 
the  report.  The  success  of  this  Reservation 
is  much  impeded  by  bickering  between  the 
white  intruders  and  the  Indians. 

Tide  Rivzr  Reservation,  in  Tulare  County. 
— Agent,  C.  G.  Belknap.  Indians  on  reser- 
vation, 159.  All  but  seven  wear  citizen's 
dress;  they  are  so  located  that  each  family 
controls  about  160  acres.  All  live  in  board 
houses.  Acres  in  reservation,  48, 551,  most- 
ly mountainous.  Acres  tillable,  250,  of 
medium  quality ;  about  half  can  be  irrigated. 
Acres  cultivated  by  Indians,  200;  by  gov- 
ernment, 25.  Acres  under  fence,  600. 
Fencing  made  in  the  year,  200  rods.  475 
bushels  grain  raised.  Stock  owned  by  In- 
dians, 70  horses,  4  mules,  12  cattle,  85 
swine.  Indians  occupied  in  agriculture  and 
other  civilized  pursuits,  40.  Male  Indians 
who  can  undertake  manual  labor  in  civilized 
pursuits,  62.  Excessive  drought  has  cur- 
tailed the  agricultural  products  of  the  year. 

Proportion  of  subsistence  gained  by  civil- 
ized pursuits,  50  per  cent;  by  hunting,  fish- 
ing, etc.,  25  per  cent;  by  government 
rations,  25  per  cent.  Houses  occupied  by 
Indians,  40.  No  church  building.  No  mis- 
sionary. No  apprentices.  Births,  7 ;  deaths, 
8.  No  teacher.  School  population,  17. 
No  school  kept  during  the  year.  There  is  a 
boarding-school,  but  it  has  not  been  opened. 
"Quite  a  large  proportion  of  pupils,  former- 
ly in  boarding-school,  have  married  the  past 
year,  and  think  themselves  (although  they 


are  mere  children)  too  old  to  attend 
school."  Indians  who  can  speak  English, 
60;  who  can  read,  45.  Traveling  and  other 
incidental  expenses,  $110.65;  Pav  °f  em~ 
ployees,  $1,019.35;  total,  $1,130,  which 
amounts  to  $7.11  per  Indian.  The  propor- 
tion of  government  appropriations  used  by 
this  Agency,  except  for  Salaries  and  expenses, 
does  not  appear  by  the  report. 

Mission  Indians  of  Southern  California, 
in  San  Bernardino,  San  Diego,  and  Los 
Angeles  Counties. — Agent,  S.  S.  Lawson. 
Headquarters  at  San  Bernardino.  Total  In- 
dians, 3,010.  All  wear  citizen's  dress.  Can 
speak  English,  25  (but  probably  a  much 
larger  number  can  speak  Spanish).  The 
tribes  under  the  Agent's  jurisdiction  are  liv- 
ing chiefly  in  San  Bernardino  and  San  Diego 
counties.  Acres  in  Reservation,  nominally, 
152,960;  but  as  none  are  tillable  for  want  of 
irrigation  water,  the  Indians  are  scattered  in 
small  bands  on  small  tracts  in  San  Diego, 
San  Bernardino,  and  Los  Angeles  counties, 
which  were  formerly  assigned  for  their  use 
by  the  old  Mexican  officials  or  priests,  or  by 
the  tacit  permission  of  the  Mexican  ranche- 
ros.  The  ownership  of  these  large  ranches 
has  passed  into  other  hands — of  "Pharaohs 
who  knew  not  Joseph";  and  as  no  legal 
title  has  been  confirmed  to  the  Indians,  they 
are  liable  to  be  ejected,  notwithstanding  their 
long  actual  occupancy.  One  or  two  tracts 
of  really  good  public  land  have  been  as- 
signed for  their  use,  and  occupied  by  them, 
but  there  is  some  hitch  about  the  surveys, 
which  white  men  are  trying  to  take  advan- 
tage of.  One  of  these  cases  the  Agent  has 
successfully  settled  the  past  year  in  favor  of 
the  Indians.  Very  little  public  land  is 
adapted  for  cultivation  without  irrigation, 
and  in  a  desert  country  like  this,  water  not 
previously  appropriated  exists  only  in  scanty 
supply.  Number  of  whites  unlawfully  on 
reserves,  12.  Acres  occupied  by  white  in- 
truders, 600.  Acres  cultivated  during  the 
year  by  Indians,  2,000.  Acres  broken  dur- 
ing the  year  by  Indians,  380;  acres  under 
fence,  2,000.  Bushels  of  grain  raised,  6,000. 
Stock  owned  by  Indians,  1,500  horses,  20 
mules,  900  cattle,  150  swine,  1,250  sheep. 


472 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Nov. 


No  percentage  of  subsistence  received  from 
the  government;  but  the  Agent,  from  the 
general  appropriation,  has  distributed  the 
past  year  30  plows,  30  sets  of  plow-harness, 
60  plantation  hoes,  and  5  farm-wagons  to  as 
many  villages.  Births,  39;  deaths,  19. 
Education* — School  children,  total  for  the 
Agency,  759;  of  which  300  can  be  accommo- 
dated in  day  schools.  No  boarding-schools. 
The  Agent  recommends  that  two  be  estab- 
lished. Average  attendance  in  day  schools, 
202.  Cost  to  government  of  maintaining 
schools,  $2,893.  Teachers,  6.  Cost  per 
head  of  average  attendance,  $14.32.  No 
returns  of  those  who  can  read,  or  who  have 
learned  to  read  during  year.  No  returns  of 
apprentices  nor  of  houses.  Indian  crimi- 
nals punished  during  the  year,  45.  Citizens 
of  San  Diego  paid  expense  of  their  school." 
Traveling  and  incidental  expenses,  $148.38; 
regular  employees,  $1,740;  total  $1,888.38. 
Cost  per  head  of  Indians,  63  cents.  There 
is  no  evidence  what  amount  from  the  gen- 
eral appropriation  by  government  has  been 
expended  at  this  Agency. 

In  March,  1883,  the  Washington  corre- 
spondent of  a  San  Francisco  paper  says: 
"  Mrs.  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  of  Boston,  well 
known  as  a  writer  on  Indian  matters  over 
the  psdudonym  of  '  H.  H.,'  has  been  ap- 
pointed a  special  agent  of  the  Indian  Bureau 
to  investigate  the  condition  of  the  Mission 
Indians  of  California.  Her  instructions  are 


to  ascertain  the  number  of  Mission  Indians, 
where  they  are  living,  whether  any  suitable 
public  lands  can  be  set  apart  for  their  use; 
and  if  lands  cannot  be  obtained  except  by 
purchase,  what  land  is  most  suitable  to  be 
bought  for  their  use.  She  is  directed  to  as- 
certain what  proportion  of  these  Indians 
would  consent  to  work  upon  the  Reserva- 
tion, and  to  recommend  generally  what  ex- 
ecutive action  is  necessary  to  improve  their 
condition.  Mrs.  Jackson's  expenses  are  not 
to  exceed  $1,200,  which  will  be  paid  by  the 
government ;  and  she  is  given,  as  an  assist- 
ant Abbot  Kinney  of  San  Gabriel,  Cal., 
whose  expenses  will  also  be  paid  by  the 
government." 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  set  before  the 
people  of  the  State  a  body  of  plain,  dry,  but 
important  facts,  relating  mainly  to  the  In- 
dians of  our  own  State.  It  has  been  done 
with  the  design  that  these  facts  should 
serve  as  preliminary  to  an  article  in  a 
future  number  of  this  magazine  concerning 
the  proper  measures  to  be  taken  for  the  ed- 
ucation and  civilization  of  the  Indians  in  the 
different  counties;  and  should  also  furnish 
suggestions  to  our  local  editors  in  the  more 
populous  Indian  districts  to  publish  such 
additional  facts  as  may  come  within  their 
reach,  and  to  present  such  views  of  their 
own  as  may  promote  an  efficient  and  practi- 
cal system  of  operations:  not  to  be  talked 
about  merely,  but  to  be  put  into  practice. 

Sherman  Day. 


A   SHEPHERD  AT   COURT. 


CHAPTER   III. 

GURNEY  had  a  long-pending  question  of 
land-titles  to  be  settled,  so  he  waited  while 
his  lawyers  pored  over  musty  records  and 
gathered  evidence,  and,  by  way  of  relaxation, 
ran  up  their  bills.  Land  and  lawyers  hang 
together  by  more  than  "alliteration's  artful 
aid,"  as  Gurney  found  to  his  cost  when  the 
play  was  over.  Yielding  at  last  to  the  con- 
viction that  he  could  not  control  this  ponder- 


ous legal  machinery,  he  set  to  work  with 
commendable  fortitude  to  make  time  amble 
withal,  if  it  would  not  gallop. 

The  clubs  that  offered  him  hospitality, 
through  such  of  their  members  as  he  knew, 
held  him  a  trifle  of  each  day,  and  he  came 
to  be  counted  a  "good  fellow"  by  their  pop- 
ular verdict.  He  had  stumbled  into  the 
thickest  of  the  stock  revolution,  and  looked 
on  while  the  gay  guillotine  chopped  off  its 
daily  quota  of  heads.  But  he  coolly  refused 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


473 


to  "go  in,"  in  spite  of  the  friendly  advice 
from  all  sides,  the  shrewd  "points"  given 
him,  or  the  dazzling  fortunes  that  served  as 
advertisements  of  the  trade.  Such  feverish 
money-making  was  no  more  temptation  to 
him  than  were  the  unworthy  allurements  of 
the  slums;  and  yet  nobody  would  have 
dared  to  call  him  a  prig.  In  truth,  if  there 
were  any  neutral  territory  between  Bohemia 
and  Philistia,  this  stalwart  shepherd  occu- 
pied it. 

Having  a  dim  remembrance  of  his  duty  in 
the  way  of  a  "party  call,"  he  found  his  way 
out  to  Mrs.  Rivers's  in  the  course  of  the  week 
after  her  entertainment.  When  he  discov- 
ered that  nobody  was  at  home,  and  that  he 
had  come  on  the  wrong  evening,  he  left  his 
card,  and  decided  that  at  least  his  duty  was 
done;  but  Mrs.  Rivers  stopped  him  on  the 
street,  and  gave  him  some  incoherent  mes- 
sage, ending  with : 

"  They  expect  you  Tuesday  evening;  thafs 
the  time,  you  know;  yes,  yes,  be  very  glad 
to  see  you." 

To  his  discomfiture,  Gurney  found  Tues- 
day evening  to  be  a  smaller  edition  of  the 
ball.  Dinner  dress  instead  of  full  dress,  a 
little  dancing,  and  modest  refreshments. 

"I  suppose  these  things  are  too  big  to  end 
at  once  ;  they  have  to  die  out  by  degrees,"  he 
said  to  Miss  Oulton,  who  received  him  with 
a  cordiality  that  at  once  pleased  and  repelled 
him. 

He  found  fault  with  her  constantly,  to 
himself.  When  she  was  friendly,  he  thought 
her  too  friendly,  and  when  she  was  coldly 
civil,  as  happened  two  or  three  times  that 
evening,  he  had  a  sense  of  grievance  entirely 
disproportioned  to  their  short  acquaintance, 
and  took  refuge  in  the  smiles  of  his  old 
friend,  Fannie  Lawlor. 

Mrs.  Lawlor  knew  better  than  to  snub  any- 
body, least  of  all  a  man  with  an  income  like 
Gurney's.  On  the  strength  of  her  four  or 
five  years'  seniority,  she  adopted  a  half-ma- 
ternal tone  with  him,  than  which  no  form 
of  flirtation  can  be  more  dangerous.  On 
the  other  side,  Gurney  felt  so  carelessly  at 
ease  with  her  that  he  could  not  in  gratitude 
cavil  at  her  weaknesses.  A  man  will  pardon 


beyond  pardon  a  woman  who  makes  him 
mentally  comfortable.  Whether  Mrs.  Law- 
lor's  husband  pardoned  her  or  not,  nobody 
knew.  He  had  been  out  of  the  witness-box 
a  matter  of  six  years — long  enough  for  his 
wife  to  go  through  all  the  gradations  of  grief, 
from  crape  to  plain  black,  from  black  to 
gray,  from  gray  to  mauve,  and  so  out  into 
the  sunlight  of  happy  colors  again.  With 
the  modest  income  Mr.  Lawlor  had  left  her, 
she  contrived  to  be  very  luxurious.  She  put 
her  little  daughter  into  a  convent  to  be  edu- 
cated, Catholicism  being  rather  a  "fad"  with 
the  aristocracy  just  then;  and  afterward  she 
went  visiting;  when  she  stopped  visiting,  she 
traveled,  and  so  kept  her  ball  rolling. 

Some  of  these  facts  flitted  through  Gur- 
ney's mind  as  he  sat  and  talked  to  her  be- 
hind the  curtains  of  a  big  bay-window,  and 
she  moaned  over  her  misfortune  of  losing 
Mrs.  Rivers's  lovely  party. 

"To  think  I  had  to  take  a  beastly  cold 
when  I  had  my  dress  all  ready.  I  know 
what  ymfre  thinking — that  an  old  woman 
like  me  has  no  business  to  care  for  parties, 
at  all.  But  I  do.  They're  the  breath  of  my 
nostrils — is  that  Shakspere  or  the  Bible? 
How  delightful  to  have  you  with  us  again  !" 
— after  a  little  breathing  pause — "and  you're 
not  going  away  in  a  hurry.  O,  before  I 
forget  it,  let  me  give  you  my  address.  I'm 
visiting  Mrs.  Graves.  You  know  them — 
why,  of  course  you  do — and  they'll  be  de- 
lighted to  see  you,  too.  I've  been  like  a 
tame  cat  in  their  house  forever,  and  the  girls 
seem  to  me  like  sisters.  Isn't  Tina  a  dar- 
ling? Do  you  ever  dance,  nowadays?  O 
nonsense,  you  mustn't  dance  with  me,  when 
there  are  so  many  young  girls — well,  if  you 
insist" — and  away  went  this  indefatigable 
pleasure-seeker,  as  light  of  foot  as  she  was 
light  of  heart. 

"May  I  come  again  next  Tuesday?"  said 
Gurney  to  Miss  Oulton,  before  he  went 
away.  "Or  will  the  lights  be  fled,  the  gar- 
lands dead,  and  the  banquet-hall  deserted 
by  that  time?  Will  I  have  to  make  a  'party 
call'  for  this  evening's  enlivenment?  You 
see  I  need  a  society  'coach.'  Now  this 
seems  to  be  a  gathering  for  congratulation, 


47-4 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Nov. 


and  the  next,  I  suppose,  will  be  one  of  con- 
dolence." 

"Exactly,"  said  Helen,  encouragingly; 
"  and  after  that  the  deluge — of  tradespeople 
with  their  bills,  which  closes  the  series  for  a 
while.  But  come  whenever  you  need  our 
friendly  offices.  Since  Cousin  Althea  has 
appointed  herself  your  social  sponsor,  / 
ought  to  do  something  to  make  myself  use- 
ful. I  might  be  the  acolyte  to  swing  the 
censer,"  she  added  mockingly.  "  I  thought 
by  the  arrogant  way  in  which  you  declared 
your  intention  to  cut  society  that  we  should 
never  see  you  agairl." 

Gurney  had  the  grace  to  blush  a  little. 
"Well,  consider  me  a  proselyte  to  your 
teaching,"  he  said  recklessly — "at  least  a 
postulant — at  any  rate,  I  am  open  to  con- 
viction." 

"  Good,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  decisive 
little  nod.  "  I'll  advise  you  by  all  means  to 
try  the  atmosphere  of  Vanity  Fair.  You 
owe  that  much  to  the  order  you  condemn. 
It's  only  a  trifle  more  selfish  to  stay  out  than 
to  come  in.  But  remember  that  you  can't 
float  on  the  edge  of  the  whirlpool ;  every  turn 
brings  you  nearer  the  center.  By  the  way, 
have  you  told  Cousin  Althea  how  brilliant 
her  party  was,  and  how  very,  very  much  you 
enjoyed  it  ?  Yet  that  is  the  object  of  your 
visit.  Haven't  you  said  it  was  congratula- 
tion night  ?  Be  kind  enough  to  put  some- 
thing into  the  contribution-box." 

And  Gurney  found  himself  obliged,  with 
this  critical  listener  at  his  side,  and  in  cold 
blood,  to  formulate  some  sort  of  compli- 
ment to  his  hostess.  Miss  Oulton's  dark 
eyes  danced,  and  she  prompted  him  now 
and  then  sweetly,  but  she  put  out  her  hand 
when  he  went  away,  and  murmured : 

"Come  and  be  a  butterfly;  it's  only  for 
one  season,  you  know." 

Among  the  mild  amusements  which  Gur- 
ney indulged  himself  in  was  the  exploration 
of  old  shops  and  book-stalls.  Though  not 
a  professional  "collector,"  he  discovered 
such  a  certain  judgment  in  curios  and  bric- 
a-brac  that  he  won  Mrs.  Rivers's  heart,  and 
she  called  upon  him  more  than  once  to  help 
her  secure  a  bargain.  Two  or  three  an- 


tique articles  that  she  coveted  but  could 
not  afford  found  their  way  to  her  parlors  and 
completed  the  conquest.  There  was  some- 
thing almost  pathetic  in  her  prostration  be- 
fore these  crackled  old  idols,  until  one  re- 
membered that  they  were  the  fashion.  By 
way  of  friendly  compensation,  she  bestirred 
herself  to  get  invitations  for  Gurney  to  all 
the  high  festivals;  and  taking  him  under  her 
protection,  sent  him  at  once,  by  a  dexterous 
fling,  far  out  "into  the  swim." 

He  laughed  at  himself  for  his  folly,  he 
laughed  at  the  people  who  invited  him  to 
their  houses,  and  he  lost  not  a  jot  of  his  hon- 
est scorn  for  the  pretentious  vulgarity  around 
him;  but  he  resolved  to  "see  it  through," 
remembering  Miss  Oulton's  own  saying,  that  it 
was  "only  for  one  season."  A  guilty  sense  of 
treachery  to  his  entertainers  made  him  more 
anxious  to  please  than  usual,  and  in  certain 
circles  he  was  a  reigning  favorite.  To  be 
sure,  he  was  such  a  modest  lion  that  he  did 
not  make  much  show,  but  the  younger  men 
began  to  accord  him  more  respect  and  less 
liking,  which  was  convincing  proof  that  he 
was  a  lion  to  be  feared.  But  this  did  not 
come  to  pass  all  at  once. 

One  night  he  was  leaning  over  the  railing  of 
his  box  at  the  California,  watching  the  bank  of 
faces  under  him  as  one  would  the  "Happy 
Family"  of  a  traveling  menagerie,  and  con- 
gratulating himself  that  he  did  not  have  to 
know  all  the  stupid  people  there,  when  he 
became  suddenly  aware  that  somebody  knew 
///>//,  for  a  fine  Paris  bonnet  was  bowing  in- 
dustriously from  an  opposite  box,  and  a 
scarlet  fan  fluttered  all  sorts  of  inviting  sig- 
nals. It  was  Mrs.  Rivers  with  Miss  Oulton 
beside  her,  and  a  convenient  nephew  of  Mrs. 
Rivers  lounging  in  the  background. 

Mrs.  Rivers  was  devoted  to  the  theater. 
She  shone  on  "first  nights,"  and  at  the 
operas,  when  they  were  not  "  too  trashy," 
and  looked  charitably  on  the  shortcomings 
of  footlight  artists.  She  usually  managed  to 
get  players  and  plot  mixed  beyond  hope  of 
explanation  before  the  drop-curtain  fell ;  but 
the  lights,  the  music,  the  people,  always 
filled  her  with  a  childish  delight,  and  put 
her  into  a  good  humor.  For  the  rest,  it  was 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


475 


more  abstraction  than  obtuseness  that  left 
her  bewildered— for  she  was  only  too  clev- 
er about  some  things. 

The  first  act  was  over  before  Gurney 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  over  and  do  hom- 
age to  the  Paris  bonnet.  It  was  only  a  few 
evenings  after  his  concession  to  Miss  Oul- 
ton,  and  he  was  in  the  mood  of  a.  backslider. 
She  began  to  think  he  would  not  "fight  and 
run  away,"  but  would  run  away  without 
fighting  at  all.  However,  he  meekly  en- 
tered Mrs.  Rivers's  box,  and  was  greeted 
with  effusion  by  that  animated  citizeness. 
Miss  Oulton  merely  bowed.  She  looked 
pale  and  tired. 

"What  makes  you  sit  in  that  big  box 
alone?"  asked  Mrs.  Rivers,  promptly.  "You 
look  dreadfully  selfish." 

"I  am  selfish,  and  don't  like  to  be 
crowded,"  said  Gurney,  with  a  smile  that 
took  off  the  curtness  of  his  speech. 

"The  effect  of  a  rural  life,  I  suppose," 
said  Miss  Oulton,  languidly. 

"I  suppose  so" — good-naturedly.  "I'm 
sorry  you  have  a  headache,"  he  added. 

She  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  then 
frowned. 

"I  know — that  is  enough,"  said  Gurney, 
answering  her  mute  inquiry.  "  I've  not«suf- 
fered  in  vain  myself."  He  took  occasion 
soon  after  to  change  his  seat  to  one  beside 
her.  "It's  a  pity  you  came  out  to-night," 
he  said,  as  seriously  as  though  he  had  been 
her  family  physician. 

But  she  sank  back  in  her  chair  without  a 
word,  and  held  her  fan  before  her  face,  while 
he  talked  to  Mrs.  Rivers  about — heaven 
knows  what — Greek  lamps  and  Persian 
vases  and  Cloisina  ware.  By  and  by  two  or 
three  gay  young  men  came  in,  and  Gurney, 
sighing  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  rose  and  stood 
behind  Miss  Oulton's  chair  to  make  room 
for  the  new-comers. 

They  were  "delighted  to  meet  you  here, 
you  know.  What  do  you  think  of  it? 
Saw  a  much  better  thing  last  night  across  the 
way.  Of  course  you're  going  to  the  Dol- 
drum  party.  Awful  old  woman,  but  she 
does  give  good  suppers." 

Gurney  stood   with   his  hand  resting  on 


the  back  of  Miss  Oulton's  chair,  so  near 
that  her  hair  brushed  his  sleeve  when  she 
turned  to  ask  him  if  he  didn't  feel  crowded 
now, 

"Yes,  but  I  am  not  going  just  yet,"  he 
said  quietly;  "and  delightful  as  your  con- 
versation is,  I  think  the  less  you  say  the 
better  at  present." 

She  knew  he  was  right,  but  she  was  pro- 
voked at  his  assumption  of  guardianship,  and 
thought  his  familiarity  decidedly  underbred. 
She  felt  a  trifle  disappointed  to  think  that 
he  had  so  misunderstood  her  badinage,  and 
wondered  wearily  if  there  was  not  one  man  in 
all  the  world  gifted  with  more  discrimination 
than  vanity.  However,  as  the  moments 
went  by  and  her  agony  lessened  to  an  endur- 
able pain,  and  finally  to  absolute  relief,  and  a 
sense  of  ease  and  restfulness  stole  over  her, 
she  forgot  her  captious  criticism,  and  gave 
herself  up  to-  the  comfort  of  being  cared 
for.  She  could  not  help  seeing  how  adroitly 
Gurney  had  diverted  the  talk  from  her,  and 
it  seemed  churlish  not  to  show  some  grati- 
tude. 

But  something  besides  obstinacy  sealed  her 
lips.  This  stronger  will,  that  overbore  her 
own  and  absorbed  even  her  resentment,  gave 
her  an  unaccustomed  sense  of  self-distrust. 
So,  when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  final  tableau 
of  virtue  rewarded  and  vice  trodden  under 
foot — "as  large  as  life  and  twice  as  natural," 
facetious  Jack  Crandall  said — she  slipped  out 
with  Charlie  Rivers  before  the  others,  and 
did  not  even  look  back. 

But  Gurney  put  them  into  their  carriage, 
after  all,  and  merely  said,  "I  hope  you're 
better,"  with  a  cool  -politeness  that  checked 
the  impulsive  little  speech  trembling  on  her 
lips.  She  was  glad  it  was  left  unsaid,  and 
began  to  think  it  was  all  only  a  "happen,"  and 
that  she  was  the  stupid  egotist  instead  of 
Mr.  Gurney,  who  might  be  only  a  bit  uncon- 
ventional because  of  his  inexperience. 

"Be  a  good  match  for  Helen,  eh?"  said 
Mr.  Rivers,  when  his  wife  ended  the  report- 
er's column,  that  with  her  took  the  place  of 
curtain-lectures.  "But  I  thought  he  be- 
longed to  Mrs.  Lawlor." 

"She's  ten  years  older  than  him  if  she's  a 


476 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Nov. 


day,"  said  Mrs.  Rivers,  with  an  emphasis 
that  defied  correction. 

"Just  found  that  out?"  asked  her  husband, 
with  a  sleepy  little  laugh.  "  Better  not  go 
to  match-making — better  go  to  sleep." 

"Well,  George,  you  know  /  don't  care 
who  he  marries,  but — "  And  Mrs.  Rivers 
proceeded  to  argue  the  case  with  her  sleep- 
deafened  audience  of  one. 

"  Did  you  meet  Helen  and  the  children?" 
was  her  greeting  when  Gurney  called  early 
the  next  afternoon;  and  she  noted  with  con- 
siderable satisfaction  his  unconscious  look 
of  disappointment.  He  was  driving  a  fancy 
team  that  he  had  just  bought,  and  had  a 
vague,  audacious  idea  that  Miss  Oulton 
might  be  persuaded  to  drive  with  him;  but 
his  aspirations  were  quenched  when  he  found 
that  she  had  gone. 

Mrs.  Rivers  told  him  they  were  picnicking 
at  Fort  Point.  "  Have  you  ever-been  there?" 

No,  he  never  had ;  but  would  Mrs.  Rivers 
do  him  the  honor  to  go  with  him  there? — 
it  was  a  pity  to  waste  such  a  glorious  after- 
noon indoors;  and  with  a  regretful  sigh  for 
the  embroidery  she  was  finishing,  she  con- 
sented, setting  her  sacrifice  against  Helen's 
account,  already  rather  too  heavy.  They 
traveled  with  twist  and  turn  the  dilapidated 
streets  of  the  Western  Addition,  having  a 
good  many  small  adventures  by  the  way,  for 
it  was  a  new  .one  to  Gurney,  and  at  last 
came  out  on  the  bare  hill-road  leading  to  the 
Presidio.  The  horses  pranced  past  the  cu- 
rious old  adobe  soldiers'  quarters,  past  the 
gay  gardens  of  the  officers'  homes,  past  a 
squad  of  cavalrymen  just  coming  in,  and 
then  turned  into  an  ill-kept  drive  that  swept 
around  the  hills  to  the  old  fort  At  that 
time  the  Park  was  but  begun,  the  Presidio 
drive  was  not  even  in  the  mind's  eye  of  the 
Presidio  itself,  and  the  fort  was  garrisoned 
only  by  an  army  of  spiders,  some  rusty  can- 
non, and  one  old  sergeant.  No  doubt  it  is 
more  creditable  to  the  post  in  its  present 
condition,  but  no  official  enterprise  could 
have  added  one  charm  to  the  time  or  the 
place,  as  Gurney  and  his  companion  drove 
on  slowly  in  the  heart  of  the  sunny  after- 
noon. A  marshy  stretch  of  land  lay  between 


them  and  the  sandy  shore  of  the  bay. 
Some  mild-eyed  cows  stood  up  to  their 
knees  in  the  black  marsh  mud,  switching 
their  tails  languidly  with  a  stolid  enjoyment 
of  the  infrequent  sunshine.  And  out  on 
the  little  beach  two  or  three  children  ran, 
with  their  yellow  hair  afloat  on  the  fresh 
wind.  Th  e  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  bleached 
driftwood  and  stranded  debris  lay  in  strag- 
gling lines  high  up  from  the  water's  edge, 
and  the  children  greeted  each  fresh  discov- 
ery with  wild  shouts. 

A  little  pull  up  an  awkward  turn,  a  bit  of 
seawall  under  the  cliff,  where  the  waves 
leaped  up  over  their  stone  barrier,  and  the 
horses  shied  and  plunged  till  Mrs.  Rivers 
screamed  in  terror;  then  they  drew  up 
under  the  walls  of  the  pathetic,  dismantled 
old  fortress.  Mrs.  Rivers's  carriage  stood 
there  empty,  and  the  coachman  touched  his 
hat  smartly. 

"  They're  just  on  the  other  side,  mum"- 
looking  at  Gurney's  horses  knowingly,  as  he 
spoke,  with  the  instinct  of  his  profession. 
"  I'll  take  care  of  'em,  sir.  These1  II  stand  any- 
wheres, and  if  they  don't,  I  can  find  a  man 
to  watch  'em." 

Turning  the  corner  of  the  building,  Gur- 
ney and  Mrs.  Rivers  came  upon  Helen  and 
the  children  in  the  midst  of  their  improvised 
luncheon.  It  was  such  a  peaceful  place 
that  it  was  hard  to  remember  the  city  lay  so 
near.  Three  or  four  outward-bound  ships 
were  spreading  their  wings  for  flight.  It 
looked  scarcely  a  stone's  throw  to  the  green 
hills  across  the  narrow  ocean-gate,  but  the 
sense  of  i  solation  was  as  great  as  if  they  had 
been  on  a  desert  island. 

The  children  greeted  the  new-comers  with 
shrieks  of  delight.  It  was  so  wonderful  for 
mamma  to  come  out  on  such  a  lark.  But 
the  surprise  seemed  anything  but  an  agree- 
able one  to  Miss  Oulton ;  in  fact,  she  was  so 
stiff  and  unapproachable  that  Gurney  was 
bewildered. 

Tom  soon  hurried  his  mother  away  to 
peep  between  the  cracks  of  the  iron  doors, 
and  beg  the  sergeant  to  let  them  inside  the 
fort,  while  Laura  took  possession  of  Gurney, 
with  the  happy  assurance  of  childhood,  and 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


477 


led  him  down  to  see  how  the  water  came 
and  went  over  the  slippery  rocks.  "O  yes, 
you  must  come  too,  Helen,"  she  said,  taking 
her  cousin's  hand  fondly. 

Gurney  did  not  attempt  to  overcome  Miss 
Oulton's  reserve,  but  he  and  Laura  had  a 
serious  conversation  concerning  mermaids, 
as  they  followed  the  path  leading  along  the 
ledge  of  rocks.  They  sat  down  there 
a  while,  and  Gurney  told  the  little  girl  a 
wonderful  story  of  fairies  and  sea-nymphs, 
that  made  her  eyes  open  in  wonder. 

"Well,  come  down  to  see  me  by  the 
ocean,  and  I'll  show  them  to  you,"  he  said, 
in  conclusion. 

Below  them  the  green  moss  swayed  and 
swung,  as  the  waves  came  stealing  up  over 
the  slimy  stones,  and  rushed  away  again 
with  an  angry  murmur. 

'"Seaward  the  undercurrents  set; 
Longing  is  stronger  than  regret; 
And  the  tide  goes  out,'  " 

quoted  Gurney,  softly.  He  looked  at  Helen 
who  stood  beside  him,  and  to  his  astonish- 
ment her  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears,  and 
she  turned  abruptly  away. 

Meanwhile,  Laura  had  run  out  on  the 
rocks  to  get  a  bit  of  kelp.  Her  cousin 
called  her  back. 

"I  can't  come  back,"  she  said  anxiously, 
as  she  stood  terrified  and  dizzy  with  the 
motion  of  the  water  under  her. 

Gurney  sprang  forward,  but  Miss  Oulton 
was  nearer,  and  before  he  could  reach  them 
had  gone  out  on  the  wave-washed  stones 
and  rescued  Laura  from  her  perilous  posi- 
tion. Gurney  followed  her  in  time  to  catch 
the  child  from  her  arms  and  swing  it  lightly 
up  to  the  sandy  pathway.  A  moment  more, 
and  Helen  poised  herself  to  step  back;  but 
somehow  her  foot  slipped,  and  she  stumbled 
forward  with  a  faint  cry.  As  she  fell,  a 
strong  hand  grasped  her  arm,  and  then  she 
found  herself  somehow  standing  beside 
Laura,  with  Gurney  still  holding  her  close. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

The  color  surged  back  into  her  face. 

"No — no — "  she  said,  slipping  away  from 
him  with  nervous  haste;  but  she  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  "I  was  so  frightened 


about  Laura  that  it  unsteadied  my  nerves,  I 
suppose" — trying  to  laugh;  while  Laura 
clung  to  her,  beseeching  her  not  to  tell 
mamma. 

Miss  Oulton  was  more  than  willing  to  let 
the  little  incident  be  forgotten,  but  she  took 
occasion  to  read  a  lecture  to  the  child,  who 
listened  to  it  much  more  gravely  than  Gur- 
ney did;  and  when  Tom  came  running  to 
meet  them  with  tales  of  the  mysterious  in- 
terior of  the  fort,  he  could  not  provoke  a 
regret  from  his  sister. 

They  were  all  anxious  to  go  home.  Mrs. 
Rivers  was  already  in  her  carriage,  shivering 
and  bored. 

"I  was  rude  enough  to  make  this  change 
without  consulting  you,"  she  called  out  as 
they  came  near.  "I'm  sure  you'll  pardon 
me,  Mr.  Gurney.  I  had  a  lovely  drive  out, 
but  I'm  so  timid  about  those  horses;  and 
my  neuralgia  troubles  me  so  that  I  want  to 
keep  out  of  the  wind.  Helen  will  take  my 
place.  It  won't  make  any  difference  to  you, 
will  it,  Helen?" 

It  did  make  a  great  deal  of  difference, 
and  Helen's  expression  just  then  was  not 
very  complimentary  to  her  cavalier.  Even 
his  careless  good  nature  was  not  proof 
against  the  rudeness  of  silence  with  which 
she  heard  her  cousin's  question  and  per- 
mitted him  to  help  her  into  the  buggy,  and 
he  bit  his  lips  with  vexation.  If  he  could 
have  followed  the  current  of  Helen's 
thoughts  he  might  have  forgiven  her  more 
readily.  Her  headache  had  left  her  rather 
languid,  and  she  had  not  yet  untwisted  her 
tangled  impressions  of  Gurney's  behavior 
the  night  before.  To  have  him  come  upon 
her  so  soon  again,  and  more  than  that,  to 
have  him  come  between  her  and  danger, 
irritated  instead  of  touching  her  with  friend- 
liness. 

She  prided  herself  on  her  ability  to  do 
justice  to  the  men  she  met  season  after  sea- 
son without  being  specially  interested  in  any 
one  of  them.  But  this  man  was  not  to  be 
classified  and  labeled  as  easily  as  the  rest.  She 
felt  herself  constantly  losing  ground  with  him. 
She  could  laugh  at  him  when  she  was  with 
the  silly  girls  who  plied  her  with  questions 


478 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Nov. 


about  his  family,  his  wealth,  his  position, 
till  in  self-defense  she  had  been  led  to  invent 
an  Alnaschar  tale  of  splendor,  which  was 
eagerly  caught  up  and  passed  along.  But 
when  she  met  him,  she  felt  that  her  reckless 
little  cynicisms  were  of  no  avail.  They 
amused  but  did  not  impress  him  at  all.  And 
she  had  been  used  to  crushing  people  with 
them  quite  heartlessly.  Now  her  tinsel 
spears  came  back  to  her  blunted. 

Just  as  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
break  the  awkward  silence,  Gurney  said 
abruptly,  "  Where  does  this  road  lead?" 

"To  the  earthworks  above  the  fort,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  Would  you  mind  going  up  there  ?  The 
pull  would  do  these  fellows  good.  A  level 
drive  is  altogether  too  mild  for  them." 

"O  no,"  she  said,  carelessly,  "I  should 
like  it  immensely." 

So  they  wound  round  the  steep  hill,  look- 
ing down  on  the  deserted  garrison  quarters, 
and  at  the  very  top  stopped  to  let  the  horses 
take  breath. 

"This  is  worth  seeing?"  queried  Gurney, 
"if  you  like  big  views,"  as  they  took  in  the 
glorious  picture  spread  before  them.  "For 
myself,  a  glimpse  of  blue  sky,  a  bit  of  wood- 
land, is  worth  a  dozen  such  panoramas.  I 
must  have  a  small  mind." 

"I  only  know  that  I  never  admire  what 
I'm  expected  to  admire,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  shrug.  "Whether  that's  from  lack  of 
artistic  feeling  or  from  what  Mr.  Crandall 
would  call  'pure  cussedness,'  I  don't 
know." 

"I  think  it  must  be  a  little  of  both,"  said 
Gurney,  with  a  short  laugh. 

A  dilapidated  old  man  who  was  mending 
a  still  more  dilapidated  fence  near  by,  not- 
ing their  long  rest,  left  his  work,  and  with 
friendly  concern  came  up  to  them. 

"The  way  across  the  hills  to  the  Cliff 
House  road  is  over  there,  if  you're  looking 
for  that";  and  he  pointed  out  their  route. 

Gurney  looked  at  his  companion  for  a 
"yes "or  "no." 

"Do  as  you  please,"  she  said,  settling  her- 
self back  into  her  seat,  and  drawing  the  soft 
robe  about  her  luxuriously. 


"Well,  I  please  to  go";  and  touching  up 
the  horses,  he  struck  across  the  yellow  drifts. 

Of  course  neither  of  them  knew  what 
they  had  undertaken,  and  long  before  they 
reached  the  level  road  again,  Miss  Oulton 
at  least  grew  anxious,  for  the  short  winter 
afternoon  was  almost  gone,  and  a  white 
mist  began  to  creep  in  from  the  ocean.  The 
sandy  waste  on  every  side,  with  its  straggling 
clumps  of  lupine,  was  not  very  exhilarating, 
and  a  shy  rabbit  that  leaped  up  before  them 
was  the  only  sign  of  life  they  encountered. 
The  horses  panted  with  the  strain,  even  of 
the  light  load  they  bore. 

"  This  is  rather  a  sorry  end  to  your  day's 
pleasuring,"  said  Gurney,  after  trying  in 
vain  to  talk  down  the  monotony  of  their 
funereal  pace.  "  I'm  afraid  your  good  peo- 
ple will  be  troubled  about  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  have  no  peo- 
ple," she  said,  with  a  scornful  little  smile. 
"To  Cousin  Althea  and  Mr.  Rivers  I  am 
only  an  inconvenient  memory.  No  one  in 
our  world  takes  time  to  'trouble'  about  his 
neighbor,  whatever  you  may  do  in  your 
idyllic  country  life." 

"Yes;  we  have  time  enough  for  our 
friends  there,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  ab- 
sently. 

Her  words  had  thrown  a  vivid  light  on 
several  puzzling  circumstances  of  their  brief 
acquaintance,  and  the  confession  of  her  iso- 
lated life  touched  him  in  spite  of  its  bitter 
tone.  Whatever  comes  nearest  our  own  ex- 
perience, comes  nearest  our  heart.  In  spite 
of  this  young  woman's  churlish  humor,  Gur- 
ney had  a  swift,  fanciful  desire  that  he  might 
drive  on  and  on  with  her  away  from  the 
foolish  crowd  of  which  she  was  a  part, 

"  Across  the  hills  and  far  away, 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim." 

Here  the  horses  struck  into  the  big  broad 
road,  and  went  bowling  along  toward  the 
city  at  a  tremendous  pace. 

Helen  threw  off  her  veil  with  a  little  ges- 
ture of  relief,  and,  as  if  she  had  at  the  same 
time  put  away  her  ungracious  mood,  turned 
a  very  bright  and  expressive  face  toward 
Gurney. 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


479 


"  'And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  followed  him,'" 

she  chanted  in  monotonous  recitation. 

"How  did  you  guess  I  was  thinking  that?" 
— with  a  guilty  look. 

"Because  you  thought  it  aloud — no  con- 
undrum could  be  easier.  It's  very  pretty, 
too — a  very  nice  quotation  for  society.  Of 
course  we're  all  looking  for  the  fairy  prince 
we  are  to  follow ;  only  he  will  waken  us  by 
enumerating  in  a  persuasive  voice  his  world- 
ly advantages";  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
dropped  derisively.  "That  other  princess  of 
Tennyson's  now— do  you  suppose  she 
would  have  lost  her  ambition  for  any  less 
than  a  prince  ?  " 

"If  I  should  join  you  in  your  sham  tilt 
at  your  sex,"  he  said  grimly,  "you  would 
straightway  turn  on  me  and  call  me  a  cynic. 
I  am  not  to  be  drawn  into  any  such  paste- 
board battle.  As  for  the  princess,  she  was 
only  a  lay  figure,  anyhow.  The  prince  was 
much  too  good  for  her." 

And  so  they  drifted  into  a  mild  discussion 
of  the  poet  laureate,  which  lasted  till  they 
drew  near  home,  where  the  lights  were  flash- 
ing through  the  dark.  Suddenly  Helen 
touched  his  sleeve  timidly. 

"Pray  forgive  my  rudeness  to-day.  I've 
no  excuse  to  offer  for  it  but  my  unruly 
temper." 

"Was  that  so  sorely  tried?"  said  Gurney, 
and  he  smiled  in  the  darkness,  at  this  curi- 
ous apology  from  a  woman  of  the  world. 

"Well,"  she  said,  frankly,  "I  thought 
it  selfish  of  my  cousin  to  dispose  of  us 
both  so  carelessly." 

"And  before  that?"  he  said  quickly. 

"One  likes  to  be  alone  sometimes  to  take 
off  his  mask.  It  suffocates  now  and  then." 

"Better  take  it  off  altogether,"  he  laughed, 
"for  yours,  at  least,  is  diaphanous.  As  for 
my  share  of  the  drive,  it  is  twice  a  disap- 
pointment. First,  that  I  lost  the  chance  of 
taking  you  out  instead  of  Mrs.  Rivers,  as  I 
had  fatuously  hoped  to  do ;  and  then,  that  I 
spoiled  your  day  with  a  foolish  impulse.  If 
you're  willing  to  cry  quits — 

But  she  leaned  out  to  speak  to  Mr.  Riv- 
ers and  Tom,  who  stood  on  the  steps,  and 


when  Mr.  Rivers  helped  her  out  she  ran 
away,  leaving  Gurney  to  explain  why  they 
had  been  belated.  However,  he  was  not 
wholly  dissatisfied.  , 

CHAPTER   IV. 

Under  the  amiable  tutelage  of  the  cluster 
of  married  ladies  of  whom  Mrs.  Graves 
and  Mrs.  Rivers  were  the  recognized  lead- 
ers, Gurney  soon  shed  his  light  provincial 
husk.  The  mental  territory  occupied  by 
good  society  is  so  ridiculously  small  that  it 
would  be  a  sad  confession  of  weakness  to 
fail  in  walking  over  it  unfatigued;  and  with  a 
little  social  courage,  more  familiarly  known 
as  "cheek,"  friends  at  court,  or,  better  still,  a 
solid  bank  account,  the  novice  or  stranger 
can  win  his  way  without  much  effort.  Gur- 
ney was  pleasantly  disappointed  to  find  so 
little  expected  of  him.  He  discovered  that 
it  was  almost  easier  to  please  than  to  be 
pleased ;  that  he  not  only  knew  enough,  but 
that  he  was  in  danger  of  knowing  too  much 
— of  not  being  able  to  assimilate  the  varied 
information  offered  him  by  his  friends,  old 
and  new,  masculine  and  feminine.  Here- 
tofore, his  visits  had  been  flavored  more 
with  counting-room  than  boudoir,  and 
his  contact  with  society  had  been  essen- 
tially superficial.  Now  it  seemed  that 
he  was  to  find  out  what  made  the  wheels 
go  round.  But,  in  spite  of  Miss  Oul- 
ton's  prediction,  he  stayed  on  the  edge, 
even  in  the  gayest  of  the  whirl.  For  what 
to  these  restless  men  and  women  was  life 
— with  a  more  or  less  ornamental  capital  L 
— was  to  him  merely  an  experiment,  a  big 
show  to  which  he  had  an  unexpected  com- 
plimentary ticket.  He  meant  to  see  the 
play  out  if  he  could,  and  he  was  not  in- 
appreciative  of  its  good  points,  but  there 
were  always  his  own  modest  interests  waiting 
for  him  when  he  was  tired  of  these,  making 
a  neutral-tinted  but  -agreeable  background 
for  the  gaudy  stage-setting  before  him.  The 
crude  and  cramped  letters  that  came  to  him 
now  and  then  from  little  Karl  and  Loveatt, 
his  foreman,  gave  him  a  sense  of  refresh- 
ment never  produced  by  the  big  invitations 


480 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Nov. 


and  small  notes  beginning  to  accumulate  on 
his  tables. 

Mrs.  Rivers's  party  had  been  closely  fol- 
lowed by.  another  at  Mrs.  Graves's.  To 
Gurney's  inexperienced  eye  the  entertain- 
ments were  as  like  as  two  peas  in  a  pod, 
but  the  comments  he  heard  soon  convinced 
him  of  his  error.  At  one  place  they  had 
Roederer,  at  the  other  Pommery  Sec.  Mrs. 
Rivers  had  Bluckenblum  only,  while  Mrs. 
Graves  alternated  that  eminent  leader  with 
one  of  the  regiment  bands.  One  served 
her  refreshments  a  la  Russe,  the  other  a  la 
Americaine,  it  might  be  called  in  default  of 
an  honester  name;  and  so  on  through  vital 
points  of  difference,  detailed  and  enlarged 
upon  with  heartfelt  interest  till  something 
else  came  to  take  their  place.  Through 
some  bewildering  means  Gurney  also  found 
himself  at  several  dinner-parties,  where  he 
was  mightily  bored,  and  in  view  of  his  idle- 
ness was  called  upon  to  assist  at  a  military 
reception  or  so,  and  some  impromptu  riding 
parties. 

The  condition  of  the  stock  market  and 
its  attendant  business  boom  made  society 
for  the  nonce  chaotic  but  brilliant.  It  was 
impossible  to  take  time  to  study  up  gene- 
alogies when  fortunes  came  and  went  in  a 
day.  The  cook  who  made  your  meringues, 
the  dignified  butler  who  served  them,  even 
the  man  who  dumped  coal  into  your  cellar, 
could  not  see  anything  in  the  sky  but  rosy 
bubbles,  whereon  were  written  figures  only 
limited  by  the  bubble-blower  himself. 

Naturally,  the  social  aspiration  tended  to 
whatever  was  bizarre  and  big,  and  coolly  ig- 
nored the  more  finely  wrought  conception  s 
of  culture.  The  pioneers  had  not  yet  done 
boasting  of  our  wonderful  growth,  putting 
the  overgrown  immaturity  of  their  State  on 
exhibition  much  as  a  doting  mother  does 
her  hobbledehoy  son's.  The  more  conser- 
vative, while  cautiously  conceding  that  the 
highest  standard  of  civilization  had  not  been 
quite  touched,  declared  encouragingly  that 
it  would  all  come  in  good  time,  and  apolo- 
gized for  those  among  the  ambitious  and 
successful  who  held  their  magnificence  with 
uncertain  fingers,  as  if  it  were  too  costly  to 


wear  every  day,  and  to  whom  the  tangible 
evidence  of  their  wealth  on  every  side  did 
not  seem  all-satisfying  unless  they  could  call 
attention  to  it  more  or  less  ingenuously. 

Whether  all  this  ebb  and  swell  of  fashion 
was  more  amusing  or  melancholy,  it  was  — 
Gurney  repeated  to  himself — inevitable,  and 
with  this  high  philosophical  conclusion,  he 
accepted  society,  its  changing  conditions 
and  its  right  hand  of  fellowship,  in  a  very 
amicable  spirit.  He  vibrated  like  a  pendu- 
lum between  the  exclusive  atmosphere  of 
Mrs.  Graves's  parlors  and  the  genial  hospi- 
tality of  Mrs.  Rivers's  cheerful  library. 

To  his  surprise,  his  inharmonious  intro- 
duction to  Miss  Tina  Graves  had  been  fol- 
lowed by  a  rather  curious  friendship  with 
that  erratic  young  woman.  She  showed  a 
frank  preference  for  his  society,  as  different 
from  her  thousand  and  one  capricious  flirta- 
tions as  it  was  from  the  sweet  and  bitter 
familiarity  she  accorded  to  merry  Jack 
Crandall,  who  was  the  echo  of  her  foot- 
steps. To  Miss  Tina,  Gurney  owed  a 
strikingly  original  view  of  his  surroundings. 
Nobody  escaped  her  merciless  mimicry, 
which,  though  often  rude,  was  never  mali- 
cious; and  as  one  after  another,  even  the 
unconscious  members  of  her  own  household, 
was  held  up  to  the  light  by  this  cheerful 
young  skeptic,  they  so  remained  forever 
photographed  on  Gurney's  mind.  She  was 
not  wholly  loved,  to  be  sure,  but  knowing 
the  strength  of  her  position,  she  walked 
among  her  detractors  like  an  insolent 
young  princess.  Her  elder  sister,  Nellie, 
spent  most  of  her  time  eating  French 
candy  and  reading  French  romance.  She 
was  too  lazy  for  intrigue,  too  penurious 
for  the  extravagances  that  Tina  reveled  in , 
almost  too  selfish  for  either  love  or  hate; 
but  the  gossips,  winking  feebly  at  her  sis- 
ter's mad  pranks,  gave  Nellie  a  glowing  "cer- 
tificate of  character." 

It  was  one  of  Tina's  whims  to  snub  a  good 
many  of  her  more  aristocratic  acquaintances 
and  cultivate  Helen  Oulton.  Whether  she 
found  in  her  mother's  annoyance  a  stimulus 
to  friendship,  whether  it  was  honest  unworld- 
liness,  or  whether  it  was  to  form  an  alliance 


1881.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


481 


offensive  and  defensive  against  Mrs.  Lawlor, 
whom  they  both  disliked,  Gurney  could  not 
discover.  These  three  woman,  with  such 
wide  gaps  between  them  in  years,  in  money, 
and  in  position,  were  the  only  ones  who  held 
any  certain  interest  for  him  ;  while  he  could 
not  be  wholly  indifferent  to  the  unspoken 
flattery  of  the  faces  everywhere  uplifted  to 
smile  down  his  melancholy  or  reserve.  Mrs. 
Lawlor's  matronly  supervision  over  his  move  - 
ments  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  this 
youthful  flattery.  It  was  a  subtle  wisdom 
that  led  the  pretty  widow  to  surround  her- 
self with  a  bevy  of  young  girls  instead  of 
setting  up  a  rival  kingdom.  A  charming 
woman  of  the  world,  even  if  her  charms  are 
faded,  can  make  a  very  good  showing  against 
the  youth  and  beauty  of  the  inexperienced 
debutante.  Tina  alone,  of  all  her  "set,"  re- 
fused to  take  advantage  of  Mrs.  Lawlor's 
honeyed  hints,  declaring  her  ability  to  gang 
her  ain  gait. 

Acting  upon  a  graceful  suggestion  of  Mrs. 
Lawlor's,  Gurney  had  already  played  host  to 
a  rather  successful  theater-party,  with  a  lux- 
urious little  supper  by  way  of  epilogue ;  and 
now,  when  the  second  moon  of  his  visit 
came  out  in  bold  roundness,  and  tried  to 
throw  a  faint  glamour  of  romance  over  the 
most  unromantic  of  cities,  and  some  of  the 
young  ladies  began  to  hint  of  the  delights  of 
a  big  char-a-banc  and  a  four-in-hand,  he 
quietly  arranged  the  expected  programme. 
Left  to  himself,  such  doubtful  enjoyments 
could  never  have  come  into  his  mind,  but 
when  the  path  was  pointed  out  to  him  he 
forthwith  strewed  it  with  roses.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Graves  consented  to  preside  over  his 
excursion,  and  Mrs.  Lawlor  eagerly  suggested 
and  revised  the  select  list.  "Not  more  than 
twelve,"  she  said  decidedly.  "One  wagon 
will  carry  us  all.  That's  a  great  deal  jol- 
lier." 

With  a  vague  idea  of  balancing  his  favors, 
Gurney  went  in  person  to  plead  for  the  com- 
pany of  Mrs.  Rivers.  He  had  come  to  be 
so  familiar  a  figure  that  Reeve,  the  stolid 
butler,  who  told  him  in  one  sentence  that 
Mrs.  Rivers  was  paying  calls  and  that  Miss 
Oulton  was  in,  ushered  him  without  cere- 
Voi,  II.— 31. 


mony  into  the  room  where  Helen  sat  before 
a  glowing  fire  with  Tina  at  her  feet  in  a 
reckless  attitude  of  abandonment.  They 
both  looked  up  with  a  start,  and  Reeve 
hastily  retired  before  Miss  Oulton's  disap- 
proving frown.  Tina  jumped  up  briskly  and 
wiped  her  eyes,  drawing  down  her  mouth 
with  a  lugubrious  expression. 

"  It's  lots  of  fun  to  cry,"  she  said,  with 
something  between  a  sigh  and  a  sob,  "if 
you  only  know  how";  and  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  greet  him,  but  drew  it  away  hastily 
and  put  it  behind  her.  "  'Let  us  clasp  hands 
and  part.'  Anybody  would  know  you  were 
just  out  of  the  wilderness.  That  must  be 
the  grip  of  the  Ancient  Order  of  Apaches. 
Here,  shake  hands  with  Helen,  just  for  fun^ 
you  know."  But  as  Miss  Oulton  refused  to 
respond  to  this  vicarious  cordiality,  Gurney 
hastened  to  say,  "How  do  you  cry  when 
you  do  it  'for  fun'?" 

"O,  in  good  company,  and  with  pleasant 
surroundings.  You  make  a  sort  of  luxury 
of  grief,  you  see.  Why,  I  can  harrow  up  my 
feelings  any  time.  That's  what  you  lose  by 
being  a  man.  You  wouldn't  dare  to  cry, 
would  you?" — with  her  hands  still  clasped 
behind  her,  and  the  most  childish  innocence 
on  her  saucy,  tear-stained  face. 

"Well,  I  haven't  your  facility  for  weeping, 
of  course,"  he  said  coolly,  "but  I  dare  say  I 
might  shed  a  tear  or  two  at  a  pinch.  I  must 
confess,  I  don't  envy  you  your  recreations 
if  this  is  one  of  them";  and  then,  to  account 
for  his  intrusion,  he  told  his  errand. 

Tina  immediately  began  to  waltz  round 
the  room,  humming,  "O  how  delightful, 
O  how  entrancing";  stopping  abruptly  to 
say,  "We're  only  pretending  to  be  surprised 
— we  knew  all  about  it  yesterday.  Don't 
be  silly,  Helen,"  as  Miss  Oulton  looked 
rather  resistant.  "Of  course  you'll  go.  Wild 
horses  wouldn't  keep  me  away.  Are  you  go- 
ing to  drive?  May  I  sit  on  the  front  seat 
with  you?  Ah,  thanks!  that  will  make  Aunt 
Fanny  so  happy  ' — with  a  placid  satisfaction. 
Miss  Tina,  having  found  that  it  annoyed  Mrs. 
Lawlor  to  be  called  "Aunt,"  clung  to  the 
mock  kinship  with  much  tenacity.  "And 
the  Terry  girls — and  Jack — he  will  tear  his 


482 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Nov. 


hair — if  it's  long  enough.  Poor  Jack!"  she 
said,  with  a  swift  change  of  mood.  "He's 
just  as  nice  as  though  he  could  give  swell 
moonlight  drives,"  and  she  looked  defiantly 
at  Gurney. 

"Probably  much  nicer,"  he  acquiesced 
amiably.  "The  ability  to  drive  a  four-in- 
hand  presupposes  a  certain  amount  of  arro- 
gance, which  to  be  sure  is  shared  by  team- 
sters and  stage-drivers,  but — 

"O  nonsense,"  said  Tina,  "you  know 
what  I  mean.  Now,  where,  for  instance, 
would  you  be  without  money?  " 

"Ringing  your  front-door  bell  to  ask  fora 
'light  job,'  and  'a  little  something  to  eat,'" 
he  answered,  unmoved. 

Tina  laughed,  and  gave  him  an  approving 
glance  from  her  big  brown  eyes. 

"You're  awfully  good-natured,"  she  ex- 
claimed; "I  wonder  how  long  it  would  last. 
I'm  going  to  put  you  through  your  cate- 
chism: How  old  are  you?" 

"Really,  Tina."  began  Miss  Oulton,  in 
sharp  remonstrance. 

"Yes,  really,  of  course.  I  don't  expect 
you  to  prevaricate,"  said  this  bold  inter- 
viewer, without  taking  her  eyes  from  his 
face. 

"Thirty-five  sharp,"  he  responded  prompt- 

iy. 

"The  interesting  hero  is  never  more  than 
/«/£«/y-eight,"  said  Tina,  with  rather  a  disap- 
pointed air.  "  What  a  pity ! " 

Gurney  raised  his  eyebrows.  "When  I  at- 
tempt the  role  of  hero,  I'll  make  up  for  the 
part." 

"Well,  you  won't  need  to  do  that;  you 
don't  look  so  old,"  she  added  consolingly. 
"•What  do  you  do  when  you're  at  home?"— 
this  after  a  pause. 

"I'm  a  horny-handed  son  of  the  soil, 
and—" 

"O  yes,"  she  interrupted  hastily,  "that's 
what  they  say  in  stump-speeches.  That's  the 
sort  of  stuff  papa  talks.  But  really,  you 
know." 

"Really,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  catching 
her  at  her  own  game.  "My  life  is  so  differ- 
ent from  this  that  I  couldn't  make  you  un- 
derstand it  at  all." 


"Thanks,"  drawled  Tina;  "you  say  that 
with  the  superior  air  of  a  four-in-hand  man. 
We  couldn't  understand,  Helen,  do  you 
hear?  " 

Miss  Oulton  had  picked  up  some  bit  of 
bright  worsted-work,  and  was  industriously 
sending  the  ivory  needle  in  and  out  the 
rainbow  meshes.  She  spent  most  of  her 
time  in  finishing  the  decorative  impulses  of 
her  cousin  and  her  friend,  who,  in  common 
with  their  class,  were  prone  to  accumulate 
masses  of  material,  and  make  plans,  and 
then  cast  about  for  somebody  to  do  the 
actual  work. 

"I  dare  say  Mr.  Gurney  is  right,"  she 
murmured,  without  raising  her  eyes  from  her 
work. 

"Is  it  a  pretty  place — where  you  live?" 
Tina  went  on,  unrebuffed. 

"Umph— rather." 

"How  provoking  you  are!  Have  you  no 
society?" 

"O  yes,"  he  said,  "my  nearest  society  is 
ten  miles  away,  but  it's  pleasant  enough — at 
that  distance." 

"I  suppose  we  can't  understand  that, 
either." 

Gurney  shook  his  head  assentingly.  Tina 
looked  at  him  with  her  head  on  side  like  a 
mischievous  kitten  with  a  stolen  plaything. 
"Any  nice  young  ladies?" 

"Dozens  of  them." 

"Oh-h-h!"  glancing  over  her  shoulder  at 
Helen,  who  seemed  completely  absorbed  in 
her  mysteries  of  "chain  and  loop."  "I  sup- 
pose they  dress  in  pink  calico,  and  talk 
about  the  'crops.'" 

"  Not  always.  They're  in  dress  and  talk 
a  pretty  fair  imitation  of  the  average  society 
young  lady." 

"But  they  have  no — style  —  no  chic" 
said  Tina,  contemptuously. 

"7V<?,  thank  Heaven!"  And  he  drew  a 
long  breath. 

Tina  flushed  a  little,  but  recovered  herself 
immediately.  '"Some  people  always  sigh  in 
thanking  God,'"  she  quoted.  "Well,  you're 
prejudiced;  we're  nothing  if  not  progressive. 
Rusty  manners  are  of  no  more  use  than  a  last- 
year's  bonnet.  And  you're  ungrateful,  too. 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


483 


Why,  half  the  girls  here  are  wild  with  delight 
if  you  just  'tip  'em  a  nod.'" 

"  This  can't  be  very  interesting  to  Miss 
Oulton,"  said  Gurney,  rather  tired  of  such 
chatter. 

"O,  Helen  just  loves  it.  She  pretends  to 
be  bored,  but  that's  because  she  abhors  gos- 
sip theoretically,  and  wants  to  look  consist- 
ent.— The  front  seat,  remember,"  she  added 
eagerly,  as  Gurney  turned  to  go. 

He  had  been  for  some  time  leaning  idly 
over  the  back  of  a  high  carved  chair,  and 
when  he  pushed  it  aside  the  thin,  long, 
old-fashioned  watch-chain  he  always  wore 
caught  in  the  twisted  wood  and  snapped 
suddenly,  while  a  little  bunch  of  charms  that 
Tina  had  never  before  noticed  fell  scattered 
on  the  carpet.  One  of  them,  a  curiously 
shaped  locket,  rolled  to  her  feet,  and  she 
stooped  impulsively  and  picked  it  up.  As 
it  opened  in  her  hand,  "Oh,  how  lovely!" 
she  cried,  with  a  little  flutter  of  admiration. 
"Look,  Helen!" 

But  Gurney  laid  his  hand  over  hers. 
"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  rather  sharply,  and 
put  chain  and  charms  quietly  into  his  pock- 
et. He  looked  strangely  disturbed  about  so 
trifling  a  matter,  and  stood  staring  at  Tina 
with  his  dark  face  a  shade  paler  than  usual, 
and  his  lips  compressed. 

She  clasped  her  hands  imploringly  in  pre- 
tended terror.  "I'll  never  do  it  again — 
never — never" 

"How  could  you  know?"  he  said  at  last, 
with  evident  effort.  "That  is—" 

"Your  sweetheart,  of  course,"  broke  in 
Tina,  with  a  shrill  little  laugh;  as  she  said, 
she  "hated  heroics."  "  Never  mind,  we'll 
spare  your  confession  and  congratulate 
you." 

To  her  surprise,  Gurney  looked  rather  re- 
lieved, and  his  eyes  twinkled.  "Thank  you 
— thank  you,"  he  murmured. 

"And  we'll  keep  your  secret." 

"I  know  I  can  depend  on  Miss  Oulton. 
If  she  keeps  the  sphinx-like  silence  she's 
held  to-day,  she  would  make  a  famous  treas- 
ure-house for  secrets." 

Helen  smiled.  "Yes,  I  can  keep  a  secret," 
she  said,  meeting  his  eyes  with  the  steady, 


straightforward  look  that  always  gave  him  a 
singular  pleasure,  and  swept  away  for  the 
moment  his  doubts  and  perplexities  con- 
cerning her. 

Since  their  episode  of  Fort  Point  he  had 
been  ready  to  match  her  moods,  whatever 
they  might  be.  Whether  she  was  gay  or 
cynical,  or  only  stiffly  polite,  or  honestly  cor- 
dial as  she  was  sometimes,  or  silent  as  to- 
day, he  accepted  her  changed  manner  as  if 
it  were  the  most  natural  one,  and  said,  in 
deed  if  not  in  word,  "'I'd  have  you  do  it 
ever!'"  One  thing  he  knew,  that  she  was 
dependent  and  unhappy. 

He  looked  at  her  now  rather  abstractedly. 
"None  but  very  weak-minded  people  tell 
their  secrets,"  he  said,  "and  even  they  are 
sorry  for  it  afterward." 

"I  must  be  a  first-class  idiot,  then,"  sighed 
Tina,  hopelessly,  "for  I'm  in  a  confidential 
attitude  toward  somebody  all  the  time.  I 
think  if  there  were  no  one  else  near  I  would 
offer  my  soul-secrets  to  the  cook  or  the 
coachman." 

As  soon  as  their  visitor  was  gone,  she  be- 
gan to  evolve  from  her  agile  little  brain  the 
most  fanciful  theories  regarding  his  imagi- 
nary fiancee,  and  the  most  remarkable  plans 
for  the  discomfiture  of  the  husband-hunt- 
ers who  had  counted  him  legitimate  game. 
When  Helen,  honestly  stifling  her  own 
startled  wonderings,  remonstrated  with  her, 
she  only  shook  her  head  and  went  away 
refusing  even  to  promise  discretion,  while 
her  friend  consoled  herself  with  the  reflec- 
tion that  Tina  was  so  volatile  she  would  for- 
get the  whole  circumstance  in  an  hour. 

Neither  of  them  met  Gurney  again  till 
the  evening  fixed  for  their  drive,  when  Tina 
occupied  the  coveted  front  seat  and  Helen 
fell  to  the  lot  of  a  gay  old  beau  named  Bal- 
lard,  who  whistled  antique  witticisms  and 
mild  gossip  through  an  ill-fitting  set  of  false 
teeth,  who  went  everywhere,  and  was,  in  short, 
a  society  cyclopedia.  Like  Mrs.  Lawlor,  he 
stood  ready  to  supplement  the  awkward 
hitches  of  his  dowered  friends  with  his  own 
enlarged  experience,  and  luckily  he  bid  fair 
to  live  forever.  But  Helen  did  not  appre- 
ciate his  amiable  virtues,  and  under  cover  of 


484 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Nov. 


his  fusilade  of  compliments  thought  out  her 
own  thoughts  without  giving  much  heed  to 
her  neighbor. 

Tina  insisted  at  first  on  driving,  almost 
overturned  the  wagon,  and  after  resigning 
the  reins  with  a  very  bad  grace,  pretended 
to  flirt  desperately  with  their  amateur  Jehu. 
In  reality,  she  was  only  pouring  into  his  ears 
indiscreet  revelations  of  her  domestic  trou- 
bles. 

"I  was  just  crying  the  other  day  from 
sheer  rage,"  she  said,  in  response  to  Gurney's 
careless  questioning.  "Mamma  don't  want 
me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  Jack  Cran- 
dall.  Of  course  we  are  just  good  friends, 
and  what's  the  use  of  living  if  you  can't  have 
the  kind  of  friends  you  want  ?  I  must  cut 
Jack  because  he's  only  a  broker's  clerk. 
Could  anything  be  more  absurd,  when  papa 
is  always  boasting  of  his  own  poverty-pinches 
when  he  was  young?  I  expect  some 
day  to  hear  him  tell,  like  Mr.  Bounderby, 
how  he  was  'born  in  a  ditch,  ma'am — wet  as 
sop.'  He  just  pulls  out  the  rounds  of  the 
ladder  he  climbed  up  on,  and  keeps  'em  to 
knock  down  other  ladder-climbers.  That's 
always  the  way  with  these  self-made  men. 
Isn't  it  now? — you  know  it  is.  But,  all  the 
the  same,  I  won't  give  up  Jack." 

"I  should  think  he  would  give  you  up, 
when  you're  as  rude  to  him  as  to-night,  for 
instance,"  said  Gurney,  gravely. 

"O,  well,  he  gets  tiresome  sometimes. 
Everybody  bores  me  sooner  or  later,"  said 
this  blase  young  person,  whose  nineteen 
years  had  left  her  bankrupt  so  far  as  amuse- 
ments went. 

"Will  you  kindly  and  frankly  tell  me 
when  /bore  you?"  asked  Gurney. 

"I  don't  think  you  ever  would,"  laying 
her  fingers  on  his  greatcoat  sleeve  with  a 
caressing  little  snow-flake  touch,  "because 
I'm  afraid  of  you." 

"Good!  In  that  case  I'll  take  care  to 
be  as  ferocious  as  possible.  Though  I  don't 
quite  approve  of  fear  as  an  element  of  friend- 
ship." 

"H-m-m!  I'd  rather  be  respected  than 
adored,"  said  Tina,  with  lofty  inconsistency. 
"Why?  Why,  because  we  all  long  for  the 


un-get-at-able,  of  course.  You  know  very 
well  that  people  don't  respect  me  any  more 
than  they  would  a  soap-bubble  or  a  wreath 
of  cigarette-smoke.  If  I  want  anything,  I 
have  to  cry  and  kick  for  it  like  a  bad  child. 
How  stupidly  jolly  they  are  back  there  ! "  she 
added,  turning  her  head  as  a  chorus  of 
laughter,  led  by  her  father's  tremendous  "ha- 
ha,"  drowned  her  voluble  monologue.  "It's 
only  one  of  papa's  old  stories  they've  heard 
a  thousand  times.  They're  awfully  polite  to 
laugh  at  it,  I'm  sure."  Evidently  Miss 
Graves  was  not  in  a  very  good  humor,  but 
the  rest  of  the  party,  encouraged  by  Mr. 
Graves,  seemed  very  cheerful  indeed. 

Mr.  Graves  himself  was  a  stout,  florid 
man  of  fifty-five,  whose  limitless  ambitions 
and  exhaustless  vitality  made  him  not  only 
a  business  but  a  social  power.  With  his 
restless  fingers  dabbling  in  a  hundred  big 
schemes,  and  his  ventures  making  a  girdle 
round  the  earth,  he  yet  found  time  to  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,  with  the  most  riotous 
of  the  merry-makers.  If  his  jokes  were  a 
little  too  pungent,  his  cordiality  a  little  op- 
pressive, he  was  readily  forgiven.  Criticism 
hung  its  head  when  this  lucky  man  came 
near.  His  wife  prided  herself  on  her  family, 
and  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  caste 
should  be  sharply  defined,  even  in  Califor- 
nia; but  "the  glow  and  the  glory"  of  the 
time  were  upon  her,  and  she  was  sometimes 
swept  away  by  her  husband's  resistless  hospi- 
tality, and  forced  into  contact  with  persons 
against  whom  her  aristocratic  instincts  re- 
volted. Still,  she  always  carried  the  superb 
consciousness  of  occupying  an  unassailable 
social  eyrie,  and  on  the  present  occasion  con- 
descended to  be  very  amiable,  feeling  that 
her  chaperonage  was  sufficient  to  cover  any 
amount  of  unconventionality,  and  that  "the 
king  could  do  no  wrong." 

The  "Cliff"  had  lost  enough  of  its  pres- 
tige to  make  a  moonlight  supper  there,  un- 
der ordinary  circumstances,  a  very  plebeian 
thing  indeed,  but  as  a  freak  of  the  beau 
monde  it  was  quite  different.  Nobody  could 
cavil  at  the  entertainment  offered  them;  even 
that  experienced  critic  and  gourmand  Mr. 
Ballard  admitted  that  Gurney  knew  how  to 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


485 


manage  such  things  astonishingly  well  for  a 
man  who  lived  literally  out  of  the  world. 
"  Where  the  deuce  could  he  have  picked  up 
the  knack?  —  for  there  ts  a  knack,  you 
know,"  he  said  confidentially  to  Mrs.  Graves. 

The  bald,  cheerless  room  had  been  ma- 
nipulated in  some  mysterious  way  to  make  it 
look  almost  luxurious;  and  they  were  served 
by  Gurney's  own  men,  so  that  their  exclu- 
siveness  was  beyond  question.  The  young 
people  were  as  gay  as  they  pleased,  and 
they  pleased  to  be  very  animated.  The 
young  men  drank  a  good  deal  of  champagne, 
but  it  did  not  seem  to  make  their  conversa- 
tion any  less  sensible.  The  Terry  girls, 
who  had  to  see  society  by  sections,  because 
there  were  so  many  of  them,  and  who  were 
celebrated  for  their  large  fund  of  enthusiasm, 
brought  it  all  out  at  this  time,  prattling  over 
Gurney  with  the  sort  of  imbecile  flattery 
that  sets  a  modest  man's  teeth  on  edge,  but 
which  seems  as  necessary  as  love  to  "make 
the  world  go  round." 

Jack  Crandall  had  been  snubbed  by  Tina 
outrageously,  and  was  as  angry  as  such  a 
sweet-tempered  man  could  be ;  but  he  went 
on  making  bad  puns  and  telling  absurd 
stories,  because  he  knew  it  was  expected 
from  him. 

"'It's  such  a  very  serious  thing  to  be  a 
funny  man,' "  he  said  ruefully,  when  Violet 
Terry  begged  him  to  recite  "that  awfully 
funny  sketch  of  Mark  Twain's  that  you  did 
for  us  the  other  night "  ;  but  he  went  through 
his  performance  with  considerable  spirit,  and 
was  rewarded  by  having  Tina  say  quite 
audibly :  "  I  detest  that  sort  of  thing  off  the 
stage,  don't  you,  Mr.  Gurney?  He  ought 
to  join  one  of  these  versatile  dramatic  clubs 
that  give  Hamlet  one  night  and  burnt-cork 
minstrelsy  the  next." 

But  in  truth,  Jack's  blundering  humor 
was  as  invaluable,  socially,  as  the  gush  of  the 
Terry  girls.  It  tided  over  awkward  silences 
and  bore  down  any  too  patrician  dignity, 
not  infrequently  saving  lazy  people  trouble 
and  timid  ones  pain;  so  that  it  was  the 
rankest  ingratitude  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Graves  to  laugh  at  instead  of  with  her  "good 
friend." 


The  Rivers  family  was  represented  only 
by  Miss  Oulton  and  her  cousin  by  courtesy, 
Mr.  Fessenden.  There  seemed  to  be  an 
"innumerable  caravan"  of  relatives  forever 
surging  in  and  out  of  the  Rivers  house ; 
and  when  at  the  last  moment  a  malicious 
touch  of  neuralgia  kept  Mrs.  Rivers  at 
home,  and  she  sent  "  Fred"  to  take  her 
place,  Gurney  and  his  guests  accepted  her 
substitute  with  amiable  indifference.  That 
is  one  of  the  few  consolations  we  are  ab- 
solutely sure  of  in  social  life — if  we  drop 
out  of  the  ranks  for  a  year,  a  day.  or  even 
an  hour,  nobody  misses  us,  and  the  parade 
goes  on  all  the  same.  But  Gurney  began  to 
suspect  Mrs.  Rivers  of  keeping  her  neuralgia 
on  hand  for  an  emergency,  and  shrewdly 
guessed  that  pique  rather  than  pain  had 
been  the  cause  of  her  defection. 

He  watched  with  no  little  amusement  the 
tendency  of  his  party  to  scatter  into  the 
shadowed  parts  of  the  piazza,  and  when 
Mrs.  Graves  endeavored  to  gather  them 
together  again  he  protested. 

"You  can't  be  so  hard-hearted.  Such 
merry-makings  are  especially  provided  for 
sentimental  young  people.  It's  part  of  the 
moonshine." 

But  when,  turning  a  corner,  they  came  sud- 
denly upon  young  Fessenden,  who,  with  both 
Helen's  hands  clasped  in  his,  was  making 
some  vehement  appeal,  Gurney's  good-na- 
tured indulgence  was  flung  to  the  winds,  and 
in  an  instant  the  place,  the  time,  the  people, 
all  seemed  intolerably  snobbish  and  tire- 
some. 

"That's  an  old  story,"  said  Mrs.  Graves, 
as  they  passed  on,  only  pausing  for  her  to 
ask  icily  if  Miss  Oulton  were  ready  to  go 
home. 

"An old  story?"  echoed  Gurney,  mechani- 
cally. 

"  Well,  yes  —  to  us  —  ah !  here  they  all 
are.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  other 
time." 

Gurney  could  scarcely  conceal  his  impa- 
tience to  start,  and  even  when  they  were 
fairly  on  the  road,  and  the  indefatigable 
revelers  behind  him  were  making  the  frosty 
air  ring  with  their  sentimental  songs,  and 


486 


Lilies. 


[Nov. 


Tina,  forgetting  her  critical  attitude,  flung 
back  snatches  of  "burnt-cork  minstrelsy,"  he 
could  not  recover  his  ordinary  serenity. 
Mrs.  Graves's  mischievous  little  sentence 
made  a  monotonous  accompaniment  to  the 
measured  choruses;  and  even  the  swift  hoof- 
beats  of  the  horses  rang  themselves  into  a 
refrain  of  "That's  an  old  story — that's  an 
old  story." 

He  had  met  Fessenden  a  good  many 
times,  but  if  he  had  thought  of  him  at  all  it 
was  as  a  sort  of  drawing-room  lay  figure,  or 
at  most  a  pretty  young  prig.  But  therein 
he  was  short-sighted,  for  under  such  languid 
effeminacy  often  lies  a  good  deal  of  steady 
purpose,  making  it  not  impossible  to  do, 
"in  the  figure  of  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion." 
Partly  educated  abroad,  Mr.  Fessenden  had 
brought  home  with  him  one  of  the  first  sam- 
ples of  Anglomania,  and  after  effacing  all 
individuality  as  thoroughly  as  possible,  had 
striven  to  remold  himself  after  the  most  ap- 
proved Brittanic  models ;  and  it  was  this 
blurred  identity  which  Gurney  had,  as  it 
were,  trodden  under  foot. 

Now  he  began  to  put  Fessenden  under 
a  mental  microscope,  trying  to  magnify 
him  into  a  man  whom  Helen  Oulton 
might,  could,  or  did  love.  Why  he  should 
care  a  crooked  sixpence  what  she  loved  was 
an  interrogation  that  was  pushed  aside  for 
the  time  by  her  actual  presence.  As  every- 
body knows,  there  are  certain  frames  of 

[CONTINUED  IN 


mind  on  which  philosophy  or  logic  falls 
flat. 

While  this  sturdy  misogynist  was  filling 
his  mind  with  disagreeable  conclusions, 
Jack  Crandall  sang  and  laughed  out  of  a 
sore  heart,  Mr.  Fessenden  murmured  languid 
sentiment  in  Rose  Terry's  pink  ears,  with 
his  thoughts  always  Helenward,  and  Mrs. 
Graves,  listening  to  Mr.  Ballard's  recipe  for 
a  perfect  souffle,  arranged  in  her  mind  an 
alliance  between  Gurney  and  her  youngest 
daughter,  who  needed  "settling"  in  life  if 
any  young  lady  ever  did,  and  whose  caprices 
were  sometimes  beyond  control.  While  Mr. 
Ballard  himself,  with  his  elderly  bones  ach- 
ing and  a  foreboding  of  bronchitis  and 
rheumatism  overshadowing  him,  wished 
himself  comfortably  at  home  in  his  own 
bachelor  apartments  ;  and  Helen,  who  sat 
at  Tina's  elbow,  with  fragments  of  their  fit- 
ful talk  blown  back  to  her  by  the  wind, 
grew  more  and  more  indignant  that  Fred's 
folly  had  put  her  into  such  a  ridiculous 
position. 

As  they  were  landed  by  twos  and  threes 
at  their  respective  homes,  they  exchanged 
cordial  assurances  of  gratification.  In  fact, 
it  was  "just  charming,"  and  they  had  "never 
enjoyed  anything  so  much"  in  all  their  lives 
— which,  maybe,  was  unconscious  truth,  per- 
fect enjoyment  being  as  impossible,  or  at 
least  as  evanescent,  as  Mr.  Ballard's  incom- 
parable souffle  itself. 

NEXT   NUMBER.] 


LILIES. 

I  BRING  the  simple  children  of  the  field — 

Lilies  with  tawny  cheeks,  all  crimson-pied. 
The  vagrant  clans  that  thriftless-seeming  yield 

Their  scented  secrets  to  the  wind,  yet  hide 
In  dewy  cups  their  subtler  lore.     More  sweet 

Than  red-breast  robin  pipes,  the  strain  they  sing 
Of  youth  and  wayside  lanes  where  childish  feet 

Went  glancing  merrily  through  some  dead  spring. 
Glad  is  the  gift  I  bring  at  love's  behest— 
The  gypsy  lilies  of  the  wide-eyed  West. 


1883.]  Lilies.  487 

Lilies  I  bring — shy  flowers  that  nodding  grew 

O'er  river-beds,  whereto  the  night  winds  low 
Cling  odorous.  Still  droop  these  buds  of  blue 

In  tender  dreams  of  the  cool  water's  flow 
Past  gleaming  crofts,  among  lone  sunless  nooks; 

Of  moonshine  white  athwart  the  bending  trees ; 
Of  scattered  mists  above  brown,  mottled  brooks; 

The  spring-time  perfumes ;  summer's  vanished  bees. 
A  dawning  hope,  beneath  the  starry  crest 
Of  trysting  lilies,  trembles  on  thy  breast. 

Lilies  I  bring  that  once  by  Nile's  slow  tide, 

From  snowy  censers  'neath  a  lucent  moon, 
With  faint,  rare  fragrance  steeped  the  silence  wide, 

O,  stainless  ones!     The  night-bird's  broken  tune 
Falls  'mong  thy  pallid  leaves.     And  fainter  still, 

And  sweeter  than  cold  Dian's  music  clear, 
The  night's  far,  failing  murmurs  wildly  thrill 

Thy  golden  hearts.     Love,  pitying  draw  near! — 
An  ended  dream,  unuttered,  unexpressed, 
With  vestal  lilies  mocks  my  hapless  quest. 

Lilies  I  bring  thee — languorous,  passionate — 

Neglected  odalisques,  that  scornful  stand, 
Voiceless  and  proud,  without  the  silent  gate 

That  bars  the  dawn  in  some  dim  morning-land. 
'Gainst  creamy  chalices  drifts  soft  the  air 

Of  sun-kissed  climes,  and  viols  throb,  and  shine 
The  twinkling  feet  of  dancing-girls,  lithe,  fair, 

Upbeating  wafts  of  wasted  yellow  wine  : 
O,  fatal  flow'rs  to  hot  lips  fiercely  pressed 
The  siren  lilies  of  weird  lands  unblessed. 

Stoop  down,  O  love — and  nearer — for  I  bear 

The  phantom  buds  that  ope  for  weary  hands 
When  toil  is  done.     O,  fragrant  blossoms,  fair 

As  shadowy  asphodels,  ye  lean  o'er  lands 
Wrapped  in  unchanging  dusk.     O,  cold  and  frail, 

From  brows  more  waxen  than  your  blooms,  how  light 
Ye  slip!     Yet  low,  sweet  chimes,  though  your  lips  pale, 

Echo  from  heavenly  shores,  ye  flowers  white 
Of  realms  celestial.  Love's  last  gift  and  best! 
The  clustered  lilies  of  perpetual  rest. 

Ada  Langworthy  Collier. 


488 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


[Nov. 


THE   AMERICAN    COLONY  AT   CARLOTTA. 


As  an  item  of  history,  introducing  the 
events  recited  in  this  article,  the  writer  may 
remark,  that  after  the  surrender  at  Appo- 
mattox,  a  very  considerable  body  of  Confed- 
erates, under  the  command  of  the  famous 
cavalry  officer,  General  Shelby,  crossed  the 
Rio  Grande  with  the  object  of  taking  part  in 
the  struggle  for  supremacy  in  Mexico,  and 
of  deciding  by  arms  the  tide  of  battle  and 
the  future  of  that  republic.  The  plans  of 
the  leading  spirits  of  the  expedition  have 
never  been  fully  disclosed;  and  all  now 
known  is,  that  after  invading  Mexican  soil, 
and  acquainting  themselves  with  the  nature 
and  objects  of  the  contest,  the  daring  Anglo- 
Saxons  decided  to  abandon  the  projected 
crusade.  Selling  their  arms,  they  dispersed 
and  drifted  singly  and  in  groups  to  different 
portions  of  that  country.  And  in  the  sum- 
mer of  the  same  year,  there  began  a  very  con- 
siderable hegira  from  the  United  States  to 
the  land  of  the  Aztecs.  This  movement  con- 
tinued through  all  the  year  of  1865.  Nor 
did  it  entirely  cease  until  the  middle  of  the 
next  year. 

The  Mexican  empire  was  then  almost  an 
established  fact.  These  argonauts,  or  exiles, 
were  mostly  notables  of  the  Confederacy — 
generals,  colonels,  governors,  judges,  and 
senators — who  left  the  South  at  the  close  of 
the  Rebellion.  Many  made  the  journey  by 
land,  latterly  they  chose  the  water  way,  and 
settled  at  Monterey  and  points  southward 
from  that  city;  but  the  mass  passed  on  to 
San  Louis  and  the  capital,  and  remained  in 
those  and  other  cities  during  the  winter. 

In  the  summer  of  1865,  however,  Captain 
Maury  had  presented  a  land  scheme  to  Maxi- 
milian, which  had  for  its  object  the  coloniza- 
tion of  portions  of  Mexico  by  Southern 
families  who  were  indisposed  to  bear  the 
humiliation  of  defeat  and  its  disagreeable 
incidents.  This  plan  of  bringing  Anglo-Sax- 
on stock  to  Mexican  shores  was  not  dis- 
pleasing to  the  Hapsburg;  and  hence,  very 


early  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  a  decree 
was  issued,  granting  to  colonists  certain  pub- 
lic lands  confiscated  during  the  civil  wars  of 
the  country.  It  happened  that  lands  near 
Cordova  were  selected ;  and  to  that  point 
ever  after  tended  American  emigrants. 

The  founders  of  the  colony  convened  at 
the  ancient  city  of  Cordova,  eight  miles  dis- 
tant from  the  proposed  settlement,  and 
passed  the  winter  there.'  In  the  mean  time 
a  survey  of  the  confiscated  lands  was  com- 
pleted. Then  the  filibustering  for  place 
and  office,  and  for  rich  and  accessible  land 
tracts,  commenced ;  and  it  grew  more  earnest 
as  the  months  wore  away.  Captain  Maury 
was  made  chief  of  the  land  or  colonization 
bureau;  General  Magruder  held  the  second 
place  in  that  department,  and  the  eminent 
ex-Judge  Perkins  of  Louisiana  secured  the 
place  of  agent  at  Cordova. 

Much  of  the  winter  was  consumed  in 
wrangling  and  inactivity.  But  the  project 
grew  and  developed.  About  this  time,  too, 
the  emperor's  decree  was  promulgated,  and 
that  encouraged  the  colonists  still  more. 
This  decree  guaranteed  all  the  rights  of  citi- 
zens to  foreigners,  with,  strange  to  say,  few 
of  the  responsibilities.  It  exempted  colo- 
nists from  the  payment  of  taxes,  from  service 
in  the  army  for  five  years,  together  with  the 
privilege  of  passing  implements  of  husbandry 
free  of  duty  through  the  custom-houses. 

When  spring  came,  the  village  site  had 
been  selected,  and  the  fathers  of  the  colony 
were  snugly  quartered  under  the  mango- 
trees  of  the  newly  christened  town  of  Car- 
lotta. Rude  huts  and  tents  were  impro- 
vised for  protection  from  the  beating  rain 
and  scorching  sun.  But  there  was  nothing 
of  the  utilitarian  spirit  abroad  yet.  Houses 
did  not  rise  like  exhalations,  in  a  night.  In- 
deed, three  or  four  months  passed  by  be- 
fore the  thatched  gables  rose  above  the  thick 
underbrush  and  tangled  forest  trees. 

At  this  epoch,  epistolary  effusions  drifted 


1883.] 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


489 


into  American  newspapers,  and  by  this 
means  the  deep  jungles  and  blasted  wastes 
of  Mexico  were  transformed  into  gardens  of 
paradise,  and  insignificant  dripping  springs 
into  rushing  torrents  of  ice-water.  The 
snow-capped  peak  of  Orizaba,  forty  miles 
distant,  loomed  in  cool  proximity  to  the  vil- 
lage ;  while  the  promised  land  was  plainly 
pointed  out  to  the  sorrowing  and  oppressed 
Israelites  across  the  Gulf.  If  these  curious 
tales  and  wonderful  statistics  had  a  fictitious 
ring  to  those  already  there,  certain  it  is  that 
the  romance  drew  from  dissatisfied  hearts 
across  the  water  a  sigh  of  relief.  These 
sensational  articles  were  copied  indiscrimi- 
nately on  this  side  of  the  Rio  Grande,  and 
not  many  weeks  elapsed  before  the  coloni- 
zation wave  surged  across  the  Gulf,  and  set- 
tled in  the  valley  of  Cordova.  But  the 
advance  guard,  numbering  about  fifty,  had 
already  selected  the  surveyed  sections,  and 
became  masters,  in  some  senses,  of  the  en- 
tire valley  of  confiscated  lands.  It  is  more 
than  probable  that  the  effusions  of  these 
pioneers  were  pictures  only  of  what  the 
country  might  be — conceptions  in  the  future 
tense;  for  in  every  case  there  was  equivoca- 
tion as  to  the  paternity  of  those  gorgeous 
letter  landscapes. 

At  any  rate,  the  object  was  accomplished. 
And  in  due  season  men  came  there  by  hun- 
dreds. Some  drifted  at  once  into  whatever 
presented;  the  many  hung  their  heads  and 
waited.  Planters  and  lawyers  fitted  up  ho- 
tels; army  and  naval  officers  began  planting 
corn  and  cotton;  merchants  and  men  of  no 
vocation  embarked  in  manufacturing  and 
freighting,  believing  that  mints  of  money 
were  hidden  in  the  soil,  on  the  top  of  it — 
everywhere.  Ship-loads  of  colonists  were 
halted  at  New  Orleans;  impediments  were 
thrown  in  the  way  of  the  hegira  by  the  au- 
thorities all  along  the  coast;  and  it  is 
charged  that  men  in  high  position  promised 
early  destruction  to  the  new  colony.  But 
people,  defying  Sheridan  and  shipwreck, 
were  ready  to  go,  if  they  had  to  run  the 
gauntlet  of  robbers  and  famine  by  land,  or 
wade  the  Gulf,  or  float  it  on  a  log. 

When  the  authorities  at  Washington  were 


apprised  of  the  movement,  and  Maximilian 
made  acquainted  with  the  feeling  existing 
respecting  it,  the  one  offered  no  decidedly 
open  opposition  to  colonization,  and  the 
other  began  to  manifest  decided  indifference 
to  it.  A  colony  of  Anglo-Saxons — the  bitter 
enemies  of  the  Northern  republic — planted 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gulf,  was  not 
agreeable  to  the  ruling  powers  at  Washing- 
ton; hence  complaints  went  up  to  Maximil- 
ian and  to  Bazaine,  and  they  encouraged 
colonization  no  more. 

But  there  were  other  and  more  formidable 
obstacles.  It  became  apparent,  pretty  soon, 
that  Mexicans  were  opposed  to  American 
colonization;  that  they  hated  progressive 
ideas,  and  felt  incapable  of  competing  with 
these  new-comers  in  the  great  battles  of  life 
and  business.  So  robber  chiefs  were  set  on 
to  persecute,  provoke,  and  assail  the  settlers, 
and  only  the  fear  of  consequences  prevented 
them  from  massacring  the  whole  colony. 
The  frequent  memorials  and  letters  directed 
to  the  emperor,  and  the  selfish  counter  land- 
schemes  emanating  from  the  busy  brains  of 
adventurers,  poured  in  upon  the  royal  pres- 
ence when  in  the  midst  of  court  matters; 
and  this  annoyance,  joined  to  the  reprehen- 
sible conduct  of  many  of  our  countrymen, 
and  the  waning  fortunes  of  the  ill-starred  Aus- 
trian prince,  decided  him  to  let  American 
colonization  go  to  the  dogs.  Bazaine,  who 
was  more  potent  than  the  emperor,  had  no 
interest  whatever  in  the  success  of  the 
scheme:  nor,  indeed,  in  the  propagation  of 
the  American  idea;  neither  had  his  govern- 
ment any  sympathy  for  anybody  in  an  em- 
pire it  had  determined  to  abandon.  Hence, 
in  a  little  while  the  colonists  stood  alone, 
protected  by  neither  party,  hated  by  the  en- 
tire Mexican  race;  scattered  miles  apart, 
the  .prey  of  every  freebooter  that  chose  to 
war  upon  them. 

The  only  security,  then,  rested  upon  the 
unity  and  manhood  of  the  colonists.  Had 
they  united  for  protection,  and  chosen  to  re- 
main there  as  good  citizens  of  Mexico,  there 
would  have  been  a  different  account  to  give. 
But  an  ungenerous,  clannish  spirit  predom- 
inated, and  this  was  the  one  dominant  cause 


490 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


[Nov. 


of  disintegration  and  ruin  of  the  enterprise. 
It  was  conceived  in  selfishness,  and  man- 
aged the  self-same  way.  The  project  was 
shrouded  in  mystery  at  the  beginning,  and 
seemed  to  grow  worse  as  it  grew  in  years. 
There  was  not  a  habitable  house  in  the  vil- 
lage; and  yet  the  inhabitants  were  as  exclu- 
sive as  royalty  in  Russia.  The  poorest 
Aztec  laborer  fared  better  in  his  thatched 
hut  than  any  colonist;  and  yet  a  stranger 
could  not  purchase  a  lot  in  Carlotta  unless 
he  was  possessed  of  eminent  respectability. 
The  doom  of  the  enterprise  was  certain  and 
fixed,  without  robber  raids  or  native  repug- 
nance or  revolutionary  influences.  Warnings 
were  scouted,  and  imperious  dignity  refused 
to  listen  to  advice.  No  wonder  that  the 
seal  of  an  early  termination  was  set  upon  it. 
Even  the  venal,  and  in  some  senses  usurp- 
ing, government  sickened  of  the  petty  jeal- 
ousies, which  grew  and  flourished  in  rank 
luxuriance  and  waxed  strong,  even  before  the 
bantling  put  on  swaddling-clothes.  The 
men  fitted  for  leaders  were  kept  in  the 
background,  while  theoretical  mountebanks 
pulled  the  wires  and  tinkered  and  bungled, 
till  the  affair  took  such  an  unshapely  form 
that  the  astute  jurist  of  tlaco  memory  fell 
into  general  and  miscellaneous  muddiness  in 
unraveling  it. 

But,  "  howsoever  these  things  be,"  the 
streets  and  plaza  of  Carlotta  are  now  de- 
serted, the  doors  of  the  thatched  cabins  are 
ajar,  the  weeds  and  brush  have  usurped  the 
spots  where  the  glad  voices  of  children  were 
heard,  and  the  spreading  mangos  wave  their 
branches  in  the  winds,  and  with  the  night 
breeze  syllable  a  sort  of  mournful  requiem. 
At  the  beginning,  General  Sterling  Price, 
Governor  Harris,  and  with  them  a  score  of 
lesser  enthusiasts,  bivouacked  there  without 
practical  shelter  from  the  flying  rain  and 
driving  winds.  There  they  smoked  and 
read  and  dreamed  over  the  past.  The  coun- 
try was  infested  with  robber  bands,  and  no 
one  knew  then  what  hour  would  witness  the 
effacement  of  their  rude  homes  and  them- 
selves. The  frijoles  and  tortillas  comprised 
the  bill  of  fare  day  after  day  and  month  after 
month.  It  was  then,  too,  that  those  roman- 


tic missives  originated — the  letters  which 
sent  from  the  States  hundreds  of  fortune- 
hunters,  exiles,  and  adventurers,  to  gather 
the  silver  bars  and  the  harvest  of  sugar,  coffee, 
and  cotton,  and  sleep  in  the  lap  of  this 
Aztec  paradise. 

It  was  a  sight  to  witness  the  new-comers 
as  they  dashed  on  horseback,  full  of  joy,  into 
the  village,  something  over  seventeen  sum- 
mers ago,  glorifying  the  empire  and  lauding 
the  chivalry  of  the  native  race;  looking  in 
wonder  from  the  mango  shades  toward  the 
plaza,  which  the  trees  and  chaparral  yet  hid, 
inquiring  for  the  springs  of  ice-cold  water 
that  were  not  there,  and  bending  their 
cheeks  to  the  cool  winds  from  the  mountain 
peak,  which  they  learned  for  the  first  time 
was  forty  miles  distant.  Colonists'  faces 
were  a  study  at  that  time,  going  in  and 
then  out  of  the  village.  They  entered  with 
prospective  sights  of  snow-slides  from  the 
adjacent  peak,  orange-trees  yellow  with 
fruit  in  the  forests,  figs  and  peaches  vicing 
with  pine-apples  and  mangos;  and,  farther 
away,  coffee  groves  in  full  bloom,  running 
riot  on  every  hand,  cotton  fields  white  for  the 
harvest,  and  sugar-mills  with  the  busy  hum 
of  operatives,  the  click  of  the  mill-hammers 
from  the  Rio  Seco — all  romance,  at  last,  a 
veritable  myth  and  a  bubble.  We  have 
heard  of  men  when  wrecked  at  sea  turning 
away  in  despair  from  a  bank  of  fog  which 
they  mistook  for  land :  so  these  adventur- 
ers turned  back  with  looks  cold  as  stone. 

Still  people  came  and  swarmed  over  the 
valley,  and  hoed  and  built  and  planted,  and 
praised  the  climate  (and  here  for  once  they 
told  the  truth)  and  soil  and  government — 
ay,  and  at  times  denounced  the  apathy  of 
the  Aztec  race — these  generals,  colonels, 
senators,  governors,  and  preachers;  and  then 
again  vowed  eternal  fealty  to  Mexico  and 
hatred  to  the  authorities  beyond  the  Gulf, 
and  declared  their  purpose  never  again  to 
set  foot  on  soil  where  the  stars  and  stripes 
waved.  There  was  prospect,  indeed,  of  an 
early  and  formidable  rival  to  Brother  Jon- 
athan on  the  western  shores  of  the  Gulf:  A 
compact  of  the  Latin  and  Anglo-Saxon  races, 
with  a  background  of  hearty  hatred:  who 


1883.J 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


491 


can  premise  the  eventual  climax?  And,  as 
the  multitudes  came,  the  valleys  were  dotted 
here  and  there  with  rude  huts,  and  settle- 
ments extended  outward  and  southward  for 
thirty  miles;  the  roads  and  donkey-paths 
were  everywhere  traversed  by  men  with 
families  and  men  without  families,  hunting 
new  lands,  no  matter  where  or  whose,  to  grow 
rich  and  great  and  happy  under  the  genial 
skies  of  Mexico. 

All  the  while,  the  village  grew — we  dare 
not  say  rapidly — and  lots  were  high  and 
speculation  rife.  And  so  increase  brought 
selfishness — the  supply  being  already  abun- 
dant— and  that  worked  detriment  and  dis- 
sensions. Strangers  were  not  welcomed  as 
before,  and  land  could  not  be  had  at  any 
price  around  this  charmed  spot.  Some,  with 
wire-edge  worn  off  in  a  week,  turned  back, 
and  beginning  at  Vera  Cruz,  left  all  the  way 
and  at  home  an  unvarnished  and  damaging 
report  of  the  colony  and  country.  But  the  ear- 
lier statements  had  found  their  way  into  print; 
responsible  persons  were  credited  with  in- 
diting the  Munchhausen  tales,  and  men  on 
the  way  believed  them;  at  all  events,  they  de- 
cided to  see  with  their  own  eyes.  And  as 
they  went  their  speech  was  of  golden  apples 
thick  upon  trees,  silver  nuggets  lying  loose 
everywhere.  The  inference  was  that  the 
clouds  showered  beefsteaks;  that  empty 
palaces  and  blossoming  coffee  haciendas, 
acres  of  maguey  and  cotton  fields,  were  all 
waiting  for  the  coming  colonist.  They  nev- 
er dreamed  of  the  cold  faces  of  native, 
Spaniard,  and  Frenchman  set  against  them, 
nor  of  the  freezing  sentences  dropped  from 
the  lips  of  the  land  agent  at  Cordova:  no; 
only  of  dollars  and  downy  beds,  perennial 
showers  and  sugar-mills. 

These  were  the  deluded  ones;  honest,  many 
of  them,  but  most  egregiously  imposed  upon. 
The  men  who  founded  the  settlement  had 
acresof  land  tospare,  but  would  give  none,  sell 
none,  to  the  anxious  new-comer.  No  won- 
der the  faces  of  some  were  all  aflame  when 
the  situation  dawned  upon  them.  The  en- 
terprise was  then  supposed  to  be  a  success, 
hence  lands,  and  lots  even,  were  up  to  fab- 
ulous figures. 


With  the  honest  settler  came  also  the  ad- 
venturer, the  speculator,  and  swindler,  and 
harbored  there,  robbing  his  countrymen,  the 
natives,  every  one  he  could ;  and  having  run 
his  course,  returned  to  his  native  land  to 
practice  his  vocation  at  home.  The  wave 
of  colonists  went  to  Cordova  and  swept 
over  it,  and  overran  that  city,  so  that  people 
there  awoke  from  their  two  centuries  of 
sleep,  put  up  their  goods,  lands,  and  rents, 
and  waited.  The  natives  caught  so  much, 
at  least,  of  the  progressive  spirit  invad- 
ing their  shores.  Then  American  institu- 
tions leaped  into  existence  in  marvelously 
brief  periods.  American  hotels,  livery  sta- 
bles, law  firms,  American  newspapers,  man- 
ufactories, and  brokers  burst  into  existence 
— all  in  a  fortnight.  Then  these  political 
and  pious  brethren  bid  against  each  other, 
put  up  prices  against  each  other,  bought  and 
sold  and  speculated,  invested  borrowed  capi- 
tal in  enterprises  that  never  realized,  then 
drifted  into  insolvency  and  fled  the  country, 
leaving  friends  and  natives  surprised  and 
bankrupt.  A  large  per  cent  of  the  self- 
exiled  went  there  to  grow  rich ;  they  came 
without  means,  and  persuaded  others  into 
wild  speculations;  they  rejoiced  in  fine  out- 
fits, played  at  faro  and  monte,  and  when 
they  had  run  their  course,  escaped  at  night 
in  disguise — any  way  to  evade  the  law  and 
their  victims.  There  was  not  a  section  in 
the  great  Northern  republic,  from  Maine  to 
the  Gulf,  that  did  not  have  its  interpreter — 
its  peculiar  type  of  man — the  worst  often 
—rarely  the  best — sometimes  to  honor,  but 
too  frequently  to  shame,  the  ancestral  race 
and  name. 

When  the'  rush  was  at  its  full,  discontent 
found  expression,  and  the  founders  of  the 
concern  were  openly  denounced.  General 
Sterling  Price,  the  Gorgon  of  the  Rebellion, 
the  good,  kind  old  man,  was  traduced  with- 
out stint  or  reason.  So,  too,  ex-Governor 
Harris,  the  Tully  of  Tennessee,  strong  and 
unchanged  by  reverses,  with  a  voice  clear  as 
when  it  rang  out  on  the  field  of  Shiloh. 
Perkins  of  Louisiana,  the  proud,  cold  agent, 
without  sympathy  from  his  countrymen  or 
any  one  else,  he  was  anathematized  and  de- 


492 


The  American  Colony  at  Oarlotta. 


[Nov. 


famed  to  the  hour  of  his  suspension.  And 
they  stayed  not  their  enmity  till  the  whole 
colonization  scheme  was  abolished.  Then 
they  journeyed  homeward,  moneyless  and 
disappointed,  supremely  disgusted  with 
officials,  country,  and  themselves. 

On  the  heels  of  defection  and  prospective 
failure  came  trouble  with  the  natives.  In- 
discreet men  squatted  upon  private  lands, 
assuming  that  they  held  the  same  by  virtue 
of  imperial  decree;  then  bullied  and  blus- 
tered, and  put  on  the  role  of  superiority  of 
race,  compromised  their  neighbors,  and 
finally  effected  the  capture  of  themselves 
and  a  score  of  better  men,  the  destruction  of 
their  little  property,  a  four  weeks'  imprison- 
ment, and  a  two-hundred-mile  march  on 
tortilla  rations;  and  lastly,  the  issue  of  an 
order  requiring  them  to  quit  the  country,  as 
pernicious  foreigners,  forever.  To  this  raid 
succeeded  others  in  the  Carlotta  district; 
then  into  the  village  itself;  and  a  general 
flight  of  settlers  followed,  together  with  a 
substantial  and  visible  tremor  among  the 
war-worn  exiles. 

From  that  time  the  colony  grew  weak, 
and  the  faith  of  men  in  its  permanency  van- 
ished. The  natives  were  hostile,  the  French 
unfriendly,  and  the  Americans  were  hope- 
lessly demoralized.  The  Imperial  Railway 
Company  became  bankrupt,  and  sent  con- 
tractors and  employees  hither  and  thither, 
without  pay,  or  even  the  promise  of  it.  The 
tide  of  immigration  then  swept  backward  by 
sheer  force  of  circumstances.  Panic-stricken, 
the  settlers  sold  out,  sacrificed  their  sections 
of  land,  crops  of  corn  and  coffee,  their  cabins, 
horses,  and  hoes,  and  downward  toward 
Vera  Cruz,  on  foot,  on  horseback,  on  carts 
and  pack-mules,  they  journeyed.  It  was  a 
choice  between  starvation  and  the  ills  at 
home,  and  they  chose  the  latter. 

When  it  was  too  late,  land-owners  grew 
generous,  and  made  voluntary  offers  of  lots 
and  tracts  of  land  in  the  village  and  colony 
gratis  to  those  remaining.  The  selfish  and 
speculative  spirit  took  fright  when  the  stam- 
pede began;  then  business  flagged,  and 
crimination  followed;  and  men  litigated  in 
the  courts,  grew  spiteful  and  turbulent;  ridi- 


culed the  Mexican  religion,  manners,  and 
government,  and  made  rude  and  violent  at- 
tacks upon  the  country,  the  people,  and  the 
laws.  The  worst  element,  then,  seemed  to 
be  uppermost.  Prices  went  down  in  a  week ; 
rents  and  credits  went  the  self-same  way; 
and  adventurers  who  came  without  a  dollar, 
and  speculated  upon  their  fellows — deeply 
involved — stole  away  like  the  Arab,  in  the 
night,  crossed  the  water,  and  spread  without 
stint  or  truth  stories  of  robbery,  native 
treachery,  and  starvation. 

Scores,  who  in  their  zeal  had  sworn 
never  to  set  foot  upon  American  shores, 
slowly  and  sullenly  wheeled  into  the  line  of 
retreating  colonists,  disposed  of  their  plan- 
tations and  personal  effects  for  a  song,  and 
scarcely  waited  until  safely  aboard  an  out- 
ward-bound steamer  before  they  began 
swinging  their  hats  and  handkerchiefs  for 
the  stars  and  stripes,  and  thanking  Provi- 
dence and  the  fates  that  Mexico  was  out  of 
sight  forever.  The  United  States,  with  free 
press,  free  schools,  and  substantial  protec- 
tion, was  not  the  worst  place  in  the  world, 
after  all,  although  caucuses  and  turbulent 
men,  fired  by  past  wrongs  and  prospective 
usurpations,  did  expend  bits  of  incorrigible 
logic  to  belittle  the  great  Anglo-Saxon  re- 
public. The  backward  step  was  taken  with 
uncommon  alacrity.  What  was  done  by  the 
adventurers  and  wayward  colonists — and 
there  were  too  many  such — in  order  to  make 
a  consistent  retreat  without  too  great  a  sacri- 
fice of  money,  may  as  well  be  relegated  to 
oblivion  ;  for  that  is  not  now  the  province  of 
the  writer,  nor  would  the  recital  do  credit  to 
the  descendants  of  the  pilgrims  and  cava- 
liers of  our  country. 

The  noisiest  and  most  pronounced  enthu- 
siasts were  the  first  to  succumb.  Even  the 
genial  ex-judge  from  Louisiana  struck  his 
colors,  and  pushed  off  from  Vera  Cruz,  leav- 
ing the  friends  he  was  instrumental  in  bring- 
ing thither  to  rough  the  trials  and  prevalent 
anarchy  alone.  It  is  not  proper  to  class 
Sterling  Price  with  those  who  induced  emi- 
gration by  deceptive  statements.  His  ad- 
vice was  always  guarded,  and  his  words  were 
often  misquoted  in  this  connection.  It  is 


1883.] 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


493 


true  that  many  who  went  there  because  he 
was  there  were  compelled  to  solicit  charity 
to  enable  them  to  return;  but  the  facts  do 
not  bear  out  the  often-repeated  charge  that 
he  induced  men  to  exile  themselves.  He 
was  one  of  the  first  to  set  foot  on  Mexican 
soil,  and  one  of  the  first  to  leave  it.  The 
great-hearted  old  warrior  sleeps  now  in  the 
cemetery  at  St.  Louis;  let  us  say  no  more. 
Harris,  less  hasty  than  his  compeers,  waited 
till  the  last  footfall  of  retreating  colonists  at 
Carlotta  was  heard  dying  away ;  then,  with- 
out word  or  hope  for  the  scattered  few  re- 
maining in  the  canton,  took  ship  for  Havana. 
Tennessee  has  since  honored  him  and  her- 
self by  sending  him  to  the  United  States 
Senate.  Shelby,  faithful  to  his  promises, 
waited  to  see  the  last  one  of  his  followers  on 
the  homeward  way ;  then  lingering  behind, 
as  if  protecting  the  retreat  of  the  penniless 
veterans  and  their  families,  said  a  pleasant 
farewell  to  the  owners  and  workers  of  the 
sugar  and  coffee  fields  of  the  Aztecs.  Of 
all  the  colonists,  General  Shelby  stood  first 
in  the  esteem  of  Mexican  soldiers  and  civil- 
ians. Hindman,  with  the  will  to  do,  having 
too  much  fear  of  poverty  for  those  in  his 
charge,  most  gracefully  lowered  his  colors, 
went  back  to  the  State  he  loved  so  well,  and 
was  swept  from  earth  by  the  assassin's  bullet. 
A  more  gallant  spirit  than  Hindman  never 
trod  the  land  of  Washington.  Magruder 
went  when  the  stampede  began.  Tucker 
and  Early  did  likewise;  and  Maury  had 
preceded  them.  Reynolds  lingered  till 
Juarez  was  established  in  the  presidential 
chair.  Oldham  went  early,  and  died  in 
Texas.  Governor  Allen  of  Louisiana — the 
lamented  Allen — died  at  Mexico  City.  Gen- 
eral Stevens  rests  in  the  American  cemetery 
in  Vera  Cruz. 

Poverty  was,  in  most  cases,  more  potent 
than  principle;  and  indeed,  many  an  honest 
man  who  came  with  a  fixed  purpose  to  stay 
was  at  last  whipped  by  prospective  starva- 
tion to  take  the  backward  step.  This  class 
of  exiles  hung  their  harps  upon  the  Mexican 
willows,  with  as  heavy  hearts  as  the  Moors 
when  quitting  forever  the  valleys  and  cities 
of  Andalusia.  Robbers  of  the  jungles  had 


put  an  end  to  agriculture  to  a  large  extent. 
Railway  work  had  suspended.  What  else 
was  there  in  Mexico  to  put  money  into  the 
pockets  or  bread  into  the  mouths  of  de- 
pendent ones? 

My  reader  may  have  heard,  perhaps,  if 
his  memory  runs  back  to  that  epoch,  of 
moneyless,  ragged,  and  unshaven  men  foot- 
ing it  all  the  way  from  Vera  Cruz  along  the 
coast  to  Texas,  and  of  hollow-eyed  want  on 
the  streets  of  Cordova  and  Carlotta,  and  of 
families  carried  to  the  Campo  Santo  for  lack 
of  bread.  Some  of  these  pictures  were  a 
trifle  overdrawn,  but  none  of  them  were  all 
fancy.  Money  was  thrown  away  at  monte 
and  for  amusement  that  ought  to  have  been 
husbanded  for  the  dark  days  that  loomed  in 
the  near  future.  Speculations  in  lands, 
hotels,  and  merchandise  swallowed  the  cap- 
ital in  hand;  so,  when  circumstances  cpm- 
pelled  a  retreat  to  the  States,  nothing  was 
left  to  pay  the  passage.  And,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  nine-tenths  of  the  colonists  were  bank- 
rupt when  they  arrived  in  Mexico.  Re- 
pentance came  when  there  was  no  remission. 
Hundreds  there  were  to  be  helped,  and  none 
to  help  them.  Families  left  the  colony 
for  Vera  Cruz  without  a  dollar  for  passage 
across  the  water;  and  it  is  a  marvel  to-day 
how  many  of  them  were  enabled  to  get  to 
the  fatherland.  Marshal  Bazaine  furnished 
transportation  to  some,  foreign  merchants 
gave  means,  and  many  waited  in  that  sea- 
port till  the  vomito  struck  them  down.  The 
graves  of  Americans  are  almost  legion  in  the 
cemetery  of  that  fated  city. 

Men  went  to  Mexico  as  enthusiasts  and 
without  calculation.  The  drift  grew  to  a 
"boom,"  and  when  the  face  was  once  turned 
that  way,  nothing  but  personal  inspection 
would  satisfy.  Every  vocation  was  repre- 
sented in  that  hegira.  Lawyers,  of  course,  were 
briefless  and  feeless.  Doctors  barely  man- 
aged to  live.  Clergymen  went  too,  full  of 
the  divine  afflatus,  strong  in  the  faith  of 
universal  conversion  of  natives  to  Protes- 
tantism. One  read  sermons  a  while  under 
the  mangos  of  Carlotta,  then  left  his  little 
flock  and  turned  his  steps  Mammonward  to 
gather  funds  in  the  States  to  build  a  temple 


494 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


[Nov. 


in  the  forests  of  Mexico.  He  braved  yel- 
low fever  at  Vera  Cruz,  suffered  perils  by 
land  and  sea,  and,  it  is  understood,  made 
the  necessary  appeals  for  aid  in  the  churches 
— but  he  never  returned  to  his  flock  at  Car- 
lotta. A  brave  missionary  with  his  family 
and  piano  reached  the  promised  land,  and 
as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  broad  green  Cor- 
dova valley  from  the  crest  of  the  Chiquite 
Mountains,  he  covenanted  that  every  hill 
should  be  crowned  with  a  Protestant  chapel, 
and  that  thousands  of  deluded  Aztecs  should 
be  turned  into  the  narrow  way.  Arrived  at 
Cordova,  he  wasted  his  eloquence  upon 
audiences  of  half  a  dozen  for  two — nay, 
three — successive  Sabbaths,  and  then  went 
to  teaming  for  a  subsistence.  He  fell  early 
in  the  campaign  he  had  planned — ambitious 
no  longer  to  free  millions  from  the  thralldom 
of  darkness.  Mule-driving  was  as  fruitless 
as  the  missionary  effort,  and  in  three  months, 
with  a  pensive  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  de- 
pleted purse,  he  took  passage  for  the  land  of 
psalm-singing,  Sunday-schools,  and  civiliza- 
tion. A  missionary  project  to  the  moon  was 
just  as  rational  as  one  to  Mexico  then. 
Nearly  three  hundred  years  were  consumed 
in  turning  the  natives  from  their  idols.  Is 
it  presumable  that  they  would  apostatize  in 
three  months — even  if  the  fiery  eloquence 
of  an  American  divine  did  "  have  them  in 
the  wind"? 

The  truth  is,  Americans  themselves  left 
their  piety  on  this  side  of  the  Gulf  and 
tabooed  sermons  and  homilies.  When  their 
dead  were  lowered  into  the  grave,  it  was 
done  in  silence  and  haste,  and  without  re- 
ligious service.  Indeed,  the  amenities  of 
life  were  scarcely  recognized.  The  sick  in 
many  cases  were  neglected  by  countrymen 
and  natives,  and  when  the  season  of  fever 
came  on,  and  strong  men  dropped  to  the 
death-sleep  in  a  day,  the  saddest  sights 
known  to  the  sympathetic  eye  could  be 
seen.  Scores  of  strong  men  were  on  the 
streets,  but  none  at  the  death-bed:  crowds 
in  the  bar-rooms  and  at  billiards,  but  none 
at  the  burial.  I  must  not  omit  to  say  that 
there  were  exceptions  to  the  general  rule. 
Great  and  generous  souls  were  scattered 


here  and  there  amid  the  many  unthinking, 
heartless  sojourners. 

Having  no  employment,  and  there  being- 
no  avenues  open,  even  to  the  industrious,  to 
acquire  a  subsistence,  the  idlers  wrangled  in- 
stead. They  fought  over  their  battles  and 
sometimes  fought  each  other.  When  op- 
portunity offered,  they  sued  each  other,  and 
bullied  and  insulted  citizens  on  occasions 
of  special  recklessness.  The  greatest  scamps 
in  the  canton  of  Cordova  in  those  days  were 
imported  Anglo-Saxons,  and  men  from  the 
continent  of  Europe.  One  man,  more  un- 
scrupulous than  many  others,  fleeced  his  neigh- 
bor and  benefactor,  then  ran  away  and  left 
him  to  the  cold  charities  of  a  Mexican 
prison.  He  actually  contrived  to  have  his 
benefactor  and  friend  put  into  prison  for  a 
crime  of  his  own,  then  staid  not  his  feet 
till  he  was  safely  on  this  side  of  the  Gulf; 
and  as  a  corollary  to  this  exploit,  he  entered 
a  newspaper  office  in  New  Orleans  upon  his 
arrival,  and  published  a  most  bitter  tirade 
against  Mexico.  A  prominent  American  of 
known  integrity  was  ambushed  on  the  road 
and  robbed  of  his  money,  and  not  by  na- 
tives. What  a  marvel  it  is  that  ten  guerrilla 
chiefs,  instead  of  one,  did  not  pounce  upon 
them — good,  bad,  and  indifferent — and  es- 
cort them,  not  to  Caxaca,  as  some  of  them 
were  escorted,  but  to  the  Rio  Grande,  with 
the  injunction  never  to  return !  But  Mexi- 
cans were  reaping  a  harvest — a  harvest  of 
dollars — and  like  discreet  people  they  con- 
trolled their  tempers,  though  they  had  abun- 
dant grounds  for  complaint.  Rarely,  indeed, 
does  a  Mexican  tradesman  resent  an  insult  if 
he  discerns  substantial  profit  as  a  reward 
for  his  silence. 

The  exploits  of  individuals  during  the 
pendency  of  this  singular  invasion,  if  writ- 
ten, would  stagger  the  most  versatile  story- 
teller of  the  age.  The  ludicrous  and 
humorous  did  much  to  redeem  the  grave 
monotony  that  existed  in  many  circles  of  the 
colony..  As  already  intimated,  all  shades  and 
types  of  men  participated  in  the  fiasco.  The 
native  New  Yorker  was  present  in  spirit  and 
person,  and  he,  with  a  representative  Far 
West  man  and  a  Texas  planter,  formed  a 


1883.] 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


495 


syndicate  for  the  perpetration  of  crookedness 
that    had   few  parallels  in   that  day.     The- 
New  England  sharper  and  Southern  black- 
leg  struck  hands  and   were   brothers,  and 
plied  their  vocations  wherever  an  opening 
presented.      This    irrepressible    spirit    was 
manifest  everywhere;  it  was  distinguishable, 
no  matter  how  shrouded;  and   it  bore   its 
mark,  whether  in  land  or  horse  barter,  in 
money-lending,    in    merchandising,     or    in 
prestamoing.      The    representative   sharper 
did   not  hail   from  any  particular  latitude, 
and  seemed  to  be  possessor  of  traits  peculiar 
to  many  sections.     He  was  a  versatile  gen- 
ius, and  made  his  entrance  into  the  colony 
with  the  glamour  of  piety  about  him.     Such 
a  thing  as  conscience — except  in  a  narrow 
circle — was   mythical   in   all   senses.     And 
honesty,  among  the  many,  was  as  unpopular 
as  preachers  and  itinerant  colporteurs.     Nor 
was  the  mountebank  excluded.     They  had 
quack  doctors,  quack  preachers,  and  quack 
lawyers  there.     They  had  men  with  titles — 
generals,  colonels,  and  captains — who  had 
never  dug  a  ditch,  erected  a  fortification,  or 
heard  the  whistle  of  a  bullet.     There  were 
attorneys  who  mistook  their  calling,  traders 
that   would  have  added  luster  to  a  chain- 
gang,  judges  that  would  have  disgraced  the 
lowest  police  court   in    the  United   States. 
There  were  pretentious  planters,  who    did 
more  anathematizing,  wrote  more  defamatory 
letters,  and  made  a  more  villainous  record 
than    the   most    unrighteous    renegade    of 
Maine  or  Texas.     And  the  most  uncompro- 
mising denouncer  of  the  "flower  flag"  coun- 
try was  accounted  the  greatest  scamp,  and 
was  one  of  the  first  to  pray  for  protection 
from  the  United  States  government.     Doc- 
tors advertised  their  marvelous  abilities  in 
the   healing   art,  when,  indeed,  they   were 
unfit   to   bleed  a  horse;  and  colonels  and 
captains    recounted   charges  and  battles  to 
listening  audiences,  when  the  bravest  of  their 
acts  had  been  to  storm  a  hen-roost,  burn  a 
house,  rifle  a  bank,  or  oppress  defenseless 
people.     Indeed,  human  weakness  and  frail- 
ty left  a  right  royal  record  there. 

While  the  comic  was  not  wanting,  there 
were  seasons  of  gloom  and  sadness.     A  vast 


deal  of  uncertainty  existed  as  to  the  action 
of  the  French  government  in  respect  to  the 
Mexican  empire.  It  was  well  understood 
that  Maximilian  could  not  maintain  himself 
in  case  the  French  troops  withdrew.  And 
not  a  day  passed  but  that  rumors  were  ex- 
tant of  the  evacuation  of  Mexico  by  the 
expeditionary  army.  No  wonder  that  col- 
onists grew  uneasy,  and  substantial  men 
looked  grave  sometimes.  And  hence,  if  the 
sad  old  men  indulged  in  a  game  of  poker 
betimes,  or  toyed  with  aguardiente  or  a  doc- 
tored cocktail,  was  it  anybody's  business? 
Or  if  the  Sacarte  box  was  empty,  and  the 
breakfast  in  shadowy  perspective,  who  ought 
to  quarrel,  if  a  rosy-faced  middy  or  an  aged 
jurist  trusted  to  the  uncertainty  of  cards  for 
a  morning's  entertainment  for  man  and 
beast?  What  boots  it  to  the  outside  world 
if  American  gallant  made  suit  to  wealthy, 
dark-eyed  sefiorita,  or  flirted  in  orange  groves 
by  moonlight,  or  played  the  courtier  in  the 
garb  of  friend,  or  launched  into  speculations 
that  would  not  bear  the  light  of  investiga- 
tion, or  played  away  some  one  else's  money 
at  some  purlieu  of  the  central  plaza?  It  was 
simply  a  diversion,  in  Mexico,  to  borrow  and 
never  pay;  to  adopt  the  polite  art  of  the 
half-breeds  in  the  vocation  of  road-agents; 
or  to  appropriate  the  portables  of  strangers. 
These  scions  of  pious  parents,  these  gray- 
bearded  Lotharios,  these  conscienceless  way- 
farers, were  purely  creatures  of  circumstances. 
In  the  spirit  of  being  in  Rome  they  outdid 
Rome  itself. 

In  truth,  a  more  curious  mixture  of  man- 
kind was  perhaps  never  seen  at  any  one 
time  anywhere.  Every  type  of  gringo  shared 
in  the  fullness  of  the  singular  accretion. 
The  "Simon  Suggs"  of  Alabama;  the  sun- 
burnt "Sucker"  of  the  prairie  States;  the 
proud  nabob  of  the  Carolinas;  the  roaring 
Methodist  and  ranting  "hard-shdl"  of  the 
border  States;  the  soap-maker  of  Louisiana, 
and  the  picayune  slave-driver  of  Texas;  the 
Atlantic  coast  nobody,  and  gulf  shore  "  dead 
locks" — were  all  there;  and  even  the  blue- 
grass  regions  of  Kentucky,  the  Red  River 
bayous.  Richmond  "on  the  James,"  and  the 
swamps  of  Florida,  poured  out  their  surplus 


496 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


[Nov. 


of  rovers  and  sharpers  and  diggers  and 
drinkers  and  idlers;  and  the  mass  there  fer- 
mented, and  soured  in  anger,  and  fattened 
in  gayety — a  curiously  constructed,  curious- 
ly habited,  curiously  motived  multitude. 

The  tribunals  of  justice,  if  a  history  there- 
of were  compiled,  would  present  a  picture 
of  boldness,  bluntness,  and  audacity,  such 
as  is  penciled  only  in  pictures  of  Western 
squatter  life  a  half-century  ago.  The  quar- 
rels and  recriminations  and  flings  of  noisy 
and  profane  eloquence  before  the  Mexican 
courts  have  but  few  parallels  in  any  land. 
Pistols  and  knives  were  flourished  with  as 
much  freedom  in  the  courtroom  as  they 
were  in  times  past  on  our  Western  borders. 
It  was  difficult  many  times  to  tell  who  was 
the  judge,  and  whether  he  was  not  placed 
there  more  to  be  bullied  and  insulted  than 
to  dispense  law.  And  yet,  this  was  but  in 
keeping  with  the  general  character  of  the 
offenses  tried  ;  with  the  use  of  arms  in  the 
frequent  melees;  the  insulting  language  used 
to  citizens  and  to  each  other;  the  riotous 
scenes  that  night  after  night  kept  the  town 
in  a  turmoil,  and  for  a  while  made  a  minia- 
ture Sodom  of  the  aged  and  staid  city  of 
Cordova.  There  were  street-fights  in  pro- 
fusion, and  duels  often  on  the  tapis,  though 
challenger  and  challenged  were  seldom  "in 
at  the  death."  The  best  friend  of  the  colo- 
nists was  repeatedly  insulted;  and  it  is  a 
marvel  what  forbearance  the  select  few  of 
the  better  class  of  Mexicans  exhibited  to- 
ward these  erring  "carpet-baggers."  It  is 
not  necessary  to  say  that  bombast  was  abun- 
dant. Heroes  of  a  hundred  battles  were 
plenty  as  blackberries.  Men  upon  whose 
shoulders  in  the  war  epoch  rested  the  whole 
Southern  Confederacy  stepped  proudly  upon 
Aztec  soil,  elaborated  theories,  engineered 
in  the  combres,  and  at  intervals  con- 
demned Jefferson  Davis,  his  cabinet,  and 
the  conduct  of  the  war.  Political  Solomons, 
martial  Strongbows,  honest  quartermasters, 
peaceful  Calvinists,  at  one  time  lay  down 
like  the  lion  and  the  lamb  together  in  the 
broad  evening  shadows  of  the  imperial-chris- 
tened city. 

This  was,  it  must  be  remembered,  in  the 


morning  of  the  colony's  life.  There  was  no 
similar  exhibition  of  harmony  at  any  subse- 
quent date. 

To-day,  not  a  footfall  is  heard  in  Carlotta, 
while  seventeen  years  ago  the  place  was 
swarming  with  fortune-hunters.  The  writer 
saw  it  two  years  after  the  site  was  selected. 
He  saw  only  tenantless  cabins,  deserted  gar- 
dens, fields  of  unharvested  sugar-cane,  plows 
and  machetes  where  they  fell,  tall  sprouts 
of  chaparral  running  riot  in  the  streets  and 
prospective  lawns.  And  it  must  be  with  a 
sort  of  savage  pleasure  that  the  poor  footsore 
Confederate,  who  could  not  get  an  inch  of 
land  for  love  or  money,  read  how  the  iron 
features  of  that  most  finished  official  of  the 
Cordova  circumlocution  office  settled  down 
into  a  gray  paleness  when  he  learned  that 
his  land  speculation  was  a  bubble,  and  that 
his  invested  doubloons  had  been  sunk  into 
the  bottomless  deep  of  an  imperial  coloniza- 
tion humbug. 

Reynolds  nor  Slaughter  nor  Edwards  nor 
Stevens  nor  Hindman  nor  Allen  ever  be- 
came enamored  of  the  project,  while  Shelby 
saw  in  it  at  least  a  home  or  temporary 
place  of  sojourn  for  those  he  had  led  into 
the  Aztec  country.  Price,  Harris,  and  oth- 
ers, at  the  inception  of  the  scheme,  sincerely 
determined  to  make  Carlotta  their  future 
home.  They  were  all  gallant,  noble,  and 
true  men,  and  no  one  dare  breathe  a  word 
of  substantial  complaint  against  the  motives 
of  these  pioneers.  But  very  soon  these 
men  were  confronted  with  obstacles  which 
made  it  impossible  at  that  time  to  guarantee 
a  permanency  of  the  settlement.  On  the 
heels  of  continual  losses  and  raids  came 
the  announcement  that  Bazaine,  the  French 
marshal,  was  about  to  evacuate  the  country. 
With  the  waning  of  the  star  of  empire  came 
calamities  to  the  colonists.  And  when  the 
expeditionary  corps  began  the  Gulfward 
movement,  thousands  interested  in  the  em- 
pire and  fearing  the  leaders  of  the  liberal 
party  drifted  out  with  it.  For  months  the 
great  thoroughfare  to  the  sea  was  thronged 
with  the  hurrying  tramp  of  men  and  ani- 
mals. It  almost  amounted  to  a  flight  in  the 
latter  end  of  the  hegira.  After  the  evacu- 


1883.] 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


497 


ation,  colonization  became  a  thing  of  the 
past.  It  collapsed  as  completely  as  an  over- 
crowded balloon.  The  "Mexican  Times," 
the  ablest  exponent  of  imperialism,  passed 
into  shadow,  because  its  brilliant  editor  saw 
the  inevitable  in  the  distance.  The  emper- 
or himself,  refusing  the  advice  of  the  French 
marshal  to  abandon  his  waning  empire, 
called  his  supporters  to  a  conference  at 
Orizaba,  and  then  demanded  of  them  a  de- 
cision touching  the  struggle  for  supremacy 
in  Mexico.  It  was  then  decided  that  he 
ought  to  stand  or  fall  with  the  empire.  He, 
the  gallant  but  ill-advised  Hapsburg,  returned 
to  the  capital,  and  subsequently  marched  to 
Queretaro,  where  he  was  betrayed  into  the 
hands  of  Escobedo,  and  shot.  The  men 
most  prominent  in  the  conference,  and  most 
eager  and  clamorous  for  his  continuance  in 
Mexico,  went  out  with  the  tide  of  fleeing 
natives  and  foreigners.  It  was  a  cowardly 
abandonment — indefensible  in  any  possible 
respect.  Colonists,  having  accepted  lands 
from  the  empire,  were  regarded  as  adherents 
or  sympathizers.  Not  a  solitary  colonist 
claimed  a  foot  of  land  in  the  valley  at  the 
period  of  the  bloody  and  unwarranted  trag- 
edy on  the  hill  of  Cainpana.  Every  man 
withdrew  and  was  content,  if  he  saved  only 
his  life.  Chaos  was  everywhere,  anarchy 
bearing  a  free  lance  wherever  spoils  existed 
or  rapine  and  murder  was  profitable. 

Mexicans  had  no  special  regard  for  Ameri- 
cans. They  looked  upon  our  people  as 
grasping,  covetous,  and  ambitious.  More- 
over, they  have  never  forgiven  the  affair  of 
1847.  The  perforations  made  by  Scott's  can- 
non in  the  tall  edifices  at  Vera  Cruz  are  still 
visible,  and  the  recollections  of  Taylor's  cam- 
paign on  the  Rio  Grande  are  still  vivid  in  the 
memory  of  natives.  It  has  been  intimated 
that  native  submission  in  Mexico,  notably  in 
Cordova,  was  due  to  real  and  prospective 
profit.  And  it  is  a  fact  worthy  of  record  in 
these  annals,  that  within  a  period  of  eight 
months  American  colonists,  in  the  valley  of 
Cordova  alone,  spent  and  lost  sums  amount- 
ing in  the  aggregate  to  one  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  This  sum  was  appropriated 
and  pocketed  by  the  natives.  Not  less  curi- 
Voi,.  II. — 32. 


ous  is  the  fact  that,  after  the  exit  of  the  col- 
onists, the  sales  of  native  merchants  in  that 
city  fell  from  one  hundred  dollars  per  day 
to  thirty  dollars ;  that  business  dropped  back 
into  the  old  ruts,  and  things  generally  into 
the  condition  from  which  they  had  been  so 
rudely  wrenched.  Whether  the  morals  of 
the  people  were  disturbed  by  the  advent  of 
this  Northern  swarm ;  whether  the  profits  out- 
weighed the  outrage  of  feeling;  whether  the 
harvest  of  dollars  was  a  recompense  for 
the  introduction  of  radically  progressive 
ideas  and  habits — the  loosest  that  Southern 
hot-houses  ever  generated — are  questions 
not  within  the  province  of  the  writer  to  can- 
vass. Certain  it  is,  that  the  standard  of  Aztec 
morals  and  justice  is  not,  in  the  opinion  of 
most  foreigners,  an  exalted  one.  Still,  with 
the  looseness  of  morals  and  defiance  of  law, 
with  the  masses  then  leading  a  life  of  rob- 
bery and  murder,  there  are  many,  and  were 
at  that  epoch  many,  good  men,  both  pure 
Indian  and  Spanish  descendants,  in  the  re- 
public. The  native  impression  of  American 
character,  after  one  year's  experience  in  the 
valley  of  Cordova,  is  largely  tainted  with 
dissipation,  rudeness,  indolence,  and  dis- 
honesty. So  in  native  circles,  when  the 
stampede  began,  there  were  no  tears  for 
their  going — only  rejoicing  and  gladness. 

If  a  hundred  American  colonies  were 
founded  on  Mexican  soil,  this  one  would 
stand  alone,  totally  dissimilar  in  every  respect 
from  the  ninety-nine  others.  In  any  event, 
the  colony  would  have  been  a  failure.  The 
founders  and  projectors  were  not  such  men 
as  are  required  to  pioneer  a  settlement  in  a 
country  like  Mexico.  The  location,  consid- 
ering the  circumstances  under  which  the 
grant  of  land  was  made,  was  a  mistaken  one. 
The  land  was  claimed  by  individuals,  and 
the  question  of  title  undecided  in  the  courts. 
The  land  was  confiscated  by  the  government 
previous  to  Maximilian's  advent.  It  was 
claimed  by  the  church,  and  was  occupied 
by  squatters  who  could  not  be  evicted  under 
the  law  without  recompense  for  improve- 
ments. Then  there  was  prejudice  to  sur- 
mount, hatred  of  long  standing  to  overcome, 
and  native  apathy  to  neutralize.  If  a  Mexi- 


498 


The  American  Colony  at  Carlotta. 


[Nov. 


can  hated  one  foreigner  more  than  another, 
that  one  was  American.  So,  in  every  busi- 
ness and  vocation,  obstacles  were  thrown  in 
the  way,  and  this  was  the  fact  in  every  sol- 
itary instance.  The  history  of  this  colony 
is  the  history  of  all  at  that  date.  Every  at- 
tempt of  the  kind  failed:  for  native  antag- 
onism was  busy,  in  season  and  out  of  season, 
— dead-locking  all  progress  and  enterprise. 
Failing  legitimately  to  discourage  foreigners, 
robbery  was  resorted  to  in  this  case,  and 
that  species  of  tactics,  so  congenial  to  native 
tastes  and  teachings,  at  that  time  made  up 
the  main  staple  of  persecution.  It  was  ef- 
fective: it  always  is.  In  this  way  strangers 
were  notified  to  quit.  This  is  the  experience 
of  every  foreigner  who  resided  long  enough 
in  the  country  to  test  the  feeling.  There 
are  exceptional  individual  cases;  but  as  to 
colonies,  there  are  none.  The  government 
was  more  liberal  than  the  people.  The 
decrees,  too,  sent  abroad  to  induce  immigra- 
tion were  so  much  chaff — a  subterfuge  only. 
The  democracy  and  liberality  of  the  people 
up  to  that  period  were  unmistakably  decep- 
tive. The  whole  scheme,  up  to  within  a  few 
years  past,  was  a  bubble  in  the  garb  of  pre- 
tentious liberality.  Until  quite  recently  it 
was  not  known  whether  that  government 
owned  a  million  acres  or  a  foot  of  land; 
and  the  public  domain  unencumbered  and 
undisputed  is  exceedingly  mythical.  The 
legality  of  confiscation  is  yet  in  cloud,  and 
the  validity  of  titles  to  such  lands  are  re- 
garded as  extremely  precarious.  As  to  pro- 
tection of  property  and  life,  there  was  then 
no  guaranty,  and  it  was  a  wise  omission.  It 
would  have  been  useless  for  the  government 
to  make  promises  which  it  was  unable  to 
carry  out.  In  fact,  the  authority  of  the 
government  did  not  extend  beyond  the 
cities.  In  the  rural  districts  it  was  power- 
less. Hence,  to  make  a  success  of  coloni- 
zation enterprise,  private  lands  must  be 
purchased,  and  the  colony,  in  number  and 
equipments,  must  be  strong  enough  to  defy 
robber  bands — ay,  even  the  state  govern- 
ment, if  need  be.  No  canton  or  village  was 
exempt  from  pillage.  Prestamos  might  be 
levied  any  day  by  chiefs  arrayed  against  the 


national  authority,  or  fighting  under  the  flag 
of  the  republic  itself.  Mexican  law  was  si- 
lent away  from  cities,  nor  was  there  a  demand 
for  produce,  except  a  local  one.  Such  an 
event  as  the  sale  of  five  hundred  bushels  of 
maize  in  one  lot  was  a  nine  days'  wonder. 
The  later  dawn  had  not  come  to  Mexico 
then.  Imperialism  was  not  the  cause  of 
failure  in  this  project,  nor  was  liberalism: 
for  neither  party  was  espoused  oy  the  new- 
comers. If  the  seeds  of  disintegration  had 
not  been  scattered  broadcast  by  the  colo- 
nists themselves,  a  half-score  of  other  devices 
were  ripe  to  finish  the  concern. 

While  the  lower  and  baser  class  raided  upon 
"  pernicious  foreigners,"  the  better  class  stood 
aloof  and  were  silent.  Nor  was  there  any 
redress  in  the  courts.  Never,  indeed,  was  a 
people  so  completely  "let  alone"  as  the  Cor- 
dova colonists  by  the  better  class  of  natives 
in  that  canton.  The  Aztecs  would-  sell  to 
them,  but  not  buy.  Profitable  sales  were 
driven  with  the  exiles,  but  no  communion  per- 
mitted. Natives  warred  upon  them  secretly, 
set  their  faces  against  them,  set  the  straight- 
haired  lazaroni  upon  them  ;  and  failing  in 
that  method,  cited  them  to  the  courts, 
where  the  object  was  always  accomplished. 
Justice  is  slow  in  Mexican  courts;  in  all 
cases  too  slow,  when  colonists  were  parties 
to  a  suit.  Moreover,  when  a  Mexican  judge 
had  to  choose  between  a  native  and  a  for- 
eigner, the  chances  were  ten  to  one  against 
the  latter.  Delays  were  purchased — delays 
founded  upon  the  most  trivial  causes;  and 
these  continued  until  the  case  was  aban- 
doned as  hopeless.  In  this  connection,  the 
writer  makes  an  exception  of  the  turbulent 
men  who  quite  often  deserved  chastisement. 
And,  in  all  candor,  the-  bully  was  more  fav- 
ored in  the  lower  courts  than  the  respectable 
and  peaceable  citizen.  A  revolver  or  knife 
was  on  many  occasions  more  potent  before 
the  alcalde  than  argument  or  testimony. 
A  Mexican  policeman  never  attempted  the 
arrest  of  a  drunken  American,  although  it 
was  his  duty  to  do  so.  There  was  a-  real 
dread  of  bullets  in  these  cases,  and  that  fact 
saved  many  a  scoundrel  from  the  jail  and 
from  the  chain-gang.  The  court  winked  at 


1883.] 


Balm  in  November. 


499 


the  peccadillos  of  the  armed  brawler,  and 
put  the  owner  of  a  hacienda  in  the  stocks 
because  he  permitted  a  band  of  guerrillas  to 
steal  corn  from  him.  The  isolation  from 
native  hospitality  and  society  was  complete 
in  that  valley.  Grim  and  cold  faces  met 
the  exiles  on  every  side.  Each  advance 
made  was  met  by  a  corresponding  ici- 
ness. 


Not  soon  will  this  singular  invasion  escape 
the  memory  of  the  native  populace.  And 
years  hence,  like  an  old  tradition,  it  will  be 
remembered  and  recited  in  the  dark  bamboo 
hut,  how  men  came  from  the  north,  and 
overran  and  filled  up  the  valleys  and  towns, 
and  then  as  suddenly  swept  backward,  leav- 
ing their  money,  their  houses,  their  titles, 
and  their  spoils  behind  them. 

Enrique  Farmer. 


BALM   IN   NOVEMBER:    A  THANKSGIVING   STORY. 


"THE  melancholy 'days  are  come, 
The  saddest  of  the  year." 

But  then,  Mr.  Bryant  had  never  been  in 
California  in  November.  Little  Miss  Poole 
(every  one  prefixes  the  adjective)  used  to 
agree  with  Mr.  Bryant  when  she  lived  in 
New  England:  but  as  she  stoops  to  pick 
some  flowers  from  her  friend's  garden — roses, 
pinks,  and  pansies — she  thinks  differently. 

How  sweet  and  fresh  everything  is! 
What  a  beautiful  emerald  the  grassy  lawn! 
What  a  lovely  blue  the  far-off  sky  flecked 
with  fleecy  clouds! — clouds  suggestive  of 
rain  in  our  climate.  Miss  Poole  opens  the 
gate  and  steps  into  the  street.  How  clean 
the  sidewalks  are!  how  spring-like  the 
atmosphere !  Her  step  is  brisk  as  she  trips 
along.  There  is  a  bloom  on  her  cheeks,  a 
sparkle  in  her  eyes;  but  then,  there  is  a 
bloom  and  sparkle  everywhere  with  our  first 
showers.  They  have  not  become  monoto- 
nous yet.  There  is  no  mud  to  mar  the 
clothes  or  the  temper ;.  no  slippery  pave- 
ments, slushy  crossings,  or  unwieldy  um- 
brellas to  interfere  with  the  progress  of  the 
pedestrian.  Enough  of  such  ills  two  months 
hence ! 

Miss  Poole  heard  snatches  of  song  through 
open  windows  where  housewives  are  busy 
with  brooms  and  dusters.  It  is  a  pleasure 
to  work  when  there  is  no  dust,  when  every- 
thing without  glistens  spotlessly  in  the  morn- 
ing sunshine.  Even  the  stray  fowls  show 
their  appreciation  as  they  file  with  exultant 
strut  after  their  leader  in  search  of  tender 


verdure  peeping  up  between  cracks  in  the 
planked  sidewalks  or  fringing  the  cobbles  in 
the  streets.  Everything  seems  to  rejoice  on 
this  balmy  November  day,  and  all  the  more 
because  the  memory  of  the  last  "hot  spell" 
of  only  a  few  weeks  before  still  lingers  in 
languid  contrast.  Then,  humanity  was  swel- 
tered into  debility  under  a  relentless,  hazy 
sky.  King  Sol  asserted  his  sovereignty 
with  an  uncompromising  front,  and  all 
nature  wilted  in  acknowledgment  of  it.  . 

But  we  have  nearly  lost  sight  of  little 
Miss  Poole,  or  we  would  have,  if  she  had 
not  stopped  to  say  a  few  kind  words,  and 
leave  the  greater  part  of  her  flowers  with  a 
poor  invalid  she  sees  sitting  in  the  doorway 
of  an  humble  home.  Then  she  climbs  a  hill 
and  turns  into  a  court  which  is  lined  with 
neat  cottages.  She  stops  before  one  whose 
porch  is  embowered  in  nasturtiums  and 
madeira  vines ;  but  before  she  enters,  her 
eyes  wander  over  the  beautiful  bay,  which  is 
just  now  breaking  into  glad  little  ripples  in 
the  sunlight.  Crafts  of  all  descriptions,  from 
the  small  sail-boat  to  the  large  merchant 
vessel  or  the  grim  man-of-war,  here  find  a 
safe  anchorage.  It  is  a  view  Miss  Poole 
never  tires  of.  She  enters  -the  house  where 
a  young  girl  is  practicing  on  the  piano. 
The  music  ceases  as  she  smiles  her  wel- 
come. 

"What!  back  so  soon,  aunty?" 

"Yes,  dear.  Mrs.  Swift  didn't  need  me 
to-day,  and  I  am  going  to-morrow  instead." 

By  this  time  Miss  Poole  has  removed  her 


500 


Balm  in  November. 


[Nov. 


hat  and  displays  an  abundance  of  soft  gray 
hair — that  beautiful  kind  which  is  tinged 
with  gold,  and  makes  one  long  to  give  it  a 
caressing  touch  with  reverent  finger-tips. 
She  has  a  calm,  sweet  face,  and  deep  violet 
eyes  which  rest  upon  the  girl  with  an  ex- 
pression of  fond  delight. 

"You  are  pleased  about  something. 
Have  you  heard  good  news,  Aunt  Annie?" 

The  inquirer  is  only  fourteen,  but  she  is 
fully  a  head  taller  than  Miss  Poole.  She 
has  the  grand  stature  and  flower-like  beauty 
common  to  so  many  California  girls.  Her 
face  is  one  that  was  made  for  smiles,  yet  it 
wears  a  subdued  expression  which  tells, 
plainer  than  words,  of  recent  sorrow.  There 
is  scarcely  need  of  the  somber  dress  she 
wears,  or  the  black  ribbon  that  ties  her 
bright  hair,  to  tell  the  sad  story.  It  is  but 
three  months  since  she  lost  her  mother. 

Miss  Poole  is  somewhat  startled  at  the 
question;  but  with  a  woman's  readiness  she 
hands  her  the  flowers  and  asks  her  to  put 
them  into  water.  Then  she  answers  the 
question  by  asking  another. 

"How  do  you  like  the  idea  of  Mrs. 
Swift's  dining  with  us  on  Thanksgiving, 
Dora?" 

"Mrs.  Swift!" 

If  Miss  Poole  had  said  Queen  Victoria, 
the  young  girl  could  not  have  displayed 
a  greater  variety  of  emotions.  Astonish- 
ment, delight,  admiration,  reverence,  were 
all  expressed  in  that  simple  exclamation. 
That  Mrs.  Swift,  who  was  accustomed  to  sit 
in  her  elegant  dining-room,  before  a  table 
laden  with  silver,  fine  crystal,  and  painted 
china,  should  take  her  Thanksgiving  dinner 
with  them !  Was  she  really  awake  ? 

While  she  is  thus  wondering,  and  Miss 
Poole  is  fondly  regarding  her,  we  will  return 
to  Mrs.  Swift,  in  whose  garden  we  met  Miss 
Poole  not  long  before.  She  is  a  stately 
woman,  and  wears  her  mourning  robes  like 
a  queen,  yet  a  sorrowful  one,  for  the  tears 
are  wet  on  her  cheeks.  Her  surroundings 
are  beautiful,  but  they  bring  no  joy  to  her 
heart.  How  can  they,  when  her  choicest 
treasures  lie  buried  in  the  distant  ceme- 
tery? Two  mounds  have  been  added  to 


the  family  plot  during  the  past  year — her 
dear  husband  and  her  last  idolized  child. 
Yet  Thanksgiving  is  at  hand,  and  how  can 
she  return  thanks? 

"Annie,"  she  had  said  to  Miss  Poole,  "I 
am  beset  with  invitations,  which  I  have  re- 
fused until  I  am  weary.  Save  me  from  my 
friends  by  asking  me  to  dine  with  you. 
Then  don't  expect  me,  for  you  know  where 
I  shall  be." 

Miss  Poole  had  answered: 

"If  I  invite  you,  Laura,  you  must  come. 
It  will  do  no  good  to  spend  your  day  at  the 
cemetery.  Dear,  why  can't  you  look  up 
and  believe  that  your  loved  ones  are 
'absent  from  the  body,  present  with  the 
Lord,'  and  that  all  is  well  with  them?" 

"Simply  because  I  cannot,"  sighed  the 
unhappy  woman.  "It  is  so  easy  to  tell  peo- 
ple to  have  faith,  Annie;  but  it  is  the  hard- 
est thing  in  life  to  exercise  it  when  we  are 
put  to  the  test." 

"Yet  there  are  those  that  can  say, 
'Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  him,'" 
was  the  gentle  answer. 

There  was  a  great  love  between  these  two 
women,  so  differently  circumstanced — the 
one  a  wealthy  lady,  the  other  an  humble 
seamstress.  They  had  known  each  other 
from  childhood,  and  Mrs.  Swift  remembered 
Annie  Poole  as  the  cherished  daughter  of 
fond  parents.  Later,  as  a  very  lovely  girl, 
she  had  been  an  acknowledged  belle,  and 
many  hearts  had  been  laid  at  her  feet. 
Then  had  come  a  great  sorrow. 

Ah,  well !  It  was  not  the  first  time  that 
falsehood  had  done  its  work,  and  an  unworn 
wedding-dress  was  laid  away  withashuddering 
sigh.  Twenty-five  years  had  passed  since  then 
— years  in  which  Mrs.  Swift  had  been  shel- 
tered as  a  happy  wife.  Fortune  had  smiled 
upon  her,  and  beautiful  children  had  glad- 
dened her  home.  To-day,  like  Rachel,  she 
was  weeping  for  them:  and  worse,  she  was 
widowed.  Yet  this  sad-eyed  mourner  would 
not  if  she  could  have  changed  places  with 
her  friend,  who  had  never  known  a  husband's 
devotion  or  the  joys  of  motherhood. 

That  soft  response  smote  her  heart.  She 
tried  to  look  cheerful  as  she  said : 


1883.] 


Balm  in  November. 


501 


"Well,  Annie,  you  may  expect  me,  if  you 
will  make  no  trouble  on  my  account." 

Miss  Poole  was  ecstatic.  Trouble?  It 
would  be  a  pleasure,  and  she  could  give 
Mrs.  Swift  something  which  she  could  not 
return,  and  that  was  a  fine  view  of  the  bay. 
Indeed,  it  would  be  unusually  attractive  on 
account  of  the  regatta,  and  there  would  be 
such  a  display  of  sail-boats  and  other  crafts, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  ferry-boats  plying  back 
and  forth,  which  was  always  a  cheerful  sight. 
She  would  also  remember  to  keep  Jerry  out 
of  the  way,  as  Mrs.  Swift  liked  him  at  a  dis- 
tance. (The  lady  smiled  faintly  at  this  allu- 
sion to  her  friend's  canine  protector.)  Yes, 
and  how  pleased  Dora  would  be,  dear  child. 
She  would  sing  and  play,  and  they  would 
have  the  coziest  time ! 

The  smile  was  succeeded  by  a  sigh. 
Dora !  For  three  months  that  name  had  been 
ringing  in  Mrs.  Swift's  ears.  Night  and  day, 
sleeping  or  waking,  the  image  of  this  moth- 
erless girl  had  been  haunting  her.  Should 
she  open  the  door  of  that  dainty  vacant 
room,  and  bid  this  stranger  come  in? 
Would  she  open  her  arms  and  say,  "  I  will 
be  your  mother?"  But  there  was  a  pause 
in  the  cheery  talk,  and  almost  before  she 
knew  it,  Mrs.  Swift  had  asked : 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that 
child,  Annie?"' 

"  I  will  keep  her  until  I  can  find  her  a 
home,  Laura.  Poor  girl !  I  wish  that  I  were 
able  to  give  her  the  privileges  she  deserves. 
If  she  could  only  get  a  good  musical  educa- 
tion to  fit  her  for  teaching,  as  her  mother 
did !  But " — sighing — "she  is  far  too  pretty 
to  remain  with  me.  I  have  to  leave  her  alone 
too  much,  and  although  there  never  was  a 
better  child,  she  is  a  continual  anxiety  to  me." 

Mrs.  Swift  could  understand  this. 

"And  among  all  the  people  you  meet,  are 
there  none  that  would  like  to  take  her?" 

Miss  Poole  blushed. 

"I  have  spoken  to  no  one  but  you,  dear. 
Laura,  do  you  know  that  her  name  signifies 
a  gift  from  the  Lord?" 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  Mrs.  Swift 
struggled  with  the  selfishness  of  her  grief. 
Then  she  said : 


"I  will  bring  her  home  with  me  on 
Thanksgiving.  Come  to-morrow,  Annie, 
and  help  to  arrange  Pearl's  room  for  her." 
Then  shiveringly :  "Everything  must  be 
different,  or  I  could  not  stand  it." 

And  that  was  the  reason  Miss  Poole  had 
appeared  so  happy  that  Dora  had  questioned 
her. 

Mrs.  Swift  had  rushed  sobbingly  to  her 
daughter's  room  as  soon  as  she  was  alone. 
She  opened  the  closet-door,  and  caressed  the 
articles  of  apparel  hanging  there.  She  kissed 
the  little  mementos  about  the  walls.  Her 
tears  dropped  on  the  white-draped  bed. 
Then  she  leaned  against  the  window,  and 
sorrowfully  impressed  everything  upon  her 
memory.  To-morrow  others  would  enter, 
and  the  work  of  change  would  begin.  It 
would  no  longer  be  PearPs  room. 

But  Mrs.  Swift's  grief  took  a  different 
shape  from  that  hour.  Peace  entered  her 
heart.  Her  husband's  picture  seemed  to 
smile  approvingly  upon  her.  That  night,  in 
her  dreams,  her  children's  kisses  fell  on  her 
face,  and  sweeter  than  all,  the  words  of 
divine  commendation  seemed  addressed  to 
her:  "Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto 
the  least  of  these,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

Jerry  was  one  of  Miss  Poole's  proteges, 
and,  like  the  rest  of  her  pets,  had  his  pecul- 
iarites.  He  had  been  a  black-and-tan  in  his 
day,  but  years  and  a  series  of  canine  dis- 
orders had  stripped  him  of  his  satiny  coat, 
and  left  him  bare  and  decidedly  uncanny- 
looking.  So  he  had  been  turned  out  upon 
the  cold  charities  of  the  world,  and  a  pitying 
hand  had  taken  him  in. 

Mrs.  Swift  had  been  wont,  in  her  happier 
days,  to  style  her  friend's  cottage,  "The  In- 
firmary," for  every  outcast  in  the  animal 
kingdom  seemed  to  find  its  way  there. 
Many  a  pretty  kitten  or  promising  puppy, 
that  the  little  seamstress  had  "brought  up 
by  hand,"  had  found  a  welcome  home;  but 
no  one  wanted  Jerry,  and  cats  were  entirely 
too  common  for  one-eyed  Topsy  to  be  dis- 
posed of.  A  stray  canary  had  been  cap- 
tured, and  also  remained  a  fixture  because 
it  was  asthmatical;  and  all  Miss  Poole's 


502 


Balm  in  November. 


[Nov. 


knowledge  of  bird-food  and  tonics  proved  of 
no  avail;  Dick's  hoarse  little  croak  only 
grew  the  hoarser,  and  his  seed-cup  needed 
constant  replenishing,  for  he  was  a  woful 
glutton.  A  crippled  pigeon  was  the  last  pa- 
tient admitted,  and  as  he  was  recovering 
from  his  injuries,  one  of  Miss  Poole's  boy 
friends  was  waiting  for  Snowflake  as  an  ac- 
cession to  his  dove-cote. 

It  was  her  sympathy  for  dumb  creatures 
that  had  led  the  kind-hearted  woman  from 
her  room  in  a  boarding-house,  with  its 
necessary  restrictions,  to  the  freedom  of  a 
cottage.  Dora's  mother,  who  was  a  fellow- 
lodger,  and  disliked  the  life  on  account  of 
her  child,  had  joined  hands  with  Miss  Poole 
in  her  undertaking,  and  they  had  lived  hap- 
pily together  until  death  came  and  left  Dora 
an  orphan. 

It  may  be  wondered  why  Miss  Poole,  at 
the  age  of  forty-five,  should  not  have  attained 
a  modest  competence  and  been  able  to  look 
forward  to  a  care-free  old  age.  I  can  only 
explain  that  her  life  had  been  spent  in  con- 
tinual ministries.  She  could  not  be  char- 
itable and  lay  up  money.  Wherever  she 
met  need,  she  did  what  she  could  toward 
allaying  it.  Dear  little  woman !  She  was  a 
living  exemplification  of  the  lines : 

"  The  trivial  round,  the  common  task, 
Should  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask — 
Room  to  deny  ourselves — a  road 
To  bring  us  daily  nearer  God." 

And  sometime,  when  she  receives  her  crown, 
she  will  be  surprised  to  find  it  gemmed  with 
stars. 

Miss  Poole,  bright  and  cheery  as  she  is, 
had  come  very  near  having  a  skeleton  in  her 
closet.  That  white  silk  dress  had  been  the 
drop  of  bitterness  in  her  cup,  until  one  day, 
years  before,  she  resolutely  kept  nerves  and 
tear-glands  in  subjection  while  she  van- 
quished the  foe  which  would  have  soured 
her  temper  and  blighted  her  life.  To  roman- 
tic minds,  she  employed  very  commonplace 
— yes,  even  contemptible — means  in  doing 
this.  She  had  her  dress  dyed;  and  it  was  the 
most  precious  thing  in  her  possession.  She 
only  wore  it  on  special  occasions,  and  but 
one  friend  knew  of  the  blighted  hopes  that 


were  hidden  in  its  brown  folds.  Miss  Poole 
had  said  to  her  : 

"And  when  I  die,  Laura,  you  will  see 
that—" 

There  was  no  need  of  finishing  the  sen- 
tence. Mrs.  Swift  knew  what  she  meant, 
and  she  thought  of  her  brother,  and  won- 
dered if  he  would  ever  know  what  a  price- 
less treasure  he  had  lost  when — ablaze  with 
indignant  jealousy — he  had  married  another 
woman  for  spite.  Dear,  hot-headed  Will ! 
He  was  fifty,  and  a  grandfather  now,  and 
Mrs.  Swift  and  her  friend  had  laughed  to 
think  of  him  in  that  role.  Two  years  be- 
fore, the  news  had  come  of  his  wife's  death. 
Mrs.  Swift  had  eyed  Miss  Poole  narrowly 
as  she  told  her  of  it;  but  the  violet  eyes  had 
grown  humid  as  Miss  Poole  said  : 

"Poor  Will!  I  am  glad  he  has  his 
daughters  and  his  grandchildren  to  comfort 
him." 

Thanksgiving  Day  dawned  clear  and  beau- 
tiful. Miss  Poole  and  Dora  were  up  bright 
and  early,  for  there  was  much  to  be  done 
before  they  could  start  for  church,  and  the 
church-going  was  as  important  an  item  as 
the  dinner,  in  Miss  Poole's  estimation. 

"Such  a  privilege!"  chirped  the  little 
woman  as  she  dropped  the  plum-pudding 
into  a  skillet  for  a  nine  hours'  steady  boil. 
"How  much  nicer  this  is  than  being  cooped 
up  in  a  room  in  a  lodging-house,  with  only 
a  restaurant  meal  to  look  forward  to,  and 
with  plenty  of  time  to  get  blue  in  !" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Dora,  with  an 
eloquent  glance  as  she  shelled  the  peas. 

There  had  been  much  debate  as  to  what 
vegetables  should  accompany  the  turkey  in 
its  brown  and  basted  state  on  the  dinner- 
table,  for  the  Italian  vender  had  his  cart  so 
heavily  laden  with  garden  produce  that  Miss 
Poole  would  fain  have  sampled  everything 
he  had.  The  size  of  her  range  and  her 
limited  store  of  cooking  utensils  restricted 
her  to  a  few  that  her  friend  liked;  so  cauli- 
flowers, sweet-potatoes,  green  peas,  and  cel- 
ery were  at  last  decided  upon,  which,  with 
cranberry  sauce,  would  make  by  no  means  a 
poor  repast. 


1883.] 


Balm  in  November. 


503 


"There  will  be  no  French  dishes,"  Miss 
Poole  said;  "but  Laura  will  have  a  dinner 
such  as  her  mother  might  have  cooked 
when  we  were  girls.  Give  me  old-fashioned 
Yankee  cooking  every  time,  my  dear." 

And  Dora  smiled  and  nodded  in  response, 
as  only  a  charming  girl  with  a  good  appetite 
could  under  the  circumstances. 

Everything  was  standing  in  neat  readiness 
on  the  table,  shelf,  and  sink,  and  Miss 
Poole  was  taking  a  satisfactory  survey  before 
preparing  for  church,  when  the  door-bell 
rung,  and  Dora  returned  with  a  basket  and  a 
note. 

As  the  elder  woman  read  the  missive,  a 
shadow  passed  over  her  face. 

"Mrs.  Swift  says  that  an  old  gentleman 
friend  dropped  in  unexpectedly  last  night, 
and  as  she  has  made  no  preparations  and 
has  given  the  servants  the  day,  she  feels 
obliged  to  bring  her  visitor  here.  I'm  sorry, 
for  I  counted  upon  having  a  cozy  time  to 
ourselves."  Then  smiling  cheerfully  :  "But 
never  mind,  he  will  be  welcome.  Open  the 
basket,  Dora." 

A  delighted  exclamation  arose  as  the 
raised  cover  disclosed  beautiful  flowers  and 
grapes.  It  was  an  opportune  gift,  for  there 
was  a  dewiness  about  Dora's  eyelashes  that 
showed  that  she  was  thinking  of  the  mother 
who  had  been  here  last  Thanksgiving.  She 
was  soon  employed  in  arranging  the  clusters 
of  Muscat,  Tokay,  and  Rose  of  Peru  in  a 
glass  dish,  and  asking  Miss  Poole  to  admire 
with  her  the  contrasting  bunches  of  amber 
and  red  and  purple.  The  flowers,  too,  were 
a  delight,  soothing  the  troubled  young  heart 
with  their  voiceless  eloquence. 

Miss  Poole  gave  the  girl  a  look  of  yearning 
affection.  No  one  knew  of  the  warfare  that  was 
going  on  in  her  bosom.  How  she  loved  this 
dear  child !  Yet  to-day  she  was  going  from  her 
to  cheer  a  bereaved  home,  and  how  desolate 
she  would  be  !  Yes,  Pearl's  room  was  wait- 
ing for  Dora.  For  days  preparations  had 
been  going  on,  and  every  night  Miss  Poole 
had  come  home  beaming  with  smiles.  She 
lost  sight  of  herself  in  rejoicing  with  her 
friend,  who  had  emerged  out  of  her  morbid 
condition,  and-  was  displaying  a  cheerful  in- 


terest in.  the  preparations  for  her  adopted 
child.  Then  there  was  a  surprise  in  store 
for  Dora,  and  a  joyful  one  she  knew  it  would 
be.  Miss  Poole  rejoiced  to  think  of  the 
young  girl's  future  prospects.  She  had  told 
her  that  Mrs.  Swift  was  preparing  for  a  young 
friend,  and  Thanksgiving  evening  when  they 
accompanied  the  lady  home  they  could  see 
the  bower  of  beauty  which  was  waiting  for  the 
coming  guest.  Dora  had  been  in  a  state  of 
delighted  anticipation  ever  since.  Thanks- 
giving Day  had  come,  and  it  required  all 
Miss  Poole's  exertions  to  fight  against  the 
desolation  that  was  striving  to  gain  an  en- 
trance into  her  brave  little  heart. 

The  church-going  brought  some  comfort. 
On  the  way  home  she  could  recall  numberless 
blessings  for  which  she  should  be  thankful; 
and  as  she  removed  her  wraps,  she  said 
softly : 

"  I  will  show  Laura  and  the  dear  child 
that  I  am  thankful  with  them  by  wearing 
my  silk  dress  to-night." 

Any  one  looking  into  the  kitchen  that 
afternoon  would  have  seen  the  personifica- 
tion of  contentment  in  the  little  housekeep- 
er bustling  about  there.  There  was  a 
sputter  and  fizzle  about  the  pots  and  pans 
agreeably  suggestive  of  the  near  approach 
of  dinner-time,  which  Dick,  interpreting  as " 
possible  rivalry  to  his  vocal  powers,  tried  to 
vanquish  by  tuning  up  his  hoarse  little 
pipes  into  a  harsh  melody.  Then  the  odors 
from  the  stewpan  and  oven  had  their  effect 
upon  Topsy  and  Jerry;  Topsy  with  a  world 
of  pleading  in  her  one  eye  accompanied  Dick's 
voice  with  the  most  pathetic  of  me-ows ;  while 
Jerry  jumped  and  frisked  and  was  equally 
expressive  in  his  own  way,  until  he  was  sur- 
prised by  being  shut  up  in  the  shed,  as  the 
sight  of  his  coatless  back  would  not  exactly 
act  as  an  appetizer  upon  the  guests. 

Dora  had  set  and  reset  the  table  at  least 
a  dozen  times,  and  Miss  Poole  was  looking 
anxiously  at  the  clock,  for  everything  was 
dished  for  the  dinner,  when  Mrs.  Swift 
and  her  friend  arrived.  Miss  Poole  could 
not  understand  why  Laura  betrayed  so 
much  emotion  when  she  introduced  Mr. 
Potter,  for  her  voice  was  choked,  and  she 


504 


Balm  in  November. 


[Nov. 


immediately  left  the  room  in  a  very  uncere- 
monious manner. 

He  was  a  rheumatic  old  man,  very  lame, 
very  deaf,  and  very  much  wrapped  up.  He 
had  a  thick  shock  of  gray  hair,  and  his  face 
was  twisted  into  a  hundred  wrinkles.  He 
would  not  remove  his  overcoat,  or  a  silk 
handkerchief  which  was  tied  round  his  neck 
close  to  his  face.  "Rheumatism ! "  was  his 
laconic  explanation.  Miss  Poole  was  all 
anxious  sympathy.  She  saw  that  he  avoided 
draughts.  She  provided  him  with  her  easi- 
est chair.  She  was  too  solicitous  to  notice 
that  Mrs.  Swift  was  too  full  of  laughter  to 
speak.  She  raised  her  voice  until  at  last 
her  friend  ventured  to  remonstrate: 

"  Don't  bother  about  him,  Annie.  He  is 
a  crusty  old  fellow  and  as  deaf  as  a  post." 

"Hush!"  whispered  the  kind-hearted 
hostess;  "lam  afraid  he  will  hear  you." 
Then  she  begged  him  to  take  some  celery, 
as  she  believed  it  was  good  for  rheumatism, 
and  heaped  his  plate  with  good  things,  and 
raised  her  voice  all  the  louder,  just  to  re- 
ceive jerky  monosyllabic  responses  for  her 
pains. 

The  dinner  passed  off  very  well,  on  the 
whole.  Laura  was  cheerful  and  profuse  in 
her  praises.  "It  reminds  me  of  home,"  she 
said,  somewhat  sadly,  but  before  the  tears 
had  time  to  gather — and  they  were  wonder- 
fully near  all  their  eyes  just  then — Mr. 
Potter  took  such  a  mammoth  pinch  of  snuff 
that  they  all  sneezed,  and  what  was  more 
natural  than  that  they  should  laugh  after 
that?  Mrs.  Swift,  especially,  indulged  in 
such  a  burst  of  merriment  that  a  discerning 
person  could  have  seen  that  there  was  some- 
thing more  than  that  pinch  of  snuff  to  ex- 
cite it.  Indeed,  Dora's  brown  eyes  were 
fixed  steadily  on  the  visitor,  and  she  longed 
to  ask  Mrs.  Swift  in  a  whisper  if  he  wasn't 
"putting  on  a  little  bit." 

The  meal  over,  they  withdrew  to  the 
parlor,  where  Dora  played  and  sung;  and  as 
the  old  man  drew  himself  up  to  the  piano, 
Mrs.  Swift  beckoned  to  her  friend  and  said : 

"  Lend  me  an  apron  and  I  will  help  you 
to  clear  up,  Annie ;  for  Mr.  Potter  will  fall 
asleep  soon.  He  always  does  after  dinner." 


It  was  not  long  before  Dora  made  her. 
appearance. 

"  Mr.  Potter  has  gone  out  on  the  porch, 
and  he  wants  a  match  to  light  his  cigar." 

With  their  combined  efforts  the  clearing 
up  was  soon  effected.  Miss  Poole  donned 
her  brown  silk  dress;  but  when  they  were 
ready  to  return  to  Mrs.  Swift's,  Mr.  Potter 
was  snoring  on  the  porch,  and  the  little 
woman  would  not  have  him  disturbed. 

Mrs.  Swift  gave  her  friend  a  meaning  look. 

"  If  you  won't  mind,  I  will  go  on  with 
Dora,"  she  said,  "and  you  can  follow  with 
Mr.  Potter." 

"Very  well,"  was  the  cheery  answer. 
"For  I  must  feed  poor  Jerry  before  I  start." 

Mrs.  Swift  stooped  and  whispered  some- 
thing in  Miss  Poole's  ear.  "Be  kind  to 
him"  was  what  she  said,  and  Miss  Poole,  not 
seeing  any  special  significance  in  the  words, 
smiled  and  nodded  her  assent.  But  all  the 
cheeriness  fled  as  Mrs.  Swift  and  Dora  de- 
parted. She  threw  herself  into  a  chair  with 
streaming  eyes;  but  a  movement  on  the  porch 
caused  her  to  dry  her  tears  speedily,  and 
jump  to  her  feet  to  find  that  her  visitor  was 
snoring  louder  than  ever. 

"Poor  old  man!"  she  murmured,  gently 
placing  a  warm  shawl  over  his  knees.  Then 
she  went  into  the  yard  with  a  dish  of  scraps 
and  released  Jerry  from  his  confinement. 
What  a  happy  dog  he  was !  How  he  jumped 
and  frisked  and  danced  about  her!  She 
smiled  through  her  tears.  Here  was  some- 
thing that  loved  her.  Yes,  he  had  even  for- 
gotten his  hunger  in  his  joy  at  seeing  her. 

She  was  gently  patting  his  head  when  a 
soft  voice  reached  her  ears : 

"God  bless  the  little  woman!" 

She  looked  up  hastily.  Surely  she  was 
mistaken.  That  voice  belonged  to  the  past 
— the  dear,  dead  past.  But  Jerry  pricked  up 
his  ears,  and  barked  lustily.  He  had  no  hairs 
to  bristle,  but  he  made  up  for  their  loss  by 
a  succession  of  quick,  aggressive  bounds 
toward  the  house. 

Miss  Poole  followed  the  dog.  It  was  just 
as  well  if  he  had  awakened  her  guest,  for  the 
air  was  chilly.  She  walked  round  to  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  that  voice  was  still 


1883.]                                         A  Mountain  Grave.  505 

ringing  in  her  ears.     Was  it  possible  that  with  silver,  his  kindly  face,  his  tender  blue 

the  benediction  had  floated  to  her  ears  from  eyes  fixed  lovingly  upon  her. 

afar?     She  had  heard  of  such  things  before.  "Annie,"  he  said,  "don't  you  know  me? 

And  then  her  friend's  whispered  words  came  Don't  you  remember  Will  Graham,  your  old 

clearly,  sharply  to  her   remembrance,   "Be  playmate  and  friend — your  own   Will   that 

kind  to  him."     Did  Laura  mean —      But  has  never  ceased  to  love  you?" 

she   had   reached   the   porch.     Her  visitor  "OWill!"  she  cried, 
was  not  there,  but  his  cane  was:  so  was  the 

silk  handkerchief  and — Miss  Poole  could  Mrs.  Swift  and  Dora  were  sitting  side  by 
hardly  believe  her  eyes — but  there  too  was  side  and  hand  in  hand  when  the  two 
the  shock  of  gray  hair.  entered.  Miss  Poole  was  clinging  to  her 
Wonderingly,  yet  in  tremulous  anticipa-  companion's  arm.  There  was  something  in 
tion,  she  entered  the  door,  and  as  she  did  her  mien  that  checked  the  impulsive  outbreak 
so,  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  tall  man  standing  with  which  Dora  was  about  to  greet  her. 
with  outstretched  hands  before  her.  She  Mrs.  Swift  came  forward  with  an  affection- 
took  him  all  in  at  one  glance.  His  serene,  ate  caress  : 

bald  forehead,  his  long  sandy  beard  streaked  "At  last,  sister!"  she  said  tenderly. 

Elsie 


A   MOUNTAIN   GRAVE. 

0,  WHITE  is  the  manzanita's  bell, 

On  the  side  of  the  grim  old  canon, 
And  gold,  through  the  tangled  chaparral, 

Gleams  the  poppy,  spring's  gay  companion ; 
But  no  thrill  of  life  stirs  the  miner's  sleep, 
As  he  lies  alone  on  Sierra's  steep. 

Ah!  never  shall  cool  Pacific's  breeze 

Lift  that  green-colored  curtain,  hiding 
His  last  low  camp  near  the  redwood  trees, 

His  eternal  place  of  abiding. 
Though  the  folds  may  rustle  and  seem  to  stir, 
The  sound  is  unheard  by  that  slumberer. 

O  wind,  in  your  wanderings  through  the  earth, 

Heard  you  never  a  woman's  crying — 
A  sob  in  the  dark  beside  her  hearth, 

As  she  prayed  for  the  one  now  lying 
Where  no  tear-drops  fall,  save  those  storm-clouds  shed, 
And  the  daisies  write  "Unknown"  o'er  the  dead? 

O  mournful  Sierras  of  the  West, 

In  the  folds  of  your  spring-sent  grasses, 
Where  pines,  from  the  high-peaked  mountain  crest, 

Send  their  shadows  far  down  the  passes, 
You  hoard  precious  wealth  that  is  not  of  ore, 
For  life's  buried  hopes  are  your  richest  store. 

Mary  E.  Bamford. 


506 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Nov. 


PHYSICAL   STUDIES   OF   LAKE   TAHOE.— I. 


HUNDREDS  of  Alpine  lakes  of  various 
sizes,  with  their  clear,  deep,  cold,  emerald, 
or  azure  waters,  are  embosomed  among  the 
crags  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains.  The 
most  extensive,  as  well  as  the  most  cele- 
brated, of  these  bodies  of  fresh  water  is  Lake 
Tahoe,  otherwise  called  Lake  Bigler. 

This  lake,  the  largest  and  most  remark- 
able of  the  mountain  lakes  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  occupies  an  elevated  valley  at  a 
point  where  this  mountain  system  divides 
into  two  ranges.  It  is,  as  it  were,  ingulfed 
between  two  lofty  and  nearly  parallel  ridges, 
one  lying  to  the  east  and  the  other  to  the 
west.  As  the  crest  of  the  principal  range  of 
the  Sierra  runs  near  the  western  margin  of 
this  lake,  this  valley  is  thrown  on  the  eastern 
slope  of  this  great  mountain  system. 

The  boundary  line  between  the  States  of 
California  and  Nevada  makes  an  angle  of 
about  131°  in  this  lake,  near  its  southern  ex- 
tremity, precisely  at  the  intersection  of  the 
39th  parallel  of  north  latitude  with  the  i2oth 
meridian  west  from  Greenwich.  Inasmuch 
as,  north  of  this  angle,  this  boundary  line 
follows  the  1 2oth  meridian,  which  traverses 
the  lake  longitudinally  from  two  to  four  miles 
from  its  eastern  shore-line,  it  follows  that 
more  than  two-thirds  of  its  area  falls  within 
the  jurisdiction  of  California,  the  remaining 
third  being  within  the  boundary  of  Nevada. 
It  is  only  within  a  comparatively  recent 
period  that  the  geographical  co-ordinates  of 
this  lake  have  been  accurately  determined. 

Its  greatest  dimension  deviates  but 
slightly  from  a  meridian  line.  Its  max- 
imum length  is  about  21.6  miles,  and  its 
greatest  width  is  about  12  miles.  In  con- 
sequence of  the  irregularity  of  its  outline,  it 
is  difficult  to  estimate  its  exact  area;  but  it 
cannot  deviate  much  from  192  to  195 
square  miles. 

The  railroad  surveys  indicate  that  the 
elevation  of  the  surface  of  its  waters  above 
the  level  of  the  ocean  is  about  6,247  feet. 

Its  drainage  basin,  including  in  this  its  own 


area,  is  estimated  to  be  about  five  hundred 
square  miles.  Probably  more  than  a  hun- 
dred affluents  of  various  capacities,  deriving 
their  waters  from  the  amphitheater  of  snow- 
clad  mountains  which  rise  on  all  sides  from 
3,000  to  4,000  feet  above  its  surface,  con- 
tribute their  quota  to  supply  this  lake.  The 
largest  of  these  affluents  is  the  Upper 
Truckee  River,  which  falls  into  its  southern 
extremity. 

The  only  outlet  to  the  lake  is  the 
Truckee  River,  which  carries  the  surplus 
waters  from  a  point  on  its  northwestern 
shore  out  through  a  magnificent  mountain 
gorge,  thence  northeast,  through  the  arid 
plains  of  Nevada,  into  Pyramid  Lake.  This 
river  in  its  tortuous  course  runs  a  distance 
of  over  one  hundred  miles,  and  for  about 
seventy  miles  (from  Truckee  to  Wadsworth) 
the  Central  Pacific  Railroad  follows  its  wind- 
ings. According  to  the  railroad  surveys,  this 
river  makes  the  following  descent : 


Distance. 

Fall. 

Fall  per  Mile 

Lake  Tahoe  to  Truckee  

14   M  les 
8 

401    Feet 

28.64  Feet. 

38  18       " 

§ 

12.87      " 

Vista  to  Clark's  

11.75      " 

Clark's  to  Wadswonh  
Wadsworth  to  Pyramid  Lake 

Iff) 

186      • 
i87{?)  '  1 

12.40      " 
10  39       " 

Lake  Tahoe  to  Pyramid  Lake 

l</2 

2357    " 

23  ii       '' 

1  The  elevation  of  Pyramid  Lake  above  the  sea-level 
has  never,  as  far  as  we  know,  been  accurately  deter- 
mined. Henry  Gannet,  in  his  "Lists  of  Elevations" 
(4th  ed.,  Washington,  1877,  p.  143),  gives  its  altitude 
above  the  sea  as  4,890  feet;  and  credits  this  number  to 
the  "  Pacific  Railroad  Reports."  But  as  this  exact 
number  appears  in  Fremont's  "  Report  of  Exploring  Ex- 
pedition to  Oregon  and  North  California  in  the  years 
1843-44"  (Doc.  No.  166,  p.  217),  it  is  probable  that 
this  first  rude  and  necessarily  imperfect  estimate  has 
been  copied  by  subsequent  authorities.  This  number 
is  evidently  more  than  800  feet  too  great;  for  the  rail- 
road station  at  Wadsworth  (about  eighteen  or  twenty 
miles  from  the  lake),  where  the  line  of  the  railroad 
leave  the  banks  of  the  Truckee  River,  is  only  4,077  feet 
above  the  sea-level.  So  that  these  numbers  would 
make  Pyramid  Lake  813  feet  above  the  level  of  its  afflu- 
ent at  Wadsworth  ;  which,  of  course,  is  impossible. 
Under  this  state  of  facts,  I  have  assumed  the  elevation  . 
of  this  lake  to  be  3, 890  feet. 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


507 


There  is  little  doubt  but  that  this  is  the 
lake  of  which  the  Indians  informed  John  C. 
Fremont,  on  the  1 5th  of  January,  1844,  when 
he  was  encamped  near  the  southern  extremity 
of  Pyramid  Lake,  at  the  mouth  of  Salmon- 
Trout,  or  Truckee,  River.  For  he  says, 
"They"  (the  Indians)  "made  on  the  ground 
a  drawing  of  the  river,  which  they  repre- 
sented as  issuing  from  another  lake  in  the 
mountains,  three  or  four  days  distant,  in  a 
direction  a  little  west  of  south;  beyond 
which  they  drew  a  mountain;  and  farther 
still  two  rivers,  on  one  of  which  they  told 
us  that  people  like  ourselves  traveled." 
(Vide  "Report  of  Exploring  Expedition  to 
Oregon  and  North  California  in  the  years 
1843-44."  Document  No.  166,  p.  219.) 
Afterwards  (February  14,  1844),  when 
crossing  the  Sierra  Nevada  near  Carson 
Pass,  Fremont  seems  to  have  caught  a 
glimpse  of  this  lake ;  but  deceived  by  the 
great  height  of  the  mountains  on  the  east, 
he  erroneously  laid  it  down  on  the  western 
slope  of  this  great  range,  at  the  head  of  the 
south  fork  of  the  American  River.  It  is 
evident,  therefore,  that  the  Indians  had  at 
that  time  a  more  accurate  idea  of  the 
mountain  topography  than  the  exploring 
party.  On  Fremont's  map  the  lake  is  laid 
down  tolerably  correctly  as  to  latitude,  but  is 
misplaced  towards  the  west  about  one-fourth 
of  a  degree  in  longitude;  thus  throwing  it  on 
the  western  slope  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  and 
making  the  head  branches  of  the  American 
River  its  outlets. 

Few  natural  features  of  our  country  have 
enjoyed  a  greater  diversity  of  appellations 
than  this-  remarkable  body  of  water.  On 
Fremont's  map  it  is  called  Mountain  Lake; 
but  on  the  general  map  of  the  explora- 
tions by  Charles  Preuss,  it  is  named  Lake 
Bonpland,  in  honor  of  Humboldt's  compan- 
ion. Under  one  of  these  names  it  appears, 
in  its  dislocated  position,  on  all  the  maps 
published  between  1844  and  1853.  About 
the  year  1850,  after  California  began  to  be 
settled  in  its  mountain  districts,  several 
"  Indian  expeditions"  were  organized  by  the 
military  authorities  of  the  State.  It  seems 
probable  that  this  lake  was  first  named  Big- 


ler  by  one  of  these  "Parties  of  Discovery" 
(probably  in  1851)  from  "Hangtown"  (now 
Placerville),  in  honor  of  Governor  John  Big- 
ler.  Under  the  name  t)f  Lake  Bigler  it  was 
first  delineated  in  its  trans-mountain  posi- 
tion on  the  official  map  of  the  State  of  Cali- 
fornia, compiled  by  Surveyor-General  Wil- 
liam M.  Eddy,  and  published  in  1853;  and 
thus  the  name  became,  for  a  time,  estab- 
lished. From  1851  to  1863,  this  name 
seems  to  have  been  generally  recognized ;  for 
it  is  so  designated  on  the  maps  and  charts  of 
the  United  States  prepared  at  Washington. 

About  the  year  1862,  the  first  mutterings 
of  discontent  in  relation  to  the  name  by 
which  this  lake  had  been  recently  character- 
ized came  from  the  citizens  of  California. 
On  two  occasions  it  has  been  brought  under 
the  notice  of  the  legislature  of  this  State. 
During  the  thirteenth  session  (1862)  of  the 
legislature  of  California,  Assemblyman  Ben- 
ton  introduced  a  bill  to  change  the  name 
of  "Lake  Bigler."  This  bill  was  rejected. 
The  friends  of  Governor  Bigler  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  ascribe  the  desire  to  change  the 
name  of  the  lake  to  the  inspiration  of  parti- 
san animosity,  intensified  among  the  political 
opponents  of  the  ex-governor  by  the  state 
of  feeling  engendered  during  the  progress  of 
the  Civil  War. 

During  the  session  of  the  legislature  of 
California  for  1869-70,  an  act  was  passed  to 
"legalize  the  name  of  Lake  Bigler."  (Vide 
"Statutes  of  California,"  1869-70,  p.  64.) 
Notwithstanding  this  statutory  enactment, 
for  the  past  ten  years  there  has  been  a  very 
strong  tendency  in  the  popular  mind  to  call 
this  lake  by  the  name  of  Tahoe.  On  the 
map  of  California  and  Nevada  published  in 
1874,  it  is  still  put  down  as  Lake  Bigler; 
but  on  the  map  of  the  same  two  States  pub- 
lished in  1876,  it  has  the  double  designation 
of  "Lake  Bigler  or  Tahoe  Lake."  At  the 
present  time  this  beautiful  body  of  water 
seems  to  have  entirely  lost  its  gubernatorial 
appellation ;  for  it  is  now  almost  universally 
called  Lake  Tahoe.  It  is  so  named  on  the 
"Centennial  Map  of  the  United  States," 
compiled  at  the  General  Land  Office  at 
Washington,  and  likewise  on  the  map  of 


508 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Nov. 


California  contained  in  the  ninth  edition  of 
the  "Encyclopaedia  Britannica,"  Article 
"California."  Moreover,  it  is  designated 
Lake  Tahoe  in  the  reports  and  maps  of  the 
Board  of  Commissioners  of  Irrigation,  pub- 
lished in  1874,  as  well  as  in  those  of  the 
"Water  Supply  of  San  Francisco,"  published 
in  1877.  The  cause  of  this  change  of  name 
can  hardly  be  sought  for  exclusively  in  the 
waning  popularity  of  the  worthy  ex-gov- 
ernor, but  rather  in  the  following  considera- 
tions: First,  in  the  strong  tendency  of  the 
American  people  to  retain  the  old  Indian 
names  whenever  they  can  be  ascertained; 
second,  in  the  instinctive  aversion  in  the 
popular  mind  to  the  perpetuation  of  the 
names  of  political  aspirants  by  attaching 
them  to  conspicuous  natural  features  of  our 
country;  and  third,  in  the  fact  that  the  State 
of  Nevada  designated  its  portion  of  said  lake 
by  the  Indian  name. 

The  meaning  of  the  name  Tahoe  is  by 
no  means  certain.  It  is  usually  said  to  be 
a  Washoe  Indian  word,  meaning,  according 
to  some,  "Big-Water,"  according  to  others, 
"Elevated- Water,"  others,  "Deep-Water," 
and  others,  "Fish-Lake."  Whatever  may  be 
the  meaning  of  this  name,  there  can  be  no 
question  but  that  the  Washoe  Indians  desig- 
nated this  remarkable  body  of  water  by  some 
characteristic  name,  long  before  the  earliest 
pioneers  of  civilization  penetrated  into  its 
secluded  mountain  recess. 

During  the  summer  of  1873,  the  writer 
embraced  the  opportunity  afforded  by  a  six 
weeks'  sojourn  on  the  shores  of  the  lake  to 
undertake  some  physical  studies  in  relation 
to  this  largest  of  the  "gems  of  the  Sierra." 
Furnished  with  a  good  sounding-line  and  a 
self-registering  thermometer,  he  was  enabled 
to  secure  some  interesting  and  trustworthy 
physical  results. 

(i.)  Depth. — It  is  well  known  that  con- 
siderable diversity  of  opinion  has  prevailed  in 
relation  to  the  actual  depth  of  Lake  Tahoe. 
Sensational  newsmongers  have  unhesitating- 
ly asserted  that,  in  some  portions,  it  is  ab- 
solutely fathomless.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  actual  soundings  served  to  dispel  or  to 
rectify  this  popular  impression.  The  sound- 


ings indicated  that  there  is  a  deep  subaque- 
ous channel  traversing  the  whole  lake  in  its 
greatest  dimension,  or  south  and  north.  Be- 
ginning at  the  southern  end,  near  the  Lake 
House,  and  advancing  along  the  long  axis 
of  the  lake  directly  north  towards  the  Hot 
Springs  at  the  northern  end — a  distance  of 
about  eighteen  miles — we  have  the  following 
depths  : 


Station. 

Depth  in 
Feet. 

Depth  in 
Meters. 

i 

2 

900 
1385 

274-32 
422.14 

3 

M9S 

455-6? 

4 

1500 

457-19 

5 

1506 

459  02 

6 

iS4° 

469-38 

7 

i5°4 

458.41 

8 

1600 

487.67 

9 

1640 

499.86 

10 

1645 

5°i  •  39 

These  figures  show  that  this  lake  exceeds 
in  depth  the  deepest  of  the  Swiss  lakes  (the 
Lake  of  Geneva),  which  has  a  maximum 
depth  of  334  meters.  On  the  Italian  side 
of  the  Alps,  however,  Lakes  Maggiore  and 
Como  are  said  to  have  depths  respectively 
of  796.43  and  586.73  meters.  These  two 
lakes  are  so  little  elevated  above  the  sea  that 
their  bottoms  are  depressed  587  and  374 
meters  below  the  level  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Systematic  soundings,  such  as  would  be 
required  to  furnish  contour  sections  of  the 
bed  of  the  lake  along  various  lines,  could 
not  be  executed  in  row-boat  excursions; 
while  the  time  of  the  small  steamers  which 
navigated  the  lake  could  not  be  controlled 
for  such  purely  scientific  purposes.  Oper- 
ations in  small  boats  could  be  carried  on 
only  during  calm  weather,  and  it  required 
from  thirty  to  forty  minutes  to  execute  a 
single  sounding  of  fifteen  hundred  feet. 

(2.)  Relation  of  Temperature  to  Depth. — 
By  means  of  a  self-registering  thermometer 
(Six's)  secured  to  the  sounding-line,  a  great 
number  of  observations  were  made  on  the 
temperature  of  the  water  of  the  lake  at 
various  depths  and  in  different  portions  of 
the  same.  These  experiments  were  executed 
between  the  nth  and  i8th  of  August,  1873. 
The  same  general  results  were  obtained  in 
all  parts  of  the  lake.  The  following  table 
contains  an  abstract  of  the  average  results> 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


509 


after  correcting  the  thermometric  indications 
by  comparison  with  a  standard  thermometer: 


Obs. 

Depth  in  Feet. 

Depth  in  Meters. 

Temp, 
in  F.° 

Temp, 
in  C.° 

i 

2 

o=  Surface. 
5° 

o=  Surface. 
15.24 

67 
63 

19.44 
17.22 

3 

IOO 

30.48 

55 

12.  78 

4 

15° 

45-72 

5° 

10.00 

5 

200                                       60.96 

48 

8.89 

6 

250 

76.20 

47 

8.33 

7 

300 

91.44 

46 

7.78 

8 

330  (Bottom) 

100.58 

45-5 

7-5° 

9 

400 

121  .92 

45 

7.22 

10 

480  (  Bottom) 

146.30 

44-5 

6.94 

ii 

500 

152.40 

44 

6.67 

12 

600                        182.88 

43 

6.  it 

'3 

772  (Bottom) 

23S  3° 

4i 

5.00 

M 

1506  (Bottom) 

459  02 

39-2 

4.00 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  foregoing  num- 
bers that  the  temperature  of  the  water-  de- 
creases with  increasing  depth  to  about  700 
or  800  feet  (213  or  244  meters),  and  below 
this  depth  it  remains  sensibly  the  same 
down  to  1,506  feet  (459  meters).  This 
constant  temperature  which  prevails  at  all 
depths  below  say  250  meters  is  about  4° 
Cent.  (39.2°  Fah.).  This  is  precisely  what 
might  have  been  expected;  for  it  is  a  well- 
established  physical  property  of  fresh  water, 
that  it  attains  its  maximum  density  at  the 
above-indicated  temperature.  In  other 
words,  a  mass  of  fresh  water  at  the  temper- 
ature of  4°  Cent,  has  a  greater  weight  under 
a  given  volume  (that  is,  a  cubic  unit  of  it  is 
heavier  at  this  temperature)  than  it  is  at 
any  temperature  either  higher  or  lower. 
Hence,  when  the  ice-cold  water  of  the  snow- 
fed  streams  of  spring  and  summer  reaches 
the  lake,  it  naturally  tends  to  sink  as  soon 
as  its  temperature  rises  to  4°  Cent;  and, 
conversely,  when  winter  sets  in,  as  soon  as 
the  summer-heated  surface  water  is  cooled 
to  4°,  it  tends  to  sink.  Any  further  rise  of 
temperature  of  the  surface  water  during  the 
warm  season,  or  fall  of  temperature  during 
the  cold  season,  alike  produces  expansion, 
and  thus  causes  it  to  float  on  the  heavier 
water  below ;  so  that  water  at  4*  Cent,  per- 
petually remains  at  the  bottom,  while  the 
varying  temperature  of  the  seasons  and  the 
penetration  of  the  solar  heat  only  influence 
a  surface  stratum  of  about  250  meters  in 
thickness.  It  is  evident  that  the  continual 
outflow  of  water  from  its  shallow  outlet  can- 
not disturb  the  mass  of  liquid  occupying  the 


deeper  portions  of  the  lake.  It  thus  results 
that  the  temperature  of  the  surface  stratum 
of  such  bodies  of  fresh  water  for  a  certain 
depth  fluctuates  with  the  cliVnate  and  with 
the  seasons ;  but  at  the  bottom  of  deep  lakes 
it  undergoes  little  or  no  change  throughout 
the  year,  and  approaches  to  that  which  cor- 
responds to  the  maximum  density  of  fresh 
water. 

From  the  thermometric  soundings  exe- 
cuted by  J.  Y.  Buchanan  in  two  of  the 
Scotch  lakes  during  the  winter  of  1879, 
while  they  were  covered  with  ice  ("Nature," 
vol.  19,  p.  412),  some  doubt  was  cast  upon 
the  validity  of  the  "classic  theory,"  that  the 
beds  of  all  deep  fresh- water  lakes  are  filled 
with  water  at  the  temperature  of  4°  (C.). 
But  the  more  recent  thermometric  sound- 
ings of  Professor  F.  A.  Forel,  on  the  "Tem- 
perature of  Frozen  Lakes"  in  Switzerland 
(Comptts  Rendus  de  FAcad.  des  Sciences, 
tome  90,  p.  322,  February  16,  1880),  prove 
conclusively  that  the  depths  of  the  Scotch 
lakes  were  not  sufficiently  great  to  show 
the  ,  limit  of  superficial  cooling,  which  de- 
scends to  much  greater  depth  than  was  sup- 
posed. Forel  obtained  the  following  results  : 


Lake   of     Moral,    Area=27-4 
Sq.  Kilometers. 
Max.  Depth=45  Meters.  Feb. 

Lake   of   Zurich,    Area=87-8 
Sq.  Kilometers. 
Max.  Depth=i43  Meters.  Jan. 

i;  1880. 
Thickness  of  Ice=36  Centim. 

25,  1880. 
1  Thickness  of  Ice=  10  Centim. 

Depth  in 
Meters. 

Temp.   inC.° 

Depth  in 

Meters. 

Temp,  in  C.° 

0 

5 

<J35° 
1.90 

o 

10 

0.20° 

:!.6o 

10 

2.OO 

20 

2.90 

15 

3-45 

3° 

3.20 

20 
25 
30 

2.50 

2.50 
2.40 

40 
5° 
60 

3-5° 
360 

3-7° 

35 
40 

2-55 

2  70 

70 
80 
90 

3-70 
3-80 
3.80 

IOO 

3-9° 

no 

390 

120 

4.00 

133 

4  oo 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  vertical  propaga- 
tion of  cold  into  the  upper  layers  of  water 
descends  to  a  depth  of  no  meters  in  Lake 
Zurich.  In  this  respect,  it  is  analogous  to 
the  superficial  heating  of  Lake  Tahoe  in 
summer;  excepting  that  in  the  latter  case 
(as  might  be  expected)  the  solar  radiation 
appears  to  penetrate  to  the  greater  depth  of 
about  2  50  meters.  The  deepest  thermomet- 


510 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoc. 


[Nov. 


ric  sounding  obtained  by  Buchanan  was  65 
English  feet,  or  less  than  20  meters. 

Analogous  results  were  obtained  nearly 
a  century  ago  (1779-84)  from  the  obser- 
vations of  Horace  Benedict  de  Saussure,  in 
the  Swiss  lakes,  by  means  of  a  thermometer 
of  his  own  invention.  The  following  table 
contains  De  Saussure's  results  (Ann.  de 
Chim.  et  de  Phys.,  2d  series,  tome  5,  p.  403, 
Paris,  1817) : 


Lake. 

Month. 

Temp,  of 
Surface. 

Depth  in 
Meters. 

Temp,  at 
Depth. 

Geneva  

August    .  . 

21.20°  C. 
5.63 

49 

16.10°  C. 
5-38     " 

Constance  
Brienz  
Thun  
Neufchatel  
Lucerne  
Bienne  
Annecy  

Ju'y  

July  

July  
July  
May  

17-50 
20.00 

23.10 

20  00 
20.70 

120 

162 
114 
106 
195 

53 
78 

4.25     " 
4-75     " 
5.00     " 
5.00     " 
4.88     " 
6-37     " 
5-63     " 
5-63     " 

Maggiore  

July  

25.00 

109 

6.76     " 

It  is  evident  that  the  results  of  the  experi- 
ments of  the  distinguished  Swiss  physicist, 
although  executed  with  an  imperfect  thermo- 
metric instrument,  in  a  general  sense  afford 
a  striking  confirmation  of  the  deductions 
from  my  observations  in  relation  to  the  dis- 
tribution of  temperature  at  different  depths 
in  the  waters  of  Lake  Tahoe.1 

It  will  be  observed,  that  most  of  the 
thermometric  soundings  of  fresh-water  lakes 
seem  to  indicate  that  the  temperature  of  the 
deep  waters— say  below  the  depth  of  150  to 
200  meters — is  from  i°  to  1.5°  (C.)  above  the 
point  of  maximum  density  of  fresh  water. 
Assuming  these  thermic  determinations  to 
be  accurate,  some  physicists  have  speculated 
on  the  probable  causes  of  this  excess  of 
temperature  above  that  due  to  the  well- 
known  laws  of  density  of  fresh  water.  Two 
causes  have  been  assigned  to  account  for 
this  presumed  heating  of  the  beds  of  deep 

1  Similar  confirmatory  results  were  obtained  by  Sir 
H.  T.  de  la  Beche  in  1819-20,  by  means  of  a  self-regis- 
tering minimum  thermometer.  Thus  he  found  (Ann. 
de  Chim.  et  de  Phys.,  2d  series,  tome  19,  p.  77  et  seq. , 
Paris,  1821): 


Lake. 

Month. 

Temp,  of 
Surface. 

Depth  in 
Meters. 

Temp,  at 
Depth. 

Geneva 
Thun  .... 

September.. 

19.5°  Cent. 
'9-5 
'9-5        ' 
'9-5 
'9-5 
19-5 
«5-6        " 

33 
52 
62 

!46 

241 
300 

n  6°  Cent. 
7-3 
6.6 
6.4        " 
6.4        " 
6.4        " 

Zug  

14.4         " 

70 

So        " 

lakes:  (i)  the  internal  heat  of  the  earth, 
and  (2)  the  direct  and  indirect  influence  of 
solar  radiation.  It  seems  to  me,  however, 
that  the  comparatively  small  excess  of  tem- 
perature of  the  deep  waters  above  4°  (C.)  is 
more  probably  due  to  the  necessarily  imper- 
fect thermometric  means  of  determining  the 
temperatures  of  the  deep-seated  strata.  It 
is  well  known  that  the  disturbing  influence 
of  pressure  frequently  tends  to  render  the 
indications  of  self-registering  thermometers 
somewhat  higher  than  they  should  be;  and 
it  is  very  difficult  to  apply  the  proper  cor- 
rection for  the  error  due  to  pressure. 

As  we  have  already  seen,  the  observations 
of  H.  B.  de  Saussure  and  of  H.  de  la  Beche 
give  temperatures  at  the  greatest  depths  sen- 
sibly above  4°  (C.).  In  like  manner,  the 
more  recent  thermometric  soundings  of  C. 
de  Fischer-Ooster  and  C.  Brunner  in  the 
Lake  of  Thun,  in  1848  and  1849,  indicate 
in  the  deep  layers  an  invariable  temperature 
of  about  5°  (C.)  {Archives  des  Sa'.,  tome 
12,  pp.  20  to  39,  1849).  Similarly,  the  still 
more  recent  observations  of  F.  A.  Forel,  in 
the  Lake  of  Geneva  in  1879,  indicate  an  in- 
variable deep-water  temperature  of  about 
5.2°  (C.).  The  following  table  exhibits  the 
details  of  Forel's  thermometric  soundings  in 
this  lake  (Archives  des  Sci.  Phys.  et  Nat., 
3d  series,  tome  3,  pp.  501  to  516,  June, 
1880): 

Thermometric  Soundings  of  Ford  in  the  Lake  of 
Geneva  in  1879. 


Depth 

in 
Met'rs 

Temp 
in 
May. 

Temp 
in 
June. 

Temp 
in 
July. 

Temp 
in 
Aug. 

Temp 
in 
Sept. 

Temp 
in 
Oct. 

Temp 
in 
Dec. 

Tem. 
in 
Jan. 
iSSo. 

o 

9.8°  C 

i9.i°C 

19.6"C 

az.o^C 

ig.2"C 

II.4WC 

54°  C 

S.o°C 

10 

7-2 

'2-3 

14  6 

18.0 

16.3 

II.  I 

5-6 

20 

7-o 

8-7 

13  8 

12.7 

12.2 

II.  0 

3° 

6.9 

7-4 

11.7 

10.5 

9-3 

10.4 

40 

6.8 

6.6 

7-9 

7.6 

7.6 

8.4 

50 

6-5 

6-3 

6-7 

6.9 

7.0 

7-' 

60 

6-3 

6.2 

6.4 

6.6 

5-6 

70 

6.1 

6.1 

6.0 

6.0 

6.0 

80 

5-9 

5-8 

5-8 

5-8 

5-7 

6.2 

90 

5-7 

5-5 

5-6 

5-6 

S-5 

6.0 

100 

5-5 

5-4 

5-5 

5-5 

5-4 

5-8 

no 

5-4 

5-3 

5-4 

5-7 

5-6 

120 

5-3 

5-3 

5  3 

5-4 

5-3 

5  6 

'30 

5-2 

5  2 

53 

5-3 

5-5 

140 

S-3 

5  3 

5-4 

'So 

5-2 

5-4 

5-5 

160 

5-2 

5-3 

170 

5-2 

200 

5-2 

5-3 

220 

5-2 

240 

5-3 

250 

5-2 

260 

5'2 

270 

5-2 

300 

5-2 

5-2 

5-2 

1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


511 


On  the  other  hand,  some  observers  have 
found  the  deep  waters  of  certain  lakes  to 
have  temperatures  as  low  as  4°  (C),  and  even 
lower.  Thus,  according  to  the  observations 
of  Professor  F.  Simony  of  Vienna,  in  two  of 
the  Alpine  lakes  of  High  Austria,  from  1868 
to  1875,  at  the  depth  of  190  meters,  the 
temperature  in  the  Lake  of  Gmiinden  varied 
from  4.75°  to  3.95°  (C.);  and  in  the  Lake  of 
Atter,  at  the  depth  of  170  meters,  the  tem- 
perature varied  from  4.6°  to  3-7°(C.)  (Sitz. 
Ber.  derk.  Akad.  d.  Wiss.  Wien,  22  April, 
1875,  P-  I04>  as  cited  by  Forel,  op.  cit. 
supra,  p.  510).  Moreover,  we  have  already 
seen  that  the  most  recent  observations  of 
Professor  Forel,  on  the  "Frozen  Lakes"  in 
Switzerland  in  1880,  give  the  temperature  of 
the  deep  strata  as  sensibly  the  same  as  that 
of  the  maximum  density  of  fresh  water. 

It  is  evident  that  summer  observations 
of  Forel  in  the  Lake  of  Geneva  indicate  a 
more  rapid  diminution  of  temperature  with 
increasing  depth  in  that  lake  than  I  found  it 
to  be  in  Lake  Tahoe  in  the  corresponding 
season  of  the  year.  This  difference  may 
possibly  be  due  to  the  fact  (which  will  here- 
after appear)  that  the  superior  transparency 
of  the  waters  of  Lake  Tahoe  permits  the  heat- 
rays  from  the  sun  to  penetrate  to  much 
greater  depths  than  they  do  in  the  Lake  of 
Geneva. 

(3.)  Why  the  Water  does  not  freeze  in 
Winter. — Residents  on  the  shores  of  Lake 
Tahoe  testify  that,  with  the  exception  of 
shallow  and  detached  portions,  the  water  of 
the  lake  never  freezes  in  the  coldest  winters. 
During  the  winter  months,  the  temperature 
of  atmosphere  about  this  lake  must  fall  as 
low,  probably,  as  o°  Fah.  ( — 17.78°  Cent.). 
According  to  the  observations  of  Dr.  George 
M.  Bourne,  the  minimum  temperature  re- 
corded during  the  winter  of  1873-74  was  6° 
Fah.  ( — 14.44°  Cent.).  As  it  is  evident  that 
during  the  winter  season  the  temperature  of 
the  air  must  frequently  remain  for  days,  and 
perhaps  weeks,  far  below  the  freezing-point 
of  water,  the  fact  that  the  water  of  the  lake 
does  not  congeal  has  been  regarded  as  an 
anomalous  phenomenon.  Some  persons 
imagine  that  this  may  be  due  to  the  existence 


of  subaqueous  hot  springs  in  the  bed  of  the 
lake — an  opinion  which  may  seem  to  be  for- 
tified by  the  fact  that  hot  springs  do  occur 
at  the  northern  extremity  of  the  lake.  But 
there  is  no  evidence  that  the  temperature  of 
any  considerable  body  of  water  in  the  lake 
is  sensibly  increased  by  such  springs.  Even 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  hot- 
springs  (which  have  in  summer  a  maximum 
temperature  of  55°  C.  or  131  F.),  the  supply 
of  warm  water  is  so  limited  that  it  exercises 
no  appreciable  influence  on  the  temperature 
of  that  portion  of  the  lake.  This  is  further 
corroborated  by  the  fact  that  no  local  fogs 
hang  over  this  or  any  other  portion  of  the 
lake  during  winter,  which  would  most  cer- 
tainly be  the  case  if  any  considerable  body 
of  hot  water  found  its  way  into  the  lake. 

The  true  explanation  of  the  phenomenon 
may,  doubtless,  be  found  in  the  high  specific 
heat  of  water,  the  great  depth  of  the  lake, 
and  in  the  agitation  of  its  waters  by  the 
strong  winds  of  winter.  In  relation  to  the 
influence  of  depth,  it  is  sufficient  to  re- 
mark that,  before  the  conditions  preceding 
congelation  can  obtain,  the  whole  mass  of 
water — embracing  a  stratum  of  250  meters 
in  thickness — must  be  cooled  down  to  4° 
Cent. ;  for  this  must  occur  before  the  vertical 
circulation  is  arrested  and  the  colder  water 
floats  on  the  surface.  In  consequence  of  the 
great  specific  heat  of  water,  to  cool  such  a 
mass  of  the  liquid  through  an  average  tem- 
perature of  8°  Cent,  requires  a  long  time, 
and  the  cold  weather  is  over  before  it  is  ac- 
complished. In  the  shallower  portions,  the 
surface  of  the  water  may  reach  the  temper- 
ature of  congelation,  but  the  agitations  due 
to  the  action  of  strong  winds  soon  breaks 
up  the  thin  pellicle  of  ice,  which  is  quickly 
melted  by  the  heat  generated  by  the  mechan- 
ical action  of  the  waves.  Nevertheless,  in 
shallow  and  detached  portions  of  the  lake, 
which  are  sheltered  from  the  action  of  winds 
and  waves — as  in  Emerald  Bay — ice  sever- 
al inches  in  thickness  is  sometimes  formed. 

The  operation  of  similar  causes  prevents 
the  deeper  Alpine  lakes  of  Switzerland  from 
freezing  under  ordinary  circumstances.  Oc- 
casionally, however,  during  exceptionally 


512 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Nov. 


severe  and  prolonged  winters,  even  the  deep- 
est of  the  Swiss  lakes  have  been  known  to 
•be  frozen.  Thus,  the  Lake  of  Geneva  (maxi- 
mum depth  334  meters)  was  partially  froz- 
en in  1570,  1762,  and  1805;  the  Lake  of 
Constance  (maximum  depth  276  meters) 
was  frozen  in  1465,  1573,  1660,  1695,  1830, 
and  1880;  the  Lake  of  Neufchatel  (maxi- 
mum depth  135  meters)  was  frozen  in 
1573,  1624,  1695,  1830,  and  1880.  The 
Lake  of  Zurich  has  been  frequently  frozen, 
and  although  its  maximum  depth  is  about 
183  meters,  yet  it  is  well  known  that  this 
narrow  and  elongated  body  of  water  is  very 
shallow  over  a  large  portion  of  its  area — 
a  fact  which  sufficiently  explains  its  greater 
liability  to  be  frozen. 

(4.)  Why  Bodies  of  the  Drowned  do  not 
Rise. — A  number  of  persons  have  been 
drowned  in  Lake  Tahoe — some  fourteen  be- 
tween 1860  and  1874 — and  it  is  the  uniform 
testimony  of  the  residents,  that  in  no  case, 
where  the  accident  occurred  in  deep  water, 
were  the  bodies  ever  recovered.  This  strik- 
ing fact  has  caused  wonder-seekers  to  pro- 
pound the  most  extraordinary  theories  to 
account  for  it.  Thus  one  of  them  says, 
"The  water  of  the  lake  is  purity  itself,  but 
on  account  of  the  highly  rarefied  state  of  the 
air  it  is  not  very  buoyant,  and  swimmers  find 
some  little  fatigue;  or,  in  other  words,  they 
are  compelled  to  keep  swimming  all  the  time 
they  are  in  the  water;  and  objects  which 
float  easily  in  other  water  sink  here  like 
lead."  Again  he  says,  "Not  a  thing  ever 
floats  on  the  surface  of  this  lake,  save  and 
except  the  boats  which  ply  upon  it." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remark  that  it 
is  impossible  that  the  diminution  of  atmos- 
pheric pressure,  due  to  an  elevation  of  6,250 
feet  (1,905  meters)  above  the  sea-level,  could 
sensibly  affect  the  density  of  the  water.  In 
fact,  the  coefficient  of  compressibility  of 
this  liquid  is  so  small  that  the  withdrawal 
of  the  above-indicated  amount  of  pressure 
(about  one-fifth  of  an  atmosphere)  would 
not  lower  its  density  more  than  one  one- 
hundred-thousanth  part!  The  truth  is,  that 
the  specific  gravity  of  the  water  of  this  lake 
is  not  lower  than  that  of  any  other  fresh 


water  of  equal  purity  and  corresponding 
temperature.  It  is  not  less  buoyant  nor  more 
difficult  to  swim  in  than  any  other  fresh 
water;  and  consequently  the  fact  that  the 
bodies  of  the  drowned  do  not  rise  to  the 
surface  cannot  be  accounted  for  by  ascrib- 
ing marvelous  properties  to  its  waters. 

The  distribution  of  temperature  with 
depth  affords  a  natural  and  satisfactory  ex- 
planation of  this  phenomenon,  and  renders 
entirely  superfluous  any  assumption  of  ex- 
traordinary lightness  in  the  water.  The  true 
reason  why  the  bodies  of  the  drowned  do 
not  rise  to  the  surface  is  evidently  owing  to 
the  fact  that  when  they  sink  into  water 
which  is  only  4°  Cent.  (7.2°  Fah.)  above 
the  freezing  temperature,  the  gases  usually 
generated  by  decomposition  are  not  pro- 
duced in  the  intestines;  in  other  words,  at 
this  low  temperature  the  bodies  do  not  be- 
come inflated,  and  therefore  do  not  rise  to 
the  surface.  The  same  phenomenon  would 
doubtless  occur  in  any  other  body  of  fresh 
water  under  similar  physical  conditions. 

(5.)  Transparency  of  the  Water. — All  visi- 
tors to  this  beautiful  lake  are  struck  with 
the  extraordinary  transparency  of  the  water. 
At  a  depth  of  15  or  20  meters  (49.21  or 
65.62  feet),  every  object  on  the  bottom — on 
a  calm  sunny  day — is  seen  with  the  greatest 
distinctness.  On  the  6th  of  September, 
1873,  the  writer  executed  a  series  of  experi- 
ments with  the  view  of  testing  the  transpar- 
ency of  the  water.  A  number  of  other  ex- 
periments were  made  August  28  and  29, 
under  less  favorable  conditions.  By  secur- 
ing a  white  object  of  considerable  size — a 
horizontally  adjusted  dinner-plate  about  9.5 
inches  in  diameter — to  the  sounding-line, 
it  was  ascertained  that  (at  noon)  it  was 
plainly  visible  at  a  vertical  depth  of  33 
meters,  or  108.27  English  feet.  It  must  be 
recollected  that  the  light  reaching  the  eye 
from  such  submerged  objects  must  have 
traversed  a  thickness  of  water  equal  to  at 
least  twice  the  measured  depth;  in  the 
above  case,  it  must  have  been  at  least  66 
meters,  or  216.54  feet.  Furthermore,  when 
it  is  considered  that  the  amount  of  light 
regularly  reflected  from  such  a  surface  as 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


513 


that  of  a  dinner-plate,  under  large  angles 
of  incidence  in  relation  to  the  surface,  is 
known  to  be  a  very  small  fraction  of  the  in- 
cident beam  (probably  not  exceeding  three 
or  four  per  cent),  it  is  evident  that  solar 
light  must  penetrate  to  vastly  greater  depths 
in  these  pellucid  waters.1 

Moreover,  it  is  quite  certain  that  if  the 
experiments  in  relation  to  the  depths  corre- 
sponding to  the  limit  of  visibility  of  the  sub- 
merged white  disk  had  been  executed  in 
winter  instead  of  summer,  much  larger  num- 
bers would  have  been  obtained.  For  it  is 
now  well  ascertained,  by  means  of  the  re- 
searches of  Dr.  F.  A.  Forel  of  Lausanne, 
that  the  waters  of  Alpine  lakes  are  de- 
cidedly more  transparent  in  winter  than  in 
summer.  Indeed,  it  is  reasonable  that 
when  the  affluents  of  such  lakes  are  locked 
in  the  icy  fetters  of  winter,  much  less  sus- 
pended matter  is  carried  into  them  than 
in  summer,  when  all  the  sub-glacial  streams 
are  in  active  operation. 

The  experimental  investigations  of  Pro- 
fessor F.  A.  Forel  on  the  "Variations  in  the 
Transparency  of  the  Waters"  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva  (Archives  des  Sci.  Phys.  et  Nat., 
tome  59,  p.  137  et  seq.,  Juin,  1877),  show 
that  the  water  of  this  famous  Swiss  lake  is 
far  inferior  in  transparency  to  that  of  Lake 
Tahoe.  Professor  Forel  employed  two  meth- 
ods of  testing  the  transparency  of  the  waters 
of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  at  different  seasons  of 
the  year.  First,  the  direct  method  by  letting 
down  a  white  disk  25  centimeters  in  diame- 
ter (about  the  size  of  the  dinner-plate  used  by 
me)  attached  to  a  sounding-line,  and  find- 
ing the  depth  corresponding  to  the  limit  of 
visibility.  For  the  seven  winter  months, 
from  October  to  April,  he  found  from  forty- 
six  experiments,  in  1874-75,  a  mean  of  12.7 
meters,  or  41.67  English  feet.  And  for  the 

1  According  to   the  experiments  of  Bouguer,  out  of 
one  thousand  rays  of  light  incident  upon  polished  black 
marble,  the  following  were  the  proportional  numbers  re- 
flected at  the  several  angles,  measured  from  the  surface 
of  the  marble  : 
At  angle  of  3°  35'  ..................  600  were  reflected. 

15°        .....  •  ............  156     " 


30 
80" 


(Traiti  d'Optique,  p.  125.) 
VOL.  II.—  33- 


23 


five  summer  months,  from  May  to  Septem- 
ber, he  found  during  the  same  years  a 
mean  of  6.6  meters,  or  21.65  ^eet-  The 
maximum  depth  of  the  limit  of  visibility 
observed  by  him  was  17  meters,  or  55.88 
English  feet,  being  a  little  more  than  half 
the  depth  found  by  me  in  Lake  Tahoe  early 
in  the  month  of  September. 

The  other  method  employed  by  Professor 
Forel  was  the  indirect  or  photographic 
method.  This  consisted  in  finding  the 
limiting  depth  at  which  solar  light  ceased  to 
act  on  paper  rendered  sensitive  by  means 
of  chloride  of  silver.  If  we  assume  that  the 
same  laws  which  regulate  the  penetration  of 
the  actinic  rays  of  the  sun  are  applicable  to 
the  luminous  rays,  this  method  furnishes  a 
much  more  delicate  means  of  testing  the 
transparency  of  water;  and  especially  of  de- 
termining how  deep  the  direct  solar  rays 
penetrate.  Forel  found  the  limit  of  obscu- 
rity for  the  chloride  of  silver  paper  in  winter 
to  be  about  100  meters,  and  in  summer 
about  45  meters;  numbers  (as  we  should 
expect)  far  exceeding  those  furnished  by 
the  limit  of  visibility  of  submerged  white 
disks.'**  Assuming  that  the  index  of  trans- 
parency of  the  water  of  Lake  Tahoe  is  in 
winter  no  greater  than  twice  that  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva,  it  follows  that  during  the 
cold  season  the  solar  light  must  penetrate 
the  waters  of  the  former  to  a  depth  of  at 
least  200  meters. 

From  his  admirable  photometrical  investi- 
gations, Bouguer  estimated  (Traite  d'Optique 
sur  la  Gradation  de  la  Lumiere,  La  Caille's 
ed.,  Paris,  1760)  that  in  the  purest  sea-water, 
at  the  depth  of  311  Paris  feet,  or  101  meters, 
the  light  of  the  sun  would  be  equal  only  to 
that  of  the  full  moon,  and  that  it  would  be 
perfectly  opaque  at  the  thickness  of  679 
Paris  feet,  or  220.57  meters.  In  relation  to 
the  comparative  transparency  of  different 
waters,  we  may  be  permitted  to  cite  a  few 
results  obtained  by  the  method  of  depths 

2  By  employing  paper  prepared  by  means  of  the 
more  sensitive  bromide  of  silver,  Asper  found,  in  Au- 
gust, 1881,  that  the  actinic  rays  of  the  sun  were  active  in 
the  Lake  of  Zurich  even  to  the  depth  of  90  meters  or 
more.  This  would  extend  the  limit  of  obscurity  for  the 
bromide  of  silver  paper  in  winter  to  about  200  meters. 


514 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Nov. 


corresponding  to  the  limit  of  visibility  of 
white  disks.  Even  absolutely  pure  water 
is  not  perfectly  transparent;  it  absorbs  a 
certain  amount  of  light,  so  that  at  a  deter- 
minate depth  it  is  opaque.  The  following 
table  presents  us  comparative  results,  which 
may  be  of  some  interest: 


Depth  of 

Water. 

Season. 

visibility  in 

Observer. 

Meters. 

Lakeot  Geneva 

Summer. 

5-3° 

Minimum 

F.  A.  Forel. 

11        ii 

•« 

8.20 

Maximum 

ii         « 

<< 

6.60 

Mean 

it         ii 

Winter. 

10.20 

Minimum 

ii        ii 

" 

17.00 

Maximum 

ii        ii 

" 

12.70 

Mean 

Lake  Tahoe.. 

Summer. 

33-0° 

Maximum    Nobis. 

Pacific  Ocean 

Wallis  Island.. 

Summer. 

40.00 

Capt.  Berard 

Mediterranean 

near 

Civita  Vecchia. 

42.  ^O 

P.  A.  Sprrhi. 

Atlantic  

••  y 
49-50 

L.  F.  dePourtales.1 

Inasmuch  as  our  observations  on  the 
water  of  Lake  Tahoe  were  made  during  the 
latter  portion  of  August  and  the  beginning 
of  September,  it  seems  probable,  from  Forel's 
results  in  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  that  winter 
experiments  would  place  the  limit  of  visibil- 
ity as  deep  if  not  deeper  than  Pourtales 
found  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  It  may  be 
proper  to  add  that  Professor  Forel  does  not 
ascribe  the  variations  in  the  transparency 
of  the  water  of  the  Swiss  lake  with  the 
season  exclusively  to  the  greater  or  less 
abundance  of  suspended  matter;  but  also 
to  the  fact  (which  seems  to  be  confirmed  by 
the  experiments  of  H.  Wild)  that  increase 
of  temperature  augments  the  absorbing 
power  of  water  for  light.  It  is  evident  that 
this  cause  is  more  efficient  in  summer  than 
in  winter. 

But  the  transparency  of  the  waters  occu. 

1  So  few  exact  observations  have  been  made  on  the 
transparency  of  sea-water  that  it  may  be  proper  to  add 
the  following  results  obtained  by  Captain  Duperrey  dur- 
ing the  "Voyage  de  la  Coquille."  The  apparatus  em- 
ployed consisted  of  a  circular  board  sixty-six  centimeters 
in  diameter,  painted  white,  to  which  a  weight  was  at- 
tached and  so  adjusted  that  when  let  down  by  a  line  the 
white  disk  descended  horizontally  in  the  water.  (Vide 
(J'.nms  Computes  dc  f-'ranfois  Arago,  2d  ed.,  tome 
9,  p.  203,  Paris,  1865.) 


Place. 

State  of  Weather 

Date  ofObs. 

Limit  of 
Visibility. 

Otfak. 
Offak. 
Port  Jackson. 
I  '.mil  lentkn 

Calm  and  Cloudy 
(  '.ilm  and  Clear 
Calm 
Favorable 

bept.  13. 
Sept.  14. 
Feb.  i.-  .ind  13 
Jan.  (  ii  Expts) 

18  Meiers. 

23      "  r_« 

12            " 
9  tO  12  "111 

pying  pools  in  certain  limestone  districts  un- 
questionably far  surpasses  that  of  any  of  the 
Alpine  lakes  or  any  of  the  intertropical  seas. 
The  observations  and  experiments  executed 
by   the   writer   during   his   investigations  in 
the  month  of  December,  1859,  in  relation  to 
"The  Optical  Phenomena  Presented  by  the 
Silver    Spring,"    in    the    State   of    Florida 
(Vide  Proc.  Am.  Assoc.    Adv.  of  Set.,  vol. 
J4>  P-  33-46)  Aug.,  1860;  also,  Am.  Jour. 
Sd.,  2nd  series,  vol.  31,  p.  1-12,  Jan.,  1861), 
indicated  a  degree  of  transparency  in  the 
water    surpassing   anything   which   can    be 
imagined.     The  depth   of  this  remarkable 
pool  varied,  in  different  portions,  from  30  to 
36    English    feet,    or   from    9.14   to    10.97 
meters.     Yet  "every  feature  and  configura- 
tion of  the  bottom  of  this  gigantic  basin  was 
almost  as  distinctly  visible  as  if  the  water  was 
removed  and  the  atmosphere  substituted  in 
its  place"!     "The  sunlight  illuminated  the 
sides  and  bottom   of  this  remarkable  pool 
nearly  as  brilliantly  as  if  nothing  obstructed 
the  light.     The  shadows  of  our  little  boat, 
of  our  overhanging  heads  and  hats,  of  pro- 
jecting crags  and  logs,  of  the  surrounding 
forests,  and  of  the  vegetation  at  the  bottom 
were  distinctly  and  sharply  defined."     The 
experiments  in  relation  to  the  vertical  depth 
at  which  printed  cards  could  be  read  when 
viewed  vertically  afforded  a  good  illustration 
of  the  extraordinary  transparency  of  these 
waters.     Comparative  experiments   in  rela- 
tion to  the  distances  at  which  the  same  cards 
could  be  read  in  the  air  showed  that,  when 
the  letters  were  of  considerable  size — say  six 
to  seven  millimeters  or  more  in  length — on 
a  clear  and  calm  day  they  could  be  read  at 
about  as  great  a  vertical   distance  beneath 
the  surface  of  the  water  as  they  could  be  in  the 
atmosphere.     But  it  would  be  a  grave  error 
to  imagine  that  these  results  indicate  that 
sunlight  undergoes  no  greater  diminution  in 
traversing  a   given   thickness  of  this  water 
than  in  passing  through  an  equal  stratum  of 
air.     For,  in  both  cases,  when  the  cards  are 
strongly  illuminated,  the  reading  distance  is 
limited  by  the  smallness  of  the  images  of 
the   letters   on   the   retina,  and  not  by  the 
amount  of  light  reaching  the  eye.     Never- 


1883.J 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


515 


theless,  these  experiments  prove  conclusively 
that  at  the  depth  of  ten  meters  the  illumi- 
nation was  sufficiently  intense  to  secure  this 
limiting  condition,  and  thus  serve  to  convey 
a  more  distinct  idea  of  the  wonderful  di- 
aphanous properties  of  these  waters  than  any 
verbal  description.  The  experiments  were 
executed  about  noon  at  the  winter  solstice 
(lat.  29°  15'  north),  and  were  made  on  various 
sized  letters,  and  at  depths  varying  from 
two  to  ten  meters. 

It  would  be  exceedingly  interesting  to  test 
the  transparency  of  the  waters  of  similar 
springs  in  limestone  districts,  by  the  limit  of 
visibility  of  white  disks,  where  the  depth  is 
sufficiently  great  to  admit  of  the  application 
of  this  method.  The  famous  fountain  sit- 
uated about  ten  or  fifteen  miles  south  of 
Tallahassee,  in  the  State  of  Florida,  called 
Wakulla  Spring,  is  represented  to  be 
deeper  than  the  Silver  Spring,  and  to  be 
equally  transparent.  But  we  have  as  yet  no 
trustworthy  measurements  or  observations  in 
relation  to  the  comparative  diaphanous  prop- 
erties of  the  waters  of  other  limestone  pools. i 

It  only  remains  to  indicate  the  causes 
which  produce  the  extraordinary  transpar- 
ency of  the  waters  occupying  the  Silver 
Spring.  It  may  be  remarked  that  these 
diaphanous  properties  are  perennial;  they 
are  not  in  the  slightest  degree  impaired  by 
season,  by  rain  or  drought.  The  compara- 
tively slight  fluctuations  in  the  level  of 
the  water  in  the  pool,  produced  by  the 
advent  of  the  rainy  season,  are  not  accom- 
panied by  any  turbidity  of  its  waters.  At 
first  sight  it  may  seem  paradoxical  that,  in 
a  country  where  semi-tropical  rains  occur, 
the  waters  of  this  spring  should  not  be  ren- 

1  There  are  numerous  lakes  in  the  Scandinavian  pen- 
insula whose  waters  are  said  to  be  very  transparent; 
objects  on  the  bottom  being  visible  at  depths  of  from 
30  to  37  meters.  More  specifically  in  Lake  Wetter,  in 
Sweden,  a  farthing  is  said  to  bs  visible  at  a  depth  of 
twenty  fathoms,  or  36.575  meters.  But  such  vague 
popular  estimates  are  scarcely  worthy  of  consideration  . 
Still  less  trustworthy  are  the  unverified  accounts  we 
have,  that  in  some  parts  of  the  Arctic  Ocean  shells  are 
distinctly  seen  at  the  depth  of  eighty  fathoms;  and  that 
among  the  West  India  Islands,  in  eighty  fathoms  of 
water,  the  bed  of  the  sea  is  as  distinctly  visible  as  if  seen 
in  air  (Somerville's  Phys.  Geog. ,  Am.  ed.  1858,  p.  199). 
Perhaps  it  should  have  been  feet  instead  of  fathoms. 


dered  turbid  by  surface  drainage.  But  the 
whole  mystery  vanishes  when  we  consider 
the  peculiar  character  of  the  drainage  of  this 
portion  of  Florida.  Although  the  surface 
of  the  country  is  quite  undulating,  or  rolling, 
the  summits  of  many  of  the  hills  being 
thirty  or  forty  feet  above  the  adjacent  de- 
pressions, yet  there  is  no  surface  drainage; 
there  is  not  a  brook  or  rivulet  to  be  found 
in  this  part  of  the  State.  The  whole  drain- 
age is  subterranean ;  even  the  rain-water 
which  falls  near  the  banks  of  the  pool,  and 
the  bold  stream  constituting  its  outlet,  pass 
out  by  underground  channels.  There  is  not 
the  slightest  doubt  but  that  all  of  the  rain- 
water which  falls  on  a  large  hydrographic 
basin  passes  down  by  subterraneous  chan- 
nels, and  boils  up  and  finds  an  outlet  by 
means  of  the  Silver  Spring  and  the  smaller 
tributary  springs  which  occur  in  the  coves 
along  the  margin  of  its  short  discharging 
stream.  The  whole  surface  of  the  country 
in  the  vicinity,  and  probably  over  the  area 
of  a  circle  of  ten  or  fifteen  miles  radius 
whose  center  is  the  Silver  Spring,  is  thickly 
dotted  with  lime-sinks,  which  are  the  points 
at  which  the  surface  water  finds  entrance  to 
the  subterraftean  passages.  New  sinks  are 
constantly  occurring  at  the  present  time. 
The  beautiful  miniature  lakes,  whose  crystal 
waters  are  so  justly  admired,  which  occur  in 
this  portion  of  Florida,  are  doubtless  noth- 
ing more  than  lime-sinks  of  ancient  date. 
Under  this  aspect  of  the  subject,  it  is  ob- 
vious that  all  the  rain-fall  on  this  hydrograph- 
ic basin  boils  up  in  the  Silver  Spring,  after 
having  been  strained,  filtered,  and  decolor- 
ized in  its  passage  through  beds  of  sand  and 
tortuous  underground  channels.  It  thus 
comes  out,  not  only  entirely  free  from  all 
mechanically  suspended  materials,  but  com- 
pletely destitute  of  every  trace  of  organic 
coloring  matter.  For  this  reason,  there  is  a 
striking  contrast  between  the  color  and 
transparency  of  the  waters  of  the  Silver 
Spring  stream  and  those  of  the  Ochlawaha 
River  at  their  junction;  the  latter  draining  a 
country  whose  drainage  is  not  entirely  sub- 
terraneous. 

The  above-mentioned  conditions  seem  to 


516 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


[Nov. 


be  fully  adequate  to  persistently  secure  the 
waters  of  this  spring  from  the  admixture  of 
insoluble  and  suspended  materials,  as  well  as 
from  the  discoloration  of  organic  matters  in 
solution.  But,  inasmuch  as  these  waters 
appear  to  be  more  diaphanous  than  absolutely 
pure  water,  it  is  possible  that  the  •  minute 
quantity  of  lime  which  they  hold  in  solution 


may  exercise  some  influence  in  augmenting 
their  transparency.  There  is  nothing  a  priori 
improbable  in  the  idea  that  the  optical  as 
well  as  the  other  physical  properties  of  the 
liquid  may  be  altered  by  the  materials  held 
in  solution.  This  is  an  interesting  physico- 
chemical  question,  which  demands  experi- 
mental investigation. 

John  LeConte. 


THE   MUTE   COUNCILOR.1 


To  bring  dogs  into  the  council  meetings 
of  an  imperial  city  was  not  customary  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  happened  once,  however, 
that  a  dog  sat  in  one  for  seven  years — but 
without  a  voice  in  the  proceedings.  It 
occurred  thus : 

Gerhard  Richwin,  citizen  and  woolen- 
weaver  of  Wetzlar,  was  a  rich  man,  because 
his  father  had  been  industrious  and  frugal. 
The  son  could  now  live  in  idleness  and  ex- 
travagance. Still,  it  was  probable  that  if  he 
continued  to  do  so  for  ten  years  longer,  the 
rich  would  have  become  the  poor  Richwin. 

Wedged  in  between  other  high-gabled 
houses  in  the  Lahn  Gasse  stood  Richwin's 
house,  an  imposing  wooden  structure,  entire- 
ly new,  built  only  ten  years  before,  as  the 
date — 1358 — over  the  main  entrance  indi- 
cated. Through  this  doorway  one  entered 
into  the  salesroom.  Richwin  dealt  not  only 
in  wares  of  his  own  manufacture,  but  also  in 
foreign  goods;  and  would  undoubtedly  have 
belonged  to  the  merchants'  guild  if  there 
had  been  one  at  Wetzlar.  He  however  be- 
longed to  the  most  respectable  corporation, 
the  "Woolen  Weavers,"  and  within  this  to  a 
small  select  circle  known  as  the  "  Flemish 
Guild,"  so  called  from  their  sale  of  the 
costly  Flemish  cloth.  Among  these  distin- 
guished Flemmands,  Master  Richwin  was  the 
most  wealthy  and  distinguished,  and  in  his 
own  estimation  was  head  and  shoulders 
above  the  guilds  in  general,  and  within  a 
hair  of  being  as  high  as  a  patrician. 

Through   the   main   doorway,    as   before 

1  Translated,  by  permission,  from 


said,  one  stepped  into  the  salesroom;  that 
is,  if  at  the  threshold  one  did  not  happen  to 
stumble  over  two  mischievous  boys  who 
were  wont  to  play  and  quarrel  there.  These 
were  Richwin's  elder  children ;  the  younger, 
two  girls,  made  life  intolerable  to  their 
mother  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house; — for 
it  was  too  irksome  and  tedious  to  the  father 
to  exercise  any  authority  over  the  wild 
scapegraces.  The  boys  learned  all  sorts  of 
bad  behavior  of  themselves,  and  the  girls 
learned  it  from  their  brothers.  The  mother 
was  unable  alone  to  curb  the  unruly  troop. 

Whenever  poor  Mrs.  Eva  complained  to 
her  husband  of  the  children,  he  would  hear 
nothing  at  all  with  the  right  ear,  and  only 
half  with  the  left,  and  give  no  answer,  or,  if 
he  was  specially  attentive,  an  ill-tempered 
one.  Such  was  his  conduct,  too,  in  other 
matters.  Richwin  was  not  conscious  how 
cruelly  he  neglected  his  wife.  Had  he  per- 
ceived it  he  would  have  done  better,  for  he 
was  at  heart  a  kind  man,  and  really  loved 
his  wife.  But  Mrs.  Eva  noticed  all  the  more 
that  he  frequently  said  nothing  to  her  for 
days;  or,  if  he  did  speak,  it  was  cold, 
crabbed  words — worse  than  nothing.  She 
bore  her  crosses  patiently,  and  yet  well 
knew  that  it  would  soon  be  a  heavier  bur- 
den; for  she  saw  their  means  gradually  dis- 
appearing without  being  able  to  avert  the 
impending  ruin. 

Gerhard  Richwin  did  not  do  much  wrong, 
but  he  also  did  little  that  was  right.  He 
was  swayed  by  momentary  whims,  and  sel- 

the  German  of  W.  H.  Riehl. 


1883.] 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


517 


dom  in  the  direction  of  the  business  which 
it  was  for  the  moment  most  important  to  do- 
If,  for  instance,  he  ought  to  have  been  in  the 
weaving-room,  he  was  seized  with  a  longing 
to  trot  away  into  the  country:  or,  if  he 
ought  to  have  mounted  his  horse  and  ridden 
to  the  neighboring  castles  in  Weilburg,  Dil- 
lenburg,  or  Braunfels,  where  frequently  very 
profitable  bargains  were  to  be  made,  the 
weaving-room  was  an  irresistible  attraction. 
When  people  stood  awaiting  in  the  store, 
Richwin  would  be  watching  his  ill-behaved 
boys  through  the  v/indow,  and  ruminating 
upon  methods  of  preventing  and  punishing 
their  tricks,  quite  forgetting  his  customers ; 
and  when  finally  he  spoke  to  them,  it  was  in 
so  harsh  and  parental  a  tone,  and  his  words 
were  accompanied  by  so  fierce  a  flourish  of 
the  yard-stick,  that  they  might  suppose  he 
meant  to  belabor  them  instead  of  his  chil- 
dren. The  truest  business  friends  felt  them- 
selves entirely  too  negligently  and  coarsely 
treated.  The  servants  and  apprentices  im- 
proved on  the  example  of  their  master,  and 
became  even  more  rude  and  uncivil  than 
himself.  No  wonder,  therefore,  that  it  grad- 
ually grew  more  silent  in  Richwin's  celebrat- 
ed warehouse. 

Bad  tongues  suggested  that  if  this  state  of 
things  continued,  Richwin  would  soon  be 
the  only  customer  in  his  shop,  as  he  already 
was  the  best.  Those  were  foppish  times, 
but  he  far  outshone  his  fellow-citizens  in 
costliness  of  dress  and  frequent  change  of 
fashion.  To  see  him  in  his  state  coat,  with 
long  sleeves,  with  wide  flowing  cuffs  hanging 
down  to  his  feet,  his  checkered  trousers  and 
pointed  shoes,  his  skull-cap  turned  up  be- 
hind and  before,  and  his  hair  cut  square 
across  the  forehead,  with  a  long  flowing  lock 
dangling  over  each  ear,  one  would  certainly 
not  have  taken  him  for  a  tradesman  or  mer- 
chant, but  a  nobleman. 

Had  any  one  called  Richwin  a  fop,  he 
would  have  resented  it,  for  he  was  as  sensi- 
tive as  a  soft-shelled  egg;  and,  although  he 
might  have  unseemly  notions,  he  had  a  mor- 
tal fear  of  committing  an  improper  overt  act. 
This  trait  did  not  exactly  proclaim  the  blunt, 
outspoken  tradesman.  Indeed,  his  guild 


comrades  suspected  him  of  carrying  water 
on  both  shoulders,  and  secretly  inclining 
towards  the  patricians. 

Such  a  suspicion  in  those  days  was  not  a 
trivial  matter,  for  the  guilds  were  in  jealous 
ferment.  The  aristocracy  alone  sat  in  the 
council  and  ruled  the  town.  Of  late  they 
had  burdened  the  community  with  debts, 
and  involved  it  in  ruinous  leagues  and  feuds. 
They  were  hated  by  the  people,  and  the 
measure  of  their  iniquitous  rule  seemed  to 
be  full  to  overflowing.  A  secret  but  wide- 
spread conspiracy  against  the  aristocracy 
sprang  up  among  the  guilds.  If  so  many 
other  cities  had  of  late  years  put  their  pa- 
trician councils  out  of  doors,  why  could  not 
the  people  of  Wetzlar  send  theirs  to  the  dogs 
as  well? 

Towards  all  the  plotting,  scheming,  and 
preparing  for  a  general  uprising  of  his  neigh- 
bors, Richwin  maintained  an  indifferent, 
even  a  dubious,  demeanor.  Yet  was  he  the 
most  distinguished  man  in  the  most  dis- 
tinguished guild ;  and  had,  besides,  grown 
extremely  popular  in  the  wine-rooms. 
Though  his  business  friends  fell  off,  his  boon 
companions  increased.  Here  was  a  suscep- 
tible man,  willful,  shrewd  if  he  chose  to  be; 
a  man  whose  wealth  was  on  the  decline : 
was  not  such  a  man  best  suited  to  become  a 
demagogue?  It  was  certainly  worth  while 
to  endeavor  to  win  him  over  to  the  new 
movement.  They  hinted  at  the  matter,  con- 
ferred with  him  in  secret,  flattered  him,  rea- 
soned with  him,  pressed  him  ;  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  He  had  friends  among  the  aris- 
tocracy ;  and  their  haughty  and  arbitrary  de- 
portment impressed  him  as  being  extremely 
noble  and  genteel.  Besides,  party  discipline 
was  not  at  all  to  the  taste  of  a  man  who  had 
an  aversion  to  discipline  of  any  kind.  As 
he  did  not  bestir  himself  where  abundant 
money  might  have  been  acquired,  why 
should  he  here,  where  perhaps  only  the 
gallows  was  to  be  attained? 

In  those  excited  days,  Master  Richwin  was 
presented  with  a  splendid  young  dog  that 
was  twice  as  excitable  as  the  citizens  of 
Wetzlar,  and  thrice  as  capricious  as  Richwin 
himself — a  large,  black  wolf-dog  of  Spanish 


518 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


[Nov. 


breed,  scarcely  nine  months  old,  still  quite 
unbroken,  clumsy,  and  fractious.  His  name 
was  Thasso,  and  he  did  honor  to  his  name, 
which  signifies  a  disputer  and  fighter;  for 
disputing  and  fighting  was  his  incessant,  de- 
light. Though  he  generally  fought  in  play, 
playing  with  Thasso  was  not  to  every  one's 
taste.  Perhaps  a  respectable  citizen  passed 
rather  hastily  by:  Thasso  instantly  sprang 
after  him,  tugged  merrily  at  his  doublet,  and 
left  with  a  big  mouthful  of  it.  If  he  saw  a 
child,  he  playfully  jumped  on  it  and  tum- 
bled it  in  his  first  rush  into  the  gutter. 
The  most  delectable  sight,  however,  was  to 
see  Thasso  when  a  horseman  galloped 
by.  Like  a  wild  beast,  he  sprang  at  the 
horse  with  tremendous  bounds,  leaped  about 
it  up  to  its  head,  then  at  its  tail,  snapped  at 
the  rider's  hands,  or  shot  in  between  the 
horse's  legs,  dextrously  avoiding  its  hoofs. 
He  did  not  bite,  he  merely  played;  but  the 
horse  shied,  backed,  reared,  and,  in  spite  of 
bit  and  bridle,  ran  away  as  if  Satan  were  at 
his  heels.  When  Master  Richwin  called  off 
the  dog,  he  would  stop  a  moment,  look  back 
at  his  master  as  if  to  say,  "I  can  do  better 
still,"  and  resume  the  chase  with  redoubled 
zeal.  But  if  Richwin  threatened  or  scolded 
him,  the  dog's  play  immediately  became 
earnest;  he  growled  and  snapped,  ran  away 
in  fear  of  the  punishment,  roamed  over  half 
the  town  perpetrating  all  sorts  of  new  mis- 
chief on  the  way,  and  finally  sneaked  home 
late  at  night.  On  such  occasions,  Thasso 
was  beaten.  But  this  beating  the  dog  quite 
misunderstood,  for,  having  forgotten  the 
original  cause  of  it,  he  imagined  he  was  be- 
ing punished  for  coming  home  at  all,  and 
remained  out  longer  than  ever  the  next  time. 
Hereupon  Richwin  set  himself  to  catch 
the  dog  in  the  act.  So,  when  the  dog  again 
pursued  a  horseman,  Richwin  followed  in 
pursuit  of  him.  Finally  the  dog  stopped, 
in  deep  contrition,  his  tail  dejectedly  be- 
tween his  legs,  and  allowed  his  master  to 
approach.  But  when  he  had  got  to  with- 
in ten  paces  of  him,  Thasso  broke  away 
again.  Richwin  slackened  his  pace,  called, 
coaxed,  and  simulated  the  most  friendly  in- 
tentions, and  the  dog  came  up,  too,  but 


only  to  within  about  ten  paces,  and  then  he 
ran  away  again.  True,  the  animal  still  kept 
company  with  him,  but  at  the  respectful  dis- 
tance of  ten  paces.  The  street  boys  were 
jubilant,  and  the  entire  population  rushed 
to  doors  and  windows  to  see  which  would 
win — Master  Richwin  or  Master  Thasso. 
The  proud  burgher  trembled  with  wrath,  and 
even  threw  stones  at  the  sinner;  but  Thasso 
avoided  the  missiles  with  marvelous  dexterity, 
ran  after  the  stone,  and,  to  add  insult  to  in- 
jury, brought  it  to  his  master  and  got  twenty 
feet  ahead  again  before  the  latter  could  raise 
a  hand  to  strike. 

Each  day  brought  new  scenes  of  the  same 
sort,  the  dog  developing  an  astounding 
talent  in  the  invention  of  new  pranks  and 
the  art  of  dodging  punishment. 

It  really  looked  now  as  if,  with  the  dog, 
Satan  in  person  had  come  to  Richwin's 
house.  The  four  naughty  children  played 
and  romped  with  him  from  morning  to 
night,  and  became  so  imbued  with  Thasso's 
spirit  that  it  was  hard  to  say  which  was  worse 
— dog  or  child. 

Poor  Frau  Eva  couldn't  bear  the  dog. 
This  Master  Richwin  greatly  resented.  Be- 
fore, he  had  only  hurt  her  by  his  coldness; 
he  now  scolded  her,  to  boot.  If  Thasso  had 
escaped  his  whip,  he  vented  his  wrath  on  his 
Frau ;  and  if  she  said  a  word  not  to  his  liking, 
her  aversion  to  the  noble  animal  was  cast 
up  to  her.  Since  the  dog  had  been  in  the 
house,  she  regarded  her  husband,  herself,  and 
her  children  as  wholly  devoted  to  destruc- 
tion. 

If  the  master  had  before  concerned  him- 
self little  about  his  house  and  calling,  he 
now  did  so  still  less.  Above  all  things, 
he  was  determined  to  train  that  dog, 
and  this  important  work  occupied  all  his 
time.  But  as  he  proceeded  in  the  matter 
capriciously  and  without  system,  overlooking 
all  his  vices  one  day,  only  to  punish  them 
too  severely  the  next,  Thasso  lost  even  the 
few  virtues  which  he  had  brought  with  him. 

Continual  complaint  came  about  this 
peace-disturber.  The  master  had  to  pay 
damages,  requite  pains,  give  good  words  and 
pocket  insolent  ones.  The  injured  threat- 


1883.] 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


519 


ened  to  poison  or  otherwise  kill  the  brute, 
and  his  friends  urged  Richwin  to  get  rid  of 
the  incorrigible  dog,  or  at  least  chain  him 
up.  But  he  remained  inflexible.  He  would 
train  that  dog.  He  would  make  him  as 
gentle  as  a  lamb.  He  would  then  go  about 
with  this  noble,  dreaded  animal  as  proud  as 
Knight  Kurt  with  his  terrible  bloodhound. 

In  those  days  the  Wetzlar  burghers  cele- 
brated Ash  Wednesday  with  a  peculiar 
procession,  following  a  quaint  old  tradi- 
tion. They  proceeded  armed  to  the  Ec- 
clesiastical Courts  from  the  palace  of  the 
German  Signories  to  the  Alterberger  Con- 
vent, to  receive  from  the  German  Signories 
a  living  white  hen,  from  the  nuns  a  ham,  and 
from  the  dean  a  gold  florin,  in  token  of 
the  city's  prerogative  in  the  spiritual  courts. 
The  most  notable  feature  at  all  times,  how- 
ever, was  the  living  white  hen;  and  it  was 
on  this  account  that  in  Wetzlar  Ash  Wednes- 
day was  yet,  within  the  memory  of  man, 
called  "Chickenday."  The  hen  must  be 
spotless  white,  decked  in  colored  ribbons, 
and  was  carried  by  a  boy  at  the  head  of  the 
procession. 

To-day  Master  Richwin  marched  at  the 
head  of  his  guild  in  the  procession.  He 
had  given  strict  injunctions  at  home  to  keep 
the  dog  confined  until  the  noise  and  bustle  on 
the  streets  should  be  over.  But  Thasso  broke 
out,  followed  the  trail  of  his  master,  sprang 
into  the  midst  of  the  festive  line  just  as  the 
head  man  of  the  German  Chapter  was  in  the 
act  of  delivering  the  chicken  over  to  the  boy. 
The  dog  saw  the  screaming,  struggling  bird 
with  the  fluttering  ribbons  in  a  trice.  He 
flew  at  it,  tore  it  from  the  boy's  hands,  and 
shook  it  till  the  feathers  and  ribbons  flew 
about  in  the  air.  The  head  man  tried  to  in- 
terfere, and  was  bitten  severely  in  the  legs; 
and  when  finally  Master  Richwin  succeeded 
in  subduing  the  dog,  the  hen  fluttered  once 
more,  and  then  closed  its  beak  forever. 

Now  they  had  no  living  white  hen  ;  and 
without  a  living  white  hen  no  procession 
was  possible ;  and  without  a  procession,  there 
was  no  secular  prerogative  in  the  spiritual 
courts.  The  situation  was  grave ;  for  upon 
the  punctilious  performance  of  all  the 


signs  and   tokens  of  a  right  depended,  in 
those  days,  the  right  itself. 

By  a  thousand  prayers  and  entreaties, 
Master  Richwin  succeeded  at  last  in  getting 
it  understood  that  the  occurrence  should  be 
overlooked,  if  within  two  hours  he  should 
produce  another  spotless  white  living  hen. 
The  'solemn  ceremony  of  presentation  should 
then  begin  anew,  but  with  the  express  stipula- 
tion that  the  Signories  should  not  in  future 
have  the  burden  of  providing  two  hens  for  the 
occasion — one  dead  and  one  living.  Ger- 
hard Richwin  should  also,  for  this  once,  pre- 
sent the  head  man  ten  yards  of  the  finest 
Flemish  cloth  as  indemnity  and  smart-money. 

Impelled  by  wrath,  vexation,  and  fear, 
the  master  sped  to  all  the  poultry-yards  in 
the  city,  but  found  no  spotless  white  hen. 
Finally,  and  nearly  at  the  last  moment,  he 
returned  in  perspiration  to  the  German 
Signories  with  a  skinny  old  hen  that  had 
originally  been  somewhat  white  and  speckled 
with  gray  ;  but  by  plucking  out  about  half 
its  feathers  he  had  transformed  it  into  a  spot- 
less white  hen.  This  new  symbol  of  prerog- 
ative was  accepted  as  valid,  and  so  everybody 
concerned  escaped,  as  the  saying  is,  "  happy 
with  a  blue  eye" — the  defunct  first  hen,  of 
course,  excepted. 

That  night  Thasso's  punishment  was  ex- 
emplary. Henceforth  Richwin  would  train 
the  dog  according  to  quite  a  new  systematic 
and  thorough  plan.  Not  now  for  all  the 
world  would  he  part  with  that  dog!  He 
was  right,  and  would  show  the  burghers  that, 
in  spite  of  his  latest  escapade,  he  would  yet 
make  the  incorrigible  half-wolf  as  gentle  as  a 
lamb.  He  brooded — for  the  first  time  in 
his  life — for  a  whole  sleepless  night  over  his 
educational  plans. 

The  next  morning  Richwin  rose  with  the 
break  of  day,  which  he  had  never  done  be- 
fore, for  he  was  a  late  sleeper.  He  was 
anxious  to  accustom  Thasso  to  a  sedate  gait 
in  the  streets  before  they  were  thronged 
with  people  and  horses.  He  conducted  the 
dog  at  the  end  of  a  rope  through  the  entire 
town.  Any  attempt  to  spring  at  rider  or 
foot-passer  was  promptly  checked  by  a  sting- 
ing reminder  from  the  whip.  Formerly, 


520 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


[Nov. 


Thasso  had  perhaps  displayed  a  sort  of  re- 
pentance for  his  misdeeds,  but  no  desire  to 
do  penance  for  them.  Now,  repentance 
and  penance  both  came  at  once.  Rich- 
win  found  this  early  hour  made  for  dog- 
training.  Through  the  lengthening  days  of 
February  and  March,  therefore,  he  rose 
earlier  every  day,  and  was  invariably  oh  the 
legs  with  Thasso  before  sunrise. 

Whenever  he  passed  an  open  church,  he 
would  draw  the  rope  particularly  taut  and 
lay  on  the  whip  by  way  of  admonition ;  for 
until  then,  Thasso  had  a  decided  taste  for 
rushing  into  open  churches  and  barking  at 
the  congregation;  and  the  more  Richwin 
called  him  off,  the  louder  he  barked.  All 
this  was  now  quite  unlearned.  When,  there- 
fore, Master  Richwin  now  passed  an  open 
church  door,  and  heard  the  early  mass  read 
within,  he  would  stop  a  while  in  the  door- 
way and  listen  devoutly — for  he  dared  not  go 
in  on  account  of  the  dog — and  took  a  bit 
of  the  morning's  benediction  with  him  on 
the  way.  Until  then  he  had  been  a  seldom 
visitor  to  the  house  of  God,  but  soon  began 
to  believe  the  day  not  properly  begun  without 
an  early  mass  under  the  church  door.  The 
dog  also  always  went  much  more  quietly  after 
it. 

When  the  master  returned  from  the  first 
morning's  walk,  the  day  seemed  very  long; 
whereas,  formerly,  when  he  slept  longer,  he 
found  it  so  short.  In  order  to  pass  the  time, 
therefore,  he  went  into  the  weaving-room, 
where  at  that  hour  everybody  ought  to  have 
been  busy  at  work.  But  here  everything 
was  very  quiet  indeed  ;  for  the  journeymen 
and  apprentices,  counting  upon  the  sound 
sleep  of  their  master,  came  as  late  as  they 
chose  to.  How  astonished  and  indignant 
was  the  master  at  this!  and  how  scandal- 
ized were  his  work-people  as  he  each  day 
earlier  entered  the  workshop  !  Horsemen 
and  foot-passengers  had  ceased  to  swear  death 
to  the  ungovernable  Thasso,  but  now  the 
journeymen  and  apprentices  would  willingly 
have  poisoned  him;  for  they  well  saw 
that  he  alone  was  to  blame  for  the  master's 
early  visits.  But  Richwin  held  the  dog 
close  to  himself  day  and  night,  on  the  cor- 


rect theory  that  one  can  only  truly  educate 
an  animal  by  constantly  living  with  it. 

Of  course  this  living  together  had  its 
peculiar  disadvantages  in  the  salesroom. 
If  a  customer  entered,  Thasso  growled  and 
came  at  him.  If  the  customer  attempted  to 
take  the  purchased  goods  with  him,  the  dog 
was  not  to  be  held.  He  considered  a  pur- 
chase as  theft,  and  held  the  harmless  pur- 
chaser so  fast  that  only  the  master,  and  he 
with  difficulty,  could  break  his  hold.  It 
was  here  that  Master  Richwin,  as  instructor, 
employed  gentle  correctives.  Should  he 
beat  the  dog's  best  virtue,  watchfulness,  out 
of  him?  No!  He  would  merely  teach  him 
to  know  an  honest  purchaser  from  a  thief. 
When,  therefore,  a  customer  entered,  Rich- 
win  reached  him  very  cordially  his  right 
hand,  and  caressed  the  snarling  dog  with 
the  other,  and  in  his  further  conversation 
assumed  the  most  pleasant  and  cheerful 
tone,  that  the  dog  might  see  that  here  was 
a  friend  and  not  a  thief.  If  the  customer 
was  going  with  the  purchased  wares,  Rich- 
win  would  not  allow  him  to  carry  the  pack- 
age to  the  door  —  for  Thasso,  ready  to 
spring,  growled  ominously — but  carried  it  to 
the  sidewalk  himself,  not  without  misgiving 
back  glances  at  the  dog.  The  people 
stared  in  wonder,  and  could  not  compre- 
hend how  the  rudest  merchant  had  so  sud- 
denly become  the  most  polite ;  the  proudest 
man  the  most  obliging. 

One  day,  in  the  most  critical  moment, 
the  wild  horde  of  children  romped  through 
the  hall.  In  an  instant  the  whole  work 
was  undone.  Thasso  flew,  as  if  possessed, 
between  the  children  and  then  between  the 
customers'  legs,  as  if  he  would  make  up  for 
past  repressions  by  double  activity.  The 
children  fared  badly.  With  frightful  scold- 
ings they  were  sent  off  to  their  mother,  and 
next  day  the  two  boys  were  put  in  charge  of 
a  schoolmaster  noted  for  sharp  discipline. 
Running  and  playing  on  the  streets  was  now 
strictly  forbidden.  "They  have  seduced  the 
dog  into  a  thousand  vicious  tricks,"  urged 
Master  Richwin;  "and  how  is  it  possible, 
surrounded  with  such  wild  children,  to  edu- 
cate a  young  dog  ?"  He  decided  to  thence- 


1883.] 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


521 


forth  keep  his  young  profligates  severely 
in  hand,  so  that  the  dog  might  have  peace 
and  remain  unseduced. 

Mrs.  Eva  could  not  help  rejoicing  to  her 
husband  over  these  changes. 

"It  is  really  a  blessing,"  said  she,  "that 
you  go  to  morning  mass  again." 

"Why,  yes,  Eva;  the  dog  lies  there  like  a 
statue  when  I  kneel  in  the  portal." 

"And  since  you  have  become  so  obliging 
again,  the  customers  all  come  back." 

"Why,  of  course,  Eva;  the  dog  now  only 
growls  a  little  at  them,  and  he  has  no 
thought  of  biting." 

"And  our  children  too — they  visibly  im- 
prove since  you  keep  them  so  strictly." 

"Certainly,  Eva;  it  was  the  ruin  of  the 
dog  that  he  always  saw  such  bad  examples 
in  the  children." 

"And  how  pleasant  it  is,  Gerhard,  that 
you  again  speak  so  many  kindly  words  to 
me." 

"Indeed,  dear  Eva,  since  you  now  speak 
so  kindly  of  the  dog" — she  had  not  men- 
tioned the  dog  at  all — "how  can  I  be  other- 
wise than  thankful  to  you?" 

"  Master  Richwin,"  thought  Mrs.  Eva  to 
herself,  "trains  Thasso,  but  does  not  sus- 
pect that  Thasso  trains  Master  Richwin  still 
more";  and  for  the  first  time  cast  a  friendly 
glance  at  Thasso,  and  patted  him  on  the 
head.  That  sealed  the  new  peace  in  the 
household. 

But  in  spite  of  the  great  progress  Thasso 
made  in  his  master's  training  and  his  mis- 
tress's favor,  the  old  impulses  would  often 
break  out.  Yet  a  strange  instinct  gov- 
erned his  behavior.  He  seemed  to  dis- 
tinguish the  tradesman  from  the  patrician ; 
and  whenever  his  temper  took  free  course, 
it  was  sure  to  be  against  a  patrician.  As 
there  are-  dogs  who  allow  no  beggar  or 
tramp  to  pass  without  yelping,  so  Thasso 
would  not  see  a  well-dressed  patrician 
strutting  or  prancing  by  without  the  old 
Adam  within  him  waking. 

After  the  day's  work  Master  Richwin  was 
wont  to  stroll  through  the  streets,  now 
thronged  with  people,  in  order  that  the  dog, 
freed  from  the  cord,  might  confirm  the 


lessons  he  had  learned  in  the  morning's  soli- 
tude under  restraint.  Thasso  slunk  de- 
murely at  his  master's  heels.  A  patrician 
skipped  mincingly  across  the  square.  In 
an  instant  Thasso  sprang  at  him.  No  call- 
ing, no  whistling  availed.  He,  as  if  in  a  fit 
of  madness,  completely  forgot  the  sober 
lesson  of  the  morning,  and  only  came  creep- 
ing back  to  his  enraged  master,  crest-fallen, 
humbly  wagging  his  tail,  and  suing  for  par- 
don, after  he  had  torn  off  half  of  the  pa- 
trician's long  coat-sleeve. 

The  next  day  Master  Richwin  sent,  as 
restitution  to  the  injured  party,  his  own  coat 
of  state  with  the  flowing  sleeves.  "  How 
could  I  be  such  a  fop,"  cried  he,  "as  to 
wear  so  absurd  a  coat?  Must  not  the  long 
fluttering  strips  of  cloth  and  the  innumer- 
able ribbons  and  strings  tempt  any  dog  to 
snap  at  them?"  Henceforth  he  regarded 
the  sumptuous  clothes  and  affected  manners 
of  the  aristocracy  with  disgust,  and  dressed 
in  the  plainest  garb  of  a  burgher.  There- 
upon Richwin  thought  that  the  patricians 
regarded  him  with  particularly  contemptu- 
ous glances  whenever  he  passed  along  the 
street  with  his  pupil  attached  to  a  cord,  or 
when  the  freed  Thasso  closed  his  ears  to  all 
remonstrances  and  was  only  brought  back 
to  duty  by  a  vigorous  assault  with  stones. 
How  mockingly  had  that  aristocratic  young 
lady  laughed  the  other  day,  when,  as  he  salut- 
ed her  with  a  profound  bow,  Thasso,  strain- 
ing with  all  his  might  to  reach  a  post  near 
by,  came  near  changing  the  bow  into  a  fall ! 
And  were  not  the  aristocracy  at  all  times  the 
most  insolent  when  Thasso  still  occasionally 
sprang  at  their  horses?  How  patiently,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  tradespeople  put  up 
with  his  pranks  as  they  rode  leisurely  by ! 

So  here,  too,  Thasso  brought  that  about 
which  no  human  being  had  been  able  to  do. 
With  his  check-cord,  he  drew  his  master 
quite  gently  from  neutrality  to  partisanship 
with  the  bitterest  guild  faction. 

And  this  was  an  accomplished  and  notori- 
ous fact  by  the  time  the  tradespeople  and 
mechanics  of  Wetzlar  set  out  on  their  annual 
visit  to  the  fair  at  Frankfort,  on  Easterday, 
1368.  The  troop,  which  was  large  and 


522 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


[IX  ov. 


stately,  remained  closely  together  during 
their  march  thither  through  the  Wetterau, 
as  a  precaution  against  the  attacks  of  rob- 
bers. The  aristocracy  were  in  the  habit  of 
riding  with  the  people  from  their  town;  and 
Master  Richwin,  mounted  on  his  spirited 
steed,  had  before  preferred  to  ride  in  their 
company  to  that  of  the  tradespeople,  who, 
either  afoot  or  on  sorry  old  nags,  brought 
up  the  rear.  But  to-day  he  allowed  his 
horse  to  go  with  the  pack-horses  the  greater 
part  of  the  way,  and  walked  with  the  guilds. 
He  could  manage  Thasso,  who  trotted  at  his 
side,  and  keep  him  in  hand  better,  than  if  he 
was  on  horseback.  His  guild  colleagues 
were  delighted  with  this  condescension  of 
the  proud  citizen,  in  allowing  the  finest  horse 
to  go  with  the  pack-horses  in  order  to  go 
on  foot  with  them.  Many  a  flattering  word 
was  said  to  him,  and  the  eloquence  of  the 
leaders,  which  formerly  had  prevailed  so 
little  with  Richwin,  now  found  the  best  re- 
ception. By  the  time  the  troop  reached  the 
ferry  at  Friedeberg,  and  saw  below  the 
towers  of  Frankfort,  he  was  sworn  and  ini- 
tiated into  the  league  of  the  guilds  against 
the  aristocracy.  Johann  Kodinger,  the 
leader  of  the  league,  thankfully  shook  his 
hand  and  cried,  "Ah,  Master  Richwin! 
how  much  better  a  man  you  have  become! 
yes,  now  only,  quite  a  man,  and  that  too 
within  the  short  time  between  Ash  Wednes- 
day and  Easter." 

Gerhard  Richwin  started  as  from  a  dream, 
and  replied:  "Why,  certainly;  I  knew  that 
the  dog  was  of  noble  breed,  and  that  he  only 
needed  the  right  training.  Yes,  Master 
Kodinger,  there  is  nothing  like  thorough, 
patient,  and  systematic  training:  it  will  sub- 
due even  a  brute.  But  Thasso  may  be  dis- 
charged from  restraint,  and  shall  be  as  soon 
as  we  return  to  Wetzlar." 

The  storm  had  broken  loose  in  Wetzlar; 
the  patricians  were  expelled,  the  guilds  had 
the  field  and  ruled  the  city.  In  the  conflict 
Master  Richwin  had  surpassed  his  fellow- 
citizens  in  zeal  and  perseverance.  He  was 
strong  through  his  austerity  towards  himself 
and  others,  and  through  his  implacable 
hatred  against  the  patricians.  His  fellow- 


citizens    were    amazed    over    the    changed 
man. 

The  new  council,  now  purely  democratic, 
having  been  organized  from  the  guilds,  the 
people's  choice  fell  upon  Master  Richwin. 
As  late  as  a  year  ago,  even,  when  yet  he 
cared  nothing  for  the  common  weal,  it  was 
the  fondest  dream  of  his  life  to  become  a 
member  of  council.  To-day,  after  a  long 
and  bitter  struggle,  and  incessant  labor  for 
the  city,  he  refused  to  be  one.  No  one 
could  divine  the  cause,  and  everybody  be- 
sieged him  to  take  his  seat  in  the  council, 
or  at  least  to  give  his  reasons  for  declining. 

After  some  hesitation  and  many  evasive 
answers,  he  finally  said :  "The  ground  may 
seem  childish  to  you.  To  me  it  is  weighty 
and  serious.  I  cannot  sit  in  the  council 
daily  in  these  troublous  times,  because  I 
may  not  take  my  dog  with  me.  If  I  leave 
him  at  home  alone,  all  the  evil  which  for- 
merly troubled  my  house  will  come  over  it 
again.  I  may  well  say  'the  dog  has  finished 
his  education,'  but  who  ever  ceases  to  learn? 
No  one,  and  certainly  no  dog.  If  I  were  to 
leave  Thasso  with  my  apprentices  a  single 
day,  he  would  immediately  relapse,  and  I 
feel  sure  that  in  such  case  I  too  would  give 
way  to  old  habits.  We  both  are  still  some- 
what frail,  and  may  not  lose  sight  of  each 
other  for  the  present.  In  the  vestibule  of 
the  church  I  can  hear  the  mass  read  quite 
as  well  as  in  the  nave,  and  the  dog  stays  by 
my  side.  As  a  councilor,  however,  I  cannot 
always  remain  standing  in  the  doorway  of 
the  council-room.  Do  not  take  my  reasons 
for  a  whim.  I  foster  the  superstitious  belief 
that  my  house  will  only  stand  secure  when 
Thasso  shall  have  become  completely  trained. 
As  yet  I  cannot  leave  him  to  himself.  And 
how  could  I  undertake  to  help  prop  our 
tottering  commonwealth  as  long  as  my  own 
house  totters  even  more?" 

After  this  explanation,  which  seemed  to 
some  serious  and  to  others  ridiculous,  his 
fellow-councilors  decided  to  confer  upon 
Thasso,  alone  of  all  the  dogs  in  the  city,  the 
right  to  a  seat  in  the  council-chamber,  under 
the  chair  of  his  master,  with  the  reservation, 
however,  that  this  right  should  be  forfeited 


1883.] 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


523 


if  he  should  raise  his  voice  in  the  confer- 
ence. 

After  some  hesitation,  Master  Richwin 
submitted  to  the  will  of  his  fellow-burghers, 
and  appeared  punctually  with  Thasso  at  the 
town  hall.  The  latter  the  Wetzlarites 
thenceforth  called  the  "Mute  Councilor," 
and  mute  he  remained  indeed.  For  years 
he  attended  the  council  meetings,  and  never 
violated  the  condition  of  his  privilege. 

In  the  streets  he  no  more  troubled  any 
one  with  his  tricks.  Apparently  he  had 
outgrown  his  years  of  indiscretion,  and 
walked,  as  became  a  large  dog,  at  the  heels 
of  his  master,  sedate  and  dignified,  and  as  if 
he  knew  the  privilege  conferred  uj^on  him 
above  all  other  dogs  in  the  city. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Master  Richwin, 
one  day  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  walked  in 
the  fields  hard  by  the  city  moat,  which 
separated  the  city  boundary  from  a  forest 
belonging  to  the  Count  Solms.  Thasso 
trotted  peacefully  near  him.  Suddenly 
the  dog  disappeared.  Richwin  looked  for 
him  in  all  directions,  called,  and  whistled. 
The  dog  came  not.  Presently  there  was  a 
rustling  and  crackling  in  the  thicket  beyond 
the  ditch,  and  the  next  instant  a  stately  deer 
broke  from  cover,  followed  by  Thasso  in 
eager  pursuit.  When  he  saw  the  open  field 
and  the  man  before  him,  he  turned,  and  dash- 
ing the  dog  aside  with  a  vicious  thrust  of  his 
horns,  fled  back  into  the  thicket  amid  the 
rustling  and  crashing  of  leaves  and  twigs. 
But  Thasso  recovered  himself  from  his 
momentary  discomfiture  and  flew  after  him 
as  if  possessed,  and  soon  there  was  nothing 
to  be  heard  but  the  rustling  and  snapping  of 
leaves  and  twigs  and  the  dog  giving  tongue 
in  the  distance.  Poor  Richwin  whistled 
until  his  lips  were  parched,  and  called  him- 
self hoarse  in  vain.  All  his  fine  training 
had  vanished  before  Thasso's  hunting  fervor. 
Twice  he  drove  the  deer  towards  him  to  the 
ditch,  as  if  to  bring  him  within  range  of  a 
gun,  and  twice  the  deer  broke  to  cover 
again. 

But  the  third  time  one  of  Count  Solms's 
gamekeepers  emerged  from  the  woods  and 
raised  his  cross-bow,  not,  however,'  at  the 


deer,  but  at  the  dog.  "For  shame!"  cried 
Richwin;  "you  who  are  a  hunter  would 
shoot  the  noblest  dog,  who  after  all  is  only 
moved  by  a  passion  for  the  chase,  like  your- 
self!" 

Struck  with  these  words,  and  no  less  by 
the  beauty  of  the  noble  struggling  dog,  the 
forester  lowered  his  cross-bow  and  approach- 
ing the  citizen,  he  retorted,  "That  dog  is 
forfeit  to  me  because  he  is  hunting  in  my 
master's,  the  Count's,  preserves.  Follow  me 
to  the  Count  with  the  dog,  and  if  he  chooses 
to  take  him  into  his  own  pack,  his  life  may 
be  saved."  Richwin  naturally  resisted,  but 
the  gamekeeper  held  him  fast,  and  as  the 
burgher  struggled  violently  to  free  himself, 
slashed  him  with  his  hunting-knife  across 
the  arm.  In  the  same  moment  the  game- 
keeper was  seized  from  behind  by  Thasso 
and  dragged  to  the  ground;  for  as  soon  as 
the  animal  saw  his  master's  danger,  his  love 
for  the  chase  gave  way  to  a  fidelity  which 
comes  not  from  training.  Several  citizens 
of  Wetzlar,  hearing  the  tumult,  also  hastened 
to  the  spot,  liberated  the  gamekeeper  from 
the  dog,  and  led  him  a  prisoner  back  to 
town,  because  he  had  drawn  upon  and 
wounded  a  citizen  within  the  city's  limits. 
Since  their  victory  over  the  aristocracy,  the 
burghers  had  become  rather  pugnacious,  and 
did  not  fear  a  new  conflict. 

The  city  council,  however,  were  greatly 
perplexed,  and  knew  not  what  to  do  with 
the  Count's  gamekeeper.  Richwin  was  able 
to  attend  the  council  meeting  in  which  the 
critical  occurrence  was  discussed  the  next 
day  with  his  arm  in  a  sling.  The  council- 
ors, Thasso  excepted,  were  greatly  excited. 
He  lay  comfortably  stretched  out  under  his 
master's  chair,  as  if  the  thing  did  not  con- 
cern him.  Still  his  life  hung  upon  the  issue, 
and  he  found  but  few  to  intercede  for  him. 
In  spite  of  the  general  esteem  in  which  this 
mute  councilor  stood,  it  seemed  now  as  if 
he  must  be  sacrificed  in  the  interests  of  the 
city's  foreign  policy. 

At  that  time,  namely,  1372,  a  lawless 
band  of  knights,  called  the  "Sterners,"  dev- 
astated the  neighboring  district,  and  in  an- 
ticipation of  trouble,  the  citizens  of  Wetzlar 


524 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


[Nov. 


made  secret  preparations  for  open  battle. 
But  the  Sterners  counted  among  their  com- 
panions many  counts,  knights, -and  squires; 
whereas,  the  city  had  few  friends,  and  it  was 
very  inopportune,  just  at  this  time,  to  pro- 
voke so  powerful  and  warlike  a  neighbor  as 
Count  Johannes  von  Solms,  of  whom  it  was 
yet  uncertain  whether  in  the  coming  strug- 
gle he  would  take  part  with  or  against  the 
Sterners. 

When,  therefore,  a  member  of  the  council 
argued  that  the  gamekeeper  was  in  the  right, 
many  heads  nodded  assent;  and  when  he 
added  that  if  the  Count  demanded  the  liber- 
ation of  his  servant,  and  that  the  dog  be  de- 
livered over  to  him,  they  would  not  dare  to 
refuse  compliance,  the  majority  concurred; 
and  some  thought  that  Thasso  had  formerly 
created  enough  mischief  as  it  was,  and  that 
it  would  be  very  impolitic  to  allow  him  now 
to  set  Count  Solms  at  the  city. 

Thasso  remained  motionless,  and  merely 
cast  an  inquiring  glance  about  him  at  the 
mention  of  his  name.  But  his  master  rose 
from  his  seat.  He  said : 

"If  the  Count  really  is  the  sly  fox  we 
suppose  him  to  be,  he  will  not  turn  against 
us  on  account  of  the  dog.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  is  now  opposed  to  us,  we  cannot 
buy  him  over  with  the  present  of  a  dog. 
The  man  knows  well  enough  where  his  in- 
terests lie,  and  casts  his  net  for  more  im- 
portant things  than  deer  and  dog.  If  the 
trespass  on  the  preserves  is  to  be  atoned 
for,  I  am  prepared  to  pay  in  good  gold 
treble  the  value  of  the  deer  and  dog.  But 
I  will  surrender  the  dog  to  no  man.  Rather 
than  that,  I  would  stab  him  to  death  on  the 
spot!  You  do  not  know  how  much  I  owe 
to  this,  God's  irrational  creature,  which  at 
the  same  time  has  been  God's  visible  means 
of  working  upon  me.  If  it  is  not  God's 
will,  his  most  pious  preachers  cannot  con- 
vert us;  and  if  it  is  his  will,  a  dog  can  do  it. 
This  dog  has  brought  order  to  my  business, 
good  behavior  to  my  children,  and  domestic 
peace  to  my  wife.  He  has  shown  me  the 
way  to  my  friends  and  guild  associates,  the 
way  to  church,  and  the  way  to  the  council- 
chamber.  Whilst  I  imagined  that  I  was 


educating  the  dog,  the  dog  educated  me 
much  more.  My  wife  frequently  told  me 
so,  and  I  considered  it  pleasant  raillery. 
But  now,  when  you  would  take  from  me  my 
dog,  I  feel  that  it  is  bitter  reality." 

These  few  words  were  all,  but  Richwin 
spake  them  with  tearful  eyes ;  and  Thasso, 
who  saw  his  master's  emotion,  rose  up  slowly, 
touched  him  several  times  with  his  fore  paw, 
and  licked  his  hand,  as  if  to  comfort  him  in 
his  sorrow. 

It  had  become  quite  still  in  the  council- 
chamber;  one  could  hear  a  breath.  A  ser- 
vant thrust  his  head  in  at  the  door  and 
announced  a  messenger  from  Count  Solms. 
The  bprghers  were  greatly  alarmed  and 
feared  the  worst.  The  message  was  there- 
fore all  the  more  surprising. 

The  Count  had  heard  with  regret  that  one 
of  his  servants  had  struck,  even  wounded, 
a  burgher  of  Wetzlar  upon  so  slight  a  prov- 
ocation. But  he  begged  that,  for  the  sake 
of  good  neighborship,  the  servant  might  be 
set  at  liberty;  that  he — the  Count — waived 
all  claims  to  damages  for  trespass  upon  his 
preserves,  and,  that  the  town  might  know 
how  friendly  he  felt,  he  sent  herewith  to  the 
honorable  council  a  deer  shot  by  himself, 
which,  he  believed,  they  would  find  to  be 
quite  as  good  as  the  one  which  had  been 
chased  by  and  escaped  from  the  dog;  and, 
in  order  that  the  wine  might  not  be  missing 
at  the  feast,  he  also  added  a  small  cask  of 
Bacherach. 

The  council  were  mute  with  joyful  sur- 
prise on  seeing,  instead  of  the  dreaded 
storm,  such  clear  sunshine  break  so  sudden- 
ly upon  them.  They  said  many  polite  things 
to  the  messenger,  and  congratulated  Master 
Richwin,  together  with  Thasso,  upon  the 
fortunate  result.  But  Richwin,  raising  his 
powerful  voice  above  the  confused  hum  and 
bustle  in  the  room,  begged  that,  before  an 
answer  was  returned,  the  messenger  should 
be  requested  to  retire  a  few  moments,  and 
that  they  would  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  Mistrust  the  sweet  words  of  the  Count !'.' 
cried  he.  "Had  he  offered  us  his  enmity, 
I  should  not  have  been  alarmed ;  but  as  he 
offers  us  his  friendship,  I  tremble.  He  does 


1883.] 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


525 


not  give  us  the  deer  for  nothing.  We  can 
well  do  without  the  Count.  His  cousin, 
Otto  of  Braunfels,  and  the  landgrave  Her- 
mann of  Hesse  are  far  more  valuable  confed- 
erates. But  Count  Johann  needs  us.  If 
he  once  has  our  little  finger,  he  will  soon 
have  us  altogether.  Thasso,  Thasso!  you 
have  wrought  us  great  evil;  not  because 
you  drove  the  Count's  deer  into  the  city's 
field,  but  because  you  drove  this  deer  into 
the  kitchen  of  the  town  hall  of  Wetzlar. 
I  beseech  you,  worthy  friends,  to  politely  de- 
cline the  present,  demand  our  right,  and 
give  the  Count  his.  Send  back  the  deer  and 
retain  the  gamekeeper  until  the  Count  shall 
have  made  atonement  for  the  insolence  of 
his  servant — " 

Here  he  was  interrupted  with  the  reproach 
that  he  carried  his  resentment  for  the  slight 
wound  too  far,  and  that  he  was  not  even  to 
be  appeased  by  the  exhibition  of  the  Count's 
bounty  and  good  will.  But  Richwin  re- 
plied : 

"  If  I  spake  for  myself  only,  I  should  be 
the  most  satisfied  with  the  Count's  proposal, 
principally  on  account  of  my  dog.  But  I 
speak  here  as  a  councilor  of  the  imperial 
city,  and  say,  '  Demand  our  right  and  give 
the  Count  his!'  The  dog  is  forfeit  to  the 
Count,  because  he  trespassed  upon  his  pre- 
serves ;  the  gamekeeper  is  forfeit  to  us,  be- 
cause he  broke  the  peace  of  the  city.  Out 
of  fear  of  the  Count's  wrath,  I  would  not 
surrender  the  dog,  my  most  faithful  friend ; 
but  out  of  fear  of  his  friendship,  I  deliver 
him.  When,  a  moment  ago,  I  spoke  as  the 
dog's  intercessor,  I  could  have  wept  for  the 
poor  animal.  But  now,  as  I  speak  as  advo- 
cate for  our  commonwealth,  I  could  weep 
more  bitter  tears,  not  for  the  dog — he  is 
nothing  to  me — but  for  the  ruin  which  is 
stealthily  approaching  my  poor  native  city." 

Richwin  talked  to  the  wind ;  he  remained 
alone  in  his  suspicions.  The  present  was 
accepted  with  thanks,  and  a  suitable  return 
made.  The  gamekeeper  was  set  at  lib- 
erty, and  Count  Solms  speedily  became 
what  he  desired  to  be,  the  recognized  friend 
and  ally  of  the  city  and  its  council. 

When  the  deer  was  served  up  at  a  feast 


and  the  wine  duly  drunken,  Master  Richwin 
remained  moodily  at  home,  and  Thasso  got 
not  even  a  bone  of  the  game  which  he  had 
hunted  into  the  council-kitchen. 

This  happened  in  the  year  1372.  In  the 
following  year  the  sanguinary  battle  was 
fought  outside  of  the  Upper  Gate  of  Wetzlar, 
in  which  the  Sterner  League  was  annihilated. 
The  burghers  fought  under  the  leadership  of 
Count  Johannes  von  Solms,  their  wives  de- 
fending the  gates,  whilst  the  men  fought  in 
the  open  field.  The  landgrave  of  Hesse 
and  Otto  of  Solms-Braunfels  divided  with 
them  the  honor  of  the  day.  Master  Rich- 
win  was  also  present. 

The  same  evening  after  the  battle,  Count 
Otto  ordered  the  knights  of  the  Sterner 
League  who  had  fallen  into  his  hands  to 
be  beheaded.  Count  Johann,  on  the  con- 
trary, pardoned  the  rest  without  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  comrades. 

"  Beware  ! "  said  Master  Richwin  to  his 
fellow-burghers.  "  A  new  sign  of  warning  ! 
Count  Johann  is  playing  a  double  game,  and 
keeps  his  way  clear  to  the  right  and  left." 

But  the  burghers  did  not  heed  his  words, 
saying  he  imitated  his  dog  much  too  closely; 
because  Thasso  had  ceased  to  play,  pre- 
ferring to  snarl  and  bite  instead,  Richwin 
thought  he  must  also  snarl  and  bite ;  that 
he  was  as  capricious  now  as  he  ever  had 
been,  and  hated  Count  Solms,  who  had 
brought  them  so  much  glory,  for  no  appar- 
ent reason ;  that  his  love  and  hatred  were 
governed  by  his  caprice  and  fancy,  as  they 
always  had  been.  Soon  the  townfolks  com- 
pletely turned  their  backs  upon  him.  In 
the  council  meetings  now  he  sat  as  silent  as 
the  mute  councilor  under  his  chair.  If  he 
spoke  a  word,  it  was  one  of  warning  against 
the  excessive  friendship  of  Count  Johannes, 
who  lured  them  on  as  gently  as  a  bird- 
catcher  lures  the  birds  before  he  springs  the 
trap.  Frequently,  too,  Master  Richwin  did 
not  appear  at  the  council,  especially  if  he 
knew  that  Count  Johannes  was  coming  to 
proffer  some  new  service ;  for  it  seemed  as 
if,  in  addition  to  the  adopted  mute  council- 
or under  the  chair,  the  Count  had  also  been 
adopted  a  councilor,  but  not  as  a  mute  one. 


526 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


[Nov. 


The  only  time  that  Richwin  sat  in  the 
council  together  with  the  Count,  Thasso 
growled  so  terribly  at  every  word  the  Count 
uttered  that  his  master  was  compelled  to 
lead  him  out  lest  he  might  forfeit  his  privi- 
lege. Richwin  excused  the  dog,  upon  the 
plea  that  since  his  scuffle  with  the  game- 
keeper he  could  not  bear  to  see  the  Count's 
colors,  and  gave  this  as  the  most  plausible 
reason  for  remaining  away  himself  whenever 
the  Count  was  present;  and  without  the  dog 
he  absolutely  refused  to  go  to  the  town 
hall. 

"Richwin  carries  this  whim  too  far,"  said 
the  burghers,  and  made  lampoons  upon  the 
now  unpopular  man.  A  very  funny  illus- 
trated sheet,  with  many  rhymes,  was  circu- 
lated, in  which  the  mutual  adventures  of 
Master  Thasso  and  Master  Richwin  were 
portrayed  true  to  nature,  and  which  bore  the 
following  superscription : 

"  Scholar  and  teacher  Thasso  must  be, 
His  master  is  trained  as  well  as  he." 

Master  Richwin  paid  little  heed  to  this. 
He  quietly  devoted  himself  to  his  flourish- 
ing business,  and  let  happen  what  he  could 
not  prevent.  It  was  not  the  least  important 
service  Thasso  had  rendered  his  master  in 
teaching  him  by  many  unruly  pranks  to  be 
patient,  and  to  suppress  his  too  great  sensi- 
tiveness. 

So  two  years  passed  away  again.  One 
day  in  midsummer,  Master  Richwin  was 
suddenly  summoned  to  the  town  hall.  He 
must  come,  said  the  messenger,  without  fail; 
no  excuse  would  be  accepted  this  time; 
Count  Johannes  was  there  with  a  message 
from  the  emperor.  Richwin  started;  a 
message  from  the  emperor !  That  certainly 
was  an  important  matter.  Nevertheless,  he 
declared  that  he  could  not  come ;  that  his 
dog  would  certainly  growl  and  bark  when 
the  Count  read  the  imperial  message,  as  the 
dog,  in  spite  of  all  his  intelligence,  could 
not  distinguish  between  the  emperor's  word 
and  the  Count's  voice,  and  might,  so  to 
speak,  growl  at  his  Imperial  Majesty;  and 
without  the  dog  he  would  not  go  to  the 
council.  Even  Mrs.  Eva  tried  to  persuade 


her  husband  to  go,  but  he  was  not  to  be 
moved.  A  second  messenger  declared  that 
Richwin  must  come,  with  or  without  the  dog, 
whether  he  liked  to  or  not;  that  the  council 
must  be  complete  this  time,  as  the  honor 
and  dignity  of  the  city  were  at  stake. 

This  importunity  aroused  Richwin's  sus- 
picion. But  the  honor  and  dignity  of  the 
city  were  at  stake.  He  therefore  called  the 
apprentice  to  chain  up  the  dog,  and  prepared 
to  go.  He  almost  shuddered  at  the  thought 
of  entering  the  council-chamber  for  the  first 
time  without  Thasso. 

The  apprentice,  coming  in  from  the  street 
to  secure  the  dog,  whispered  to  Richwin, 
greatly  excited.  "Master,"  said  he,  "very 
unusual  things  are  taking  place  in  the  streets ; 
it  is  good  that  you  have  not  gone  yet.  Be- 
hind the  town  hall  armed  men  are  stand- 
ing, probably  more  than  a  hundred;  and 
behind  these  men  old  familiar  faces  peer 
forth,  the  faces  of  patricians,  which,  the 
people  say,  have  a  striking  resemblance  to 
several  gentlemen  of  the  old  council  who 
were  expelled  seven  years  ago.  The  servants 
of  Count  Solms,  too.  are  pressing  on  towards 
the  city  gates,  as  if  to  cut  off  retreat." 

Master  Richwin  turned  pale,  but  quickly 
recovering  himself,  said  to  his  wife :  "Take 
the  children,  the  apprentices,  and'  the  two 
caskets  containing  the  money  and  jewelry  ; 
make  your  way  secretly  to  the  mill  on  the 
river  Lahn.  There  is  a  small  wicket-gate 
which  is  probably  open  yet ;  outside  the 
gate  is  a  boat ;  detach  it  and  cross  over  to 
the  other  side.  But  for  God's  sake,  avoid 
the  large  bridge  and  the  main  gates !  Once 
safely  over,  take  the  footpath  and  hasten  to 
Giessen.  There,  if  it  please  God,  I  will  re- 
join you." 

He  urged  the  questioning  wife,  and  she 
tremblingly  obeyed.  He  seized  Thasso's 
chain  with  the  left  hand,  but  with  the  right 
held,  not  the  whip,  as  he  was  wont,  but  his 
sword,  and  went,  not  to  the  town  hall,  but 
to  the  market  square. 

On  arriving  there  he  found  the  citizens 
already  in  arms,  and  assembled  by  the  hun- 
dreds. But  the  town  hall,  too,  was  already 
surrounded  by  a  large  force  of  strange 


1883.] 


The  Mute  Councilor. 


527 


knights  and  troopers.  Richwin  picked  his 
way  cautiously  to  the  rear  ranks  of  the  citi- 
zens, who,  anticipating  danger,  had  hastened 
thither  to  defend  the  council.  But  before 
the  citizens  stood  Count  Johann  of  Solms, 
in  glittering  armor,  surrounded  by  twenty 
knights,  the  imperial  insignia  in  his  hand, 
and  proclaimed  that  he  had  come  in  the 
name  of  the  emperor  to  establish  peace  be- 
tween the  banished  aristocracy  and  the  new 
council.  No  harm  should  befall  any  one, 
and  least  of  all,  his  good  friends  the  coun- 
cilors in  the  council-chamber.  A  peaceable 
atonement  for  what  had  taken  place  was  all 
he  asked,  in  the  name  of  the  emperor.  A 
new  and  increased  prosperity  of  the  city,  an 
extension  of  the  citizens'  privileges,  would 
be  the  fruit  of  this  auspicious  day.  As  a 
true  friend  and  good  neighbor,  therefore,  he 
would  ask  them  to  lay  aside  their  arms, 
which  they  had  been  overhasty  in  taking  up 
to  defend  the  councilors,  for  there  was  not 
the  least  danger  threatening  them  at  the 
moment. 

"At  this  moment?  Yes!"  said  Richwin, 
to  those  near  him.  "But  whether  in  the 
next?  Keep  your  arms  until  the  councilors 
are  free  and  among  you  again." 

But  he  already  perceived  that  the  citizens 
in  the  front  ranks,  won  over  by  the  sweet 
words  of  the  Count,  put  up  their  swords 
and  carried  home  their  spears.  Those  to 
whom  Richwin  spoke  reproached  him,  and 
said  that  his  place  was  in  the  council-cham- 
ber instead  of  here  on  the  square,  and 
wished  to  know  whether  he  meant  to  remain 
the  same  snarling,  snapping  dog,  who  barked 
at  the  city's  best  friends,  and  set  the  citizens 
at  each  others'  ears. 

Richwin,  seeing  that  all  was  lost,  hastened 
to  leave  the  place,  and  had  barely  time  to 
reach  the  little  gate  on  the  Lahn,  whence 
his  wife  had  escaped;  and  as  the  boat  was 
yet  on  the  other  side,  he  plunged  into  the 
stream  with  his  dog  and  swam  to  the  oppo- 
site shore. 

After  a  few  hours'  travel,  he  rejoined  his 
family  and  found  a  secure  retreat  in  Hesse, 


for  the  landgrave  Hermann  had  become 
Count  Solms's  bitterest  enemy  after  the  battle 
near  Wetzlar,  for  having,  without  his  knowl- 
edge or  authority,  pardoned  the  Sterners 
who  fell  into  his  hands. 

But  by  and  by  a  strange  story  came  to 
Hesse  from  the  imperial  city  of  Wetzlar. 
After  Count  Solms  had  succeeded  in  flatter- 
ing the  burghers  to  lay  aside  their  arms,  he 
threw  the  council  into  the  tower  and  confis- 
cated their  property.  Three  of  the  number 
— Kodinger,  Dupel,  and  Vollbrecht — were 
beheaded;  two  others — Beyer  and  Hecker- 
strumpf — were  thrown  from  the  bridge  into 
the  Lahn,  by  the  Count's  retainers,  in  order 
to  save  the  executioner  the  trouble.  For 
the  sixth  man  in  the  council — Gerhard 
Richwin — whom  the  Count  hated  the  most 
bitterly,  they  had  proposed  hanging,  by  way 
of  variety.  But  in  Wetzlar,  as  in  Nuremberg, 
they  do  not  hang  a  man  until  they  have 
him.  And  so  the  old  aristocracy,  with 
whom  the  Count  had  long  ago  stood  in  secret 
alliance,  regained  their  former  ascendency 
over  the  city. 

Although  in  his  flight  Master  Richwin 
was  obliged  to  leave  the  best  part  of  his 
property  in  the  enemy's  hands,  he  still  had 
saved  enough  to  enable  him  to  purchase  the 
rights  of  citizenship  in  Frankfort  and  begin 
a  new  business  there.  When,  in  after  years, 
he  sat  in  comfort  and  security  with  his  wife 
beside  him,  and  his  faithful  Thasso,  now 
grown  old  and  gray,  at  his  feet,  he  was  wont 
to  say,  with  a  melancholy  glance  at  the 
"Mute  Councilor":  "God  forgive  me  for 
comparing  the  rearing  of  children  with  that 
of  dogs.  God  rewards  us  for  the  training  we 
give  to  our  children,  and  we  do  not  expect 
that  a  child  should  repay  us  in  full  for  the 
care  and  anxiety  he  causes  us.  But  this 
dog,  in  return  for  the  training  I  gave  him, 
trained  me;  and  for  the  many  unmerciful 
floggings  which  I  gave  him,  he  finally,  in 
1375,  saved  my  life.  Never  was  a  teacher 
recompensed  so  completely  and  quickly  as  I 
have  been  through  my  and  the  city  of 
Wetzlar's  'Mute  Councilor.'" 

A.  A.  Sargent. 


528  The  Queen  and  the  Flower. 


THE  QUEEN  AND  THE  FLOWER. 

DEAR,  can  you  form  conception  how  that  a  queen  might  wander 
Among  her  lovely  gardens  and  pleasant  woods  and  hills, 

And  know  they  all  were  hers,  all  the  trees  and  flowers  seeming 
To  listen  for  her  coming  with  joyous  sighs  and  thrills? 

The  passion-flowers  above  her  would  bend  to  touch  her  bosom; 

The  conquered  lilies  meekly  would  rise  her  hands  to  kiss; 
Like  blessings,  climbing  roses  shed  petal-showers  o'er  her; 

Because  her  robe  swept  by  them,  the  daisies  sway  in  bliss. 

The  golden  sun  in  heaven  would  flush  all  with  his  splendor, 
Which  upward  then  reflected  would  light  her  waving  hair; 

Soft  zephyrs  from  the  blossoms  would  steep  her  sense  in  perfume, 
All  beauty  round  would  heighten  because  she  lingered  there. 

And  now,  suppose  she  stands  where,  in  wild  and  rugged    sweetness, 

Like  opal-tinted  censer,  a  brier-blossom  hides; 
Forgets  she  all  around  her,  drops  all  her  hands  have  gathered, 

Upon  her  heart  to  nestle  desires  naught  else  besides. 

But,  ah!  'tis  far  beyond  her,  she  cannot  hope  to  grasp  it, 

E'en  the  attempt  would  give  her  but  bleeding  hands  and  torn; 

The  simple  flower  mocks  her;  for  queenly  fingers  never 

Were  meant  to  reach  in  thickets  'mid  sharp  and  tangled  thorn. 

What  cares  she  now  for  castles,  for  hills,  for  lawns,  for  forests, 
For  burning-hearted  gardens,  for  trees  of  waving  green? 

They're  hers,  indeed,  they  own  her — but  sovereignty,  what  is  it, 
When  just  to  this  sweet-brier  alone  she  is  not  queen? 

Ah!  if  I  were  a  queen  in  the  world  of  highest  beauty, 
A  kingdom  I  had  conquered  by  my  God-given  power, 

And  gained  from  men  true  praise,  from  women  love  and  worship, 
What  could  I  lack?     Why,  nothing — just  nothing  but — that  flower. 

O,  yes  !     Though  every  nation  should  speak  my  name  with  gladness, 
For  noble  words  and  actions  immortal  I  should  be — 

As  naught  were  glittering  honors  and  fadeless  wreaths  and  plaudits, 
If  one  heart,  true  and  precious,  for  sovereign  owned  not  me. 

Margaret  B.  Jfan'ey 


1883.] 


Yesterday,  To-day,  and  To-morrow. 


529 


YESTERDAY,    TO-DAY,    AND  TO-MORROW:    A   CALIFORNIA    MOSAIC. 


YESTERDAY  we  sat  upon  the  hills,  bask- 
ing in  the  soft  October  sunshine.  All  the 
glory  of  cloud-land  hung  over  us  and  lay 
about  us :  the  changing  foamy  shapes  meet- 
ing and  moving  so  swiftly,  that  before  one 
grotesque  outline  had  fairly  caught  the  eye 
it  was  gone  and  another  had  taken  its  place. 
The  marshes  and  mountains  underneath 
trembled  between  light  and  shade  as  the 
patches  of  gray  cloud  drifted  across  the  sky. 
A  fresh  wind  came  in  from  the  ocean  and 
roughened  the  long  stretch  of  salt  water. 
Nearly  always  blue,  the  bay  yesterday  took 
on  a  dark  green  sea-tint.  We  watched, 
carelessly,  the  white  sail  working  its  way 
down  the  winding  creek  with  the  tide. 

We  followed  a  dusty  road  winding  round 
the  hill,  and  peered  down  into  the  wooded 
ravines  below.  The  vagabond  longing  of 
summer  was  yet  upon  us.  Every  path  was 
a  persuasion.  It  was  so  easy  to  go  on  a 
little  farther,  and  who  could  tell  what 
secrets  of  wood-lore,  what  surprise  of  out- 
look, lay  just  beyond? 

Here  was  a  thread  of  water  trickling  from 
some  hidden  spring  down  a  channel  grown 
all  too  loose  for  its  shrunken  form ;  but  it 
was  good  to  see  even  this  withered  brook- 
let among  the  parched,  sunburned  hills.  I 
think  the  fainting  weeds  and  vines  from  all 
the  country  round  had  crawled  down  there 
to  drink.  The  water-grasses  and  trailing 
blackberry  leaves,  glossy  and  green,  and  the 
bits  of  autumn  bloom,  looked  curious  and 
alien  in  such  a  spot.  A  wounded  quail 
fluttered  up  as  we  came  near  the  bank,  and 
struggled  painfully  to  hide  himself  in  a 
brushy  cluster,  but  we  found  him  out  and 
carried  him  a  little  way,  selfishly  admiring 
his  bright  eyes  and  soldierly  crest  and  the 
soft  mottled  plumage,  rumpled  and  wet  now 
in  spots  where  the  blood  had  trickled  out 
from  his  wounded  leg.  Arcadius,  who 
thinks  it  inconsistent  with  his  manly  dignity 
to  make  any  sign  of  sympathy,  and  whose 
VOL.  II.— 34. 


sky  is  so  big  that  he  scorns  small  clouds, 
averred  stoutly  that  the  pretty  thing 'suffered 
no  pain;  but  I  heard  the  faint,  strained 
breath  and  saw  the  bright  eyes  close  slowly 
now  and  then,  and — I  knew  better. 

We  put  him  down  gently  in  a  tangled 
clump  of  weeds,  and  strolled  on  till  we 
found  the  end  of  the  had-been  stream. 
Here  was  a  spray  of  wild  roses,  faded  but  so 
sweet  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  held  not 
only  their  own  perfume,  but  also  the  fra- 
grance of  all  the  summer-time  roses,  whose 
aftermath  now  hung,  in  the  shape  of  clus- 
tered scarlet  berries,  on  every  stem. 

We  said,  "It  is  a  perfect  day,"  with  ex- 
aggeration of  enthusiasm  which  after  all 
amounted  to  nothing,  for  the  crowding  "of 
the  outward  eye  with  so  much  beauty  left 
the  inner  sense  still  unsatisfied.  The  sun- 
shine was  white  with  peace,  but  we  knew 
that  the  world  was  so  close  to  us  we  could 
almost  touch  it  with  outstretched  hand. 
We  had  even  brought  some  of  our  cares 
with  us  for  lack  of  other  knapsack.  It  was 
only  a  breathing  place,  this  quiet  First  Day, 
with  its  floating  cloud-castles  and  fair  earth- 
pictures.  We  had  not  time  to  still  the  rest- 
lessness and  numb  the  regret  that  came 
ever  and  anon:  regret  which  was  nameless 
perhaps,  but  none  the  less  poignant  for  that; 
unrest  which  would  lead  us  back  into  the 
same*paths  we  had  quitted  a  little  while  be- 
fore if  we  saw  no  new  ones  meanwhile. 

Even  the  incurious  Arcadius  asked  if  I 
thought  there  would  ever  come  a  to-morrow 
as  rare  as  this  to-day  which  was  infolding 
us  in  its  royal  arms.  Ah,  never  again, 
never  again!  And  if  it  should,  comrade 
mine,  we  should  see  it  with  other  eyes,  for 
life  holds  as  many  moods  as  days. 

But  this  is  the  last  caress  of  summer. 
All  these  sunshine  kisses  mean  "good  by." 
Does  she  hate  the  word  as  we  do?  We 
walk  slowly  down  the  rough,  bare  hillside, 
looking  back  for  glimpses  of  the  valley. 


530 


Yesterday,  To-day,  and  To-morrow. 


[Nov. 


The  oaks  look  stinted  and  dusty.  There  is 
a  pathos  in  this  long-drawn-out  summer  life, 
or  rather  "death  in  life."  We  almost  wish 
her  gone.  She  has  lived  too  long.  Surely 
we,  too,  will  wither  with  the  ferns  and 
blackened  grasses  if  she  lingers  many  days. 

Our  day  died  as  it  was  born,  without  a 
sigh  or  sob.  There  was  no  twilight,  but 
while  we  waited  to  see  the  light  fade  out  of 
the  sky,  the  moon  climbed  over  the  hills 
and  played  hide-and-seek  behind  the  white 
sails  of  the  great  cloud-ships.  And  by  and 
by  Arcadius  said  good  by  and  trudged 
away  in  the  moonlight,  to  find  all  the 
friendly  to-morrows  that  I  trust  are  coming 
to  meet  him  from  No-man's  Land. 

To-day  I  wake  to  find  the  sky  all  dark 
and  troubled.  The  air  is  sweet  and  damp 
with  outdoor  smells.  First  a  fine  mist 
spreads  over  our  valley  to  say,  "You  shall 
stay  at  home  to-day" — for  I  had  planned  a 
journey  over  night — then  the  drops  grow 
larger,  thicker,  apd  at  last  it  is  raining  in 
earnest. 

There  is  no  pleasure,  there  is  no  content, 
like  to  that  which  comes  with  the  first 
autumn  rain.  I  long  to  be  out  in  the  thick- 
est of  it;  I  risk  an  influenza  by  rushing  here 
and  there  on  useless  errands.  A  big  drop 
falls  on  my  nose;  it  sends  a  childish  sensa- 
tion of  delight  all  over  me.  I  stand  in  the 
open  doorway  and  drink  the  fresh  air,  envy- 
ing the  birds  that  dart  hither  and  thither, 
and  my  draggled  collie,  who  is  galloping 
over  the  moist  fields  snuffing  at  every  root 
and  burrow.  The  gray  trunks  of  the  old 
trees  are  washed  off  clean  once  more,  and 
have  put  on  beauty  spots  of  moss — bright 
green,  soft,  velvety — nothing  could  be  more 
enchanting.  The  foliage  seems  twice  as 
thick  as  it  did  a  day  or  two  ago,  now  that 
the  leaves  darken  and  freshen  in  the  rain. 
Spirals  of  blue  smoke  rise  among  them  from 
the  burning  stumps  and  piles  of  brush ;  the 
smell  of  the  smoldering  wood  and  dead 
leaves  is  wafted  like  incense  to  my  grateful 
nostrils.  The  flames  that  leap  up  here  and 
there  look  cheery  and  hospitable.  I  like  to 
be  in  the  midst  of  burning  things — especial- 


ly when  they  represent  nature's  cast-off 
slough.  I  cannot  mourn  over  the  beauty 
and  freshness  these  roots  and  stems  once 
held.  I  cast  them  into  the  fire,  exultantly 
crying,  "Make  room,  make  room";  for  this 
holocaust  of  the  year  means  rest  and  re- 
newal. How  I  wish  that  we,  too,  could 
brown  and  wither  like  the  hollow  stalks,  and 
afterward  be  provided  with  such  pleasant 
cremation  as  they  undergo.  And  then  fair 
young  bodies  would  spring  from  our  ashes. 

The  most  prosaic  objects  assume  a  pic- 
turesqueness  in  this  somber  light.  Blue- 
coated  old  Shun,  mahogany-faced,  melan- 
choly— piling  wood  on  the  hillside  or  plod- 
ding back  and  forth  to  toss  a  stray  branch 
into  the  fire — makes  an  artistic  bit  in  the 
background.  He  might  stand  for  the 
genius  of  Industry  as  he  goes  on  his  way, 
unheeding  the  showers  that  follow  fast  on 
each  other's  heels.  The  wheelbarrow  atilt 
against  one  tree-trunk,  a  couple  of  ladders 
leaning  tipsily  on  another,  the  empty  kennels, 
a  stray  bench  with  its  legs  in  the  air,  as  if  it 
had  got  on  its  back  and  could  not  get  up 
again — all  blend  in  rude  harmony  with  the 
shadowed  picture.  Even  the  wood-pile  takes 
on  a  different  guise  and  seems  a  charming 
piece  of  architecture.  The  rustic  seat  where 
I  spent  all  one  beautiful,  idle  day  scribbling 
and  dreaming  looks  as  if  it,  too,  were 
bursting  forth  with  mossy  covers.  The 
thirsty  garden  things  perk  themselves  up,  in- 
toxicated with  this  glad  weather,  like  other 
folk.  The  orchard's  brown  and  yellow  and 
russet  leaves  flutter  and  gleam  when  the 
narrow  shafts  of  light  break  through  the 
clouds,  and  the  clumps  of  poison-oak  turn 
brighter  vermilion. 

I  hear  the  muffled  roar  of  the  far-off  surf, 
the  voices  of  children  at  play  higher  up  the 
valley,  the  call  of  the  quail  in  the  edge  of  the 
field.  My  cup  of  content  brims  over.  The 
gray  clouds  make  a  convent  roof  which  shuts 
me  in  from  the  world.  My  summer  long- 
ings, my  regrets,  my  small  vices  of  envy  and 
impatience,  slip  away  from  me  like  an  ill- 
fitting  garment.  The  soft-falling  raindrops 
murmur  an  "absolve  te"  I  am  at  peace 
with  all  mankind.  And  when  the  air  grows 


1883.] 


Yesterday,  To-day,  and  To-morrow. 


531 


chill,  I  build  a  crackling  fire  indoors  and 
watch  the  panorama  from  my  big  windows. 

Little  fitful  gusts  of  wind  send  unexpected 
showers  from  the  overladen  trees,  and  the 
loosened  leaves  flutter  down  to  the  earth, 
tremulously,  reluctantly,  as  if  they  knew  they 
could  never  return.  I  like  to  think  of  the 
wood-paths  I  have  explored  through  these 
bright  summer  days,  lying  all  dark  and  drip- 
ping in  their  coverts.  The  past  holds  no 
sadness  for  me  when  I  see  it  through  these 
tangled  threads  of  rain.  I  wish  the  day 
would  last  forever,  but  it  goes  like  other 
days,  and  in  the  damp,  quiet  dusk  I  go  out 
again  and  walk  up  over  the  hill  just  to  get  a 
last  breath  of  the  freshness  and  restfulness. 

The  world  is  so  still  now  that  I  can  hear 
nothing  but  its  own  heart-beat  in  the  long 
monotonous  roar  of  the  ocean,  and  the  drip, 
drip,  drop  from  the  leaves  near  at  hand. 
I  come  back  to  my  wood  fire  once  more  and 
shut  the  curtains  close,  but  this  fragment 
from  some  odd  corner  of  my  memory  comes 
to  me  again  and  again,  with  a  meaning  more 
than  was  meant  perhaps.  Uo  you  know  it? 

"It  is  raining  still.  Raining  on  the  just 
and  on  the  unjust;  on  the  trees,  the  corn, 
and  the  flowers;  on  the  green  fields  and  the 
river;  on  the  lighthouse,  bluff,  and  out  at 
sea.  It  is  raining  on  the  graves  of  some 
whom  we  have  loved.  When  it  rains  on  a 
mellow  summer  evening,  it  is  beneficently 
natural  to  most  of  us  to  think  of  that,  and 
to  give  those  verdant  places  their  quiet  share 
in  the  hope  and  freshness  of -the  morrow." 

Yesterday  and  to-day  were  gifts  ;  to-mor- 
row can  be  only  a  wish.  It  may  not  come 
after  this  day,  or  after  many  days,  or  at  all ; 
but  it  is  as  distinct  in  my  mind  and  memory 
as  if  it  were  a  living  thing.  It  is  more 
charming  because  it  is  an  anticipation  in- 
stead of  a  realization.  And  because  it  is 
ever  with  me,  I  shall  make  it  of  the  present. 

The  morning  comes  with  eager  haste, 
waking  us  with  a  sense  of  coming  joy,  than 
which  nothing  can  be  more  intensely  a  hap- 
piness. Then  three  or  four  of  us,  who  have 
a  touch  of  the  tramp  and  the  gypsy  in  our 
blood,  go  forth  as  we  please.  Sometimes 


we  ride,  sometimes  we  walk.  But  we  leave 
the  world  behind  us.  The  mists  roll  up  in 
fleecy  veils  to  wrap  the  hills,  and  then  float 
away — or  do  they  melt  into  the  ocean  of 
blue  overhead?  The  grass  springs  up 
everywhere  by  the  roadside.  You  would 
almost  swear  it  was  spring,  but  for  the  frost- 
tang  in  the  air.  The  sun  has  an  uncertain 
yellow  light  in  the  morning,  the  thin-leaved 
trees  cast  straggling  shadows  over  us  as  we 
pass.  The  tints  of  the  ripening  foliage  are 
not  vivid  like  those  of  places  where  each 
season  shuts  its  doors  and  bars  them  close 
when  its  time  is  over,  but  these  are  not  un- 
satisfying, after  all.  The  autumn  does  not 
go  out  with  brilliant  banners  and  flame  of 
torch,  like  a  warlike  young  prince  who  has 
been  deposed;  this  is  a  gentle  old  age,  which 
lingers  until  it  is  thrust  off  by  the  tender 
green  buds  and  shoots  of  spring. 

The  road  is  firm  and  smooth,  and  rings 
to  the  tread  of  the  horses'  feet,  and  we 
catch  a  light  breeze  in  our  faces.  It  is  all  so 
exhilarating  that  we  cannot  help  laughing 
with  mere  overplus  of  joyousness.  I  fancy 
I  can  hear  Arcadius  humming,  "One  morn- 
ing, O,  so  early,"  and  Sylvia's  "  Oh  !  oh ! 
oh!"  in  constantly  .varying  staccato  at 
every  curve  or  turn  with  its  newly  revealed 
treasure-trove. 

Down  in  the  damp  places  the  raindrops 
still  hang  from  yesterday's  showers.  Our 
sweet  earth  has  been  crying  like  a  naughty 
child — now  her  smiles  are  twice  as  bright 
for  it.  Everywhere  there  are  signs  of  busy 
life.  The  farmer  folk  are  getting  ready  for 
their  digging  and  delving.  Early  in  the 
morning  we  see  them  mustering  their  forces, 
tinkering  up  the  rusty,  disused  plows  and 
wagons.  In  one  field  they  are  harrowing 
in  the  summer-fallow  with  seed.  The  house- 
mother has  come  out  with  her  apron  over 
her  head,  to  read  the  new  old  story  that  is 
told  every  year,  and  take  a  look  at  the  filmy 
clouds,  which,  she  thinks,  may  bring  rain. 
Here  is  a  group  of  cattle  munching  at  a 
weather-beaten  straw-rick;  farther  on  two  or 
three  men  are  plowing,  and  the  long,. dark 
furrows  are  very  beautiful. 

Everything   seems  a  long  way  off.     The 


532 


Yesterday,  To-day,  and  To-morrow. 


[Nov. 


people  we  meet  on  the  road  and  in  the 
fields  and  doorways  are  as  unreal  as  Cobbler 
Keezar's  Vision.  We  know  they  are  fellow- 
creatures,  but  we  don't  feel  bound  to  them 
in  any  way.  They  are  only  things  that  help 
to  make  up  our  day. 

The  road  winds  up  hill,  and  we  walk  a 
while,  straying  off  to  gather  odd  treasures  of 
leaf  and  moss.  As  the  day  wears  on,  it 
grows  warm  with  a  sultry  heat  that  is  almost 
oppressive.  There  are  delightful  smells  in 
the  air — the  fresh  earth,  the  woody  fragrance. 
I  like  that  of  the  oak-trees  especially.  The 
wind  is  so  soft  and  warm  that  we  almost 
complain  because  it  is  at  variance  with  the 
season.  And  we  go  on  and  on,  over  irre- 
sponsible, rattling  bridges,  taking  a  deep 
breath  when  we  are  fairly  across,  and  deem- 
ing each  safe  passage  a  special  providence, 
swinging  round  sharp  curves  with  reckless 
ecstasy,  and  then  letting  time  and  the  horses 
walk  withal,  while  we  are  silent  or  talkative, 
merry  or  sad,  as  we  like. 

There  never  was  a  day  so  long.  We  lin- 
ger by  the  way  and  feast  our  eyes  on  every 
good  thing,  yet  we  never  grow  weary.  As 
the  shadows  lengthen  and  fall  oftener  upon 
us,  we  see  the  world  getting  ready  for  the 
night.  We  meet  some  belated  children  on 
their  way  from  school,  swinging  their  grimy 
dinner-pails  in  grimy  hands,  and  whooping 
and  whistling  with  a  zest  whose  sincerity 
could  not  be  doubted.  The  horses  are  com- 
ing in  from  their  day's  work,  with  their  heavy 
harness  clinking  loosely  about  them  as  they 
forget  their  tired  legs  and  trot  ahead  to  the 
water-trough. 

The  air  begins  to  grow  stiller  and  colder. 
The  smoke  that  rises  from  the  farm-house 
chimneys,  and  then  sweeps  out  and  down 
and  settles  to  the  ground,  is  purplish  blue. 
Two  young  girls  in  jaunty  summer  dresses 
are  leaning  over  a  gate,  deep  in  some  gossip 
or  rustic  love-lore.  They  give  us  a  careless, 
rather  contemptuous  glance  as  we  pass. 
How  do  they  know  that  we  are  folding  all 
the  heart  of  the  summer  and  the  autumn 
away  in  this  one  bit  of  daylight?  And  if 
they  only  had  heard  of  our  immense  Span- 
ish possessions,  our  philanthropy,  and  our 


learning,  would  they  not  look  upon  us  with 
more  respect? 

Somewhere  we  stop  at  a  queer,  friendly 
house  to  ask  the  way,  and  as  the  kitchen 
door  opens  we  hear  the  sizzle  of  frying 
things,  and  smell  the  unmistakable  smell  of 
supper.  It  makes  us  hungry, 'and  yet  we 
would  not  for  worlds  enter  and  partake. 
We  hunger  and  are  satisfied  without  seeing 
the  viands. 

The  trees  seem  to  shiver  although  there 
is  no  wind;  so  do  we,  wrapping  our  cloaks 
about  us  more  closely.  I  think  it  is  the 
avant  courier  from  the  ocean,  for  by  and  by 
we  catch  a  whiff  of  salt  breeze,  and  round 
the  last  mountain  curve  just  in  time  to  see 
the  fast-fading  sunlight  glorify  the  outward- 
bound  ships,  and  the  great  sinking,  swelling 
waste  of  waters.  The  boom  of  the  surf  has 
been  coming  to  us  ever  and  anon  as  we 
came,  and  now  it  thrills  us  with  a  sort  of 
terrified  delight.  It  is  a  fascination  which 
repels.  It  makes  our  hearts  beat  more 
qui'ckly  as  if  we  had  just  escaped  from  a 
swift  danger  or  should  soon  encounter  one; 
but  we  are  still  drawn  forward  by  unseen 
hands.  Perhaps  we  were  a  little  tired,  after 
all,  for  we  have  been  turning  to  thoughts 
that  had  no  mating  words.  Now  the  joy- 
ousness  of  the  morning  comes  back  to  us. 
It  is  easier  to  talk  under  cover  of  the  thun- 
derous music,  and  the  swift  transition  from 
inland  sights  and  sounds  to  the  shore  brings 
us  into  a  new  life. 

When  the  road  leads  by  marshy  creeks 
and  inlets  where  the  full  tide  is  shining  it 
is  more  beautiful  than  the  most  beautiful 
road  we  have  traveled.  The  houses  we  pass 
have  a  shadowy  semblance  of  the  sea,  and 
gray  moss  covers  the  barn-roofs  and  fences. 
A  flock  of  wild  geese  sail  high  overhead 
with  melancholy,  discordant  cry.  The  long 
lines  of  foam  run  up  and  leave  a  white 
mark  for  the  next  runners  to  overleap  if  they 
can.  We  twist  our  necks  to  catch  a  latest 
glimpse  when  we  have  to  turn  away  to 
follow  the  beckoning  wooded  valley.  The 
twilight  is  all  gray.  There  are  no  crimson 
or  purple  tints  in  the  west,  and  the  night 
comes  down  dark  and  still  and  covers  us. 


1883.] 


A  Day's  Ramble  in  Japan. 


533 


Now  we  look  out  for  the  gleaming  in  a 
window,  which  comes  before  we  dare  ex- 
pect it.  The  door  is  open,  and  a  glow  of 
firelight  overflows  the  room  and  comes  out 
to  meet  us.  The  dogs  make  a  noisy  wel- 
come and  g^reet  us  with  great  leaps  and 
wagging  tails.  We  get  down  stiffly  after  our 
long  ride,  and  somehow  all  at  once  find  our- 
selves in  the  midst  of  warmth  and  fireshine. 
We  eat  and  drink  like  ordinary  mortals, 
although  we  have  been,  guests  with  the  high 
gods;  and  then  we  sit  down  to  live  our  day 


over  again  as  we  tell  it  to  eager  listeners 
who  love  such  simple  tales.  At  last  the 
warmth,  our  tired  limbs,  and  the  plash  and 
beat  of  wave-melody  bring  up  sweet,  dream- 
less sleep. 

So  our  to-morrow  will  end.  It  cannot 
come  to  us.  I  hope  it  never  will,  for  after 
it  was  spent,  it  would  be  only  a  yesterday — 
a  thing  for  us  to  lay  with  dead  other  days, 
while  we  went  back  into  the  world  leaving 
the  graver  to  write  upon  the  stone,  "For- 
gotten." 

Kate  M.  Bishop. 


A   DAY'S   RAMBLE   IN   JAPAN. 


IT  was  early  on  a  bright  spring  morning 
that  we  left  the  good  ship  City  of  Tokio,  at 
her  anchorage  in  the  Bay  of  Yeddo,  for  a 
day's  ramble  among  the  strange  sights  and 
scenes  of  Japan.  A  gentle  westerly  wind 
was  blowing,  and  as  we  danced  over  the 
bright  blue  waters  of  the  bay  in  our  light 
sanpan  the  scene  was  beautiful  and  in- 
teresting in  the  extreme.  The  bay  was 
dotted  over  far  and  near  with  men-of-war 
and  merchant  ships  of  every  kind  and  nation- 
ality— from  the  huge  modern  iron-clad,  the 
very  leviathan  of  the  seas,  down  to  the  frail- 
looking  little  coasting-junk  of  the  Japs. 

Among  them  were  constantly  passing  to 
and  fro  the  lighters  and  junks  of  the  natives. 
Many  were  loaded  with  tea  or  silk,  des- 
tined for  nearly  every  quarter  of  the  globe; 
whilst  others  were  bum-boats  conveying  the 
day's  marketing  to  the  many  vessels  in  port. 
Beyond  all  these,  just  on  the  edge  of  the 
horizon,  could  be  seen  a  whole  fleet  of  fish- 
ing-boats, their  light  sails  looking  like  mere 
specks  in  the  distance.  Fresh  fish  forms  a 
very  important  item  in  the  regular  diet  of 
the  Japanese,  and  the  markets  of  Yeddo 
and  Yokohama  are  kept  constantly  supplied 
with  a  splendid  assortment. 

On  the  other  side  lay  Yokohama  and  the 
adjoining  settlement  of  Kanagawa,  looking 
singularly  picturesque  with  their  many-col- 
ored and  grotesque  houses.  As  a  noble 


background  to  the  scene,  Fujiyama,  the 
sacred  mountain  of  Japan,  reared  its  majes- 
tic head.  At  this  season  of  the  year  the 
summit,  and  half-way  down  the  sides,  is  cov- 
ered with  a  mantle  of  snow,  which  sparkled 
and  glowed  in  the  warm  morning  sunlight. 
This  mountain  is  about  fifteen  thousand 
feet  high.  It  is  regarded  by  the  Japanese 
with  a  reverence  that  amounts  almost  to 
worship.  Large  numbers  of  people  annually 
make  pilgrimages  to  its  summit,  coming 
from  all  parts  of  the  empire.  They  never 
seem  to  tire  of  looking  at  it  or  pointing  out 
its  beauty  to  the  stranger.  It  figures  con- 
spicuously in  nearly  all  native  landscape 
paintings  and  may  often  be  noticed  on  their 
lacquer  ware.  Though  nearly  seventy  miles 
away,  it  is  seen  with  almost  wonderful  dis- 
tinctness, on  account  of  the  clearness  of  the  . 
atmosphere. 

After  a  few  minutes'  sculling  (their  boats 
are  nearly  always  propelled  by  sculling; 
oars  are  very  rarely  seen),  we  reached  the 
hata  ba,  or  pier,  a  very  well  built  stone 
breakwater,  with  a  branch  of  the  imperial 
custom-house  and  the  harbor-master's  office 
at  one  end  of  it.  Here  all  boats  must  land 
and  leave,  under  a  heavy  penalty. 

In  another  instant  we  were  completely 
surrounded  by  a  noisy,  gesticulating  crowd 
of  Japs;  but  at  the  same  time  they  were 
perfectly  respectful ;  our  own  obtrusive 


534 


A  Day's  .Ramble  in  Japan. 


[Nov. 


tribes  of  hack  and  cab  drivers  could  imitate 
them  in  this  respect  to  advantage.  Each 
had  his  own  conveyance,  or  jinrickisha, 
and  sought  our  patronage. 

As  the  popular  mode  of  traveling  is  some- 
what novel  to  a  stranger,  a  word  or  two 
concerning  it  may  not  be  out  of  place. 
Horses  are  but  little  used,  except  by  the 
wealthy  classes  and  by  the  foreign  resi- 
dents. The  jinrickisha  (which  may  be 
translated  man-cart-power)  is  the  common 
conveyance.  This  consists  of  a  light  car- 
riage body,  mounted  on  two  wheels,  the 
center  being  nearly  over  the  axle.  They 
generally  are  only  large  enough  to  comfort- 
ably seat  one  person,  but  occasionally  a  very 
loving  couple  can  find  plenty  of  room  in 
one.  In  front  extend  two  short  shafts,  hav- 
ing a  cross-piece  at  the  end.  This  the 
coolie  takes  hold  of,  and  for  the  time  takes 
the  place  of  a  horse.  In  going  long  dis- 
tances, two  or  more  coolies  are  generally 
employed:  one  to  pull  while  the  other 
pushes.  One's  first  ride  in  a  jinrickisha  is  a 
rather  novel,  not  to  say  trying,  experience; 
but  the  motion  is  the  same  as  a  carriage, 
and  the  speed  on  a  good  road  will  average 
from  three  to  five  miles  an  hour.  The  en- 
durance of  some  of  these  coolies  is  fairly 
astonishing.  They  will  keep  up  a  rapid 
trot,  mile  after  mile ;  and  with  one  or  two 
shorts  rests,  they  will  go  thirty  miles  a  day 
without  any  apparent  fatigue. 

Yokohama  is  perhaps  the  best-known 
port  in  Japan.  It  is  admirably  situated  on 
a  fine  bay,  has  good  anchorage,  and  is  well 
protected  from  the  weather.  It  contains 
about  thirty-two  hundred  foreigners,  and 
perhaps  twice  as  many  natives.  It  is  the 
port  for  Yeddo,  the  capital,  and  is  the  center 
of  a  very  large  foreign  trade.  One  of  the 
first  things  that  attracts  attention  is  the  ex- 
cellent condition  of  the  streets  and  the  many 
fine  buildings  (nearly  all  built  of  a  fine  kind 
of  granite).  The  government  buildings, 
post-office,  and  town  hall  are  all  fine  struc- 
tures. The  streets  are  macadamized  and 
kept  scrupulously  clean.  Many  of  the 
large  exporters  of  teas  have  large  godowns, 
or  storehouses,  here,  where  may  often  be 


seen  the  process  of  "  firing, "or  drying  over,  all 
the  tea  from  the  interior  before  it  is  finally 
shipped  to  its  destination.  But  it  is  in  the 
native  town  that  the  visitor  finds  far  more 
to  interest  and  amuse.  In  the  stores  he  will 
find  fine  displays  of  silk,  lacquer-work,  and 
curios.  Just  on  the  outskirts  he  will  see 
where  all  these  things  are  manufactured. 
And  in  observing  the  people  themselves,  he 
will  find  an  almost  endless  source  of  pleas- 
ure. 

But  as  we  were  off  to  make  the  best  of 
our  day,  we  reluctantly  passed  all  these 
sights  by,  and  engaging  each  a  jinrickisha 
and  two  coolies,  we  started  for  Kamakura, 
distant  about  fifteen  miles.  Our  road  lay 
for  the  most  part  through  the  fields,  and 
gave  us  a  very  good  opportunity  to  see  the 
country  and  observe  the  native  methods  of 
farming. 

Agriculture  ranks  very  high  in  Japan, 
the  farmers  coming  next  to  the  Samurai,  or 
military  class,  to  which  all  the  nobles  be- 
long. They  were  distinguished  by  wearing 
two  swords,  one  a  long  one,  the  other  a 
short,  heavy  weapon  more  like  a  huge  dirk 
than  a  sword.  The  long  one  was  for  the 
ordinary  purpose  of  defense,  or  perhaps  more 
often  offense ;  while  the  latter  was  only  used 
to  perform  harikiri,  or  disemboweling  one's 
self,  which  in  many  cases  was  considered  not 
only  an  honorable  but  a  very  praiseworthy 
mode  of  death.  But  these  customs  are  now 
rapidly  dying  out  and  are  seldom  noticed. 

Almost  all  the  work  is  manual,  and  men, 
women,  and  children  all  toil  together  in  the 
fields.  Rice  is  the  principal  crop,  and  as 
this  needs  an  abundance  of  water  to  prop- 
erly mature,  a  dry  season  is  usually  followed 
by  much  suffering,  especially  among  the  poor- 
er classes,,  who  live  almost  entirely  on  rice. 
As  rice  is  the  staple  crop,  most  rents  are 
paid  in  it,  and  the  incomes  of  the  Daimios 
are  usually  reckoned  as  so  many  kokous 
of  rice.  In  most  parts  of  the  country 
water  is  abundant,  but  often  the  farmer 
displays  considerable  skill  in  turning  aside 
small  streams  for  the  purpose  of  irrigation. 
The  principal  farm  implements  are  the  spade 
and  mattock.  With  these  they  dig  over  acre 


1883.] 


A  Day's  Ramble  in  Japan. 


535 


after  acre.  Sometimes  you  see  a  rude  kind 
of  wooden  plow,  but  labor  is  plenty  and  very 
cheap,  so  farming  seems  to  pay,  even  in 
this  slow  way.  The  Japanese  -are  splendid 
gardeners,  and  have  an  eye  for  beauty  even 
in  farming,  so  the  country  looks  more  like 
a  vast  garden  than  the  open  country.  One 
sees  none  of  the  vast  fields  of  grain  stretch- 
ing away  like  an  ocean  of  green,  so  familiar 
in  our  own  land.  It  is  all  cut  up  into  small 
patches;  but  this  has  perhaps  a  more  beau- 
tiful effect  in  the  contrast  of  color. 

In  passing  through  the  country  we  could 
notice  almost  all  the  little  details  of  social 
life.  The  doors  were  all  open,  and  one  had 
but  to  glance  in  at  them  to  see  the  families 
eating,  cooking,  washing,  and  sleeping. 

After  a  beautiful  ride  of  about  three 
hours,  we  arrived  at  Kamakura.  This  town, 
now  a  very  quiet  little  place,  was  once  of 
great  importance.  It  was  formerly  the 
eastern  capital  of  the  empire,  and  it  lies  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  classical  ground  of 
Japan.  Nearly  every  rock  and  tree  has  its 
own  legend,  and  the  spots  where  scores  of 
ancient  heroes  fell  are  still  pointed  out,  for 
here  were  fought  some  of  the  bloodiest 
battles  ever  recorded  in  history. 

But  one  of  the  greatest  attractions  to 
the  traveler  is  the  Shinto  temple  of  Hachi- 
man,  the  Japanese  god  of  war.  This 
temple  is  a  large  rectangular  structure,  con- 
sisting of  an  outer  building  and  a  smaller 
temple  inside.  Between  the  two  is  a  wide 
paved  court.  It  stands  on  the  summit  of 
Tsurugoka  hill,  amidst  a  large  grove  of 
noble  old  trees,  and  surrounded  by  dozens 
of  smaller  shrines  and  tombs  of  departed 
heroes.  The  immediate  approach  is  up 
fifty-eight  broad  stone  steps.  One  of  the 
greatest  names  connected  with  this  temple 
is  that  of  Yoritomo,  the  first  of  the  Shoguns. 
He  made  Kamakura  the  political  capital  of 
the  empire  in  1 196,  and  is  said  to  have  ruled 
long  and  wisely.  His  tomb,  a  shrine  to 
him,  and  a  large  image,  together  with  several 
of  his  swords,  etc.,  are  still  shown  to  the 
visitor.  Within  the  temple  are  kept  a  large 
and  rare  collection  of  the  curious  relics  of 
bygone  ages — swords,  spears,  bows,  and 


arrows  ;  and  in  fact,  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
war,  together  with  many  things  bearing  a 
more  peaceful  memory,  as  Yoritomo's  hunt- 
ing suit,  and  a  curious  musical  instrument 
not  unlike  the  storied  pipe  of  Pan.  Each 
of  these  things  has  its  own  long  story,  and 
many  of  them  are  supposed  to  possess  a 
mysterious  influence  over  human  affairs. 

Just  in  front  of  the  temple  stands  a  very 
fine  specimen  of  the  icho  tree  (Salisburia 
Adiantifolia\  said  to  be  a  thousand  years 
old.  A  story  is  told  that  Kukio,  a  grand- 
son of  Yoritomo,  waited  behind  this  tree, 
dressed  as  a  girl,  for  an  opportunity  to  kill 
his  cousin  Sanetomo.  He  succeeded  one 
day  as  Sanetomo  came  out  of  the  temple 
after  his  devotions,  and  a  shrine  still  marks 
the  spot  where  Sanetomo  fell. 

The  chief  deity  of  this  temple  was  Ojin,  a 
great  warrior  who  conquered  Corea  in  the 
third  century,  and  who  was  afterwards  dei- 
fied and  called  Hachimen.  Nearly  all  the 
gods  of  the  Shinto  religion  are  deified  heroes, 
warriors,  or  statesmen.  There  are  said  to 
be  about  eight  million  of  them,  and  I 
should  imagine  Japanese  mythology  at  that 
rate  would  be  a  rather  mixed  subject.  Shin- 
toism  is  the  official  religion,  but  the  Bud- 
dhists are  by  far  more  numerous. 

One  queer  thing  that  often  strikes  the 
stranger  is  the  great  number  of  apparently 
useless  tiles  and  pieces  of  building  material, 
on  the  roofs  and  lying  around  most  of  the 
temples.  This  is  to  indicate  that  the  build- 
ing is  not  yet  finished,  on  account  of  a  very 
popular  superstition  that  a  temple  as  soon 
as  it  is  fully  completed  will  surely  be  burned 
down. 

There  are  no  images,  or  rather  idols,  in 
the  Shinto  temples.  Instead,  a  profusion  of 
colored  lanterns,  looking-glasses,  and  the 
like,  and  many  printed  slips  of  white  paper, 
which  they  call  gohei,  are  seen. 

From  the  top  of  the  steps  in  front  of  the 
temple  there  is  a  magnificent  view  of  the 
surrounding  country.  Directly  in  front,  a 
long  avenue  extends  to  the  entrance  of  the 
grounds,  lined  by  grand  old  trees,  which  look 
as  if  they  might  have  been  there  long  before 
even  Yoritomo's  time.  Over  their  tops  a 


536 


A  Day's  Ramble  in  Japan. 


[Nov. 


distant  glimpse  of  the  sea  is  discernible. 
On  this  day  it  looked  calm  and  beautiful 
in  the  sunlight,  dotted  here  and  there  by 
the  white-winged  fishing-boats  of  the  na- 
tives. 

After  enjoying  this  prospect  for  some 
time,  we  concluded  it  was  high  time  to 
return  to  a  Japanese  hotel  near  by,  for 
dinner,  which  we  had  ordered  on  our  way 
to  the  temple.  We  were  met  at  the  door 
by  our  smiling  host  and  his  whole  family, 
who  gravely  saluted  us  and  asked  us  to 
enter.  As  is  customary,  we  changed  our 
shoes  for  a  pair  of  grass  slippers,  and  as- 
cended to  the  second  floor.  Everything 
looked  extremely  neat  and  clean.  The 
floors  are  covered  with  thick  white  mats, 
which  sank  under  the  foot.  A  few  cabinets 
and  chests  were  scattered  about,  but  tables 
were  scarce,  and  chairs  and  bedsteads  were 
unknown  luxuries.  In  eating,  the  family  re- 
cline or  squat  down  on  the  mats,  and  ap- 
pear far  more  at  ease  than  they  would  on 
chairs. 

In  a  few  minutes,  two  rather  pretty  waiter- 
girls  entered  with  water  and  clean  towels. 
After  we  had  washed  our  hands  and  faces, 
dinner  was  served  in  native  style,  mostly 
soups  and  stews;  all  very  nice  and  clean. 
Once  in  a  while  a  dish  would  appear  utterly 
unknown  to  us;  these  we  generally  passed. 
The  unexpected  absence  of  knives  and  forks 
(chop-sticks  being  the  fashion  here)  proved 
very  amusing.  Doubtless  the  chop-sticks 
answer  admirably  when  one  is  used  to  them, 
but  to  try  to  eat  with  them  for  the  first  time 
when  one  is  decidedly  hungry  is  not  ex- 
actly a  success,  and  we  had  to  lay  aside 
manners  once  in  a  while  and  use  our  fingers. 
We  made,  however,  a  very  good  dinner,  en- 
joying especially  some  fine  fish  and  good 
English  ale.  This  ale  is  to  be  found  almost 
all  over  Japan.  On  settling  our  bill,  we 
found  that  (for  everything,  including  dinner 
and  an  unlimited  supply  of  saki,  or  rice  rum, 
for  our  four  coolies)  it  amounted  to  only 
about  two  dollars — a  most  moderate  charge, 
certainly. 

We  soon  bid  adieu  to  mine  host  and 
started  for  the  village  of  Hasemura,  a  little 


over  a  mile  away,  to  see  the  great  bronze 
image  of  Buddha,  or,  as  it  is  here  called, 
Dai  Butsu.  This  celebrated  image,  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  curiosities  in  all  Japan, 
was  formerly  inclosed  in  a  fine  temple,  of 
which  nothing  now  remains  but  a  few  of 
the  foundation  stones;  the  building  was 
swept  away  by  a  tidal  wave  about  three  hun- 
dred years  ago.  A  project  is  now  on  foot  to 
rebuild  it,  and  it  ought  to  be  done;  for  ijt 
seems  a  shame  to  allow  such  a  fine  work  of 
art  to  be  exposed  to  the  weather. 

As  to  its  origin,  strange  to  say,  nothing  is 
known  definitely,  but  the  common  account 
says  it  was  built  by  Ohno  Goroyenon,  a 
celebrated  bronze  founder,  at  the  request  of 
Yoritomo,  the  Shogun,  about  the  year  1252. 
It  is  composed  of  copper,  tin,  and  a  small 
proportion  of  gold.  It  appears  to  have 
been  cast  in  sections,  which  were  afterwards 
joined  together  by  some  softer  alloy,  but 
the  joints  are  made  with  great  care  and  are 
scarcely  perceptible.  There  were  formerly 
three  such  images  in  Japan.  The  largest  one 
was  melted  down  and  coined  into  money  by 
lyetsuma,  in  the  year  1648.  .The  other  stands 
at  Nara ;  it  is  somewhat  larger  than  the  one 
at  Hasemura,  but  is  said  to  be  a  much  in- 
ferior piece  of  work. 

This  image  represents  Buddha  in  a  sitting, 
or  rather  squatting,  position,  with  the  hands 
folded  in  front,  and  a  face  of  such  majestic 
repose  that  it  conveys  to  the  visitor  a  sense  of 
almost  divine  power  impossible  to  describe  in 
words.  It  stands  on  a  solid  stone  founda- 
tion, or  pedestal,  and  is  about  fifty  feet  high. 
Quite  a  large  party  can  find  ample  room  to 
sit  or  lie  down  at  ease  in  its  lap:  The 
thumb  is  three  feet  and  a  half  around  at 
the  first  joint.  After  we  had  duly  mounted 
upon  his  lap,  and  thoroughly  viewed  the  out- 
side, we  were  shown  into  the  interior  of  the 
statue  by  one  of  the  attendant  priests.  The 
inside,  we  found,  formed  quite  a  little  temple, 
lighted  by  two  large  windows  placed  in  the 
back  of  the  figure.  Here  were  several  small 
images  of  different  deities,  each  having  its 
own  particular  shrine  and  contribution  box. 

I  was  sorry  to  notice  that  the  iconoclastic 
Peter  Funk  and  his  whole  tribe  had  been 


1883.] 


Sonnet. 


537 


here,  and  left  their  names  cut,  scratched,  and 
painted  in  every  direction.  I  regretted  this, 
for  their  miserable  autographs  certainly  did 
not  add  at  all  either  to  the  beauty  or  dignity 
of  Dai  Butsu,  and  I  do  not  think  their  names 
will  be  remembered  any  longer  for  it. 

A  curious  thing  I  noticed  was  the  presence 
of  two  horribly,  ugly  and  much-dilapidated 
wooden  images  situated  just  at  the  gateway,  in 
front  of  Dai  Butsu.  They  were  inclosed  in 
large  wooden  boxes,  screened  in  front  by  a 
coarse  netting  of  iron  wire.  At  a  first 
glance  they  looked  as  if  they  were  covered 
with  small  scales,  but  a  closer  inspection 
showed  the  apparent  scales  to  be  paper  spit- 
balls,  and  there  seemed  likewise  to  be  a 
bushel  or  two  in  the  bottom  of  each  box. 
Upon  asking  for  some  explanation,  I  was 
told  that  the  faithful  who  come  here  to 
worship  buy  their  prayers,  ready  printed 
on  small  slips  of  paper,  from  the  priests, 
who  keep  a  good  supply  on  hand  adapted 
to  nearly  every  case.  These  they  put  in 
their  mouth  and  chew,  while  prostrating 
themselves  a  certain  number  of  times,  then 


they  throw  them  at  the  images.  It  struck 
me  as  being  a  rather  queer  way  of  present- 
ing petitions  to  God,  but  the  Buddhists 
seem  to  have  a  good  deal  of  faith  in  it,  if 
the  number  of  prayers  in  the  boxes  is  any 
criterion  to  go  by. 

It  was  with  much  reluctance  that  we  took 
our  last  glance  at  the  great  bronze  god,  but 
the  day  was  rapidly  waning,  and  we  had  quite 
a  ride  before  us.  We  returned  to  Yokohama 
by  the  Tokaida,  or  East  Sea  Road.  This  is 
one  of  the  great  highways  of  Japan,  being 
the  main  communication  between  the  capital 
and  the  southern  provinces.  It  is  macad- 
amized and  kept  in  excellent  repair.  In 
most  places  it  is  shaded  by  fine  old  trees. 
We  were  much  interested  at  every  turn 
by  the  great  number  of  travelers  and  the 
shops.  These  shops  were  for  the  most  part 
mere  open  booths,  and  a  single  glance  re- 
vealed all  their  contents. 

At  Yokohama  we  found  a  good  dinner 
awaiting  us  in  civilized  form,  after  which 
we  returned  to  the  ship,  well  pleased  with 
our  day's  ramble  in  Japan. 

Jos.  J.  Taylor. 


SONNET. 

THIS  morning,  when  the  air  was  very  still, 

And  the  dead  land  lay  dreaming  of  the  rain, 
The  sudden  sun  came  flashing  o'er  the  hill 

And  wrapped  in  golden  haze  the  weary  plain. 
And  the  first  lark-song,  wrought  of  joy  and  pain 

Hopelessly  tangled  in  that  sobbing  trill, 
Came  trembling  lonely  through  the  air  again, 

Bidding  the  sleeping  woods  awake  and  thrill 
Once  more  with  life.     So  to  the  weary  heart 

Of  banished  Psyche,  wandering  alone, 
And  near  her  death,  came  Love's  long  silent  voice, 
So  Sweet,  so  sad,  she  scarcely  dared  rejoice 

Until  she  knew  Love's  arms  about  her  thrown 
And  felt  once  more  the  happy  tear-drops  start. 

Katharine  Royce. 


538 


Annetta. 


[Nov. 


ANNETTA. 


XIX. 


THE  alternations  of  loneliness  and  of  ex- 
citement marking  Annetta's  life  seemed  to 
culminate  in  this  unbearable  loneliness,  this 
profound  excitement. 

The  past  was  lived  over  only  as  it  led  up 
to  the  present  of  bereavement.  Future,  An- 
netta had  none,  save  that  wherein,  better 
soon  than  late,  she  would  be  reunited  to  the 
beloved  who  had  gone  before. 

Unlike  many  women  deprived  thus  sudden- 
ly of  asoleprotectorandprovider,  Annetta  was 
spurred  on  to  no  exertion  by  any  sense  of  ma- 
terial needs.  For,  despite  Calson's  gloomy 
predictions,  she  had  a  strong  belief  in  Tom's 
independent  means,  the  swift  accumulation 
of  a  few  straining  and  urgent  years,  and 
this  belief  but  added  another  stroke  of  pathos 
to  his  untimely  fate. 

Moreover,  the  deep  sympathy  awakened 
by  that  so  tragic  event  among  Tom's  jovial 
friends  created  an  atmosphere  which  breath- 
ing, she  dwelt  in  a  melancholy  conviction 
that  Tom's  sister  would  never  lack  brotherly 
courtesy,  advice,  and  services.  True,  he 
who  was  no  more  had  been  often  and  un- 
sparingly critical  of  his  companions,  sharply 
impaling  Ned  Burwent's  or  Rodney  Bell's 
weaknesses  and  holding  them  up  for  her 
inspection;  outlining  Dr.  Bernard's  wicked- 
ness with  blunt,  dark  pencil.  Annetta  re- 
membered1 these  things  as  little  as  she  re- 
membered Tom's  shortcomings. 

With  the  single  exception  of  Calson's  be- 
havior and  his  wife's,  only  chivalrous  kind- 
ness had  attended  her  throughout  her  great 
trouble.  And  turning  from  Calson  instinctive- 
ly, she  found  herself  resting  upon  Rodney 
Bell's  frank  proffers  of  help. 

"I  loved  Tom  better  than  I  do  either 
of  my  own  brothers,"  he  declared,  walking 
about  the  parlor  with  that  added  assurance 
of  step  already  commented  upon.  "For 
his  sake,  Netta" — although  graver  than  his 


wont  in  word  and  manner,  Rodney  had  very 
lately  adopted  Tom's  abridgment  of  her 
name — "if  no  other  reason,  your  interests 
shall  be  paramount  to  my  every  other  con- 
sideration." 

Much  as  Annetta  had  been  given  to  laugh- 
ing at  his  expressions  of  devotion,  she  did 
not  laugh  at  this  or  doubt  its  sincerity. 
Was  it  her  need  which  helped  her  to  find  a 
greater  reliability  in  him?  or  would  not  any 
one  studying  that  frank,  open  countenance, 
its  gay  outlook  upon  life  solemnized  by  what 
death  had  just  taught  him,  have  trusted? 

"  I'll  carry  the  contract  through  for  you,  and 
if  it  doesn't  net  you  what  you  think  it  ought, 
I'll  willingly  give  up  all  that  I  expected  to 
make  out  of  it." 

"  My  brother  paid  you  a  salary,  Rodney?" 

"A  hundred  a  month" — his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  loudly  jingling  some  large  coins 
— silver  dollars,  by  the  sound. 

"It  seems  to  meTom  told  me  seventy-five." 

"A  hundred,  Netta" — meeting  her  puz- 
zled gaze  with  unblinking  honesty.  "  And 
besides,  on  this  special  contract  we  had  an 
agreement — written,  you  know,  and  perfectly 
business-like — that  I  was  to  have  all  above 
thirty  per  cent." 

"To  be  sure,"  Annetta  mildly  assented, 
though  she  had  no  idea  what  he  meant. 

"It  was  when  I  was  getting  the  signatures 
— there's  a  certain  proportion  required  by 
law.  I'll  show  you  the  paper  some  time. 
I  drew  it  up  and  we  both  signed  it.  But  as 
I  tell  you,  Netta,  you  shall  have  a  big  profit 
out  of  the  contract,  no  matter  what  becomes 
of  my  expectations." 

"Tom  anticipated  clearing  a  very  large 
sum,"  Annetta  remarked  languidly. 

So  early  as  this  conversation,  it  had  been 
decided  between  Annetta  and  Rodney  that 
in  the  event  of  special  letters  being  granted 
her  for  finishing  the  task  Tom  had  left  un- 
finished, Rodney  was  to  continue  in  charge 
as  he  had  been  at  Tom's  taking-off.  What 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


539 


could  appear  more  reasonable  to  a  sister 
than  to  respect  a  brother's  arrangements? 

Meanwhile,  Calson  busied  himself  in  ex- 
plaining to  others  than  those  chiefly  inter- 
ested how  he  intended  to  leave  the  care  of 
his  dairy-farm  entirely  to  Mrs.  Calson,  that 
he  might  devote  himself  to  his  dead  friend's 
affairs.  Nor  did  he  fail  in  a  single  instance 
to  convey  with  many  head-shakings  his 
grieved  foreboding  that  the  estate  would 
scarcely  pay  its  debts. 

Much  advice  was  gratuitously  offered  An- 
netta about  this  time.  Seeing  she  was  alone 
in  the  world,  very  pretty,  and  prospectively 
well-to-do,  the  average  male  proved  fully 
equal  to  the  occasion,  and  came  forward  to 
make  copious  suggestions,  tinged  for  the 
most  part  with  various  neutral  hues  of  re- 
lationship, imagined  and  platonic,  being 
now  brotherly  or  fatherly,  now  cousinly  or 
avuncular. 

"Good  Lord!"  Ned  Burwent  exclaimed, 
tweaking  and  biting  at  a  mustache  of  fifteen 
years'  untrammeled  growth — "  good  Lord !  to 
think  of  a  girl  with  your  peachy  cheeks  left 
to  fall  a  prey  to  the  first  oily  scoundrel  who 
happens  along.  And  you  believe  in  honor, 
truth,  and  all  such  chaff!" 

"Is  there  no  honor  and  truth  in  mankind  ?" 
asked  Annetta,  simply. 

"Mountains  of  quartz,  but  only  grains  of 
the  precious  metal.  I  tried  mining  once  in 
early  days.  Was  unsuccessful.  Have  tun- 
neled and  drifted  and  prospected  human 
nature  since.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that. 
You  send  cold  creeps  through  my  blood 
with  your  wide,  innocent  eyes.  Tom  Bart- 
more's  companions  are  not  the  proper 
friends  for  a  girl.  Don't  believe  in  men. 
Whatever  you  do,  don't  believe  in  me — and 
keep  clear  of  Cy.  Baring" — the  attorney 
whom  Bell  had  especially  mentioned.  "I'd 
go  further  and  say,  don't  consult  any  law- 
yer, the  whole  legal  fraternity  being  a  thick 
and  dangerous  spider's-web  and  all  liti- 
gants mere  flies;  but  of  course  you  must 
have  professional  advice.  We  value  most 
what  we  pay  dear  for.  See  that  you  don 't 
pay  too  dear,  which  will  certainly  happen  if 
you  consult  Baring." 


Colonel  Faunett  was  one  of  those  coun- 
selors in  whose  multitude  Annetta  did  not 
find  wisdom. 

His  greatest  concern  "rnanifested  itself 
over  the  question  of  administration.  He 
did  not  say  in  so  few  words,  "Trust  me 
alone,"  but  in  many  words  did  set  forth  that 
no  other  was  trustworthy. 

Annetta  could  sometimes  have  groaned 
aloud  or  cried  out  hysterically  as  he  sat 
woodenly  and  solemnly  urging  her  to  specific 
avoidance  of  each  and  every  male  circling 
about  her. 

Apropos  of  Rodney  Bell,  she  said  to  this 
tormentor,  as  to  Calson,  "Tom  had  implicit 
confidence  in  him." 

"Of  course,"  Faunett  assented,  his  tone 
the  silkier  for  that  sharpness  in  hers,  his 
black  eyes  deprecating  her  flashing  indigna- 
tion by  a  flicker  of  shallow  softness. 

"But  you  see,  my  dear  Miss  Annetta,  now 
that  your  brother's  gone,  there  are  people 
mean  enough  to  take  every  possible  advan- 
tage of  your  position  and  your  inexperi- 
ence." 

"You  have  said!"  cried  Annetta  within 
herself,  and  forthwith  rose  from  the  sofa  to 
avoid  the  Colonel's  proximity. 

The  question  of  administration  was  one 
which  Rodney  Bell  also  wished  settled. 
To  the  end  that  Annetta  might  decide  ad- 
versely to  Calson,  he  again  and  again  pre- 
sented to  her  in  loose  yet  urgent  language 
the  advisability  of  having  things  her  own 
way.  And  Mr.  Cyrus  Baring,  early  inter- 
viewed, put  the  matter  in  the  same  light,  al- 
though more  tersely. 

"  Take  the  reins  in  your  own  hands,  Miss 
Bartmore,"  he  said.  "Then  if  folks  get 
disagreeable " —  his  deep  blue  eyes  fairly 
scintillating  with  a  knowledge  of  the  ins  and 
outs  of  human  nature — "why,  you  can  just 
drive  off  and  leave  them  to  their  devices. 
Be  your  own  principal.  Our  young  friend 
Bell,  here,  will  make  a  stirring,  live  agent." 

This  was  not,  perhaps,  exactly  what  Rod- 
ney wished  to  hear,  yet  he  contented  himself 
with  it,' and  with  Annetta's  determination  to 
abide  by  Mr.  Baring's  counsel. 

Calson  had  not  remained  at  the  Bartmore 


540 


Annetta. 


[Nov. 


house,  pending  a  settlement  of  this  impor- 
tant matter,  but  had  lingered  in  the  city. 
Some  rumor  of  the  way  things  were  likely 
to  go  speedily  reached  him  and  were  speed- 
ily confirmed.  Rodney  Bell  told  the  news 
in  camp.  Miss  Bartmore  was  herself  to  ad- 
minister, and  he  was  to  be  her  agent. 
In  camp,  too,  Calson  gave  the  fullest  vent 
he  dared  to  his  spleen. 

"She  wants  me  to  take  charge  of  her  real 
estate,"  he  declared,  his  lips  drawn  together 
and  white,  "  but  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  work 
under  a  woman,  nohow!" 

And  then  he  went  on  to  explain  in  his 
cloddish  diction,  his  whole  countenance 
ashen,  how  greatly  Tom  Bartmore  owed  his 
success  in  life  to  him. 

His  story,  its  substance  by  no  means 
lessened,  was  borne  straightway  to  her  mis- 
tress's ears  by  that  faithful  gossip-monger, 
Ann  McArdle. 

Annetta  roused  herself  from  her  dull, 
gnawing  grief  to  resent  what  she  considered 
an  outrage  upon  her  brother's  memory. 

"He  once  a  beggar  at  Mr.  Calson's  door? 
Never !  A  sheer  and  wicked  exaggeration ! 
Mr.  Calson,  seeing  that  Tom  was  a  shrewd 
young  fellow  and  likely  to  do  well,  advanced 
a  certain  sum  of  money,  which  Tom  specu- 
lated with  and,  of  course,  paid  back  long 
ago." 

Then  McArdle,  her  bloodshot  eyes  show- 
ing a  smoldering  resentment,  touched  upon 
another  point. 

"P'raps,  Miss  Annitta,  yez'll  be  to  make 
me  out  a  bit  o'  shpellin'  iv  all  that's  owin' 
me.  I'm  tould  be  thim  as  knows — " 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Calson,"  thought  Annetta. 

" — the  sooner  we's  be  to  git  in  our — 
what's  that  yez  call  'em  now?" 

"Claims?" 

"Ah,  yes.     The  sooner  the  betther." 

"I'll  look  over  the  pay-roll,  McArdle." 

"An'  put  ivery  cent  down  in  a  scrowl?" 

"Yes." 

His  reminiscences  detailed  in  camp  and 
insinuations  there  let  fall  to  work  mischief 
in  due  season,  Calson  returned  home.  Not 
leaving  Annetta  to  peace.  Who  but  Dr. 
Bernard  must  needs  reopen  the  question 


tacitly  closed  by  Annetta's  action  and  Cal- 
son's withdrawal  from  the  scene. 

"  He  would  have  been  a  much  better 
person  for  your  business,"  the  Doctor  said  of 
the  man  whom  Annetta  disliked  and  dis- 
trusted. 

"You  only  distress  me,  Dr.  Bernard," 
Annetta  answered,  her  expression  confirm- 
ing her  words.  "For  after  all,  what  is  the 
use?  I  couldn't  believe  in  him;  and  be- 
sides, everything  is  settled  now." 

"Everything?"  echoed  the  Doctor,  arch- 
ing his  pale,  invisible  eyebrows  and  commit- 
ting the  veriest  corner  of  his  mouth  to  a  wry 
smile. 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  The  first 
steps  are  taken." 

"Granted" — toying  with  but  not  jingling 
his  watch-seals.  "Still,  I  foresee  that  you 
are  going  to  regret  turning  Calson  off  in 
Bell's  favor." 

Might  Annetta  not  be  pardoned  for  im- 
patience in  replying? 

"I've  merely  kept  Rodney  where  Tom 
placed  him."  She  had  said  that  so  often. 

"You've  kept  him!"  The  husky  mono- 
tone unvaried;  but  the  invisible  eyebrows 
at  play  again,  and  the  angle  of  the  lips. 

"Why,  Miss  Annetta,  he's  not  the  sort  to 
be  kept  anywhere.  He's  always  frothing 
over  into  concerns  that  are  none  of  his. 
Tom  has  complained  to  me  of  his  cheek 
more  times  than  enough  to  form  my  opinion. 
And  haven't  I  eyes?" 

Eyes  hard  to  meet,  as  Annetta  knew  of 
old,  and  now  realized  afresh,  projected  as 
their  cold  calculations  seemed  to  be  upon 
herself. 

"Can't  I  see  how  the  fellow  struts  about 
here  as  if  he  owned  everything  the  house 
contains,  you  included?" 

"O,  Doctor!" 

"  And  "  •  -  unruffled,  implacable  —  "how 
can  I  help  but  remark  the  language  he  uses? 
'  We  will  take  that  matter  into  consideration. 
We  will  do  thus  and  so — Netta  /'  Suffering 
humanity!  Wouldn't  Tom  stare  from  his 
grave  if  seeing  and  hearing  were  possible 
under  ground?  Is  Bell  your  employee,  or 
are  you  the  agent  and  he  the  principal?" 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


541 


These  things  were  the  harder  to  listen  to 
because  they  were  true. 

"  It's  only  Rodney's  way,  Doctor — a  lu- 
dicrous way  which  I  am  always  trying  to 
laugh  him  out  of." 

"And  never  succeeding.  He's  as  imper- 
vious to  a  jest  as  a  rhinoceros  may  be  sus- 
pected of  being  to  the  prick  of  a  pin.  The 
fellows  all  make  fun  of  him  to  their  hearts' 
content,  and  he  turns  in  and  laughs  the 
loudest  of  any." 

Annetta  wasn't  so  sure  that  Rodney  didn't 
mind  being  made  fun  of.  She  had  seen  him 
wince.  Answering  nothing  to  this  assertion, 
however,  she  grasped  at  another  point  in- 
directly given  her. 

"Rodney  was  quite  as  presuming  in  the  old 
days — with  Tom." 

How  could  she  ever  learn  to  speak  of  her 
poor  dead  brother  with  Dn  Bernard's  ease 
and  fluency? 

"But  then  he  hadn't  the  power.  The 
danger  lies — don't  you  see? — in  presumption 
and  power  coming  together.  Confound  the 
boy !  Why  need  he  render  it  plain  to  every- 
body that  he  feels  himself  thorough  master 
of  the  situation?" 

A  fixed  gaze  gave  this  query  so  much 
meaning  as  to  send  the  color  flying  about 
Annetta's  face. 

"  Therefore,  I  say  Calson  would  be  the 
better  man — or  would  have  been.  He  is 
married.  But,  as  you  have  told  me,  the  first 
steps  are  taken,  which  means" — a  more 
open  smile  here — "I  suppose,  'no  post- 
mortems.' Only  a  word  more:  keep  a  wary 
eye  upon  the  fellow,  and  oust  him  the  instant 
you  catch  him  at  any  sharp  tricks." 

The  anxiety  displayed  in  her  behalf  by  her 
friends  might,  one  would  fancy,  have  aroused 
Annetta  to  a  sense  of  the  many  windings 
awaiting  her  feet  as  administratrix.  It  did 
nothing  of  the  sort.  She  could  no  more 
apprehend  the  complications  of  business 
than  a  child  who  has  never  strayed  from  the 
home-yard  could  realize  the  terrors  of  an 
ancient  labyrinth. 

Annetta's  one  fixed  determination  was 
promptly  to  pay  Tom's  debts.  To  this  end, 
she  signed  all  of  the  claims  pouring  in,  and 


would  have  settled  them  had  the  money 
been  obtainable.  But  money  was  a  scarcer 
thing  than  ever  it  had  been  in  Tom  Bart- 
more's  hardest  times. 

The  wages  due  at  camp  troubled  Annetta 
mightily,  and,  had  that  been  possible,  she 
would  have  troubled  Rodney  Bell  with  them. 
But  he  met  her  frequent  urgings  by  one  un- 
answerable query: 

"  Wouldn't  the  men  have  had  to  wait  if 
Tom  were  alive?" 

"When  the  road  is  finished,"  became  a 
sort  of  healing  spell  which  Annetta  gently 
applied  to  every  financial  wound  bared  for 
her  inspection. 

The  same  form  of  words,  the  adverb  heav- 
ily emphasized,  was  useful  in  expressing  her 
own  overweening  impatience.  The  delays — 
for  delays  there  were,  inexplicable  to  her — 
sometimes  drove  her  roundly  to  rate  her 
agent. 

"I  believe  you're  perfectly  indifferent  to 
my  interests!"  she  would  declare,  choosing 
that  accusation  rather  than  another,  as  one 
driven  perforce  to  the  strongest  speech. 

Yet,  how  little  she  thought  of  herself  in 
those  days!  What  interests  had  she  aside 
from  seeing  those  dependent  upon  her 
bounty  made  glad? 

But  Rodney  never  minded  her  scolding 
one  whit.  The  feathers  of  his  self-confi- 
dence were  well-oiled  and  her  words  as  water. 

"  Everybody  says  you  are  only  looking  out 
for  yourself,  Rodney." 

"Everybody"  meant  mainly  Dr.  Bernard 
and  Colonel  Faunett. 

"That  little  monkey'll  cheat  you  out  of 
your  eye-teeth  yet,  Miss  Annetta,"  the  last- 
mentioned  gentleman  asserted  no  less  than 
five  times  during  a  certain  dreary  evening, 
each  time  with  an  air  of  uttering  words  of 
profound  and  original  wisdom. 

Hard  upon  the  last  of  these  iterations, 
who  should  enter  the  parlor,  unannounced, 
save  him  whose  integrity  they  contemned. 

Although  greeting  Bell  with  a  sort  of 
jointed  alacrity,  the  Colonel  soon  took  bis 
leave,  Annetta  accompanying  him,  as  in 
duty  bound,  to  the  door. 

What  happened  there? 


542 


Annetta. 


[Nov. 


"  If  I  could  only  know  when  he  is  coming 
two  minutes  beforehand,  I'd  never  be  at 
home." 

These  were  Annetta's  accents,  crisp  with 
some  intense  feeling,  falling  on  Rodney's 
ears.  The  guest  gone,  he  had  thrown  him- 
self upon  a  sofa  and  was  half  asleep. 

"Who?"  queried  Rodney,  with  soothing 
stupidity. 

"You!"  ejaculated  Annetta.  Not  to  be 
so  easily  deceived,  Rodney  busily  racked  his 
brains  to  such  purpose  that  he  presently  sat 
bolt  upright,  his  eyes  the  more  gleaming 
and  wild  because  he  noted  how  vigorously 
Annetta  was  rubbing  the  back  of  her  right 
hand. 

"Annetta!" 

"Well?" 

"Does  that  old  long-winded  widower 
ever  presume  to  make  love  to  you?" 

"Trust  me  to  be  silent  on  a  disagreeable 
topic" — half  laughing  amidst  disappearing 
signs  of  disgust. 

"What  has  he  ever  said  to  you?" 

"Nothing  you  need  to  know,  sir" — saucily. 

"Annetta,  I  can't  bear  it!" 

But  she  would  only  laugh  in  his  flaming 
face,  her  first  joyous  peal  since  death  had 
laid  a  hushing  finger  on  Tom's  lips. 

"Annetta,  I  won't  bear  it.  You  shall  tell 
me  what  he  said  to-night  at  the  front  door"; 
and  Rodney  rose  arrogantly  to  confront  her. 

"He  said,  'Well,  be  good  to  yourself, 
Miss  Annetta.'" 

Standing  there  with  her  eyes  dancing  and 
her  red  lips  curved  and  dimpling  over  a 
passable  imitation  of  the  Colonel's  tones, 
Annetta  seemed  quite  like  her  old  bright  ex- 
asperating self. 

"  How  dare  he  call  you  by  your  given 
name?  I'll  punch  his  head!"  blustered 
Rodney. 

"You'll  will  have  to  get  a  pair  of  stilts, 
Rodney,  before  you  attempt  that  feat ;  or, 
better  still,  wait  until  the  poor,  innocent,  un- 
conscious Colonel  sits  down." 

This  reflection  upon  the  insignificance  of 
Bell's  stature  redoubled  the  youth's  garru- 
lity and  his  rage. 

"I'll  kill  him  on  sight!"  he  roared. 


Tears  ran  down  Annetta's  reddened 
cheeks. 

"The  idea  of  allowing  such  a  fellow  to 
visit  here.  I  believe  he  kissed  your  hand 
to-night,  by  the  way  you're  rubbing  it." 

"No;  he  only  pressed  it" — digging  more 
viciously  at  her  rosy  knuckles. 

"He  isn't  fit  for  a  decent  person  to  speak 
to." 

"  You  spoke  to  him  just  now  as  though  he 
were  your  bosom  friend.  Didn't  you  say, 
'How-do,  Faunett,  old  boy'?" 

"I'll— I'll  never  again—" 

"Don't  vow  what  you  won't  remember  a 
minute  hence.  Should  the  Colonel  be  here 
to-morrow  night,  who  so  gracious  to  him  as 
Rodney  Bell?  Why,  look  how  amiably  he 
greeted  you  after  warning  me ! " 

"Did  he  venture  to  insinuate  anything?" 

"He  didn't  insinuate — he  asserted.  Yea, 
verily,  little  Bombastes  !  According  to  his 
unasked-for  and  disregarded  opinion,  you 
are  the  very  last  person  in  the  world." 

"  He's  a  fool  and  a  scoundrel." 

"Granted — as  Dr.  Bernard  would  say." 

"  Dr.  Bernard !  There's  another  person 
whose  attentions  you  oughtn't  to  encour- 
age." 

"Precisely  what  he  mildly  urges  in  regard 
to  your  attentions.  No,  Rodney,  don't  say 
what  is  in  your  eye.  Miching  malecho:  it 
means  mischief.  O  you  men,  you  men! 
how  you  do  love  and  trust  one  another !" 

But  even  in  her  bantering,  Annetta's  tone 
had  faltered.  A  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling 
had  come.  She  turned  her  back  suddenly 
upon  Rodney  and  walked  over  to  the  win- 
dow, and  seemed  to  be  looking  through  the 
shutters;  but  she  saw  nothing  of  the  little 
which  night  left  visible,  for  a  rain  of  hot 
tears. 

Was  she  laughing  and  jesting  and  railing, 
with  him  who  so  lately  railed  and  jested  and 
laughed  to  the  echo  lying  dumbly  in  the 
dumb  earth?  The  old  life  rushed  back  upon 
her  consciousness,  the  old  life  that  now  was 
quiet,  now  astir.  And  God's  hand  had  beck- 
oned unawares. 

Tender  pity  for  all  pain  filled  and  flooded 
her  heart.  She  moved  again  toward  Rod- 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


543 


ney.  That  smile  was  none  the  less  engaging 
because  of  its  slight  tremulousness. 

"Have  I  wounded  you? "she  asked;  add- 
ing quickly,  "If  so,  forgive  me,  Rodney." 

What  if  this  was  not  enough  concession 
and  atonement  on  her  part,  but  he  must 
needs  stalk  about  canvassing  the  whole  mat- 
ter, her  behavior,  Colonel  Faunett's  imperti- 
nence, Dr.  Bernard's  reputation,  the  neces- 
sity she  was  under  of  exhibiting  great 
firmness  in  dismissing  questionable  charac- 
ters from  the  house;  what  if  his  bearing  was 
that  of  superior  decorum  and  importance: 
she  listened  with  the  sweetest  tolerance. 

XX. 

The  day  longed  for  in  parlor  and  camp- 
kitchen  came  at  last. 

What  though  many  diligent  rumors  of  dis- 
aster in  connection  with  the  fulfillment  of 
the  contract  had  been  brought  to  Annetta's 
ears;  what  though  Bell  had  let  fall  a  word 
here  and  there  expressive  of  his  growing 
anxiety  as  to  the  profits;  what  though  the 
waiting  debts  had  piled  mountain-high — 
yet  the  occasion  when  Annetta  could  drive 
over  the  far-reaching  level  street  on  which 
merely  a  solitary  roller  or  two  crawled, 
smoothing  the  familiar  red  rock,  was  no 
mean  one. 

Rodney  Bell's  long-maned,  long-tailed, 
roan  racker  made  his  best  speed.  The 
wheels  whizzed  spiritedly.  The  morning 
air,  quickened  by  their  rapid  motion,  blew 
fresh  from  the  sea  over  low,  green  hills  all 
a-quiver  with  the  purple  wings  of  wild  flags. 

A  sense  of  freedom  thrilled  along  Annet- 
ta's veins.  Every  dull  fetter,  even  the  iron 
fetters  of  grief,  seemed  at  a  light  touch  struck 
off  from  her  heart.  She  was  saying  to  her- 
self, "What  joy  it  will  be  to  see  everything 
settled,  and  to  have  my  fortune  (I  care  not 
how  modest)  in  my  hand !" 

Could  she  now  begin  to  plan  what  she 
would  do? 

The  tenants  she  had  yearned  to  help — 
those  poor  hard  toilers — would  soon  be  no 
more  her  care.  A  few  odd  jobs  of  street-work 
finished,  and  the  camp  would  doubtless  be 


broken  up,  its  laborers  scattering  to  serve 
new  masters  and  seek  homes  wherever  they 
found  employment.  Perhaps  she  might  give 
the  Flynns  one  of  her  small  cottages  rent  free 
for  Joe's  sake  and  his  mother's:  yes,shewas 
quite  sure  of  that. 

What  more? 

If  Maggy  would  only  write  to  Dan. 

"'Twould  be  worth  while  to  see  them 
happy  together,  and  I  would  deed  them  a 
bit  of  land,  and  help  them  to  build." 

For  her  own  happiness  she  seemed  only 
to  crave  freedom  just  then.  Life  is  sweet  at 
twenty  or  so,  with  an  April  breeze  at  once 
salt  and  flower-scented  to  breathe. 

No  more  consultations  in  Baring's  office. 
No  more  judicial  questionings  in  the  dreary 
court-room.  No  more  verbose  legal  docu- 
ments to  read  through.  No  more  warnings 
and  worryings  from  well-meaning  or  ill- 
meaning  friends.  Her  business  need  of 
Rodney,  and  all  the  talk  it  brought  about, 
would  be  ended.  She  could  attend  to  her 
own  rents  and  repairs.  That  would  be  easy. 

But  she  would  always  like  Rodney.  A 
kind-hearted  little  fellow,  and  how  active, 
how  shrewd  !  Yet  she  laughed  at  him  even 
jubilantly  that  day,  noting  the  comical  figure 
he  cut  standing  to  read — no,  not  to  read, 
but  to  gabble — the  mere  opening  of  an  as- 
sessment notice,  on  the  edge  of  a  wild,  lupine- 
plumed  plain. 

"Have  to  go  through  the  form,"  he  ex- 
plained, clicking  to  Dick,  with  one  foot  on 
the  buggy-step  and  one  on  the  ground, 
"  The  law  prescribes  it  when  the  owner  of  a 
lot  can't  be  found  and  served." 

Coming  later  to  a  suburban  garden,  Rod- 
ney seized  the  opportunity  of  combining  a 
bit  of  gallantry  with  business.  He  drew  up 
at  the  garden-gate,  leaped  out  and  followed 
the  florist  through  the  blossom-beds,  himself 
superintending  the  making  of  a  choice  bou- 
quet, which  he  carried  proudly  to  Annetta. 
Did  those  mingled  scents  subtly  enrich  his 
flowery  presentation  speech  ?  They  so  en- 
riched Annetta's  silent  thoughts  as  she  was 
driven  rapidly  homeward. 

Reaching  the  house,  her  new-found  exhil- 
aration went  indoors  with  her. 


544 


Annetla. 


[Nov. 


Going  quickly  to  the  kitchen  to  speak  with 
Maggy,  Annetta  came  suddenly  upon  Mrs. 
McArdle,  who  instantly  ceased  recounting 
something  in  a  key  of  mystery. 

"What  now?"  Annetta  asked,  quizzically 
expectant  of  a  bit  of  camp  gossip  or  the  de- 
tails of  a  newly  verified  superstition. 

Maggy  responded,  apologetically  : 

"  It'll  be  upon  yez  soon  enough  if  it's  thrue, 
widout  yez  bain'  set  to  worry  now." 

"  'Twill  worry  me  more  not  to  understand 
what  you  mean,  Maggy." 

Thus  urged,  Maggy  grew  deprecatingly 
frank. 

"  Sure,  miss  " — facing  Annetta  with  wide 
eyes  and  lifted  brows — "  'tis  said  the  road 
ain't  goin'  to  pay  its  honest  debts  to  thim  as 
made  it  wid  their  shweat  an'  groans." 

"  'Tis  said  !  Well,  speak  out.  By  whom- 
—the  men  ?  " 

"  Be  him,"  mumbled  Maggy,  turning  red. 

And  Mrs.  McArdle  added,  with  a  shrug 
and  toss  : 

"  He's  been  here  ag'in — at  camp.  Talk- 
in'  to  us." 

"Who?"  exclaimed  Annetta,  impatiently. 

Mrs.  McArdle  swallowed  hard,  wiped  a 
thumb  and  her  wrist  across  her  mouth, 
lapped  forth  her  tongue,  and,  with  these  pre- 
liminaries, took  upon  herself  the  task  Maggy 
tacitly  declined — to  fulfill  it  in  a  -way  wholly 
unexpected  to  her  hearers. 

" C-a-dooble-1-c-o-n  —  there!"  she  said, 
half  defiantly,  half  triumphantly. 

"What?"  cried  Annetta,  hardly  knowing 
which  most  astonished  her,  the  name  itself 
or  McArdle's  method  of  communicating  it. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  learn  to  spell 
any  word  so  nearly  right?"  she  asked. 

But  her  tone  and  manner  suggested  a 
mind  fixed  upon  something  aside  from  her 
question. 

"  That's  letther  be  letther,  the  a-b-c  iv  it, 
as  he  give  it  to  the  min  to  put  down,"  re- 
turned McArdle,  bridling  a  little.  "I  tuck 
it  down  in  me  top-knot — so  I  did.  I'm  fool- 
ish, but  I'm  wise,  begorra." 

Annetta  paid  little  heed.  Her  eyes  de- 
manded the  details  of  Calson's  talk. 

McArdle  reached  that  point  in  due  time. 


"  He  says,  says  he — an'  if  yez  don't  belave 
me  worrds,  ax  Jerry  (bad  cess  to  him  for 
livin'  whin  betther  min  are  fallin'  like  dhry 
1'aves  from  a  wind-shuck  three  !)  an'  Eddie 
Gavin  an'  Terry  an'  Larry  an'  Bairney 
Flynn — he  says,  says  he,  'If  that  damned 
agent  thries  to  git  quit  of  yez  wid  fifty  cints 
on  the  dollar,  come  to  me  or  my  lawyer. 
I'll  buy  your  claims,  an'  thin  have  the  law  o' 
thim  as  wants  to  chate  yez.'" 

"An'  he  was  Pavin'  a  big  paper  for  yez, 
Miss  Annitta,  an'  don't  yez  be  mindin'  his 
talk,"  interposed  Maggy. 

"I'll  fetch  it,"  cried  McArdle,  and  unblush- 
ingly  displayed  her  alacrity  in  loose,  clapping 
heels. 

Annetta  opened  the  document  brought 
her  from  the  office  which  had  been  Tom's. 
The  two  women  watched  and  waited,  curi- 
ous to  know  what  the  paper  was  about  and 
what  Annetta  would  do  with  it. 

They  were  ready  to  laugh  with  her  when 
she  emitted  a  stifled  note  of  contempt,  and 
to  scoff  when  she  explained : 

"He  presents  a  bill  for  services  rendered 
as  sick-nurse  during  my  poor  brother's  last 
illness — nine  days  at  five  dollars  a  day.  He 
shall  have  it." 

And  they  were  ready  to  exchange  glances 
when,  reading. on,  Annetta  turned  red  first 
and  then  white. 

"Preposterous!"  she  ejaculated.  "McAr- 
dle, Maggy!  Run  to  camp  and  see  if  Mr. 
Bell  is  there.  I  must  speak  to  him  instantly. " 

Bell  was  not  at  camp. 

This  ascertained,  Annetta  tried  to  control 
her  agitation.  But  the  two  women,  still 
standing  in  the  kitchen,  heard  her  walking 
about  uneasily,  and  Maggy,  knowing  so  well 
the  sounds  of  the  house,  could  track  those 
restless  footfalls  through  the  dining-room, 
Tom's  chamber,  the  office,  and  back  again. 

And  after  Mrs.  McArdle  had  gone,  Maggy 
found  Annetta  at  the  piano,  playing  as  if  she 
would  strike  time  dead  with  heavy  chords. 

Would  Mr.  Bell  be  in  to  supper?  This 
was  the  question  Maggy  had  to  ask  at  An- 
netta's  very  ear. 

"I  am  watching  for  him  now,"  Annetta 
said,  turning  her  face  toward  the  nearest  win- 


1883.] 


Annctta. 


545 


dow,  bared  of  shade  and  shutter,  her  strenu- 
ous fingers  pausing  not. 

"Aha!"  thought  honest  Maggy,  with  a 
sigh.  "There  ain't  quite  the  same  shtiddi- 
ness  in  the  parelor  as  in  the  kitchen.  Dan'll 
niver  waver  nor  quaver  from  her,  nor  me 
from  Dan;  but  she's  forgot  thim  shtraw-col- 
ored  whishkers  be  this.  That  little  whipper- 
shnapper  iv  a  Bell  will  soon  be  masther  here, 
an'  that's  no  lie." 

What  conclusion  else  could  she  draw  from 
Rodney's  incessant  coming,  and  from  An- 
netta's  impatient  watching  and  waiting? 

Yet  it  was  no  lovers'  talk  which  Maggy, 
going  back  and  forth  between  kitchen  and 
dining-room  attending  the  table,  caught 
snatches  of.  , 

"Tom  was  very  careless  in  business  mat- 
ters," she  heard  Bell  say,  his  masticatory  ap- 
paratus busy."  And  again:  "It's  incredible 
how  he'd  let  debts  run  on  and  on." 

Annetta  ate  nothing,  finding  her  thoughts 
food  hard  to  digest.  She  looked  across  the 
white  cloth  at  Rodney,  an  irregular  streak  of 
red  in  either  cheek,  her  eyes  feverishly  bright. 

A  word  or  two  of  hers  fixed  themselves 
in  Maggy's  memory. 

"But  for  twelve  long  years,  Rodney,  with- 
out ever  paying  a  cent  of  the  interest!" 

"And  I  thought  I  should  now  be  out  of 
debt!" 

The  matter  was  gone  over  more  particu- 
larly, supper  being  ended  and  Annetta's  ex- 
citement calmed  a  little,  out  of  Maggy's 
hearing. 

"You  needn't  approve  the  claim,  you 
know,"  Bell  said. 

"But  I  must  approve  it  if  it  is  a  just  one, 
as  you  seem  to  think,"  Annetta  answered, 
fairly  hanging  on  his  smooth  countenance 
with  worry  still  in  hers. 

"  Not  necessarily,"  said  Bell,  shortening 
the  polysyllable  as  he  was  wont,  and  shame- 
fully. 

"  Of  course  you'll  require  some  proofs  of 
Calson  that  the  money  was  actually  put  into 
Tom's  hands." 

"I  know  my  brother  received  financial 
help  from  Calson — a  little:  but  four  thou- 
sand dollars !  And  whatever  it  was,  I  always 
VOL.  II.— 35. 


understood  that  it  was  repaid  in  kind  long 
ago.  I  am  so  disappointed.  I  felt  sure  you 
would  see  the  matter  as  I  do." 

"I  argue  from  Tom's  general  habits,  Net- 
ta,  that  it  might  be." 

"And  I  argue  from  Calson's  general  hab- 
its that  it  couldn't  be.  Imagine  a  man  of 
his  grasping  nature  waiting  a  dozen  years, 
during  which  period  very  large  sums  of 
money  were  again  and  again  in  Tom's 
hands." 

"Yes;  but  did  Tom  ever  collect  a  dollar 
that  he  wasn't  frantic  to  throw  it  into  some 
fresh  speculation?  You  remember,  for  in- 
stance, when  he  sold  the Street  property; 

could  he  have  spared  Calson  a  dollar  of  that 
sixteen  thousand?  Not  a  fifty-cent  piece! 
He  needed  every  one  to  carry  on  this  con- 
tract which  I  have  just  finished." 

"But,  Rodney—" 

"And  if  he'd  have  lived,  this  contract 
wouldn't  have  been  done  with  before  you'd 
have  seen  him  neck-deep  in  another  and 
heavier.  The  twelve  years  could  easily  have 
slipped  by  without  his  realizing  the  flight  of 
time.  No  doubt  he's  made  up  his  mind  on 
a  hundred  different  occasions  to  clear  off 
the  debt  when  through  with  such  and  such 
a  job.  As  for  Calson,  he  knew  his  money 
was  safe.  He  could  have  interest  and  prin- 
cipal any  minute  he  chose  to  force  a  pay- 
ment." 

Still  Annetta's  opinion  was  not  changed. 
She  would  end  as  she  had  begun  by  saying, 
"Preposterous ! " — and  from  firm  conviction. 

"If  the  whole  truth  might  be  known,  Rod- 
ney, we  should  find  that  by  some  transfer  of 
interests — maybe  in  land;  Calson  has  city 
property;  how  did  he  acquire  it? — we 
should  find  that  Tom  has  long  since  canceled 
the  debt." 

"  Easiest  thing  in  the  world,  Netta,  to  un- 
earth any  property  transactions.  We'll  have 
the  records  searched.  As  for  the  claim,  we 
won't  approve  it.  We'll  put  Calson  off  un- 
til the  legal  time  expires.  Then  if  he  com- 
mences suit,  Baring  will  fight  him  for  us." 

About  this  time,  Dr.  Bernard  spoke  again 
concerning  his  doubts  of  Rodney  Bell. 

"He'll  bear  watching,  Miss  Annetta." 


546 


Annetta. 


[Nov. 


The  Doctor,  long-time  acquaintance  as 
he  was,  would  scarcely  use  her  name  with- 
out an  appropriate  prefix. 

His  insistence  touching  her  agent  seemed 
to  sweep  Annetta  quite  off  her  feet.  She 
answered,  with  almost  pathetic  appeal: 

"Tell  me  how  to  watch  him,  if  I  must. 
Don't  confuse  me  with  vague  hints.  I  want 
to  do  my  whole  duty  to  Tom's  creditors — to 
Tom's  memory.  As  my  brother's  oldest 
and  closest  friend,  if  you  believe  things  to 
be  going  wrong,  let  me  know  specifically 
how  to  right  them." 

Thus  besought,  Dr.  Bernard  showed  him- 
self a  man  capable  of  sympathetic  readiness. 

He  drew  his  chair  nearer — very  near — 
to  Annetta's.  He  possessed  himself  very 
quietly  and  deliberately  of  one  of  her  hands, 
both  lying  limp — a  symbol  of  helplessness — 
upon  her  lap.  He  pressed  that  soft  palm, 
fitted  it  between  the  pair  of  his. 

"I'll  awaken  you  on  certain  points,  Miss 
Annetta,  which  you  can  study  up  for  your- 
self. It  would  be  better,  of  course,  if  you 
should  never  let  it  be  known  who  advised 
you." 

A  subtle  shock  went  through  Annetta  at 
his  touch,  she  knew  not  why.  The  orbs  to 
which  she  lifted  hers,  perforce,  gleamed  but 
coldly  under  their  crooked  lids.  It  was  dif- 
ficult for  her  to  direct  her  thoughts  toward 
what  the  Doctor  was  going  on  to  say,  or  to 
bear  the  soft  taps  of  his  forefinger,  by  way 
of  emphasis,  upon  the  hand  she  had  in- 
stinctively freed  from  his  grasp. 

"I  understand,  Miss  Annetta,  that  your 
attorney  warned  you  some  time  ago  not  to 
pay  any  further  debts — a  solvent  estate  only 
being  justified  in  settling  preferred  claims?" 

"Yes.  But  that  was  while  the  work  now 
finished  was  dragging  so,  and  seemed  likely 
to  prove  a  financial  failure — had  it  proven 
so,  you  know  that  I  would  have  been  held 
personally  accountable  by  the  court — 

"Very  good.  Well"  —  firmer  pressures 
of  his  fore  finger  here — "between  the  date  of 
that  interview  with  Baring  and  the  conclu- 
sion of  work  on  the  road,  did  or  did  not  Bell 
pay  certain  creditors  of  the  estate  out  of  the 
estate's  money,  and  unauthorized  by  you? 


Don't  answer  now  or  hastily.     This   is  my 
first  item. 

"Item  second:  while,  to  quote  your 
own  language,  the  work  not  finished  was 
dragging  so,  and  seemed  likely  to  prove  a 
financial  failure,  leaving  you  personally  in 
debt  to  the  estate — and  even  to  threaten  the 
estate  with  bankruptcy — did  or  did  not  Bell, 
who  had  individually  entered  into  some 
small  contracts,  use  the  estate's  men  and 
teams  to  further  his  private  enterprises. 

"Item  third :  now  that  Bell,  as  your 
agent,  has  begun  collecting  assessments  on 
the  road,  and  is  paying  off  the  laborers  who 
have  waited  so  long  for  their  hard-earned 
money,  are  you  certain  that  every  name  on 
the  pay-roll  is  the  name  of  a  bona  fide,  flesh- 
and-blood  workman?  —  that  there  are  no 
dummies  on  the  list? 

"Item  fourth—" 

.  Thus  ruthlessly,  without  raising  his  voice 
or  quickening  his  leisurely  utterance,  al- 
though Annetta's  eyes,  lifted  again  to  his, 
dilated  and  darkened  over  that  mysterious 
word  and  the  hitherto  undreamed-of  sug- 
gestion it  conveyed  to  her  startled  under- 
standing. 

"Is  he  paying  the  laborer's  claims  in  full, 
or  if  discounting  them,  is  he  putting  the  dif- 
ference into  the  estate's  pocket?" 

Annetta  flamed  out  at  that. 

"My  orders  have  been  given  Rodney  to 
settle  the  claims  dollar  for  dollar." 

"The  more  reason  that  you  should  look 
closely  into  his  dealings.  Remember,  if  you 
need  help  in  finding  his  tracks  (always  sup- 
posing there  are  such),  you  may  count  upon 
my  assistance.  But,  Miss  Annetta,  pray  let 
the  proceedings  be  entirely  confidential." 

Annetta  went  heavily  about  the  house  for 
hours  because  of  this  conversation. 

If  Rodney  Bell,  the  man  who  owed  so 
much  to  Tom;  if  Rodney  Bell,  who  seemed 
to  care  only  for  her  and  her  interests^— 
he  had  even  sworn  solemn  oaths  to  like 
effect;  if  Rodney  Bell  were  false  and  his 
blue-eyed  frankness  a  lie — where  could  she 
look  for  truth? 

To  Dr.  Bernard  ?  The  mere  recollection 
of  his  glance  rankled  like  a  wound. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


547 


To  Ned  Burwent  ?  "  Don't  believe  in  me, 
whatever  you  do."  Those  were  his  words, 
which,  now  recurring  to  her,  appeared  to 
have  a  sort  of  sad  bitterness  under  their  jest. 

To  Cyrus  Baring?  Was  he  not  more 
Rodney's  friend  than  hers  ?  If  Rodney  were 
deceiving  her,  was  it  not  more  than  likely 
that  he  and  Baring  understood  one  another? 

Should  she  question  Rodney  himself  upon 
the  points  Dr.  Bernard  had  given  her?  or 
should  she  go  quietly  to  work  to  sift  things 
out,  saying  nothing? 

An  involuntary  action  suggested  an  im- 
mediate affirmative  to  this  last  query. 

She -had  been  sitting  at  her  piano,  her 
head,  clasped  by  both  hands,  bowed  toward 
the  music-rest.  She  rose  and  made  the  cir- 
cuit of  intervening  rooms,  passing  into  the 
office,  lighted  the  gas  there,  and  .took  the 
swinging  chair  before  the  desk. 

Looking  steadily  at  the  backs  of  a  row  of 
ledgers — for  Bartmore  made  a  show  of  keep- 
ing books — she  recognized  that  used  as  a 
pay-roll  by  evidences  of  much  use. 

Turning  the  thick  leaves  studiously,  one 
thing  became  overwhelmingly  certain  to  her : 
the  force  of  men  had  been  unaccountably 
increased  since  Tom  died. 

But  was  it  certain?  Dr.  Bernard's  third 
item  raised  this  question,  which  now  sent  a 
darting  pain  through  Annetta's  breast. 

She  stood  up  quickly,  as  if  with  a  sudden 
resolve,  stopped  to  ponder  a  moment,  then 
went  up-stairs  and  knocked  lightly  at  Mag- 
gy's door;  for  it  was  late  in  the  evening  and 
Maggy  was  abed.  No  answer  coming  from 
within,  she  entered  the  chamber,  and  pres- 
ently Maggy  was  mumbling  and  sputtering  be- 
twixt asleep  and  wake. 

"What's  on  yez,  miss?"  the  girl  asked, 
when  she  had  gotten  her  wandering  wits  to- 
gether and  knew  Annetta. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  Annetta  began 
eagerly. 

There  a  reflection  that  Maggy  ought  not 
to  be  taken  into  her  confidence  gave  her 
pause. 

"I  think  I  am  nervous,  Maggy,  and  know 
I  am  lonesome.  You  don't  mind  chatting 
with  me,  do  you?" 


"No:  an'  may  the  saints  bless  us!"  cried 
Maggy,  diligently  rubbing  her  heavy  eye- 
lids. 

So  Annetta  sat  on  the  bed's  edge  and 
talked  of  many  things  before  introducing 
the  questions  she  had  impetuously  come  to 
ask. 

"There's  betune  forty  an'  fifty,  miss," 
Maggy  said  at  length,  in  answer  to  the  query 
of  how  many  men  there  were  at  camp. 
"  Misther  Bell  has  been  turnin'  a  several  off, 
yez  know,  since  the  big  job  is  done.  Larry 
O'Toole's  gone  an'  five  more,  an'  Larry 
told  me  as  how  Misther  Bell  had  promised 
all  iv  thim  worrk  wid  another  conthractor,  a 
friend  o'  his.  An'  I  see  Larry  lasht  night, 
an'  he  says  Bell  done  be  'em  as  they  prom- 
ised an'  they  was  all  give  worrk  be  the  boss 
Bell  sint  'em  to." 

A  tender  heart  and  strong  class-sympa- 
thies made  Maggy  care  to  follow  out  these 
details.  But  Annetta? 

The  laborers  referred  to  were  hands  whom 
she  had  seen  little  of,  yet  she  listened  in- 
tently, even  eagerly. 

Why  should  Bell,  whom  she  had  often 
rated  for  his  utter  indifference  to  all  inter- 
ests upon  which  none  of  his  hinged — 

Annetta  halted  there  in  her  silent  specu- 
lation, ashamed  of  it  as  ungenerous. 

"  Not  more  than  fifty  hands,  you  think, 
Maggy  ?  "  she  asked  aloud. 

"And  about  half  as  manny  at  the  other 
camp,  miss." 

"Oh!" 

Annetta  had  forgotten  the  other  camp,  of 
Rodney's  recent  arranging,  situated  near  the 
cut  and  the  blue-rock  quarry. 

What  more  likely  than  that  the  men  whose, 
names  written  in  the  pay-roll  book  she  had 
not  recognized  were  stationed  there? 

•Yet  she  would  carry  her  catechism  a  little 
farther. 

"Do  you  know  a  Miles  O'Halloran,  Mag- 

gy?" 

"He  worked  for  the  boss — for  your  broth- 
er, miss,  long  ago.  I  ain't  seen  him  this  six 
months." 

"  Mightn't  he  be  hired  at  the  other  camp 
and  you  not  hear  of  it?" 


548 


Annetta. 


[Nov. 


"Aisy  enough.  I'll  ax  Jerry.  He's  goin' 
back  an'  forth  wid  tools  an'  things  ivery 
day." 

"Very  well — yet,  of  course  it's  no  great 
matter,  Maggy.  And  Tom  Mul — " 

"Tom  Mulhavy?    He's  just  took  on." 

"And  Tim  or  Ted  Con  way?" 

"Why,  Tim  Con  way  wint  from  here  sick 
lasht  winter  an'  died  in  St.  Mary's,  about  the 
same  time  wid  Johnny  Meagher." 

Annetta  appeared  anxious,  but  brightened 
again. 

"The  name  is  not  uncommon.  There 
may  be  another  workman — 

"Not  at  our  camp.  I'll  ax  Jerry  about  the 
Blue  Rock  camp — that's  the  way  we  call  it, 
miss." 

Annetta  blushed  when  next  she  met  Rod- 
ney Bell,  thinking  of  the  quiet  steps  she  had 
taken  in  accordance  with  Dr.  Bernard's  in- 
struction. 

"If  he  is  true,  it  will  not  injure  him;  for 
not  even  the  Doctor  shall  know  what  I  am 
doing,"  Annetta  thought,  and  thus  comforted 
herself. 

Never  had  Rodney  seemed  so  full  of 
the  zest  and  zeal  of  life,  though  he  began 
to  tell  how  hard  he  had  been  working  all 
day. 

"And  just  for  you,  Netta,"  he  declared, 
seizing  both  her  hands  as  by  an  ardent  im- 
pulse. "I  drive  and  drive  ahead  with  only 
one  expectation :  to  see  you  comfortably 
fixed.  Never  consider  myself." 

"Ah,  Rodney,  if  everything  were  settled  !" 

He  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"Why  do  you  let  the  blamed  old  estate 
worry  you?  Hang  the  creditors.  They 
needn't  torment  you.  Send  'em  to  me." 

"Yes;  but—" 

What  objection  rose  impulsively  to  her 
lips? 

Nothing  especial,  according  to  Rodney's 
thinking.  But  this  young  man,  although 
shrewd  in  business,  had  no  quickness  in 
fathoming  the  feelings  of  others.  So  now 
quite  blind  to  the  grieved  upbraiding  in  An- 
netta's  countenance,  he  broke  in  with  the 


hilarious  and  irrelevant  query  of,  "  How  do 
I  look  in  my  new  tile,  Netta  ?  " 

The  shining  silk  hat  of  the  latest  fashion 
had  been  vainly  asking  her  admiration  from 
the  table  where  Bell  had  set  it.  With  his 
question,  he  gayly  donned  it  and  walked 
elatedly  around  the  room,  wooing  his  fair 
audience  by  arch  glances  from  under  the 
slightly  rolling  brim. 

"  Becoming,  eh?" 

"It  really  makes  you  appear  quite  tall, 
Rodney,"  Annetta  responded,  her  lips  in- 
stinctively quivering  with  mischief. 

Had  that  teasing  assertion  been  a  loth  ad- 
mission from  his  darkest  detractor,  Rodney 
had  not  found  its  savor  sweeter.  He  swal- 
lowed it,  visibly  exulting. 

And  during  an  ensuing  conversation,  al- 
though upon  business  and  not  too  brief,  he 
remained  persistently  afoot  and- under  his 
new  headgear.  Nor  was  Annetta  blind  to 
his  sidelong  glances  toward  the  mirror  when- 
ever in  his  stridings  he  found  himself  within 
range  of  any  reflected  image  of  himself. 

She  laughed  at  him  covertly :  not  with 
the  old  girlish  abandon,  but  with  a  gentle, 
womanly  indulgence.  What  human  being, 
she  asked  herself,  is  free  from  foibles  ? 

His  face  was  young  and  fresh  and  pleas- 
ant, his  manners  buoyant  and  frank.  How 
worthy  of  trust  he  seemed  beside  some  men 
who  spoke  ill  of  him ! 

"  I  fancy,"  Annetta  said  to  herself,  "  that 
a  really  good  and  true  woman  could  do 
much  with  Rodney." 

And  she  mused  over  a  late,  unqualified 
declaration  of  Mrs.  McArdle's. 

"Yez'll  marry  him  yit,  Miss  Annitta! 
An',  begorra,  but  he's  the  man  for  yez,  jist!" 

Going  away,  Rodney  again  seized  botTi 
her  hands,  carrying  one — the  right — to  his 
lips. 

"Some  day,  Netta,"  he  exclaimed,  his 
speech  flushed  as  it  were  by  the  same  rosy 
fervor  as  his  cheeks,  "this" — kissing  her  im- 
prisoned fingers  a  second  time — "will  be 
mine.  Say,  why  need  you  keep  a  poor  fel- 
low waiting  until  the  estate  is  settled?" 
Evelyn  M,  Ludluin. 


[CONTINUED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


1883.] 


Current  Comment. 


549 


CURRENT   COMMENT. 


THE  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  has  hitherto  expressly 
avoided  the  questions  connected  with  Chinese  im- 
migration. While  the  subject  was  in  the  field  of 
popular  agitation  it  was  regarded  by  our  most  tem- 
perate and  scholarly  men  with  much  the  indiffer- 
ence and  distaste  felt  by  the  same  class  in  the  East 
a  decade  ago  toward  primaries.  It  is  not  generally 
known  outside  the  State  how  many  people — even 
how  many  classes  of  people — in  California  stood 
apart  from  the  whole  discussion  of  the  "Chinese 
question,"  as  a  thing  that  concerned  them  not  at  all, 
with  regard  to  which  they  had  no  opinion,  and  whose 
methods  disgusted  them.  Much  demagogy  and  mis- 
representation was  inevitable  in  a  question  that 
was  complicated  with  the  whole  land  and  labor 
question,  and  in  which  parties  were  trying  to  outbid 
each  other.  Moreover,  when  the  majority  was  striv- 
ing to  accomplish  a  particular  end — the  passage  of  a 
particular  measure — and  the  minority  to  prevent  it, 
even  honest  and  well-founded  opinion  naturally  took 
the  advocate's  rather  than  the  judicial  position. 
Therefore  the  whole  discussion  of  the  Chinese  ques- 
tion has  abounded  in  assertion  and  a  priori  argu- 
ment, and  has  been  very  wanting  in  collection  of  data 
and  in  scientific  consideration. 

Now  that  the  subject  has  been  laid  outside  of 
active  politics  by  the  Restriction  Act,  and  that  a 
sufficient  time  has  elapsed  since  the  Act  for  excite- 
ment to  cool,  the  time  is  right  for  a  study  of  the 
Chinese  immigration  more  thorough  than  it  has  ever 
received.  The  present  solution  of  the  question — a 
fortunate  one  in  that  it  has  removed  a  vexatious 
question  from  politics  and  given  an  indefinite  time 
for  more  careful  study  of  it — cannot  be  regarded  as  a 
final  solution.  The  question  will  inevitably  range  it- 
self finally  as  one  branch  of  the  general  question  of 
immigration — having  its  special  elements,  to  be  sure, 
but  still  subject  in  the  main  to  general  considerations. 
Meanwhile,  the  thing  that  is  of  the  most  importance 
is  to  understand  the  real  facts  with  regard  to  all  our 
immigrants,  and,  in  the  special  case  in  hand,  partic- 
'ularly  of  the  Chinese  element  in  our  population.  Its 
economic  and  its  social  influence,  present  and  future, 
can  in  no  way  so  fairly  be  investigated  as  by  mono- 
graph studies  of  individual,  class,  and  community 
experience,  in  which  exact  observation  and  reliable 
statistics  shall  be  the  basis.  Such  records  of  fact  are 
the  key  to  the  modern  method  of  study  in  all  eco- 
nomic, historic,  or  other  social  subjects;  and  such 
records  of  fact  the  OVERLAND  especially  invites;  at 
the  same  time,  however,  opening  its  pages  to  all  dis- 
cussion of  the  subject — on  either  or  any  side — that 
is  in  temper  and  in  literary  and  intellectual  quality 
suitable. 


Two  circulars  of  information  sent  out  this  year 
by  the  Bureau  of  Education,  at  Washington,  contain 
much  that  is  of  general  interest.  The  first  gives 
the  legal  provisions  of  every  State  in  the  Union 
"  respecting  the  examination  and  licensing  of  teachr 
ers."  We  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  selection 
of  teachers  is  the  most  vital — the  only  vital — thing  in 
the  whole  system  of  common-school  education;  or, 
for  that  matter,  in  any  sort  of  education.  An  infal- 
lible recipe  for  giving  a  child  the  best  schooling  he 
is  capable  of  may  be  put  into  the  words  "  .Select  a 
thoroughly  good  teacher,  and  then  let  him  alone." 
You  ought  no  more  to  hamper  a  good  teacher  with 
school-board  regulations,  outside  selection  of  text- 
books, Quincy  or  Kindergarten  systems,  than  you 
would  give  an  artist  an  order  for  a  picture,  specify- 
ing that  it  should  be  painted  according  to  the  Dutch 
or  Flemish  or  French  school,  and  with  Smith  & 
Co.'s  paints,  and  Brown  &  Robinson's  brushes,  in  a 
studio  whose  arrangement  of  lights  you  yourself 
shall  dictate.  It  is  the  great  fallacy  of  the  "Quincy 
system"  (so  called,  inaccurately  enough)  that  it  works 
by  measures,  not  men,  and  assumes  that  some  per- 
fection of  method  can  be  found  out  that  will  take 
the  place  of  professional  genius  in  the  teacher  and 
hard  work  in  the  pupil.  No  lady  who  wishes  to  shine 
in  dress  allows  her  best  dresses  to  be  cut  by  a  paper 
pattern,  but  seeks  a  dressmaker  with  a  soul  for  her 
business;  and  yet  the  same  lady  looks  at  the  system 
instead  of  the  teacher  when  it  is  only  the  schooling 
of  her  child  that  is  in  question — a  subject  on  which 
she  has  naturally  put  less  observation,  and  therefore 
arrived  at  less  correct  views.  You  only  have  occa- 
sion to  educate  each  child  once,  while  you  have  to 
get  a  new  dress  every  few  months. 

BUT  to  "select  a  good  teacher  and  then  let  him 
alone "  is  no  simple  matter.  In  the  first  place, 
there  are  not  enough  good  teachers  to  go  around, 
and  the  mediocre  and  less  than  mediocre  ones  that' 
must  necessarily  fill  their  places  can  by  no  means 
safely  be  let  alone  without  system  or  regulation.  In 
the  second  place — and  a  far  more  perplexing  element 
in  the  problem — the  majority  of  authorities  intrusted 
with  the  selection  do  not  know  a  good  teacher  from 
a  bad  one.  The  makers  of  school-laws  have,  there- 
fore, struggled  with  the  twofold  necessity  of  hedg- 
ing up  the  road  into  the  teacher's  calling  with  pre- 
cautions against  the  blunders  of  boards  in  selecting, 
and  then  hedging  up  all  the  paths  inside  that  calling 
with  precautions  against  the  blunders  and  failings  of 
the  teachers  themselves.  In  the  various  States  of 
the  Union,  the  weight  of  these  two  necessities  hns 
been  variously  counterbalanced  by  the  desirability  of 


550 


Current  Comment. 


[Nov. 


freedom  of  choice  where  the  board  is  competent, 
and  of  freedom  of  action  where  the  teacher  is  com- 
petent. To  frame  a  law  that  shall  restrict  from 
blunders  the  foolish  trustee,  and  leave  freedom  to  the 
wise  one,  is  obviously  a  difficult  matter,  and  it  is  not 
surprising  to  find  that  there  is  the  greatest  variation 
among  the  thirty-nine  States  as  to  the  amount  of  re- 
striction deemed  the  golden  mean.  The  opposing 
tendencies  in  this  matter  of  restriction  are  chiefly 
expressed  by  the  centralization  or  localization  of  the 
examining  power;  the  selecting  power  is  always  local. 
The  examining  of  teachers,  however,  constitutes  a 
rough,  preliminary  selection,  and  according  as  the 
local  boards  are  trusted  or  distrusted  is  this  examin- 
ing local  or  central.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
before  the  adoption  of  the  new  Constitution,  the 
examining  of  teachers  in  this  State  was  done  by  the 
State  authorities,  and  the  whole  tendency  was  to- 
ward centralization;  and  that  the  somewhat  more 
localized  method  of  examination  by  county  au- 
thorities was  adopted,  not  because  there  was  any 
great  preference  for  it  on  principle,  but  because  of 
the  danger  of  frauds  in  the  sending  out  of  papers 
from  a  single  central  office.  In  other  ways,  also, 
the  Californian  law  shows  the  same  tendency  to  dis- 
trust of  local  boards;  the  law  of  this  State  on  the 
point  of  examining  teachers  is  longer,  more  detailed, 
occupied  with  more  restrictions,  exceptions,  special 
cases,  and  "red  tape"  in  general  than  that  of  any 
other  of  the  thirty-nine.  The  same  tendency  pre- 
vails as  a  general  thing — not  uniformly — among  the 
Western,  especially  the  Southwestern  States;  while 
the  opposite  tendency  is,  on  the  whole,  characteris- 
tic of  the  Atlantic  States — an  inclination  to  leave 
matters  very  much  to  local  free  will. 

THIS  tendency  to  centralization  in  our  school  law 
has  been  much  censured.  But,  in  fact,  it  is  in  great 
part  merely  one  instance  of  the  general  effect  of  a 
county  division  of  the  State,  as  compared  with  a 
town  division.  The  difference  between  town  and 
county  is  by  no  means  an  artificial  one,  nor  could 
any  skill  of  legislation  make  the  Western  township 
into  the  New  England  town.  The  real  and  perma- 
nent difference  is  that  New  England  States  are  formed 
by  aggregations  of  towns,  Western  townships  by 
division  of  States.  Local  patriotism  is  not  only  a 
result,  but  perhaps  even  more  a  necessary  condition, 
of  a  town  system;  and  accordingly,  much  can  be  in- 
trusted to  the  local  patriotism  of  a  town  that  would  be 
neglected  if  intrusted  to  a  township.  It  is  chiefly 
the  instinctive  recognition  of  the  State  rather  than 
the  single  community  as  a  unit  and  as  the  center  of 
patriotism  that  leads  the  new  States  of  rapid  growth 
to  centralize  as  much  as  possible  in  all  their  laws  and 
institutions.  The  case  before  us,  that  of  the  school 
law,  illustrates  why  as  well  as  any  other.  The  ex- 
treme of  local  freedom  in  the  matter  of  examining 
and  licensing  teachers  is  perhaps  found  in  Connecti- 
cut and  Massachusetts,  where  the  matter  is  left  all 


but  without  restriction  to  the  local  authorities  of 
each  town.  The  city  of  Boston  has  more  elaborate 
regulations,  but  cities  have  special  regulations  every- 
where; we  are  speaking  of  country  districts  and 
small  towns.  Now  in  a  large  majority  of  Massachu- 
setts and  Connecticut  school  districts  there  will  be 
found  at  least  one  college  graduate  or  other  educated 
man,  in  the  shape  of  the  minister,  doctor,  retired 
man  of  business  come  to  end  his  life  on  his  native 
farm,  or  so  forth;  and  the  electors  of  the  district  are 
pretty  sure  to  put  such  a  man  on  the  school  com- 
mittee; and  once  there,  he  inevitably  controls  its 
counsels.  But  who  constitute  the  school  committees 
in  country  districts  in  the  far  West  or  on  the  Pacific 
coast?  If  by  any  chance  there  be  an  educated  man 
in  the  village,  he  is  just  the  one  that  is  not  elected, 
on  the  ground  that  "good,  plain  common  sense" 
is  a  safer  guide  to  the  selection  of  the  teachers 
of  youth  than  "much  schooling."  Our  own  obser- 
vation of  a  large  number  of  Californian  school  dis- 
tricts affords  exactly  two  ministers  serving  as  school 
trustees,  no  doctors,  and  numerous  saloon-keepers; 
the  saloon-keeper— often  a  foreigner — being  chosen 
as  a  matter  of  course,  in  many  a  district  where  edu- 
cated and  public-spirited  men  might  have  been  had 
for  the  asking.  .It  simply  never  entered  any  one's 
head  to  think  of  asking  for  them;  the  day  for  the 
election  came  around,  and  half  a  dozen  men  in  the 
course  of  the  day  visited  the  polls  and  voted  either 
according  to  some  personal  end,  or  for  the  first  man 
whose  name  they  happened  to  think  of.  The  result, 
when  the  time  for  selecting  a  teacher  comes  around, 
is  both  pitiful  and  ludicrous.  The  first  issues  of  the 
college  papers  at  Berkeley  after  vacation  generally 
break  out  into  records  hardly  burlesque  of  the  experi- 
ences of  the  young  graduates  among  the  Philistines, 
and  the  number  of  such  satires  might  be  multiplied 
indefinitely.  The  number  of  blunders  made  in  the 
employment  of  teachers,  even  after  the  possible  can- 
didates have  been  sifted  by  the  certificate  require- 
ment, suggests  an  appalling  state  of  affairs  if  these 
local  boards  acted  without  restriction.  The  pre- 
sumption, of  course,  is  that  county  boards  will  be 
made  up,  on  an  average,  of  better  men;  and  the 
facts  seem  to  bear  out  the  assumption.  Indeed,  the 
higher  an  office  is,  the  more  improbable  is  it  that  its 
incumbent  will  be  altogether  incapable,  for  the  at- 
tention of  the  electors  will  be  more  honestly  bent  to 
filling  the  conspicuous  office  well  than  the  obscure 
office.  Yet  there  is  much  to  be  said  in  favor  of 
more  local  freedom;  the  clothing  of  school  trustees 
.  with  powers  of  examination  would  in  many  districts 
give  the  voters  a  higher  respect  for  the  office,  and 
lead  them  to  select  trustees  with  reference  to  educa- 
tion and  character.  The  school  superintendent  of 
Connecticut,  however,  accompanies  his  report  with 
a  complaint  of  the  demoralizing  effect  upon  the 
schools  of  their  very  local  system.  Indeed,  the 
whole  effect  upon  the  mind  of  a  careful  reading  of 
the  various  systems  of  selection  of  teachers  is  that 


1883.] 


Current  Comment. 


551 


the  problem  is  one  almost  beyond  satisfactory  solu- 
tion, and  certainly  not  solved  at  present  by  any 
State.  The  one  thing  that  saves  the  common  schools 
is  that  no  form  of  examination,  however  stupid  or 
annoying,  however  full  of  crevices  through  which  the 
incompetent  can  slip,  is  to  the  really  competent  at  all 
difficult  to  surmount.  Even  the  worst  barrier  of  all 
— the  inspection  of  an  ignorant  and  injudicious 
trustee — while  it  usually  lets  through  a  fifth-rate 
teacher  more  readily  than  a  second-rate,  has  no 
locks  that  cannot  be  opened  by  the  keys  of  tact  and 
conscious  ability  carried  by  the  Jirs/-rate  one. 

THE  second  circular  of  information  is  on  the  sub- 
ject of  co-education  in  the  public  schools.     It  is  a 
compendium    of  information   obtained    in  ord£r  to 
answer  some  inquiries  addressed  to  the  Bureau   of 
Education  by  correspondents  in  other  countries.     A 
circular  was  addressed  by  the  Bureau  to  all  the  cities 
and  towns  of  the  United  States  known  or  supposed 
to  have  graded  schools,  inquiring,  with  minor  details, 
whether  co-education  was  there  practiced,  and  the  rea- 
sons why  it  was  or  was  not  preferred.     Of  course,  the 
ungraded  schools  of  small  communities  are  invariably 
for  both  sexes;  of  these  the  report  gives  no  statistics. 
To  the  question  as  to  whether  co-education  is  prac- 
ticed, answers  are  received  from  144  small  cities  or 
towns  (less   than    75,000   population),  all   of  which 
practice  co-education,  and  from  196  larger  cities,  of 
which  177  co-educate,  and  19  separate  the  sexes  for 
at  least  part  of  the  course.     321  towns  and  cities  re- 
turn answer  to  the  questions  as  to  the  reason  for 
preferring  co-education — the  most   important  point 
in  the  inquiry:  39  answer   indefinitely,    "  because  it 
was  thought  best ";    25    because   it   is  "natural," 
"following  the  ordinary  structure  of  the  family  and 
of  society";  45  because  it  is  customary — -"in   har- 
mony with  the  habits  and  sentiments  of  every-day 
life  and    the   laws  of  the  State ";    5  because  it    is 
impartial,  "affording  one  sex  the  same  opportunity 
for  culture  that  the  other  enjoys"  ;  14  because  it  is 
economical  and  convenient;  50  because  it  is  "ben- 
eficial to   the   minds,  morals,  habits,  and  develop- 
ment "  of  both  sexes;  and  146  for  various  combina- 
tions of  two  or  more  of  these  reasons.     Altogether, 
158     favor     co-education    as    beneficial,     179     as 
economical  or  convenient,     81     as    customary,    59 
as    natural,    and    14  as    impartial.       Of  the   nine- 
teen towns   and    cities    named   as    practicing    co- 
education partially  or  not  at  all,  ten  are  in  the  South, 
six  in  the  Middle  States,  one  in  the  West,  and  two  in 
New  England.      The   replies  of  these   nineteen   to 
the  question  as  to  "reasons"  are  all  quoted.     Most 
of  them  favor  partial  co-education,   some  of  them 
advocate  a  change  to  entire  co-education,   some  to 
entire  separation;   but  all  but  two   of  the   answers 
given,    whatever   the  ground  taken,  are  indefinite, 
to  the  effect  that  the  practice  in   use,    is  "on  the 
whole  preferred,"   is    "demanded   by  public  senti- 
ment," or  "more  convenient  with  the  present  build- 


ings." The  two  exceptions  are  Brooklyn,  New  York, 
which  answers  that  "  teachers  capable  of  instructing 
girls  often  fail  in  managing  boys,  and  vice  versa  "; 
and  Macon,  Georgia,  which  answers  (in  behalf  of  its 
practice  of  co-education  up  to  the  age  of  thirteen) 
that  it  "secures  better  (kinder)  treatment  for  boys, 
and  affords  girls  a  protection  against  undue  stimula- 
tion; the  boys  cannot  keep  up  if  the  girls  are  re-4 
quired  to  do  their  best."  (A  little  hard  on  the  Macon 
boys,  one  may  remark  in  passing.)  New  York  City 
is  not  reported  from  at  all.  We  note  an  inaccuracy 
in  reporting  San  Francisco  among  the  cities  that 
practice  co-education  altogether.  The  report  merely 
gives  the  facts  elicited,  without  arguing  the  question, 
further  than  to  close  with  the  single  remark  that  "  the 
general  discontinuance  of  it  [co-education]  would  en- 
tail either  much  increased  expense  ....  or  a  with- 
drawal of  educational  privileges  from  the  future  wives 
and  mothers  of  the  nation."  To  the  statistics  is  pre- 
fixed an  earnest  caution  to  foreign  readers  not  to  con- 
clude too  much  from  the  experience  of  one  country 
as  to  the  wisest  course  in  another,  and  a  reminder 
that  our  present  custom  is  a  very  natural  outgrowth  of 
our  traditions,  social  customs,  "freedom  from  state 
control  of  the  ethical  and  religious  relations,  .... 
preponderance  of  the  male  sex  in  the  greater  number 
or  our  communities,  the  survival  or  revival  of  the  old 
Teutonic  reverence  for  women,  and  the  universal 
familiarity  of  the  practice  of  co-education  for  many 
generations." 

UNSUSPECTING  Americans  looking  for  French  in- 
struction are  usually  much  bewildered  by  the  low 
opinion  that  the  teachers  of  that  language  entertain 
of  the  purity  of  accent  of  each  other;  indeed,  we  have 
heard  learners  of  somewhat  varied  experience  de- 
clare that  there  is  no  French  teacher  who  does  not 
depreciate  the  pronunciation  of  all  others.  It  is  not 
quite  the  real  thing,  not  the  truly  good  French,  by 
standard  of  which  all  other  French  is  to  be  meas- 
ured. Now  it  is  by  no  means  French  pronuncia- 
tion alone  which  recognizes  the  existence  of  such  a 
standard  of  the  truly  good,  and  keeps  people  in  un- 
easiness lest  they  may  have  got  only  the  second  best 
— for  only  experts  can  distinguish  what  is  "really 
and  truly  the  very,  very  best — ihejtest  right  thing," 
as  children  say;  and  who  is  to  be  sure  that  the  ex- 
perts themselves  have  it?  Davie  Deans's  limita- 
tion of  the  numbers  of  the  really  sound  in  theology, 
and  its  familiar  imitation  in  the  story  of  the  old 
kdy  who  whiles  was  na  sure  o'  the  meenister, 
appeals  to  many  a  man's  experience  of  the  existence 
of  this  evasive  standard  in  theology.  Young  girls 
go  through  an  uneasy  search  erery  spring  and  fall  to 
make  sure  that  they  attain  the  truly  correct  thing  in 
bonnets,  and  there  even  exist  standards  in  slang  by 
which  the  unobservant  may  be  tried  and  found  want- 
ing— a  shade  out  of  the  straight  path  or  behind  the 
latest  information — in  any  circle  of  college  boys  or 
stablemen.  Nor  is  it  by  any  means  true  that  each 


552 


Current  -Comment. 


[Nov. 


person's  standard  of  the  difficult  right  is  his  own 
practice — "Orthodoxy  is  what /think,"  and  so  on. 
On  the  contrary,  the  majority  of  the  race  pass  their 
time  in  an  uneasy  effort  to  find  out  from  some  one 
else  what  is  the  really  right  thing  in  theology,  boots, 
or  poetry — or  even  who  is  the  right  person  to  tell 
them  what  is  the  right  thing.  Fortunately  for  their 
happiness,  they  are  easily  satisfied  that  they  have 
found  their  object,  and  generally  by  the  simple  pro- 
cess of  counting  noses.  The  young  girl  is  satisfied 
that  her  bonnet  is  of  the  right  shape  if  it  be  the 
shape  chosen  by  the  majority  of  the  other  young 
girls  who  constitute  her  own  circle,  or  even  if  it  be 
the  one  she  oftenest  sees  on  the  street  on  the  heads 
of  girls  who  appear  about  as  well-bred  and  well-to-do 
as  herself;  and  that  the  minority  who  appear  in  bon- 
nets not  thus  satisfactorily  indorsed  are  to  be  pitied 
as  a  little  off  from  the  acme  of  true  elegance.  Or 
some  milliner,  minister,  doctor,  or  academy  becomes 
by  the  same  suffrage  process  the  expert  depended 
upon  to  keep  his  followers  posted  on  the  correct 
thing.  It  is  of  course  eminently  in  accord  with  the 
genius  of  American  institutions  that  standards  of  the 
correct  should  be  settled  by  majority  opinions,  and 
many  thousands  of  people  are  thus  enabled,  in  a  coun- 
try without  royal  academies,  state  church,  or  legal 
aristocracy  lo  live  their  lives  through  with  satisfaction 
and  security  as  to  the  correctness  of  their  standards. 
Many,  however,  depart  from  the  majority  method 
of  deciding  their  standards,  and  follow  any  one  who 
announces  himself  an  expert  with  a  certain  tone  of 
conviction.  To  thus  obtain  a  following  in  matters 
of  art  and  taste  is  very  easy;  in  religion  it  is  harder, 
but  in  dress  hardest  of  all.  Every  young  person 
anxious  to  rank  himself  among  the  intellectual  aris- 
tocracy, and  caught  out  without  a  responsible  guide, 
will  swing  back  and  forth  diligently  as  he  hears  "  Lo 
here,"  and  "Lo  there,"  in  various  directions.  He 
reads  Tennyson  reverently,  with  the  idea  that  he  has 
now  the  highest  standard  of  taste,  until  he  meets 
some  reviewer's  phrase,  uttered  with  calm  confidence, 
about  "the  lighter  measures  and  superficial  sense  of 
beauty  that  will  probably  always  make  Tennyson  the 
favorite  poet  of  the  masses;  the  admirers  of  Brown- 
ing need  never  expect  him  to  be  other  than,  as  now, 
the  poet  of  a  critical  few — to  whom,  after  thorough 
saturation  with  his  deep  and  vigorous  spirit,  the 
Tennyson  school  must  be  'as  water  unto  wine.'" 
This  assumption  of  Browning's  master-rank  uttered 
not  as  a  thesis  to  be  defended,  but  as  a  granted  fact 
among  a  certain  select  audience,  makes  the  youth 
feel  that  he  has  got  hold  of  a  higher  standard  of  criti- 
cism, and  knows  now  what  truly  good  poetry  is.  It 
is  not  probable  that  he  reads  Browning  much;  but 
he  assumes  the  air  of  higher  standards  of  taste  than 
those  ordinarily  accepted.  To  such  as  him,  appealed 
in  its  earlier  phase — before  it  had  become  a  subject 
of  ridicule — the  aesthetic  move  with  its  claim  to  the 
possession  of  peculiarly  correct  standards  of  taste,  of 
ability  to  put  the  hands  of  its  votaries  at  last  on  the 


really  highest  in  art  and  literature.  Accordingly, 
Tennyson  and  Browning  become  the  gods  of  the  old- 
fashioned  and  partly  informed;  their  readers  he  looks 
on  much  as  he  does  the  dear  old  gentleman  who 
recommends  him  to  Macaulay  and  Addison  for  the 
formation  of  his  style;  Keats,  Morris,  Swinburne, 
Rossetti,  have  penetrated  the  inner  secret  of  beauty. 
Perhaps  from  this  point  some  serene  criticism,  de- 
livered with  an  air  of  knowing  all  that  Morris  and 
Swinburne  do  and  more  too,  of  having  tried  all  that 
and  got  beyond  it,  leaves  him  with  the  reactionary 
conviction  that  the  grave  dignity  and  purity  of 
Wordsworth,  his  freedom  from  devices,  or  the  schol- 
arliness  and  quiet  intensity  of  Matthew  Arnold,  or 
the  genuine  independence,  without  affectation  of  in- 
dependence, joined  to  depth  of  thought,  in  Emerson, 
constitutes  the  fine  point  of  excellence,  which  to 
comprehend  marks  one  the  aristocrat  in  taste.  By 
the  time  he  has  run  through  all  these  phases,  if  he 
be  a  young  man  of  brains,  he  has  acquired  material 
enough  to  give  up  the  search  for  the  truly  best, 
which  shall  discredit  all  the  rest,  and  begins  to 
realize  the  manifold  nature  of  standards  of  taste,  and 
finds  that  the  coronet  of  intellectual  aristocracy  de- 
scends upon  his  brow  when  he  acquires  the  ability  to 
judge,  discriminate,  reject,  and  admire  without  fear 
or  favor,  and  with  knowledge  of  his  own  reasons — 
not  when  'he  places  himself  in  this  or  that  circle  of 
adherents  of  this  or  that  leader. 

So  in  millinery — in  a  less  degree — a  little  ex- 
tension of  experience  confuses  standards  sadly. 
The  woman  who  goes  from  circle  to  circle  on  the 
same  social  level  finds  the  calm  certainty  of  one 
milliner  as  to  "what  is  what"  contradicted  by  the 
equally  calm  certainty  of  another,  finds  the  array 
that  marks  a  maiden  "stylish"  here  instanced  there 
as  proof  that  she  does  not  know  just  what  is  exactly 
right;  until  she  either  comes  to  the  conclusion  that 
one  must  get  into  one  circle  and  stay  there  and  dress 
by  its  standards,  or  must  dress  as  she  herself  likes 
or  must  find  out  which  of  all  these  groups  of  critics 
is  the  finally  authoritative  one — the  real  aristocracy  of 
dress.  Even  the  ordinary  American  appeal  to  Worth 
does  not  settle  the  question,  when  knowledge  has 
been  extended  a  little  farther — is  it  not  a  higher  pin- 
nacle of  select  elegance  to  be  costumed  by  Morris? 

But  the  theater  of  the  intensest  fear  before  some 
exclusive  standard  that  may  condemn,  in  spite  of 
one's  best  efforts,  is  in  social  life.  What  multitudes  of 
girls  feel  to  the  marrow  of  their  bones  that  there  are 
people  and  groups  of  people  who  have  a  right  to 
prescribe  to  them  what  forms  they  shall  observe  in 
dozens  of  the  minor  affairs  of  life,  and  that  to  show 
themselves  ignorant  of  these  prescriptions  would  be 
a  humiliating  thing,  a  thing  to  be  cried  over  with 
very  genuine  bitterness.  One  of  Mr.  Howells's  best 
points  was  made  in  describing  the  way  in  which 
Kitty  Ellison  was  actually  cowed  before  Mr.  Arbu- 
ton's  standards  of  taste,  while  she  all  the  time  knew 
and  said  that  the  narrowness  of  these  was  in  itself  a 


1883.] 


Book  Reviews. 


553 


vulgarity.  If  she  fell  short  by  his  measures,  so  did 
he  by  hers,  and  in  more  important  matters;  who  gave 
him  that  stamped  and  sealed  charter  of  social  su- 
periority that  compelled  her  fear  of  his  and  made 
him  independent  of  hers?  And  yet  the  group 
to  which  he  belonged,  with  all  its  fixed,  its  overbear- 
ing conviction  of  being  a  court  of  final  jurisdiction 
in  American  social  matters,  is  passed  on  one  side 
by  the  aristocracy  of  wealth  and  fashion,  on  the 
other  by  that  of  letters  and  learning,  each  as  certain 
of  its  own  position.  In  every  town  there  are  men 
and  women  capable  of  saying,  "Mrs.  Brown?  O, 
yes,  I  believe  she  is  very  wealthy  and  in  fashionable 
society,"  in  a  way  that  makes  the  young  girl  with  a 
card  to  Mrs.  Brown's  reception  feel  the  glittering 
fabric  of  her  elation  fall  into  something  shabby  as 
quickly  as  Cinderella's  ball-dress;  here  is  some  one 
judging  Mrs.  Brown  and  all  her  glittering  court  from 
a  higher  standpoint  with  serene  consciousness  of 
social  superiority.  Yet,  at  the  reception,  she  will 
find  them  unaware  of  the  existence  of  the  critic — a 
form  of  serene  superiority  so  overwhelming  that  Em- 
erson himself,  in  preferring  to  preserve  at  a  distance 
his  consciousness  of  higher  standards,  was  probably 
influenced  not  solely  by  impersonal  distaste  for  the 
lower  society. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  society  which  has  the  most 
complete  conviction  of  its  own  aristocracy,  joined  to 
the  most  total  ignorance  of  the  claims  of  other  so- 
cieties or  obtuseness  to  them,  is  the  one  that  will 
succeed  in  impressing  on  the  multitude  its  own  posi- 
tion on  the  very  peak  of  the  social  hill.  Nay,  more: 
it  will  even  impress  rival  aristocracies,  in  spite  of 
themselves,  with  a  certain  unreasonable  timidity. 
The  man  of  letters  cannot  rid  himself  of  a  superficial 
embarrassment  in  the  presence  of  the  man  of  wealth; 
he  knows  that  he  is  the  better  man  of  the  two,  the 
more  of  a  gentleman;  but  he  knows  too  that,  while 
he  is  perfectly  aware  of  the  points  in  which  the 


millionaire  excels  him,  the  millionaire  is  not  aware 
of  his  points  of  superiority.  So  a  woman  of  breed- 
ing needs  more  self-possession  to  carry  her  unabashed 
through  a  very  rustic  picnic  than  through  a  fashion- 
able reception;  and  we  believe  there  is  not  a  leader 
of  fashion  in  Europe  or  America  who  could  go 
through  a  week's  camping  with  a  body  of  Rocky 
Mountain  trappers  without  being  made  to  feel  green 
sometimes.  The  claims  of  birth  strenuously  enough 
believed  in  by  those  who  possess  creditable  knowl- 
edge of  their  colonial  forefathers  are  not  in  the  least 
heeded  by  the  multitude  who  do  not;  while  money  is 
an  indisputable  fact,  whose  advantages  are  even 
more  obvious  to  those  who  lack  than  those  who  have. 
Education,  brains,  honorable  descent,  fine  taste, 
agreeable  manners — all  have,  compared  with  money 
as  a  standard  of  aristocracy,  the  disadvantage  of  be- 
ing far  less  appreciated  by  those  who  have  not  than 
by  those  who  have.  It  is  probable,  therefore,  that 
all  men  and  women  who  are  trying  to  satisfy  them  - 
selves  what  is  the  true  American  aristocracy,  that 
they  may — holding  their  breath  and  watching  their 
gait— conform  themselves  to  its  conventions,  and 
make  themselves  of  it,  will  find  themselves  steadily 
pushed  by  an  overpowering  tendency  toward  accep  t- 
ing  wealth  as  after  all  the  most  important  thing. 
Those  who  toss  to  the  winds  the  whole  search  for  so- 
cial standards,  and  shape  their  associations  purely  by 
educated  liking,  will  find  themselves  by  the  very  pro- 
cess ultimately  possessed  of  that  ability  to  depend  on 
one's  own  independent  standards  of  social  taste,  be- 
cause one  knows  them  to  be  sound,  which  is  laying 
the  foundations  of  a  future  aristocracy  more  unassail- 
able than  that  of  money.  It  is  even  conceivable  that  in 
England  herself  coronets  may  come  to  be  considered 
vulgar  with  the  growth  of  an  element  in  the  middle 
class  high  enough  in  personal  qualities  to  abash  rank . 
All  it  needs  is  a  large  enough  number  in  such  a 
group,  and  of  enough  self-confidence . 


BOOK   REVIEWS. 


In  the  Carquinez  Woods.1 

A  NEW  book  by  Bret  Harte  has  for  some  years  be- 
come a  very  rare  event,  but  if  it  were  a  frequent  one 
it  would  probably  none  the  less  be  received  by  Cali- 
fornians  with  a  peculiarly  personal  sort  of  interest, 
accorded  to  the  work  of  no  other,  even  of  our  own 
authors.  California  has  sent  out  other  writers  whose 
success,  though  never  at  any  one  time  so  brilliant, 
has  perhaps  aggregated  more  by  keeping  to  a  higher 
average;  artists,  actors,  soldiers  of  rank,  have  been 
Californians  by  birth  or  adoption  as  really  as  was 
Bret  Harte;  but  with  regard  to  none  of  them  have 

1  In  the  Carquinez  Woods.  By  Bret  Harte.  Bos- 
ton: Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883. 


we  seen  the  feeling  of  proud  and  affectionate  owner- 
ship that  is  even  yet  lavished  on  Mr.  Harte;  indeed, 
when  he  writes  a  book,  a  large  number  of  Califor- 
nians seem  each  to  feel  that  he  has  written  it  him- 
self. Yet,  with  the  changing  make-up  of  our  popu- 
lation, and  with  the  decrease  of  personal  knowledge 
of  Mr.  Harte,  this  feeling  may  be  observed  to  lessen 
slightly  with  each  book.  It  is  probable  that  "In 
the  Carquinez  Woods "  will  be  received  with  less 
enthusiasm  here  than  any  previous  work  of  its 
author,  and  that  for  no  reason  in  the  book  itself, 
but  because  a  new  race  is  arising  that  knew  not 
Joseph.  There  is  one  thing,  however,  that  almost 
inevitably  weights  Mr.  Harte  a  little  more  heavily 


554 


Book  Reviews. 


[Nov. 


with  each  new  production;  and  that  is  that  it  must 
necessarily  be  a  repetition.  We  do  not  mean 
merely  a  repetition  of  the  fundamental  thesis  that 
bad  people  may  be  the  best  at  bottom  and  good 
people  the  worst:  that  is  of  course;  Dickens  made 
most  of  his  fiction  turn  on  the  doctrine  of  the  superi- 
ority of  poor,  unlearned,  grotesque,  or  otherwise  un- 
promising people,  to  those  better  in  appearance;  and 
Bret  Harte,  in  carrying  it  farther  and  treating  of  the 
superiority  of  wicked  people,  has  only  adopted  a 
more  daring  branch  of  the  same  doctrine.  It  is  a 
perennially  acceptable  subject  of  art — this  disclosure 
of  the  common  human  kinship  in  unexpected  places; 
all  it  needs  in  order  to  be  a  subject  of  perennially 
fresh  fiction  is  to  be  constantly  clad  in  fresh  exteriors 
of  circumstance,  incident,  social  type.  This  is 
where  Bret  Harte  is  conspicuously  at  a  disadvantage. 
The  one  field  in  which  he  made  his  great  success  is 
either  the  only  one  in  which  he  can  work,  or  the  only 
one  in  which  the  world  will  let  him.  He  must 
write  of  California,  and  of  rough  California,  or  no 
one  cares  to  read  him.  This  leads  one  to  suspect 
that  it  was,  after  all,  not  so  much  his  fundamental 
views  of  human  nature  that  his  readers  cared  for, 
as  the  purely  picturesque  element  in  his  earlier  stories 
— the  dialect,  the  dramatic  figures,  the  humor,  the 
novel  stage-setting  of  the  whole.  Turgenieff  might 
write  of  Russian  noble  or  peasant,  Nihilist  or  nun, 
showing  that  it  was  for  the  fundamental  elements  of 
his  genius  we  cared;  if  he  had  written  of  German  or 
English  life,  or  had  come  to  America  and  written 
novels  of  New  York  society,  it  is  highly  probable 
that  the  novels  would  have  been  great;  if  not,  it 
would  simply  have  been  because  difference  of  nation- 
ality had  baffled  his  penetration  into  human  nature. 
But  Bret  Harte  must  write  of  the  red-shirted  miner 
— always  and  only  of  the  red-shirted  miner — or  else 
be  listened  to  with  comparative  indifference. 

Of  the  present  book,  for  example,  we  say  with 
the  lips  that  it  was  good  taste  and  judgment  in  the 
author  to  leave  that  well-gleaned  field  and  adopt  a 
quite  new  environment  and  characters;  and  yet  at 
heart  we  find  it  barren  of  the  dash,  the  vividness, 
the  picturesqueness  that  lingers  even  in  repetitions 
and  workings-over  of  his  earliest  material  by  Mr. 
Harte.  It  is  hard  to  say  what  rank  "  In  the  Car- 
quinez  Woods  "  would  take  if  it  were  to  be  judged 
absolutely  instead  of  by  comparison  with  the  author's 
other  stories.  It  is  full  of  good  work — excellent 
work;  it  is  remarkably  free  from  mannerisms;  it  is 
symmetrical  and  artistic,  keeping  well  to  "the 
unities/'  It  is  almost  too  short  even  for  a  nov- 
elette—another good  point,  for  it  is  abundantly  evi- 
dent that  Bret  Harte  cannot  manage  a  long  narrative, 
but  rambles,  diverts  interest,  obscures  his  own  strong 
outlines  by  filling-in  of  quality  far  inferior  to  the 
sketch;  while  as  long  as  he  keeps  to  the  few  and 
bold  outlines  necessary  in  a  short  story,  no  one  has  a 
more  perfect  sense  of  proportion.  The  description 
of  the  redwood  forest  is  in  a  few  words  one  of 


the  best  ever  given;  "  Low  "  is  a  picturesque  figure, 
and  not  an  impossible  one;  the  genial  preacher  is 
better  in  that  he  is  probably  a  correct  study  from 
life  and  illustrates  a  type  of  Californian  heretofore 
little  noted.  The  center  of  interest,  however,  is  the 
woman  Teresa,  whose  transformation  from  the  reck- 
less and  vain  heroine  of  dancing-saloon  and  shooting 
scrapes  to  one  of  the  most  meek  and  unselfish  of 
loving  women  is  not  outside  of  the  possibilities  of 
feminine  nature,  and  is  told  with  a  good  deal  of 
pathos.  And  yet,  as  a  whole,  the  book  does  not 
amount  to  much.  It  has  not  the  air  of  truth;  one 
feels  that  the  author  has  tried  to  produce  a  pictur- 
esque story  rather  than  to  transcribe  life  as  he  has 
seen  it.  It  is  weak  in  just  the  point  where  Mr. 
Harte  has  always  been  weak — real,  penetrating 
study  of  human  nature.  His  aptness  in  catching 
external  traits  of  manner  and  diction  (making  up, 
perhaps,  for  inaccuracy  in  reporting  them  from  life 
by  vivid  substitutions  from  imagination),  his  bril- 
liance of  narrative  construction,  his  sense  of  the 
dramatic  and  picturesque,  his  exquisite  susceptibility 
and  truth  to  landscape  nature,  and  his  effective  use 
of  the  single  point  of  the  sense  of  common  humanity 
latent  in  every  soul; — these  things  in  his  best  work 
obscured  the  lack  of  real  study  and  comprehension 
of  human  nature  in  him,  and  are  now  no  longer  able 
to  do  it.  It  is  not  solely  and  only  on  literal  truth  to 
human  nature  and  human  life  that  a  poet  or  novelist 
must  stand,  even  in  the  long  run;  but  it  is  on  the 
whole  the  safest  and  the  most  fruitful  ground.  The 
idealizing  imagination  Hags  and  fails  more  easily 
than  the  observing  eye,  and  runs  out  of  material 
infinitely  sooner. 

The  Comedy  of  Daisy  Miller.1 

WHAT  sort  of  spirit  it  was  that  prompted  Mr. 
James  to  burlesque  his  own  most  successful  bit  of 
work  we  find  a  question  beyond  our  penetration. 
Whether — as  perhaps  hinted  in  the  titles,  "Daisy 
Miller:  A  Study,"  and  "Daisy  Miller:  A  Com- 
edy,"—  this  very  shrewd  author,  impatient  at 
the  criticisms  his  "study"  had  received,  deter- 
mined to  show  people  what  sort  of  a  piece  of 
work  it  would  make  if  he  wrote  as  they  wish- 
ed him  to;  whether  the  comedy  is  merely  a 
whimsical  experiment  to  see  how  different  a 
word  could  be  spelled  with  the  same  letters;  or 
whether  an  unfortunate  desire  to  make  obvious  to 
an  obtuse  public  all  the  fine  points  they  failed  to 
understand  has  entrapped  the  author  into  ruining 
those  fine  points  by  going  over  them  with  a  -heavier 
chisel; — among  these  various  guesses  the  reader  hov- 
ers bewildered — concerned  not  for  the  sake  of  the 
present  comedy,  but  for  that  of  the  original  study. 
For  if  Mr.  James  does  really  in  good  earnest  intend 
to  translate  all  the  things  suggested  in  the  study  into 
things  said  in  the  comedy,  to  explain  here  motives, 

1    Daisy    Miller:     A  Comedy.      Henry  James,    Jn. 
Boston:  H°uglnun,  Mifflin,  &  Co.     1883. 


1883.] 


Book  fieviews. 


555 


points  of  view,  qualities  of  character  previously  left 
to  our  penetration,  then  the  most  appreciative  read- 
ers of  "Daisy  Miller"  have  overestimated  that  very 
clever  sketch.  There  is  no  room  in  the  comedy  for 
misunderstanding  of  any  one's  character  or  motive: 
everything  is  expressed  in  the  frankest  manner — 
"asides"  being  thrust  in  to  get  into  words  every  shade 
of  feeling  and  thought.  And  if  this  is  the  author's 
own  solution — and  therefore  the  final  solution — 
of  the  vexed  questions  that  the  original  book  has 
made  standard  topics  of  discussion,  we  can  only  say 
we  are  sorry.  This  Daisy  is  really  a  nicer  girl;  but 
she  is  a  conventionalized  type,  such  as  an  imitator 
of  Mr.  James  might  have  produced;  the  other  Daisy 
was  in  every  point  strikingly  from  life.  She  was — 
in  spite  of  the  indignant  denial  of  many  American 
girls — true,  down  to  every  detail  of  diction,  to  a  cer- 
tain class  of  girls  whom  we  have  all  seen  and  heard 
at  a  greater  or  less  distance.  The  defiant  innocence, 
the  passion  for  personal  independence,  the  emptiness 
of  head,  the  absorption  in  the  trifling  child's  play  that 
she  called  "flirting" — we  have  seen  all  these  traits 
running  through  a  very  wide  social  range.  It  is  true 
that  girls  who  are  as  good  as  Daisy  Miller  are  apt  to  be 
better,  and  girls  who  are  as  bad  are  apt  to  be  worse; 
that  is,  girls  whose  language  and  carriage  are  as  re- 
fined as  Daisy's  are  not  in  our  observation  as  reck- 
less in  forming  acquaintances.  They  do  things  every 
day  that  are  quite  equal  to  going  to  the  Coliseum  by 
moonlight  with  Giovanelli,  and  if  they  happen  to  be 
possessed  of  a  willful  enough  temperament  they 
would  do  them  in  Rome;  but  if  they  make  appoint- 
ments'to  go  on  excursions  with  young  men  picked 
up  half-an-hour  before  in  hotel  premises,  the  chances 
are  that  there  will  be  a  flavor  of  the  kitchen-maid 
about  them.  There  is  a  distinct  social  line  between 
the  girl  who  goes  rowing  till  midnight  with  any 
young  man  of  her  acquaintance  and  the  girl  who 
scrapes  acquaintances  on  the  cars;  and  while  the 
rowing  can  be  done  in  many  a  social  grade  with  the 
most  perfect  simplicity  and  unconsciousness  of  con- 
ventional transgression,  the  railroad  flirtation  is  hard- 
ly ever  regarded  by  the  girl  herself  as  anything  but 
an  escapade,  from  any  consequences  of  which,  how- 
ever, she  feels  amply  able  to  protect  herself. 
Girls,  too,  of  very  respectable  traditions  and  of 
schooling  and  language  far  superior  to  Daisy's,  if  they 
are  of  reckless  temperament  will  occasionally  dip 
down  to  such  escapades.  But  Daisy  had  no  more 
sense  of  an  escapade  in  arranging  to  go  to  Chillon 
with  a  stranger  than  in  receiving  callers  in  her  own 
name  and  alone.  Since,  however,  the  social  classes 
in  America  among  which  a  girl  may  receive  call- 
ers in  her  own  name  and  alone,  or  go  out  with  a 
"gentleman  friend"  by  night,  extend  all  the  way 
from  just  below  a  few  small  circlesof  fashionably  Euro- 
pean customs,  and  fewer  and  smaller  groups  of  inherit- 
ed old-fashioned  ways,  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the 
social  scale,  we  are  quite  willing  to  accept  on  Mr. 
James's  testimony  the  original  Daisy  with  all  her 


anomalies  of  refinement  and  vulgarity;  in  so  wide 
a  social  range  there  is  room  for  almost  any  number 
of  individual  varieties,  especially  when  the  influence 
of  paternal  wealth  complicates  the  problem.  With- 
out the  paternal  wealth,  Daisy  would  probably  have 
been  a  pretty. shop-girl;  and  she  can  be  as  nearly  as 
possible  ticketed  off  by  adding  to  the  pretty-shop- 
girl type  the  conception  of  wealth  and  importance 
from  infancy  up. 

But  in  the  comedy  this  comprehensible  Daisy  dis- 
appears. The  author  places  himself  distinctly  on 
the  side  of  Daisy,  with  those  who  have  always  main- 
tained that  the  character  was  a  defense  of  American 
girls  abroad,  not  an  attack  upon  them.  The  sweet- 
ness of  nature,  candor,  innocence,  and  a  certain 
winning  brightness  in  the  original  Daisy,  in  connec- 
tion with  her  sad  end,  have  been  enough  to  make 
her  friends,  and  were  enough  for  full  justice;  it  takes 
off  the  reality  to  try  to  emphasize  these  traits  further, 
and  obscure  the  counterbalancing  ones.  For  a  girl 
may  be  vulgar  without  being  coarse — and  Daisy  was 
vulgar;  her  absorption  in  young  men's  attentions,  her 
indifference  to  the  quality  of  the  men,  her  absolute 
blankness  of  mind  to  nature  or  art  or  knowledge  of 
any  sort — all  these  were  vulgarities  and  shallownesses, 
not  merely  of  training  but  of  character.  Still,  the 
proud  will,  the  defiant  innocence,  implied  some  ele- 
ments of  character  less  shallow;  and  the  amount  of 
feeling  roused  by  her  in  Winterbourne,  by  Winter- 
bourne  in  her,  are  in  the  "study"  skillfully  propor- 
tioned to  the  mixture  of  depth  and  shallowness  there 
was  in  her.  In  the  "comedy "they  are  incongru- 
ously disproportioned. 

The  mysterious  lady  of  Geneva  is  materialized 
into  a  conventionally  fascinating  Russian  princess, 
the  aunt  into  an  ill-bred  and  ill-tempered  burlesque 
of  a  dragon  chaperone,  a  Mr.  Reverdy  and  a  Miss 
Durant  are  dragged  in,  apparently  as  foils  to  Winter- 
bourne  and  Daisy:  Reverdy  to  show  how  flat  the 
typical  home-bred  American  is  beside  the  foreign- 
bred  one,  and  Miss  Durant  to  show  how  intolerable 
the  aristocratic  young  American  woman  is  beside  the 
Daisy  Miller  sort.  So  ridiculous  is  much  of  this 
young  woman's  conversation  that  it  strengthens  our 
hope  that  the  whole  comedy  is  intended  to  be  bur- 
lesque— no  author  who  has  given  us  such  an  appre- 
ciative picture  of  the  well-bred  American  girl  as  in 
the  "International  Episode"  can  have  meant  Alice 
Durant  to  be  taken  in  sober  earnest.  The  courier 
and  Giovanelli  and  Mrs.  Walker,  too,  are  burlesqued, 
and  Mrs.  Miller  worst  of  all.  Her  sudden  develop- 
ment of  sense  and  character  when  Daisy  was  ill  was 
one  of  the  truest  points  in  the  original  sketch;  her 
behavior  under  similar  circumstances  in  the  present 
one  makes  her  a  totally  different  one  and  much  more 
of  a  stock-  character— an  ordinary  imbecile.  Ran- 
dolph is  the  only  thing,  among  all  the  characters, 
feelings,  and  situations,  that  is  not  positively  bur- 
lesqued, and  that  by  the  hand  of  their  own  author; 
and  Randolph  hardly  admitted  of  burlesque.  It 


556 


Book  JRenews. 


[Nov. 


was  rather  a  ruthless  thing  to  do  to  so  delicate  and 
conscientious  a  piece  of  work  as  the  original  Daisy 
Miller;  and  indeed,  we  think  the  publication  of  this 
comedy  a  thing  to  be  regretted,  unless  the  reader  can 
keep  the  two  entirely  separate  in  his  mind,  think- 
ing of  these  characters  as  a  totally  different  set  of 
people  from  our  old  acquaintances.  If  he  can  do 
that,  he  will  find  much  in  this,  as  in  everything  from 
its  author,  that  is  entertaining  and  clever;  if  he  can- 
not, he  had  better  not  read  it  at  all.  It  will  destroy 
all  sense  of  reality  in  the  earlier  work,  without  sub- 
stituting anything  as  good.  It  is  altogether  the  most 
curious  literary  experiment,  perhaps,  ever  tried— the 
same  thing,  in  a  small  way,  as  if  Shakspere  himself 
had  written  a  second  Hamlet,  in  which  the  king  re- 
pented and  abdicated,  he  and  the  queen  retired  to 
convents,  and  Hamlet  ascended  the  throne  and 
married  Ophelia,  who  meantime  recovered  her  reason. 

Topics  of  the  Time.1 

THE  September  issue  of  "Topics  of  the  Time" 
includes  five  essays,  under  the  title  of  Questions  of 
Belief.  The  most  important  of  these  is  the  leading 
one,  "The  Responsibilities  of  Unbelief,"  by  Vernon 
Lee,  from  the  Contemporary  Review.  This  is  fol- 
lowed by  "Agnostic  Morality,"  by  Frances  Power 
Cobbe,  also  from  the  Contemporary,  an  answer  to 
Mr.  Lee's  paper.  These  two,  with  a  review  by 
Edmund  Gurney  of  "  Natural  Religion  "  (the  recent 
work  of  the  author  of  "Ecce  Homo"),  are  all  that 
bear  directly  on  the  questions  of  variance  between 
Christianity  and  agnosticism.  As  usual,  these  pa- 
pers are  all  excellent  in  destruction,  but  weak  when 
it  comes  to  construction.  The  "riddle  of  the  pain- 
ful earth  "  is  really  the  central  point  in  all  of  them; 
the  thing  sought  some  final  hope,  motive,  solution 
of  the  problem  of  evil.  Vernon  Lee's  paper  especial- 
ly is  excellent  in  putting  the  case  clearly  and  fairly 
for  pessimism;  but  when  at  the  end  he  attempts  to 
build  up  a  creed,  in  the  strength  of  which  to  meet  the 
dark  facts  of  existence  he  has  himself  so  well  ex- 
pounded, he  is  entirely  inadequate.  He  pins  his 
faith  on  the  ethical  system  of  the  Spencerian  school: 
that  of  the  progressive  evolution  of  morality  by  the 
necessary  clashing  of  interests  and  arranging  of  so- 
cial conditions,  until  finally  a  happy  state  of  society 
shall  be  arrived  at.  But  the  "purer  heaven"  of  a 
future  happy  human  society  is  in  the  first  place  not 
nearly  sure  enough  (if  you  depend  merely  on  the  evi- 
dence of  nature)  to  afford  more  than  a  dim  hope  to 
any  such  penetrating  inquirers  as  the  young  man  into 
whose  mouth  Mr.  Lee  puts  this  creed;  it  is  of  all 
Herbert  Spencer's  system  the  part  least  thoroughly 
supported  by  evidence,  least  satisfactory  even  to  his 
own  followers,  for  the  reason  that  it  does  not  take 
into  consideration  all  the  conditions  of  the  problem, 
all  the  complexities  either  of  human  motive  or  human 
society.  Moreover,  it  is  of  all  forms  of  belief  in  the 

1  Topics  of  the  Time  :   Questions  of  Belief.     New 
York  :   G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.     1883. 


vicarious  heaven  on  earth  the  least  attractive  and 
the  least  inspiring  to  effort,  since  it  represents  social 
morality  and  ultimate  well-being  as  the  aggregate 
product  of  individual  selfishness.  A  thorough-going 
Spencerian  can  hardly  avoid  the  belief  that  he  serves 
society  and  brings  the  millennium  as  well  by  egotism  as 
altruism.  If  society  contains  in  itself  the  germ  of  its 
own  spontaneous  and  inevitable  perfection,  there  can 
be  small  inducement  to  lend  a  hand  to  the  process — 
unless  one  does  it  merely  because  he  likes  to  amuse 
himself  in  chat  way,  as  a  child  might  amuse  himself  by 
pushing  to  help  a  twelve-ox  team  drag  a  load.  Much 
more  inspiring  is  the  doctrine  of  vicarious  heaven 
best  represented  by  George  Eliot,  which  holds  that 
if  the  perfect  or  approximately  perfect  human  condi- 
tion is  ever  attained,  it  will  be  by  direct  human  effort 
and  sacrifice.  In  point  of  fact,  it  is  the  hope  of  such 
an  outcome,  the  belief  in  the  direct  bearing  of  their 
own  efforts  upon  it,  that  does  constitute  in  the  main 
the  motive  of  such  agnostics  as  the  two  Englishmen 
in  Mr.  Lee's  dialogue;  and  the  primary  cause  of 
pessimism  among  them  is  such  tendencies  in  society 
as  make  them  doubt  whether  the  effort  can  ever  be  a 
success,  and  the  vicarious  heaven  be  attained.  In 
this  one  respect  is  this  form  of  the  doctrine  less 
cheerful  than  Spencer's:  it  is  open  to  the  fear  of  fail- 
ure. 

In  neither  form,  however,  does  the  belief  in  a 
future  perfected  society,  offered  by  Mr.  Lee  as  a  so- 
lution, meet  the  difficulties  he  has  himself  pro- 
pounded; viz.,  that  evil  is  a  real  thing  and  a  horrible 
one,  and  that  the  happiness  of  the  men  of  the  twen- 
tieth century  is  no  recompense  to  the  men  of  the 
nineteenth  for  their  misery;  the  fate  of  the  moth  who 
has  shriveled  in  a  fruitless  fire,  or  but  subserved 
another's  gain,  remains  forever  an  irremediable  blot 
on  the  universal  plan,  an  evil  and  injustice  eternal, 
unatoned  for.  As  far  as  the  questioner  himself  is 
concerned,  an  easy  escape  from  this  injustice  is  open: 
as  Emerson  has  put  it  better  than  any  of  the 
exact  philosophers,  it  is  only  to  side  with  the 
Universe  against  one's  self;  in  historic  fact,  every 
one  who  has  been  able  to  fairly  try  this  heroic  refuge 
has  found  it  satisfactory.  But  it  is  only  a  minority 
of  the  race  who  can  escape  injustice  by  thus  volun- 
tarily waiving  their  claim  to  justice;  the  case  is 
still  unmet  of  the  human  multitudes  and  brute 
multitudes  who  have  met  monstrous  evil,  in- 
tolerable, incomprehensible,  consented  to  by  not  a 
nerve  of  their  bodies  or  thought  of  their  souls,  at 
worst  for  no  good  whatever,  and  at  best  for  the 
furthering  of  some  phase  of  progress  that  had  nothing 
for  them  in  it.  The  easy  doctrine  that  it  is  beautiful 
and  right  to  suffer  as  even  a  reluctant  sacrifice  to 
beneficent  law  is  hardly  compatible  with  a  literal  real- 
ization of  the  monstrosity  of  suffering,  as  it  would  ap- 
pear to  each  in  his  own  person;  moreover,  the  agnos- 
tic must  labor  under  more  or  less  uncertainty  whether 
any  given  suffering  was  a  sacrifice  to  beneficent 
law. 


1883.] 


Outcroppings. 


557 


All  this  constructive  weakness  of  Mr.  Lee's  essay, 
Miss  Cobbe  is  abundantly  able  to  show.  But  when 
she  comes  to  construction  herself,  she  has  nothing 
with  which  to  meet  the  destructive  part  of  his  essay. 
Her  creed  is  simply  a  restatement  of  the  already 
clear  position  of  Christianity — an  appeal  from  the 
reason  to  the  heart;  an  abandonment  of  the  appar- 
ently insoluble  problem  of  evil  to  the  mercies  of  an 
infinitely  just,  loving,  and  powerful  Ruler  of  the 
Universe,  who  may  be  trusted  to  put  everything 
right.  This  position  is  perfectly  satisfactory,  as  a 
position,  and  answers  perfectly  all  the  agnostic's  dif- 
ficulties— to  Christians.  But  as  an  answer  to  Mr. 
Lee's  paper,  or  any  other  agnostic's  paper,  it  is  no- 
where; its  fundamental  assumptions  are  different- 
more  than  different:  irreconcilable.  All  the  ques- 
tion of  evil  and  its  significance  must — practically 
does — come  to  simply  two  answers:  to  the  Christian, 
"Leave  that  to  the  Lord;  he  will  make  everything 
right";  to  the  agnostic,  the  refuge  of  what  is  called 
in  our  stoic  American  slang,  "making  the  best  of  a 
bad  job."  As  Mr.  Gurney,  in  the  third  essay  now 
under  consideration,  puts  it:  "Natural  religion  would 
then  seem  divisible  into  virtuous  action,  conquests 
over  nature  in  certain  directions,  and  a  healthy  ex- 
ercise of  the  various  bodily  and  mental  faculties  on 
the  one  hand;  and  on  the  other,  manful  endurance 
of  the  inevitable  tedium,  ugliness,  and  evil,  of  which 
a  large  part  of  nature  consists ";  and  elsewhere, 
' '  The  key-note  of  the  one  gospel  is  resignation,  and  of 
the  other  hope."  This  statement  will,  of  course,  be 
modified  for  better  or  worse  by  the  individual  agnos- 
tic's estimate  of  the  actual  amount  of  evil  in  the 
world,  past  and  present,  and  of  the  chances  of  an 
improvement;  Mill's  suggestion  of  a  just  God  work- 
ing under  limitations  might  form  a  rational  milieu, 
if  any  party  had  ever  been  found  in  the  least  inclined 
to  accept  that  compromise;  but,  on  the  whole,  any  an- 
swer between  these  two  (both  clear  and  rational  and 
dependent  for  their  divergence  simply  upon  whether 
the  questioner  finds  the  God  of  Christianity  conceiv- 


able or  inconceivable)  must  be  more  or  less  transcen- 
dental, mystical,  and  not  capable  of  permanently  sat- 
isfying the  modern  temper.  In  point  of  fact,  some 
men  do  lead  most  manly,  pure,  and  unselfish  lives, 
on  the  simple  principle  of  "making  the  best  of  a  bad 
job,"  without  much  faith  in  even  a  vicarious  heaven; 
there  are  very  few  who  are  capable  of  it,  as  the 
world  now  is,  and  there  is  no  great  prospect  of  its 
ever  being  possible  to  many. 

The  remaining  two  essays  to  be  noticed  are  "  The 
Suppression  of  Poisonous  Opinions,"  a  defense  of 
entire  toleration,  by  Leslie  Stephen,  from  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,  and  "Modern  Miracles,"  by  E.  S. 
Shuckburgh,  also  from  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
"Modern  Miracles"  is  a  brief,  courteous,  and  thor- 
oughly good  challenge  of  the  evidence  of  the  Lourdes 
miracles,  and  is  the  paper  most  to  be  recommended 
to  general  readers  of  the  five  in  the  collection. 

The  August  issue  of  "Topics  of  the  Time"  is 
Historical  Studies.1  Of  the  five  papers  contained, 
the  most  interesting  are,  as  usual,  from  the  Nine- 
teenth Century:  Village  Life  in  Norfolk  600  Years 
Ago,  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Augustus  Jessopp;  and  A  Few 
Words  about  the  Eighteenth  Century,  by  Fredefic 
Harrison.  The  article  on  Village  Life  in  Norfolk  is, 
in  substance,  a  lecture  delivered  to  workingmen  of  a 
parish  adjoining  Rougham;  the  material  is  drawn 
from  a  'remarkable  collection  of  manuscripts  at 
Rougham  Hall,  charters  and  evidences  relating 
to  the  various  transfers  of  the  Hall  and  estates 
connected  with  it.  They  date  from  the  time 
of  Henry  the  Third  to  the  present  day,  and 
form  one  of  the  completes!  collections  of  material  for 
local  history  in  existence.  The  other  papers  in  this 
number  are  Siena,  by  Samuel  James  Cappar;  France 
and  England  in  1793,  by  Oscar  Browning;  and  Gen- 
eral Chanzy,  anonymous; — from  the  Contemporary 
Review,  Fortnightly  Review,  and  Temple  Bar,  re- 
spectively. 

1  Topics  of  the  Time:  Historical  Studies.  New 
York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883. 


OUTCROPPINGS. 


The  Age  of  Cans. 

WHATEVER  the  historian  of  the  future,  in  rehears- 
ing the  achievements  of  the  present,  may  indicate  as 
its  pre-eminent  or  peculiar  characteristics,  he  will 
utterly  fail  to  render  full  justice  to  the  facts  if  he 
forgets  to  mention  that  in  the  latter  third  of  the 
nineteenth  century  everything  that  it  was  possible 
to  box,  bottle,  and  can  was  boxed,  bottled,  and 
canned.  The  poets  sing  of  a  "  Golden  Age,"  and 
there  have  been,  no  doubt — for  the  archseologists  tell 
us  so — ages  of  stone — of  bronze — and  of  iron;  and 


such  philosophers,  saturated  with  an  antiquated  con- 
servatism, may  shake  hands  with  the  classicists,  and 
hint  that  this  is  a  period  of  brass,  but  these  fellows 
and  their  implications  are  intrusive  and  offensive, 
and  should  take  a  back  seat,  where  they  belong, 
among -the  Greeks  and  Romans.  No:  the  age  we 
live  in  will  be  known  far  excellence  as  the  age  of 
bottles,  cans,  and  boxes,  or,  more  concisely,  as  the 
"AGE  OF  CANS" — markedly  different  from  any 
previous  epoch  or  era  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
The  ages  of  Stone,  of  Bronze,  and  of  Iron,  the 


558 


Oulcroppings. 


[Nov. 


times  of  the  Greeks  and  the  Latins,  it  will  be  said, 
departed  and  left  behind  their  peculiar  and  charac- 
teristic debris,  "to  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale," 
or  because  they  couldn't  take  their  household 
goods  with  them;  but  this,  the  latest  and  greatest, 
vide  Bishop  Berkeley— "  Time's  noblest  offspring 
is  its  last"— the  Age  of  Cans,  makes  its  debris  as  it 
goes,  plenty  of  it,  has  no  ethical  hunger  nor  special 
desire  to  point  morals,  though  its  empty  cans  fre- 
quently adorn  a  tail. 

The  student  of  sociology  or  moral  philosophy  may 
dissent,  and  assert  the  present  to  be  an  Age  of  Cant 
more  truly  than  an  Age  of  Cans,  and  find  many  to 
agree  with  him;  but  this  difference  of  opinion  need 
not  cause  a  quarrel.  What's  in  a  name  ?  A  nose 
by  any  other  name  could  smell  as  much.  As  for 
cant,  the  dullest  of  us  see  enough,  see  too  much,  of 
it  on  every  side,  in  all  its  aspects  and  varieties- 
cant  in  religion;  a  cant  of  aesthetics,  sunflowers,  and 
shoddy;  cant  in  education,  the  blind  leading  the 
blind;  a  cant  of  science— if  it  only  stopped  here,  but 
it  doesn't. 

As  a  plant  out  of-  place  is  a  weed,  and  as  such  in 
the  way,  therefore  a  pest,  so  a  can  out  of  use  and 
place  is  a  nuisance  and  cumbereth  the  ground.  So 
pro  hac  vice  we  may  regard  cant  also  as  a  weed,  a 
blossoming  of  human  nature,  a  sprout  or  outgrowth 
on  its  weak  and  sappy  side.  As  man  in  his  moral 
and  intellectual  aspect  is  superior  to  his  physical  na- 
ture, so  he  is  superior  to  his  implements,  and  this 
admitted,  his  cants  are  more  offensive  (cantankerous) 
than  his  cans,  though  when  the  latter  are  of  the  tin 
kind,  made  by  the  tinker,  they  are  more  properly 
cantinkerous. 

And  yet,  through  the  strange  perversities  of  lan- 
guage, it  may  be  said  that  there  is  no  such  word  as 
"can't"  in  an  age  when  everything  is  canned! 

In  an  age  of  cans  the  people  may  be  canny,  if  not 
cannibals;  as  anthropophagy  is  barbarous,  so  also  is 
slovenliness — it  will  be  seen  that  various  paths  lead 
to  Rome — or  that  civilization  is  simply  a  compara- 
tive term,  and  that  there  is  hardly  a  missing  link  be- 
tween the  cannibals  and  the  canaille,  as  the  bump- 
tious nobility  are  called  in  the  country  of  Can- 
robert. 

The  march  of  civilization  is  marked  not  more 
clearly  by  lines  of  railroad  and  the  wires  of  the  tele- 
graph than  by  the  empty  cans,  boxes,  and  bottles 
which  the  all-pervading  unrest  of  the  age  has  scat- 
tered broadcast  over  the  face  of  the  earth — here, 
there,  and  everywhere.  A  can-cerous  eruption  disfig- 
ures the  face  of  Nature,  and  obscures  or  obliterates  its 
beauty.  On  every  side,  the  presence  of  the  pale  face, 
or  the  sign  where  he  has  been,  is  recorded  by  some 
form  of  these  modern  emblems  of  "a  go-ahead  peo- 
ple": evidently  a  fast  people,  it  will  be  written,  for 
they  seem  to  have  traveled,  if  not  at  a  gallop,  then  on 
a  canter.  The  scattered  remnants  of  the  aborigines 
— for  the  century  scatters  a  good  deal — injuns,  cans, 
and  white  folks — are  brought,  perforce  of  the  locomo- 


tive and  the  ironways  along  which  it  rushes,  face  to 
face  with  new  factors  in  their  environment,  intro- 
duced incidentally  by  the  iron  monster,  whose  tireless 
shrieking  drives  the  game  affrighted  from  its  wonted 
cover  and  leaves  behind  "  a  beggarly  account  of  empty 
boxes"  and  cans,  the  kitchen-middens  of  civilized 
nomads,  possessed  by  the  devil  of  hurry,  whirling 
along  and  eating  as  they  fly. 

"  Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe 

The  steamer  smokes  and  raves, 
And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves." 

The  explorer,  the  surveyor,  the  engineer,  the  trav- 
eler, and  the  tramp,  spurred  by  curiosity  or  the  hope 
of  gain,  go  rushing  along  the  "paths  of  empire," 
following  the  footsteps  of  the  trapper  and  hunter, 
and  cast  off  their  trumpery  of  cans  and  bottles  as  the 
crabs  shed  their  shells,  wherever  these  may  happe  n 
to  fall.  Tin-shops  and  box  factories,  glass-works  and 
grocery  shops,  seem  to  have  been  caught  up  by  a 
universal  tornado,  a  general  and  eclectic  blizzard, 
which  left  naught  but  a  wrack  behind — and  such  a 
wrack!  O,  for  a  pious  cyclone,  to  sweep  the  rubbish 
to  the  moon,  or  the  Tropic  of  Cancer. 

There  is  no  longer  need  for  the  red  man's  wife,  th  e 
tawny  princess  of  Modoc  or  Pah-utah,  to  gather  tules 
and  weave  baskets  or  to  use  the  hollowed  stones  and 
implements  of  their  forgotten  ancestors;  to  "  toil  and 
moil,  poor  muckworms,"  while  their  noble  masters, 
the  big  chiefs,  go  strutting  about — a  grand  dress- 
parade  in  undress  uniform;  there  is  no  call  for  the 
dusky  maidens  of  diggerdom  to  task  their  injunuity 
by  working  into  shape  the  natural  resources  of  the 
tribal  territory;  for  if  the  white  man  has  not 
made  the  wilderness  to  blossom  as  the  rose,  he  has 
caused  it  to  be  well  seeded  with  the  rejectamenta 
of  picnics  and  wayside  camps,  and  a  harvest  of  tin 
cans  and  junk  bottles  can  be  gathered  anywhere. 
The  face  of  nature  is  defaced,  the  trail  of  the  pale 
face  is  over  it  all;  but  the  brunette  visage  of  the  In- 
dian princess  is  serene,  the  law  of  compensation 
works  to  her  advantage;  she  has  less  toil;  the  heat 
and  burden  of  the  day  is  discounted  to  her  benefit, 
and  she  has  more  time  to  improve  her  mind.  The 
millennium  for  her  is  approaching.  She  has  already 
become  a  participant  in  the  blessings  of  that  civiliza- 
tion which,  while  it  destroys  a  race,  benefits  in- 
dividuals, and  she  has  no  fear  of  the  deluge,  for 
water  never  troubles  people  who  live  in  a  dry  coun- 
try —so  dry,  that  the  prevailing  axiom  and  controlling 
slang  is  to  "git  up  and  dust."  Her  culinary  labora- 
tory is  "  all-out-of-doors,"  and  her  kitchen  parapher- 
nalia are  everywhere.  "Lo  !  the  poor  Indian,"  sells 
his  own  trumpery-  to  the  curiosity-hunter  at  fancy 
prices,  and  gets  better  for  nothing,  the  mere  pick- 
ing-up,  in  the  rubbish  of  the  white  man,  which 
cumbers  the  earth. 

A  decade  ago,  the  landmarks  and  guideposts 
which  blazed  the  routes  of  travel,  the  paths  made 
dusty  by  the  feet  of  men — yea,  the  highways  and  by- 


1883.] 


Outcroppings. 


559 


ways,  all,  save  the  trackless  courses  of  the  sea — were 
deserted,  unoccupied,  and  collapsed  hoop-skirts, 
which  were  strewn  here  and  there  like  the  wind-blown 
leaves  of  autumn.  Where  are  they  now  ?  What 
has  become  of  them  ?  Had  these  no  "place  in  the 
economy  of  the  aborigine,  or  have  they  found  a 
fitting  place,  though  not  upon  the  "human  form 
divine"?  Unseemly  skeletons,  how  much  of  the 
beautiful  they  shared  in  their  glory  !  what  "  pride  of 
place  "  was  theirs  !  Have  they  perished  from  the 
earth  ?  Who  can  tell  from  whence  they  came  and 
whither  they  have  gone  ?  Somewhere  in  the  complex- 
ity of  the  universe  they  have  probably  found  their 
rest,  or  are  resolved  into  their  original  elements. 
The  poet  says: 

"Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 
Its  fitting  place  shall  find." 

And  as  they  received  much  rude  jostling  in  their 
glory  and  prime,  they  are  now,  perhaps,  slumbering 
in  the  cold  yet  restful  apathy  of  decay,  and  have 
a  fitting  place,  for  without  doubt  hoop-shirts, 
though  cast  off,  are  kindly  provided  for,  not  less  than 
the  dear  ones  who  wore  them,  with  some  salubrious 
corner  in  the  universal  plan. 

When  and  how  will  the  Age  of  Cans  go  out,  and 
the  epidermis  of  Mother  Earth  be  purged  of  the 
can-escent  corruption  which  whitens  her  face  with 
its  metallic  scurf  ?  When  mercantilism  is  on  the 
wane  or  less  aggressive  in  its  energy  ?  when  the 
course  of  empire  leads  to  loftier  morals  ?  when  ethics 
and  aesthetics,  wedded  in  perfect  harmony,  have  • 
made  the  world  beautiful,  when  "nature  guides  and 
virtue  rules,"  when  the  can-can  has  become  obsolete 
in  the  jar-dins  of  Paris  and  can-didates  are  can-did 
and  can  show  a  clean  record  ?  Perchance  beneath 
the  can-opy  of  heaven,  somewhere  this  side  of 
Can-aan's  happy  shore,  there  may  be  some  undis- 
covered can-yon,  can-iculated  by  running  streams, 
whose  can-orous  waters  mingle  their  liquid  music 
with  the  songs  of  the  birds — can-ary  birds — who  sing 
their  can-tos  or  can-tatas  to  the  can-ty  larks,  who, 
charmed,  reply  with  many  a  can-zonet — where  one 
can  paddle  his  own  can-oe,  and  life  is  endurable  be- 
cause cans  and  cants  are  not.  Who  can  tell  ? 

R.  E.  C.  S. 

"Once  upon  a  Time." 

THE  fashionable  club  of  which  Lord  Fitz-Patrick 
Sparkle  was  a  member  gave  a  dinner,  to  which  all 
the  noble  "big-iijgs"  of  Dublin  were  invited.  At 
this  dinner,  for  some  reason  which  has  escaped  my 
memory— and  I  may  not  invent  one,  since  my  recital 
is  to  be  true  in  all  its  details — my  lord  determined  to 
appear  in  his  court  dress,  which  was  a  very  gay  and 
rich  affair.  Accordingly,  calling  his  valet,  he  had 
himself  arrayed  most  elaborately  in  the  picturesque 
fashion  of  the  time — a  hundred  or  more  years  ago. 
Underneath  what  in  the  present  day  of  scant  skirts 
would  seem  a  most  voluminous  coat,  he  wore  a  gayly 


brocaded  waistcoat  of  very  rich  texture,  which 
reached  nearly  to  his  knees.  On  the  front  of  his 
shirt  bosom  were  wide  frills  of  choicest  lace,  also 
about  his  wrists  and  falling  over  his  white,  shapely 
hands.  His  feet  were  incased  in  low  shoes  fastened 
with  large  silver  buckles  set  with  precious  jewels; 
while  his  much-adored  legs — and  just  here  let  me 
assert  that  it  was  no  small  amount  of  vanity  my  lord 
had  invested  in  those  members — were  adorned  with  a 
pair  of  knee-breeches,  also  fastened  at  the  knee  with 
jeweled  buckles  similar  to  those  on  his  shoes;  and 
covering  his  matchless  calves  were  a  pair  of  silkea 
hose  that  the  valet  was  afterwards  heard  to  confi- 
dently declare  were  "the  most  illegant  things  yez 
iver  laid  eyes  an." 

As  thus  festively  attired  he  entered  his  wife's 
sitting-room  to  say  au  revolt-  before  starting  out, 
she  casually  inquired  if  he  had  yet  ordered  the  car- 
riage. 

"  Carriage,  my  lady  !  No,  indeed,  I  shall  walk 
to  the  club,"  he  replied.  "The  day  is  fine,  and  I 
prefer  to  go  on  foot." 

Lord  Sparkle's  wife,  being  as  plain  and  unassum- 
ing in  her  ways  as  he  was  pompous  and  vain  in  his, 
thought  that  so  much  richness  and  elegance  of  attire 
would  accord  better  with  the  privacy  of  the  family 
coach  than  the  publicity  of  the  dusty  thoroughfare; 
therefore  she  remonstrated,  saying  that  his  dress 
would  make  him  conspicuous  on  the  street  at  such 
an  hour,  and  attract  every  one's  attention.  But  the 
latter  was  just  what  my  lord  desired  above  all  things; 
besides,  he  was  what  his  valet  termed  a  "cranky" 
man  when  interfered  with  in  his  whims;  hence  the 
more  his  wife  said,  the  more  set  he  became  in  his 
determination. 

"Show  me  the  man,"  said  he,  "who  can  boast 
of  a  handsomer  pair  of  legs  than  these  with  which 
to  take  himself  over  Cork  Hill,  and  then  I  will  con- 
sent to  hide  these  in  a  stuffy  coach.  Was  there  ever 
a  stocking  a  neater  fit  or  better  filled?"  he  continued, 
as  he  twisted  and  turned  his  head  about  in  his  effort 
to  look  over  his  shoulder  and  thus  catch  a  sight,  in  his 
wife's  mirror,  of  the  immaculate  calves  in  their  truly 
beautiful  coverings.  "Pardon  me,  my  lady,  for  not 
humoring  your  wishes,  but  'Marrow- Bone  Stage ' 
suits  my  mood  best."  Saying  which,  Lord  Fitz- 
Patrick  departed,  stepping  off  finely,  his  jeweled 
buckles  twinkling  in  the  sunlight. 

Many  a  little'  street  urchin,  playing  by  the  road- 
side, made  round  eyes  at  him  as  all  this  pride  and 
splendor  flashed  upon  his  sight. 

"  Begorra,  Teddy  !  whin  did  yez  iver  see  the  likes 
av  that  now  !"  said  one  ragged  little  fellow,  who 
with  a  companion  was  playing  in  the  mud  as  children 
of  all  climes  and  centuries  have  done,  and  will  con- 
tinue to  do  whenever  chance  offers  to  the  end  of 
time.  Then  the  two  set  off  on  a  chase  after  him, 
wheeling  around  and  about  him  to  take  in  all  his 
magnificence,  until  one  of  them,  suddenly  darting  in 
front  of  him,  nearly  tripped  up  Lord  Fitz-Patrick's 


5GO 


Outcroppings. 


[Nov. 


heels,  causing  him  to  stumble  and  come  very  near 
measuring  his  length  in  the  ditch  beside  the  way; 
whereupon  he  grew  very  angry,  and  shook  his  cane 
so  vigorously  and  scowled  so  fiercely  at  them  that 
they  quickly  dropped  to  the  rear,  and  contented 
themselves  with  gazing  after  him  and  commenting  on 
him  as  follows: 

"  Troth,  Mickey  !  did  yez  iver  see  sich  an  illegant 
bird?  The  shine  av  his  diamint  shoes  wor  like  to 
put  out  the  light  av  my  two  eyes  wid  their  blinkin'. 
An'  did  yez  mind,  Mickey,  the  rael  goold  head  on 
his  cane  wid  a  flamin'  big  jewel  atop  av  it,  whin  he 
shuk  it  at  yez  ?  " 

"  Arrah  !  I  did,  Teddy;  but  I  wor  mindin'  sharper 
to  get  my  head  out  from  undher  it.  Belike,  Teddy, 
'tis  King  Gearge  himself,  from  acrass  the  say  beyant. 
Will  yez  look  at  the  bowld  way  he  has  av  steppin' 
out  ? " 

Though  seemingly  unconscious  of  all  around  him 
save  his  own  high-mightiness,  Lord  Fitz-Patrick 
Sparkle  did  not  lose  a  single  admiring  glance  cast 
upon  him  by  the  passers-by.  It  was  a  long  way  from 
Merion  Square  to  the  club,  but  lifting  his  hat  graceful- 
ly to  My  Lady  This  and  bowing  condescendingly  to 
plain  Mrs.  That,  my  lord  sirode  briskly  up  Cork  Hill 
and  onward.  The  jeweled  shoes  flashed  in  and  out  of 
many  a  street,  and  twinkled  around  many  a  corner,  un- 
til at  last,  weary  with  his  long  walk,  and  thinking  to 
lessen  the  distance  by  a  short  cut,  my  lord  turned  into 
a  less  fashionable  and  somewhat  unfrequented  street. 
The  first  object  that  greeted  his  eyes  on  entering  it  was 
a  young  chimney-sweep  lying  in  the  path  before  him, 
lazily  sunning  himself,  with  all  the  sooty  implements 
of  his  trade  scattered  around  him.  Beside  him  lay 
a  dirty,  soot-begrimed  bag,  filled  with  the  sweepings 
of  soot  and  ashes  from  the  last  chimney  he  had 
cleaned.  He  lay  perfectly  quiet,  watching  my  lord 
with  a  half-sleepy,  half-admiring  look  as  he  sparkled 
along  towards  him,  but  he  made  no  motion  towards 
taking  himself  and  his  traps  out  of  the  way;  evident- 
ly he  expected  my  lord  to  turn  aside  and  pass  around 
him,  so  little  reverence  was  there  in  his  soul  for 
nobility  or  fine  clothes.  Though  humble  in  his 
calling,  he  was  by  no  means  so  in  spirit.  He  had 
decided  within  himself  that  the  road  was  his  by  right 
of  possession,  that  he  was  comfortably  fixed  and 
would  remain  so;  besides,  what  right  had  such  a  big 
swell  as  that  in  Tipperary  Street  ?  Quite  likely  he 
would  get  a  kick,  but  what  would  one  kick,  more  or 
less,  signify  to  him  who  got  little  else  from  morn  till 
night  by  way  of  pay  from  his  master — indeed,  oftener 
supped  and  dined  off  them  than  bread?  But  my 
lord  had  no  thought  of  stepping  aside.  Coming  to 
a  full  halt,  he  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  dingy  little 
creature,  speechless  at  his  audacity,  then,  lifting  his 
cane  and  shaking  it  threateningly  at  him,  he  ex- 
claimed: "  Get  up  and  begone,  you  dirty  little  vaga- 


bond.      How   dare   you  stop  the  way  of  a  gentle- 
man ?  " 

The  sleepy  look  on  the  smutty  face  of  young  Paddy 
changed  suddenly  to  a  wicked,  impish  one;  yet  he 
made  no  effort  towards  moving  away. 

"Out  of  my  road,  you  dirty  beggar!"  cried  the 
now  thoroughly  incensed  lord;  and  this  time  the 
cane  came  down  with  a  vigorous  whack  on  Paddy's 
head  and  shoulders,  the  blow  being  followed  by  a 
dozen  more  equally  well  laid  on. 

Taking  a  firm  hold  of  his  bag  of  soot,  Paddy 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  rapidly  whirling  it  two  or 
three  times  above  his  head,  he  brought  it  swooping 
down  against  my  lord's  fine  calves  and  "illegant 
stockings  "  with  such  force  as  to  nearly  knock  him 
off  his  feet,  at  the  same  time  contriving  to  empty  its 
contents  all  over  and  about  him,  raising  a  cloud  of 
dust  and  soot  so  dense  as  to  completely  envelope  his 
lordship,  and  render  him  for  a  time  nearly  undis- 
cernible.  Then  with  the  rapidity  of  a  shooting  star, 
Paddy  darted  off,  crying  out: 

"Shure,  white  stockings  wor  niver  my  taste,  at 
all,  for  a  jintleman  !  Faith,  black  becomes  age  bet- 
ther,  an'  kindly  welkim  ye  are  to  thim  I'm  afther 
givin'  ye  ! " 

Long  before  my  lord  could  either  see  or  speak,  so 
full  were  his  eyes  and  mouth  of  soot,  wicked  little 
Pat  was  safely  hidden  away  from  pursuit. 

Perhaps  you  can  imagine  the  plight  my  lord  found 
himself  in  when  the  dust  and  soot  had  cleared  away 
sufficiently  for  him  to  get  a  glimpse  at  himself. 
Though  an  hour  before  he  had  scorned  to  hide  his 
handsome  legs  in  the  family  coach,  he  was  now  only 
too  glad  to  get  them  out  of  sight  in  the  first  cab  or 
whatever  public  conveyance  they  had  in  those 
days  that  he  could  find.  When  he  alighted  at  his 
own  door,  his  wife,  who  chanced  to  be  standing  at 
the  window,  saw  at  a  glance  the  plight  he  was  in, 
and  so  keen  was  her  relish  for  the  ludicrous  that  she 
could  not  refrain  from  greeting  her  lord  with  a  merry 
peal  of  laughter;  at  the  same  time,  pointing  to  the 
driver  who  stood  cracking  his  whip  before  the  door 
waiting  for  the  extra  fee  which  was  to  seal  his  tongue, 
she  slyly  exclaimed: 

"Ah,  ha  !  Patrick  O'Dempsey  drives  the  'Mar- 
row-Bone Stage,'  does  he  not,  my  lord?" 

Though  O'Dempsey  was  paid  an  amount- nearly 
equal  to  his  year's  earnings  to  induce  him  to  keep 
the  matter  quiet,  it  was  not  three  days  before  it  was 
on  the  tongue  of  nearly  every  member  of  the  club  in 
all  its  details. 

Many  and  malicious  were  the  jokes  my  lord  was 
compelled  to  listen  to  in  consequence,  but  not  one 
whit  did  his  vanity  diminish;  on  the  contrary,  as  he 
advanced  in  years,  it  increased  to  such  an  extent  that 
in  his  old  age  he  was  noted  for  being  the  vainest 
man  in  the  United  Kingdom. 

Sara  D.  Halsted. 


THE 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


DEVOTED   TO 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE   COUNTRY. 


VOL.  II.  (SECOND  SERIES.)— DECEMBER,  1883.— No.  12. 


A   SHEPHERD  AT   COURT. 


CHAPTER  V. 

GURNEY  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass 
that  night  with  a  serious  attention  which  it 
was  a  pity  Miss  Graves  could  not  have  seen, 
with  a  humility  which  some  of  his  social  con- 
freres might  have  at  least  imitated  with  ad- 
vantage to  themselves.  Tina's  flippant  little 
speech  about  his  being  too  old  for  a  hero 
came  back  to  his  mind  and  stung  a  little,  as 
the  most  foolish  speeches  will  sometimes. 
It  is  one  thing  to  look  with  easy  superiority 
on  the  follies  of  youth,  but  quite  another  to 
know  that  its  rose-garlanded  doors  are 
swinging  to  shut  you  out.  To  Gurney  in 
his  magnificent  prime,  the  years  suddenly 
seemed  to  pile  up  like  gray  cloud-banks, 
and  he  was  seized  with  a  morbid  self-con- 
sciousness as  absurd  as  it  was  unlike  him- 
self. This  mood,  in  turn,  was  tinctured 
with  a  faint  bitterness  toward  the  people  left 
behind  him  in  that  paradise  of  time.  He 
thought,  putting  abstract  questions  aside, 
that  Mr.  Fessenden  might  have  chosen 
some  better  place  for  his  love-making — if 
indeed  it  were  love-making — than  the  bal- 
cony of  a  crowded  summer  resort,  and  he 
could  not  quite  leave  Miss  Oulton  out  of 
his  sweeping  condemnation. 
VOL.  II.— 36. 


He  had  flushed  a  little  under  his  own 
pitiless  selfrscrutiny,  but  the  color  faded 
from  his  face  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
little  locket,  now  replaced  on  his  mended 
chain.  He  took  it  up  hesitatingly,  turned 
it  over  arid  over  without  opening  it,  and  at 
last  detached  it  from  its  ring  and  dropped 
it  into  a  tiny  bronze  box  on  his  dressing 
bureau.  "That  has  no  right  to  bar  my  way 
any  longer,"  he  muttered,  as  if  in  answer  to 
some  conscience-caught  reproachful  voice. 
Finally,  as  if  the  locket  were  a  mysterious 
fetich,  and  incantation  only  would  remove 
the  spell,  he  threw  himself  into  the  biggest 
easy-chair  in  the  room,  and  with  his  feet 
pointing  skyward,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
meditative  American,  let  his  thoughts  follow 
the  lazy  spirals  from  his  cigar,  "reading  back- 
ward life's  pages  for  penance,"  until  nothing 
was  left  of  cigar  or  retrospection  but  a  room- 
ful of  blue  haze  and  a  tiny  pile  of  white  ashes. 

He  looked  cheerful  enough  the  next 
morning,  when  he  came  down  town  after 
his  early  "constitutional"  to  meet  an  ap- 
pointment with  his  lawyer;  walking  with  a 
swinging  stride,  and  taking  in  the  possibili- 
ties of  the  murky  sky  and  southerly  wind 
with  the  keen  enjoyment  only  known  to  a 
man  of  out-door  life. 


562 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Dec. 


The  social  atmosphere  in  which  he  moved 
gave  him  the  sensation  of  having  traveled  a 
long  distance  in  a  cramped  railway  carriage, 
and  he  stretched  himself  mentally  and  mor- 
ally as  well  as  bodily,  after  his  polite  dissi- 
pations, by  some  pedestrian  or  equestrian 
"outing."  He  had  sometimes  joined  the 
dashing  parties  of  light-habited  young  wo- 
men and  their  cavaliers  who  went  out  on 
the  road,  usually  chaperoned  by  Mrs.  Law- 
lor ;  for  that  lady  retained  her  love  for  all 
youthful  pleasures  in  a  charming  degree. 
But  his  own  solitary  rides  and  walks  showed 
him  the  city  and  its  suburb  from  a  very 
different  point  of  view.  Picking  his  way 
through  the  streets  in  the  frosty  mornings, 
when  the  city  was  waking  into  its  day-life, 
and  watching  its  fierce  pulses  begin  to  throb, 
its  argus  eyes  to  open,  he  found  food  for  re- 
flection and  to  spare.  The  coarse  unloveli- 
ness  of  the  morning,  as  seen  in  the  byways 
of  this  curious  cosmopolitan  town,  was  such 
a  sharp  contrast  to  the  fresh  light  touching 
his  own  mountain-tops  and  streams,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  God  might  have  made  two 
suns,  one  for  the  country  and  the  other  for 
the  town.  But  there  was  fascination  as  well 
as  repulsion  in  this  "seamy  side"  of  life  to 
which  he  had  been  so  long  a  stranger,  and 
whose  warp  and  woof  was,  after  all,  the  same 
as  that  which  made  "society's"  cloth  of  gold. 

As  it  happened,  his  interest  was  not  alto- 
gether abstract.  He  was  the  bearer  of  pres- 
ents and  letters  from  his  old  housekeeper  to 
her  niece,  whose  husband,  a  thrifty  German, 
was,  under  Gurney's  recommendation,  head 
porter  in  one  of  Mr.  Graves's  warehouses. 
Gurney  took  pains  to  be  his  own  messenger, 
and,  after  a  long  search,  traced  them  to  a 
wretched  little  side-street  in  the  north  part 
of  the  town.  A  boy  playing  on  the  brok- 
en sidewalk  pointed  out  the  house  and 
started  to  run  across  the  narrow  street; 
and  then,  all  at  once,  Gurney's  horse 
shied  and  reared,  striking  the  little  fellow 
under  his  feet.  Luckily  the  worst  of  his 
hurts  was  a  broken  arm,  but  that  was  the 
beginning  of  a  very  close  acquaintance  with 
Dale  Street. 

The   Traufners   were    in    sore    trouble. 


Their  pretty  house  had  been  sold;  they 
were  head  over  heels  in  debt.  "  I  would 
not  write  aunt,  for  shame,"  said  Mrs. 
Traufner,  wiping  her  eyes,  while  she  poured 
out  her  troubles  in  spluttering  German  and 
still  more  spluttering  English. 

As  Gurney  had  to  see  that  his  little  victim 
was  well  cared  for,  he  made  that  part  of  the 
city  the  objective  point  of  a  good  many  of  his 
excursions,  and  by  degrees  came  to  find  out 
the  weal  and  woe  of  all  the  dingy  little  street. 
The  Irish  women  who  came  in  to  bewail  little 
Bob  Jarvey's  accident,  and  the  more  sedate 
friends  of  the  Traufners  who  visited  them  in 
their  exile,  made  a  sharp  antithesis  to  the 
rest  of  his  city  friends,  save  on  one  point — 
the  all-pervading,  all-enticing  "stocks."  All 
the  substance  that  could  be  gathered  up 
from  what  Mrs.  Jarvey  defined  as  "day's 
•wurruks,"  or  "a  bit  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day," 
was  eagerly  put  into  this  vast  crucible  for 
the  alchemist  of  California  Street  to  turn 
into  bursting  coffers  of  gold.  A  frenzy 
seemed  to  seize  those  grimy  toilers  as  they 
hung  over  the  daily  list  of  bids  and  sales. 
Each  had  his  oracle  to  consult  and  quote, 
his  lucky  "hits"  to  boast  of. 

Gurney  found  that  moralizing  or  ad- 
vice was  thrown  away  in  such  an  atmos- 
phere. Mrs.  Traufner  alone  told  with 
mournful  stress  how  Traufner  had  asked 
Mr.  Graves  if  it  was  good  to  put  money  in 
the  mines. 

"He  was  such  a  friendly,  good-natured 
gentleman,  and  always  remembered  Trauf- 
ner and  spoke  to  him  so  cheerful.  He 
said,  'Yes,  yes,  be  sure  it  was  good.'  Then 
he  told  him  how,  and  gave  him  the  name  of 
a  gentleman — Mr.  Russell — to  go  to.  The 
O-ri-ole  was  the  thing  to  buy,  and  he 
clapped  Traufner  on  the  back :  'You'll  go 
back  to  the  Fatherland  a  rich  man.'  My 
husband  was  so  proud,  and  we  see  in  the 
air  a  visit  to  Germany,  and  a  little  rest  from 
work — oh,  so  many  things !  Then  crash 
went  the  O-ri-ole,  down,  down,  and  we  had  to 
borrow  money  to  hold  our  stock  till  it  goes 
up.  But  something  else  goes  up,  and  now — 
well,  now  we  have  to  begin  all  over";  and 
Mrs.  Traufner  heaved  a  tremendous  sigh,  and 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


563 


stooped  with  quivering  lips  to  kiss  the  little 
Christina,  her  flaxen-haired  three-year-old 
baby. 

Gurney  brought  back  the  smiles  and  a 
storm  of  gratitude  with  them,  by  offering  to 
set  Traufner  on  his  feet  again.  But  there 
were  so  many  dark  threads  in  this  particular 
seam  of  "the  seamy  side"  that  he  began  to 
realize  with  an  equally  divided  impatience 
and  regret  his  own  inability  to  follow  them 
all  to  the  end,  or  dye  them  with  any  brighter 
colors. 

As  if  to  mock  this  melancholy  humanity, 
the  city  was  just  now  bursting  out  into  its 
holiday  garb;  even  the  dingiest  little  shops 
wore  at  least  a  boutonniere  of  evergreen  or 
scarlet  berries,  and  spread  out  their  tawdry 
splendor  to  allure  the  passer-by. 

On  the  steps  of  the  building  where  Mr. 
Reinecke  had  his  office,  Gurney  came  upon 
Mr.  Graves  and  Fessenden.  In  his  matter- 
of-fact  surroundings,  the  young  man  looked 
more  vigorous,  more  expressive,  than  usual, 
but  Gurney  somehow  found  it  easier  to 
pardon  his  faults  than  his  virtues.  Mr. 
Graves  was,  to  copy  his  own  phrase,  fond  of 
"driving  things."  This  morning  he  seemed 
to  have  on  a  full  head  of  steam.  He 
clapped  Gurney  on  the  back  jovially,  and 
held  out  a  long  fluttering  slip  of  foolscap. 

"You're  the  very  man  I  wanted  to  see. 
You're  interested  in  orphans  and  widows 
and  old  ladies,  ain't  you?  If  you're  not,  you 
ought  to  be.  This  is  the  time  we  always 
give  'em  a  lift.  Now  how  much'll  I  put  you 
down  for?" 

Gurney  glanced  at  the  list  of  generous 
donors,  led  by  "Mr.  Graves's  princely  contri- 
bution. For  a  scarcely  appreciable  moment 
he  hesitated,  swayed  by  the  motives  of 
nine-tenths  of  these  benevolent  gentlemen, 
and  then  he  said,  simply,  "I  don't  care  to 
give  anything."  Mr.  Graves  brought  down 
his  long  upper  lip  to  meet  its  fellow  till  his 
mouth  became  merely  a  straight,  hard  line 
in  his  face,  and  he  rolled  up  the  paper  hur- 
riedly. 

"O,  of  course,  just  as  you  please,"  he  said 
curtly. 

He  was  amazed  to  think  anybody  could 


refuse  him;  he  was  disappointed  not  to  add 
a  thousand  dollars  at  least  to  the  fund  of 
which  he  was  the  sponsor;  he  was  puzzled 
to  know  why  a  man  of  Gurney's  careless 
generosity  should  miss  an  opportunity  to 
glorify  himself.  In  his  own  waste-basket  was 
a  rather  pathetic  appeal  from  a  widowed 
sister,  who,  with  two  or  three  puny  boys, 
was  holding  soul  and  body  together  on  a 
rocky  little  Michigan  farm,  with  such  eco- 
nomic stitches  as  grim  necessity  .could 
devise.  Perhaps  Mr.  Graves  had  forgotten 
that,  as  well  as  the  six  cents'  worth  of  shrewd 
advice  he  had  sent  back  in  lieu  of  more 
substantial  relief.  At  any  rate,  his  sky 
was  so  big  that  he  could  not  see  little 
clouds. 

Noting  his  friend's  sudden  change  of 
countenance,  Gurney  smoothed  his  long 
mustache  to  hide  a  smile,  meeting  as  he 
did  so  Mr.  Fessenden's  glance  of  thinly- 
veiled  contempt.  But  the  object  of  their 
disdain,  bidding  them  a  cheerful  "good 
morning,"  went  up  the  long  stairs  two  steps 
at  a  time.  On  the  second  landing  he  met 
Jack  Crandall,  with  his  round  hat  pushed 
back  on  his  curly  head,  a  trim  little  book 
and  a  money-bag  in  his  hand. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  looking  so 
pleased  about?"  he  called  out,  with  an  imi- 
tation of  surliness  that  was  a  signal  failure. 
"Come  and  take  a  turn  in  the  treadmill 
and  see  how  you  like  it.  Did  you  meet 
the  friend  of  the  orphans  down-stairs  ?  He 
was  looking  for  you.  That's  the  way  these 
millionaires  'do  good  by  stealth  and  blush 
to  find  it  fame.'  It  looks  mean  not  to  give, 
I  dare  say  I'll  end  by  doing  my  tailor  out  of 
his  just  dues  and  laying  them  on  the  altar 
of  charity.  Lovely  woman  likes  that  sort 
of  thing.  She  never  goes  behind  the  re- 
turns of  generosity ;  and  really,  when  you 
show  up  in  the  papers  under  a  touching 
editorial  as  'one  of  the  benefactors,'  etc.,  it 
makes  your  heart  swell  with  philanthropy, 
even  if  somebody  on  the  other  side  does  get 
left." 

"  I  have  my  own  hobbies  about  such 
things,"  said  Gurney,  laughing,  "and  am 
narrow-minded  enough  to  prefer  being  my 


564 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Dec. 


own  almoner  generally.  But  I've  no  par- 
ticular prejudice  against  orphans,  and  I  ap- 
preciate your  sentiments  so  fully  that  if  you 
let  me  help  the  good  cause  in  your  name, 
I'll  do  it :  otherwise — " 

"But,"  Jack  began,  with  his  face  very 
red. 

"Of  course,  if  you  choose  to  decline 
doing  me  and  the  orphans  such  a  small 
favor,  it's  all  right " — with  a  slight  shrug  as 
he  walked  away. 

"  O,  look  here.  Mr.  Haroun  Al  Raschid, 
come  back.  'Why  should  the  spirit  of  mor- 
tal be  proud?'  Consoler  of  defenseless  chil- 
dren and  never-to-be-forgotten  friend  of  the 
impecunious  clerk,  it  shall  be  as  you  will  it." 

Gurney  looked  over  the  baluster  and 
nodded.  "Put  down  what  you  feel  will  sat- 
isfy your  charitable  ambitions,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  check." 

"Graves  will  think  I've  robbed  a  bank; 
but  never  mind,"  interpolated  Jack. 

"And — a — come  out  on  the  road  with 
me  this  afternoon,  then  we'll  dine  together 
— where  shall  I  drive  'round  for  you?" 

"  Not  to-day,"  groaned  Jack.  "  I  have  to 
take  three  of  the  Terry  girls  to  the  Goring 
Concert  to-night.  I  don't  know  which  three. 
I  believe  they  draw  lots." 

"To-morrow,  then." 

"To-morrow  I  am  your  slave";  and  Jack 
vanished. 

His  happy  insouciance  and  unpretentious- 
ness  had  won  Gurney's  liking  almost  at  once, 
and  they  had  become  the  best  of  friends  ; 
Gurney's  amiable  attentions  being  repaid  by 
a  cordial  appreciation  none  too  common 
among  the  gilded  youth  of  the  city.  While 
morally  certain  that  a  marriage  with  Miss 
Graves  was  the  worst  thing  that  could  befall 
either  of  the  young  people,  Gurney  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  of  planning  to  put 
Jack  on  a  firmer  financial  platform,  and  so 
increase  his  chance  of  finding  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  Graves  pere.  In  the  mean  time  our 
friend  had  some  business  to  do  on  his  own 
account. 

Mr.  Reinecke  met  his  rich  client  in  the 
manner  of  a  man  hungering  for  companion- 
ship; and  when  Gurney  gave  vent  to  some 


decided  maledictions  on  the  amount  of  time 
measured  out  by  "red  tape" — 

"You  must  not  be  so  impatient,  Mr.  Gur- 
ney, you  must  not  be  so  impatient,"  he  said, 
in  a  sort  of  baritone  tremolo,  once  very  ef- 
fective in  emotional  temperance  and  Sunday- 
school  lectures,  now  almost  wholly  lent  to 
the  subjugation  of  juries  or  the  declamation 
of  wills  and  deeds. 

"  I  think  I've  been  personified  patience," 
said  Gurney,  curtly. 

Mr.  Reinecke  looked  at  him  with  the  sort 
of  twinkle  in  his  eyes  that  a  well-bred  spider 
might  have  when  welcoming  a  fat  fly  into 
his  web.  He  had  been  recommended  to 
Gurney  by  some  of  his  hard-headed  business 
friends  as  a  lawyer  who  "  knew  what  he  was 
about,"  and  had  been  accepted  by  this  rural 
philosopher  as  a  part  of  the  price  he  had  to 
pay  for  his  pecuniary  success.  He  knew 
that  he  himself  was  rather  lucky  than  clever 
in  business,  and  accepted  that  as  another  bit 
of  the  inevitable,  putting  his  affairs  with 
careless  trust  into  the  hands  of  fate  and  the 
wise  Reinecke.  In  the  present  instance,  he 
had  been  forced  into  a  line  of  self-defense 
especially  displeasing  to  him,  and  was  heart- 
ily sick  of  the  whole  thing,  threatening  more 
than  once  to  drop  the  fight  where  it  stood. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Reinecke,  after  a 
pause,  "to  give  you  a  Christmas  present 
worth  having.  It  will  come  a  little  too  late 
to  put  on  the  tree" — with  a  subdued  chuckle, 
— "but  you  won't  mind  that." 

"Do  you  mean  that  we  stand  to  win?" 
asked  Gurney,  rather  incredulously. 

"We  are  sure  of  the  case,  unless  some- 
thing extraordinary  happens;  but  nothing 
will  be  done  till  after  the  holidays,  so — make 
— your — mind — easy" — with  detached  em- 
phasis. "And  now,  if  you  will  look  over 
these  papers  with  me" — and  then  a  good 
hour  was  given  to  documents. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  said  Mr.  Reinecke,  with 
the  tremolo  on  at  full  pedal  as  he  went  to 
the  door  with  Gurney,  "  that  you  could  find 
time  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  us,  I  am 
aware  that  you  have  a  great  many  engage- 
ments in  higher  circles,  but  Mrs.  Reinecke 
would  be  most  happy  to  meet  you,  and  we 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


565 


can  at  least  offer  you  as  cordial  a  wel- 
come as  you  can  find  in  more  luxurious 
homes." 

Gurney  courteously  said,  in  effect,  that  he 
would  be  charmed  to  meet  Mrs.  Reinecke, 
but  it  was  a  pleasure  he  must  forego,  since 
he  should  leave  for  home  the  hour  his  affairs 
were  settled. 

"  You  will  have  an  abundance  of  time  to 
visit  us  then,"  said  the  lawyer,  rubbing  his 
coarse  hands  together  triumphantly,  "for  you 
will  not  go  home  for  a  month  at  least.  There 
will  be  minor  points  to  arrange,  even  if  the 
decision  is  in  our  favor.  Suppose  you  say 
kindly  that  you  will  celebrate  your  victory 
with  us  when  it  comes.  That  is  only  fair." 

"You  are  too  good,  and  I'm  most  grateful 
for  your  hospitable  thought,"  said  his  client, 
lying  hopelessly  and  helplessly  from  the 
corner  into  which  he  had  been  driven. 
"And  if  we  don't  celebrate  .a  victory  we  can 
meet  to  drown  defeat.  As  to  the  rest,  you 
know  I  am  clay  and  you  are  the  potter." 

Mr.  Reinecke  put  out  his  hands  depre- 
catingly  and  attempted  a  remonstrance,  but 
Gurney  laughed,  shook  his  head,  and  was 
gone.  While  the  lawyer's  assurances  did  not 
entirely  convince  him,  his  spirits  rose  insen- 
sibly at  the  prospect  of  success  where  success 
seemed  impossible.  He  was  not  belligerent, 
but  he  would  have  been  saint  instead  of 
human  if  he  had  not  found  a  grim  satis- 
faction in  the  overthrow  of  his  malicious  op- 
ponents. 

By  the  time  he  came  out  into  the  streets 
again,  they  were  filled  with  eager  people, 
hurrying  their  holiday  shopping  in  view  of 
the  stormy  outlook  in  the  sky.  He  seemed 
to  meet  everybody  he  knew.  Mrs.  Graves 
and  Mrs.  Lawlor  passed  him  in  a  big  car- 
riage, with  much  jingling  embellishment  of 
harness  on  its  frettinghorses,and  a  uniformed 
coachman  and  footman — the  latter  a  touch 
of  elegance  rather  especial.  Both  ladies 
were  bravely  appareled;  in  fact,  at  that  dis- 
tance they  looked  much  younger  than  their 
daughters,  whom  he  met  a  little  farther  on. 
Tina  always  affected  a  stern  simplicity,  at  cross- 
purposes  with  her  mother's  brilliance  and  her 
own  gypsy-like  beauty;  and  Tessie  Lawlor, 


with  her  gray  school-girl  dress  and  her  long, 
fair  hair  braided  down  her  back,  looked  like 
a  timid  little  shadow.  Tina  was  escorting 
her  friend  with  an  edifying  air  of  patronage. 

"You  don't  remember  Tessie,  do  you? 
She  has  her  holidays,  you  know.  You  can 
come  with  us  if  you  like ;  in  fact,  I  insist  on 
it.  We're  going  to  choose  some  presents 
for  a  gentleman,  and  you  can  help  us  im- 
mensely." 

While  they  compared  the  merits  of  scarf- 
pins  and  sleeve-buttons,  onyx  and  gold, 
Gurney  tried  to  make  friends  with  Tina's 
protegee,  and  succeeded  so  well  that  Miss 
Graves  found  time  to  murmur,  in  an  aside,. 
"Another  conquest.  /  can't  do  anything 
with  her.  She's  awfully  tiresome — always 
trying  to  get  behind  herself.  I  wouldn't 
bother  with  her,  only  Aunt  Fanny  seems  to 
resent  the'  fact  of  her  existence,  and  snubs 
her  so  that  I'm  sorry  for  her;  and  Nell  is  too 
lazy  to  be  civil.  Fancy  her  being  only  three 
years  younger  than  I  am!  Aunt  Fanny 
keeps  pushing  her  back  a  little  every  year, 
till  she'll  be  in  long  clothes  and  a  cradle  by 
and  by.  Sweet  little  thing,  too.  Sweet,  but 
kind  o'  doughy — like  marsh-mallows.  Well, 
are  you  ready,  dear?  Pity  Tessie  wasn't 
with  us  last  night,"  she  said,  with  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Gurney  from  under  her  sweeping 
lashes,  "to  have  a  lesson  in  natural  history, 
on  the  subject  of  'larks.'  There  is  Mrs. 
Rivers,  with  her  kindergarten!"  she  ex- 
claimed, as  they  went  out,  followed  by  the 
bewildered  Tessie.  "No,  thank  you,  one's 
enough  for  me;"  and  she  turned  away. 

Thus  deserted,  Gurney  slipped  into  the 
hands  of  Mrs.  Rivers,  who  was  just  getting 
out  of  her  carriage.  Tina's  errand  had  re- 
minded him  of  some  Christmas  boxes  he 
wanted  to  buy,  and  he  forthwith  begged 
Mrs.  Rivers  to  lend  him  her  company  and 
judgment  for  his  errands.  She  was  enchant- 
ed to  have  carte  blanche  to  buy  pretty  things, 
even  if  they  were  for  somebody  else;  and 
together  they  did  some  zealous  shopping. 
Finally  she  carried  him  off  to  lunch. 

"You've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do,"  she 
asserted,  with  much  decision  and  correct- 
ness; "and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  whether 


566 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Dec. 


my  new  Japanese  bronzes  are  worth  the 
price  Mr.  Rivers  paid  for  them.  Besides, 
I've  not  had  time  to  apologize  for  deserting 
you  last  night.  I  heard  you  had  a  lovely 
time.  I  wanted  to  go,  but  Mr.  Rivers  just 
put  his  foot  down.  He  said  I'd  be  wild  with 
neuralgia  if  I  did — and  I  dare  say  he  was 
right." 

Mrs.  Rivers's  speech  did  not  sound  as  vol- 
uble as  it  looks,  for  she  delivered  it  inter- 
larded with  parenthetic  threats  and  appeals 
to  Tom  and  Laura.  Gurney  glanced  at  her 
as  she  sat  at  the  head  of  her  well-appointed 
table,  and  wondered  how  any  one  could 
look  so  colorless  and  yet  have  so  much  en- 
ergy and  perseverance.  For  she  was  one  of 
the  drab-hued  women  called  blonde,  because 
they  have  lightish  hair  and  blue  eyes,  who 
match  their  opaque  complexions  in  dress 
instead  of  toning  them  up  with  rich  colors, 
and  who  hold  under  their  neutral  outside 
enough  tenacity  and  will  power  to  furnish  a 
dozen  men.  Her  fair,  slightly  creased  fore- 
head slanted  ever  so  little;  a  Lavater  could, 
by  inverse  reasoning,  have  told  that  with  his 
eyes  shut;  but  her  smile  was  very  winning, 
if  a  little  abstracted.  She  never  forgot  to  be 
cordial  at  the  right  time,  as  equally  selfish 
people  without  as  much  approbativeness  as 
Mrs.  Rivers  are  apt  to  do.  Her  all-absorb- 
ing hospitalites  and  cordialities  were  perfect- 
ly sincere — at  the  time;  only,  like  the  stock 
deals,  they  were  too  big  not  to  leave  some- 
body bankrupt  now  and  then. 

The  children  were  very  conspicuous  at 
luncheon,  and  managed  to  monopolize 
Reeve  completely  with  their  imperious  de- 
mands. It  seemed  almost  impossible  for 
two  such  small  children  to  have  so  many 
wants  in  so  short  a  space  of  time,  but  long 
indulgence  had  made  them  shrewd  in  the 
matter  of  wishes.  In  fact,  their  imaginations 
were  not  stimulated  in  many  other  ways,  al- 
though they  had  a  French  bonne  to  suit  Mrs. 
Rivers,  and  an  English  governess  to  please 
her  husband,  and  their  playrooms  were 
crowded  with  ingenious  toys  and  expensive 
books.  So  that,  as  may  be  imagined,  they 
had  grown  critical  in  the  matter  of  offerings. 
Gurney  always  felt  sorry  for  them,  they  were 


such  an  unwholesome  travesty  of  childhood ; 
so  helpless  physically,  so  unchildishly  wise 
in  worldly  things,  with  such  dwarfed  souls 
and  overfed  bodies;  but  he  had  a  charming 
manner  with  all  children;  and  just  now,  in 
view  of  the  approaching  gift  day,  was  an  ob- 
ject of  much  more  speculation  to  Tom  and 
Laura  than  they  to  him. 

Miss  Oulton  did  not  come  in  until  they 
had  almost  finished  lunch,  and  then  her 
uneven  breath  and  rich  color  told  that  she 
had  been  walking  rapidly ;  she  started  a 
little  on  seeing  Gurney,  but  immediately 
greeted  him  with  a  wistful  sort  of  friendli- 
ness that  he  found  very  fascinating. 

"Mrs.  Russell  makes  a  point  of  our  com- 
ing, Cousin  Althea,"  she  said,  as  she  threw 
her  hat  and  wrap  carelessly  into  a  chair. 
"She  says  the  rest  have  already  promised." 

"Ah,  well — "  and  Mrs.  Rivers  made  a 
little  gesture  of  resignation.  Then  she  hast- 
ened to  explain.  "We  had  arranged  to 
have  a  Christmas-tree  at  home,  but  the 
Russells  have  just  got  into  their  new  house 
and  wanted  to  have  a  genuine  old-fashioned 
Christmas  romp,  and  all  that,  to — a — christen 
it.  So  they  begged  two  or  three  of  us  who 
have  always  been  together  at  this  time  to  'con- 
solidate, as  Mr.  Graves  would  say.  I  think 
they're  very  foolish  to  upset  their  lovely 
house  with  a  children's  party,  but  that's 
their  affair.  Now  I  have  had  a  selfish  little 
plan  for  coaxing  you  to  take  dinner  here 
and  go  with  us,  if  it  won't  bore  you  too 
much."  Mrs.  Rivers  was  always  making 
these  little  plans,  ostensibly  for  his  pleasure, 
with  an  amiable  forethought  which  he  could 
not  resist.  "Just  a  few  of  our  own  friends, 
you  know,"  she  went  on,  thinking  he  medi- 
tated refusal.  "What's  this,  Reeve? —  a 
caller?  How  stupid  of  anybody  to  come  so 
early.  Take  my  place  here,  Helen,  and  be 
sure  and  keep  Mr.  Gurney  till  I  come  back. 
Come,  children,  it  is  time  for  your  music  les- 
son," and  they  were  led  out  in  spite  of  plaint- 
ive remonstrances. 

After  serving  Miss  Oulton,  with  the  settled 
melancholy  he  always  showed  when  any  one 
was  late  for  meals,  Reeve  retired  softly, 
giving  the  fire  a  parting  touch  to  show  that 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


567 


he  would  do  his  duty,  even  if  "put  upon." 
The  tinkle  of  the  piano  came  to  them 
faintly,  as  the  governess  played  a  gay  little 
waltz,  accentuating  the  time  sharply  to  be- 
speak Master  Tom's  attention.  The  world 
seemed  miles  away  in  this  pretty  room,  with 
its  agreeable  air  of  everydayness,  which  all 
the  pretty  rooms  did  not  have.  A  gleam 
of  sunlight  broke  through  the  thickening 
clouds,  and  stealing  in  between  the  heavy 
curtains,  turned  Helen's  yellow  hair  to  ruddy 
gold,  and  slanting  across  a  majolica  bowl 
piled  high  with  fruit,  struck  deep  into  the 
heart  of  the  quavering  shape  of  jelly,  mak- 
ing it  for  the  moment  a  swaying,  melting 
piece  of  amethyst. 

Gurney  felt  rather  than  saw  what  a  pretty 
picture  it  all  made.  He  thought  of  Al- 
drich's  "Lunch" — "A  gothic  window,  where 
the  damask  curtain  made  the  blank  day- 
light shadowy  and  uncertain,"  but  refrained 
from  quoting.  He  found  that  people  who 
offered  excerpta  of  that  sort  were  apt  to  be 
counted  pedantic  or  sentimental.  Tina, 
especially,  had  laughed  at  him  a  good  deal 
about  his  "spouting." 

"It's  very  pretty  in  books,  you  know,"  she 
said  cheerfully,  "  but  rather  oppressive  in 
real  life:  don't  you  think  so — truly?  unless 
it's  something  very  short,  that  you  can  throw 
off  before  your  audience  has  time  to  get 
embarrassed." 

Miss  Graves  might  have  added  that  society 
in  the  bulk  objected  to  earnestness  on  any 
abstract  questions,  reserving  it  rather  for  the 
solemn  material  affairs  of  money-getting  and 
money-spending.  But  Miss  Oulton,  while 
she  declared  herself  to  be  a  frivolous  world- 
ling, yet  wore  her  frivolity  "with  a  difference." 
Indeed,  even  a  less  interested  observer  than 
Gurney  might  have  guessed  that  her  mock- 
ery was  merely  a  mask  to  hide  from  her 
careless  little  world  the  better  self  it  did  not 
appreciate  or  ask  for.  When  she  chose  to 
be  earnest  she  was  very  much  in  earnest,  and 
even  her  capricious  moods  were  not  without 
their  charm. 

Whatever  may  have  been  Gurney's  over- 
night criticisms  or  condemnations,  stern 
resolutions,  and  self-distrust,  they  were  all 


forgotten  while  she  sat  opposite  to  him,  talk- 
ing in  that  frank,  friendly  way  of  the  con- 
cert that  night,  of  music  at  large ;  and  then 
they  drifted  off  into  the  illimitable  current 
of  conversation  possible  to  any  two  tolerably 
intelligent  people,  coming  nearer  in  that 
scant  hour  of  home  life  than  they  had  ever 
done  before — than  they  would  have  done  in 
half  a  hundred  gas-lit  fetes.  Gurney  fan 
cied  that  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
charming  as  now,  in  her  plain  dark-blue  dress, 
her  hair  lying  in  crinkly  gold  waves  close  to 
her  head,  and  gathered  at  the  back  in  a  care- 
less coil,  with  a  few  loose  curls  peeping  out 
hereand  there,  and  the  fitful  sun  illuminations 
leaving  her  alternately  in  light  and  shade. 
He  wondered,  with  a  masculine  disregard  for 
fitness  and  fashion,  why  all  women  did  not 
wear  their  hair  so — though  he  might  as  well 
have  gone  on  to  clothe  all  femininity  in  blue 
and  set  it  under  a  silver-lined  cloud.  And 
between  their  scattered  talk,  he  kept  imagin- 
ing how  she  would  look  in  a  certain  break- 
fast room  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  away, 
where  he  sat  in  solitary  state  day  after  day; 
how  immeasurably  delightful  it  would  be  to 
have  that  piquant  face  smiling  on  him  from 
the  head  of  his  table,  those  slender  hands 
doing  him  some  loving  service — "O, pshaw!" 
he  thought  impatiently  at  last,  and  became 
suddenly  conscious,  from  Helen's  expression, 
that  he  had  thought  aloud. 

"You  needn't  speak  with  such  contempt," 
she  said  innocently.  "I  don't  believe  you've 
heard  my  forcible  arguments  at  all.  You 
have  been  looking  past  me  instead  of  at  me. 
Am  I  shadowed? "  looking  over  her  shoul- 
der in  pretended  dismay.  "  I  don't  know 
why  you  should  scoff  at  my  unpretentious 
theories.  The  giddiest  of  us  must  have  our 
beliefs." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  hastily;  "I 
wasn't  scoffing  at  anybody  but  myself,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Well,  that's  pardonable  :  but  how  does 
your  alter  ego  take  reproaches  ?  " 

"  Meekly,  for  the  most  part,"  he  said,  with 
a  queer  expression.  "  These  arguments  of 
self  versus  self  are  such  an  old  story.  It  all 
comes  of  living  out  of  the  world.  I'll  con- 


568 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Dec. 


fess  to  you,  though  I  wouldn't  to  Miss 
Graves  the  other  day,  that  solitude  is  a  trifle 
dreary  sometimes.  That  it  fosters  egotism, 
everybody  knows." 

"  Do  you  offer  yourself  as  an  example  ?" 
she  asked  laughingly. 

"O,  no — in  fact,  two  months  of  good 
society  ought  to  make  me  an  example  of 
modesty." 

"  But  you're  not  really  so  rural  as  you 
affect.  You  come  to  the  city  often,  don't 
you?" — with  a  flattering  interest  of  tone. 

"  Hm-m,  once  a  year,  maybe.  What  do 
you  call  often?  At  any  rate,  I  don't  stay 
long  enough  to  form  very  solid  friendships. 
I  was  here  three  weeks  last  winter;  a  month 
or  so  two  years  before.  Imagine,  then,  how 
easy  it  is  to  lose  the  gilt-edge  of  good  man- 
ners, how  easy  to  be  forgotten.  Could  I 
ask  anybody  to  remember  me  a  whole  year  ?" 

Helen  shook  her  head  solemnly.  "  I  con- 
fess that's  a  good  deal  to  expect.  But  per- 
haps you,  in  turn,  could  not  identify  any 
one—" 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  rather  queer,"  he 
said,  absently,  "that  we  remember  best  the 
people  we  care  least  about  ?  Some  trifling 
personality  will  hold  the  stupidest  bore  be- 
fore our  eyes,  while  the  face  of  our  best  be- 
loved slips  away.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that 
I  wouldn't  remember  you"  he  blundered  on, 
with  a  vague  consciousness  that  his  philos- 
ophic truth  lacked  politeness.  Helen 
blushed,  and  looked  a  little  discomfited. 

-"That  sounds  like  one  of  Jack  Crandall's 
speeches,"  she  said,  laughing.  "What  gro- 
tesqueness  of  gait  or  manner  must  I  keep  in 
practice  to  give  me  a  place  in  your  memory?" 

But  he  was  too  much  in  earnest  now  for 
badinage.  "Well,  you  know  what  I  mean," 
he  said  carelessly.  "But  if  you  only  would 
— that  is — may  I — I  would  like  a  picture — " 

"Do  you  mean  a  photograph,"  she  que- 
ried, at  once  bewildered  and  amused  by  his 
hesitation. 

"No,  I  hate  photographs,"  he  said  blunt- 
ly. "  Let  me  make  a  sketch  of  you  to  suit 
myself." 

"Have  we  then  an  artist  among  us?"  and 
she  opened  her  lovely  eyes  to  their  widest. 


"Not  exactly,  but  all  the  same  I'm  con- 
ceited enough  to  think  I  could  do  you  better 
justice  than  the  camera.  That's  part  of  the 
country  egotism  still  sticking  to  me.  But  I 
don't  wonder  you  don't  care  to  trust  me  so  far. 
I  can  do  it  from  memory  perhaps,"  surveying 
her  with  his  head  thrown  back  a  little,  his 
eyes  half  closed.  She  shook  her  head  im- 
patiently, frowning  under  his  prolonged  gaze, 
and  suddenly  rising,  went  over  to  the  fire 
with  a  pretence  of  warming  her  hands.  He 
followed  her  instantly. 

"Am  I  so  rude,  then?  Forgive  me.  It's 
only  when  I  have  the  best  intentions  that  I 
seem  to  offend.  That  shows  how  little  hon- 
esty's  worth,  after  all." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  have  to  forgive  ex- 
actly," she  murmured,  "but"- 

"Then  let  me  have  the  sketch,"  he  inter- 
rupted audaciously,  "in  that  dress  with  your 
hair  just  so.  If  you  don't  like  it,  I  promise 
to  burn  it." 

But  Helen  had  by  this  time  recovered 
her  self-possession. 

"There's  no  need  of  all  these  protesta- 
tions," she  answered  coolly.  "I'll  be  de- 
lighted to  pose  for  you,  and  am  flattered 
beyond  measure — who  wouldn't  be  ?  You 
see  that  sort  of  thing  is  so  unusual  here,  out- 
side the  studios  of  the  professionals,  that  it 
took  my  breath  away  for  a  moment.  Can't 
you  do  the  whole  family  in  oils,  a  la  Vicar 
ofWakefield?" 

But  he  would  not  be  laughed  down. 
"And  we  won't  quarrel  any  more?"  he  went 
on  beseechingly,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Is  that  a  necessary  sequence  of  the 
sketch?"  and  her  lips  curled  a  little.  "You 
asserted  the  firs.t  time  we  met  that  we'd 
sworn  eternal  friendship.  You  see  I've  not 
forgotten  that  satirical  falsehood." 

"Well,  it  only  rests  with  you  to  make  it 
truth"  he  asserted  boldly.  "My  half  of  the 
'swear'  was  all  right,  but  I'm  more  than  will- 
ing to  make  another  affidavit." 

She  laughed  a  little,  in  spite  of  herself. 
"  It  strikes  me  we're  talking  a  good  deal  of 
nonsense  for  two  wise,  well-grown  people." 

"Ah,  you  won't  let  me  be  serious.  That's 
the  only  fault  I  have  to  find  with  you."  He 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


569 


still  held  in  his  hand  the  cigar  Mrs.  Rivers 
had  bade  him  smoke  as  she  rustled  away, 
and  was  twisting  it  absently  between  his 
finger  and  thumb. 

Helen  took  a  match  from  a  pretty  bisque 
holder,  and  lighting  it,  held  it  toward  him 
with  her  eyes  fixed  seriously  on  the  uncertain 
flame. 

"You  have  the  restless  air  of  the  unsatis- 
fied smoker,"  she  said  lightly.  "Certain 
rooms  here  are  dedicated  partly  to  tobacco, 
and  this  is  one  of  them.  I  venture  to  pre- 
scribe this  with  a  view  to  bringing  a  happier 
frame  of  mind — less  frivolous  and  more  log- 
ical." 

He  had  taken  the  match  from  her,  but 
let  it  burn  out  slowly  in  his  fingers.  "I 
won't  smoke  now,  thank  you,"  he  murmured, 
looking  down  at  her  with  a  curious  glint  in 
his  gray  eyes.  "And  I  don't  know  that  I 
care  for  the  happier  frame  of  mind  your  be- 
nevolence suggests.  It's  wise  not  to  ask  too 
much  of  the  gods.  I'm  so  serenely  content- 
ed now,  that  a  drop  would  over-brim  my 
cup." 

Miss  Oulton  was  comparatively  indiffer- 
ent to  compliment,  and  usually  put  it  aside 
with  an  impatient  recognition  of  its  insincer- 
ity, but  Gurney's  cheerful  audacity  made  her 
rather  uncomfortable.  She  had  watched  him 
flirting  lazily  with  Mrs.  Lawlor  and  the  Terry 
girls,  pouring  very  pronounced  flattery  into 
their  ears,  but  that  she  knew  was  provoked. 
He  and  Helen,  on  the  contrary,  were  almost 
always  clashing  swords  over  some  trifle,  with 
the  perverseness  of  people  too  much  inter- 
ested in  one  another  to  be  content  with 
amiable  civility.  But  this  was  a  fringe  of 
jest  on  a  mantle  of  earnest.  Even  our  cyni- 
cal young  lady  could  not  doubt  that.  She 
made  another  effort  to  change  the  subject. 

"You  are  not  like  Charlie  and  Fred — Mr. 
Fessenden,"  she  said  hastily.  "They  live 
in  the  clouds — clouds  of  smoke." 

Gurney's  face  darkened  at  Fessenden's 
name,  and  he  threw  his  cigar  into  the  fire 
as  viciously  as  if  it  had  been  that  immacu- 
late young  gentleman  metamorphosed. 
The  spell  was  broken.  There  was  no  fear 
of  Miss  Oulton's  getting  any  more  over- 


friendly  speeches.  Luckily  the  door  opened 
at  that  moment,  and  Mrs.  Rivers  peeped 
in. 

"Has  Mr.  Gurney  gone?  How  lovely  of 
you  to  stay.  That  stupid,  stupid  woman,  I 
thought  she  never  would  go,"  and  forthwith 
she  showed  him  her  treasures,  which  he  ap- 
praised and  admired  to  her  heart's  content. 

She  respected  with  a  kind  of  awe  a  man 
whose  artistic  judgment  was  so  severe,  and 
whose  purse  strings  swung  so  loosely  tied ; 
but  she  never  felt  quite  at  ease  with  him. 
She  had  a  morbid  horror  of  eccentricity, 
and  as  their  friendship  ripened,  Mr.  Gurney 
seemed  to  develop,  or  she  to  discover,  some 
very  peculiar  ideas — opinions  not  found  in 
her  illuminated  society  missal  and  therefore 
heterodox ;  and  if  he  did  not  obtrude  his 
views  they  were  none  the  less  dangerous. 
If  you  have  ever,  in  your  country  walks, 
tried  to  turn  aside  a  pains-taking  ant  who 
was  carrying  home  a  bit  of  grain  or  what 
not,  and  watched  his  bewildered  hurry,  his 
aimless  "tacking"  to  and  fro  when  put  out 
of  his  course,  you  can  imagine  without  any 
difficulty  how  Mrs.  Rivers  felt  with  any  un- 
selfish, unworldly  suggestions  or  sentiments 
set  before  her. 

If  Helen  had  not  been  so  impracticable 
in  the  matter  of  being  well  married,  Gurney's 
peculiarities  might  have  been  turned  to 
some  account,  but  that  was  hopeless.  Mrs. 
Rivers  had  built  a  fine  little  air-castle  when 
he  first  came  among  them,  but  it  was  slowly 
melting  away,  a  cross-beam  and  joint  at  a 
time.  A  big  piece  of  the  wall  fell  in  that 
very  afternoon,  when  she  came  into  the 
room  and  found  them  both  looking  so  grave 
and  ill  at  ease,  and  while  she  chatted  away 
in  her  gayest  fashion,  she  was  really  feeling 
very  cross.  She  liked  Helen  as  well  as  she 
liked  anybody,  and  would  have  been  glad 
to  see  her  comfortably  dependent  on  a  rich 
husband,  instead  of  uncomfortably  depend- 
ent on  herself,  not  recognizing  the  fact  that 
a  marriage  service  sometimes  fails  to  make 
dependence  more  tolerable.  She  only  won- 
dered, with  an  impatient  sigh,  what  Helen 
really  did  want :  for  she  didn't  enjoy  being 
penniless  and  she  refused  to  accept  riches ; 


570 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Dec. 


and  Mrs.  Rivers  counted  on  her  fingers, 
mentally,  her  cousin-'s  "chances,"  beginning 
with  "Fred,"  and  ending  with  the  gentle- 
man farmer  who  just  now  personated  the 
chance  of  a  "chance."  Married  life  to  this 
married  lady's  mind  was  all  about  the  same ; 
sometimes  difficult,  but  the  only  possible 
life  for  a  woman. 

All  these  little  arrows  of  argument  she 
had  shot  at  Helen  ever  since  the  latter 
came  to  them,  an  orphan,  five  years  before. 
The  older  woman  began  to  think  that  her 
charity  ought  to  be  reaping  a  better  reward, 
and  looked  with  not  a  little  dismay  at  the 
prospect  of  a  fixture  in  the  house  in  the 
shape  of  a  high-spirited  old  maid.  Two  or 
three  abortive  attempts  that  Helen  had 
made  to  support  herself,  against  the  advice 
of  her  friends,  did  not  tend  to  promote  a 
congenial  atmosphere.  Mr.  Rivers  was  in- 
dulgently inclined  toward  his  wife's  relation, 
indeed  it  was  at  his  suggestion  she  had  been 
offered  a  home  with  them.  Afterward,  he 
left  her  affairs  to  be  managed  by  his  wife, 
and  the  most  he  could  be  made  to  say  in 
condemnation  was  that  "Helen  seemed  to 
take  a  mistaken  view  of  things,"  which, 
though  mild  enough,  covered  a  very  wide 
field.  In  default  of  a  more  emphatic  dis- 
approval, Mrs.  Rivers  accepted  her  hus- 
band's vague  summary  of  Helen's  faults, 
and  made  use  of  it  as  a  sort  of  extinguisher 
to  put  on  them  whenever  they  came  to  the 
fore. 

One  of  her  small  crosses  was  Helen's  lan- 
guid appreciation  of  her  bric-a-brac,  and  on 
the  present  occasion  she  felt  especially  ag- 
grieved. Not  even  Mrs.  Graves  had  so  fine 
a  pair  of  bronzes,  and  Gurney  had  barely 
had  time  to  stamp  them  with  his  approval, 
when  this  obstinate  young  woman  declared 
that  she  thought  them  dear  at  any  price. 

"  I'll  sign  any  other  article  of  the  fashion- 
able creed,"  she  said ;  "I'll  concede  that 
your  crooked  bronzes  and  cracked  potteries 
are  expensive  and  rare,  but  they  are  ugly, 
too.  I  can  conceive  of  an  eccentric  indi- 
vidual taking  to  collecting  such  stuff,  but 
when  a  whole  class  pretends  to  believe  in 
it,  I  get  skeptical." 


Mrs.  Rivers  looked  annoyed  and  only  said, 
coldly:  "Even  if  you  are  right,  your  own  per- 
sonal affectations  may  be  quite  as  absurd." 

Gurney  glanced  at  Helen  with  a  little 
twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  he  said  in 
a  very  friendly  tone,  "  that  we  are  the  eccen- 
trics whom  Miss  Oulton  singles  out  to  be- 
lieve in,  and  we'll  prove  ourselves  worthy  of 
her  faith  by  converting  her.  You're  more 
than  half  right  already,"  he  added  softly, 
as  Mrs.  Rivers  crossed  the  room  to  get  a  new 
light  on  her  new  possessions.  "But  I  have 
an  old  friend  here  in  town,  Dr.  Weston — do 
you  know  him  ?  well,  never  mind,"  as  Helen 
shook  her  head  with  a  very  indifferent  air, 
"he's  an  agreeable  old  gentleman  with  an 
agreeable  income  and  a  harmless  mania  for 
picking  up  and  storing  away  lost  treasures, 
and  what  little  I  know  of  such  things  I 
have  absorbed  from  him.  I'm  occupying 
his  rooms  while  he  is  in  New  York,  and  if 
you  want  to  see  the  result  of  that  sort  of 
insanity,  come  down  with  your  cousin  and 
examine  his  warehouse.  That's  my  first  step 
towards  your  conversion." 

Helen  said  something  about  "very  kind — 
very  pleasant,"  but  did  not  grow  at  all  ani- 
mated over  his  invitation — a  lack  which  Mrs. 
Rivers  more  than  supplied  when  she  found 
out  what  they  were  talking  about.  While 
she  and  Gurney  were  arranging  a  morning 
for  the  visit,  Helen  stood  at  the  window 
tapping  her  finger-tips  on  the  sash,  and 
watching  the  struggle  between  fog-clouds 
and  storm-clouds  over  the  darkening  bay  as 
intently  as  though  she  found  therein  a  hid- 
den type  of  her  own  passionate  mind-battles. 

Before  Gurney  got  away  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon.  In  answer  to  Mrs.  Rivers's  re- 
minder of  their  "Merry  Christmas,"  he  de- 
clared that  he  could  not  be  with  them — he 
might  have  to  go  out  of  town. 

"But  I  thought  it  was  all  settled,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Well,  there  are  two  days  yet,  and 
if  you  change  your  mind  it  will  be  all  right. 
There  will  be  nobody  with  us  but  Mr.  Ballard. 
Come  if  you  can,"  and  as  soon  as  the  door 
closed  on  him  she  followed  Helen  to  her 
room,  and  delivered  a  lecture  that  would 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


571 


have  made  a  Concord  Philosopher  hide  his 
head  :  while  Gurney,  in  a  very  tanglejd  state 
of  mind,  went  home,  wondering  no  longer 
how  idle  people  spend  their  days,  since  this 
one  had  slipped  through  his  fingers  so  un- 
wittingly, and  feeling  ten  times  as  tired  as  he 
would  have  done  after  a  twenty  miles'  walk. 

Something  of  this  he  said  to  Jack  Cran- 
dall  the  next  evening,  as  they  lingered  over 
their  late  dinner  in  Gurney's  rooms. 

"Of  course,"  acquiesced  Jack,  "that's  the 
way  nice  persons  put  in  all  their  time.  Of 
course  you  feel  tired.  There  are  no  people 
so  hard  worked  as  the  people  who  have 
nothing  in  the  world  to  do.  I  never  meet 
one  of  my  fine  lady  friends  but  she's  tired  to 
death.  Two  or  three  calls,  and  a  hunt 
through  the  stores  for  five  cents'  worth  of 
embroidery  silk  of  an  impossible  shade,  will 
prostrate  the  strongest  woman  in  society. 
And  they  talk  of  what  they've  'accomplished,' 
as  if  they  had  been  doing  something  act- 
ually useful  and  noble,  instead  of  crocheting 
three  rows  in  an  afghan  or  going  to  two  parties 
in  one  evening.  Two  or  three  months  more 
of  this  sort  of  thing  and  you'll  be  taking 
your  coffee  in  bed,  like  Fessenden,  and  sink 
under  a  walk  down  town.  You're  such  a 
howling  swell  already  in  the  matter  of  luxury 
that  only  a  few  downward  steps  are  needed 
to  complete  your  destruction.  What  glo- 
rious rooms  these  are,"  he  added,  looking 
around  admiringly.  "I  always  feel  as  though 
I'd  stumbled  into  a  foreign  land." 

"  Well,  that  was  Weston's  kindness,  of 
course;  but  it's  better,  I  confess,  than  the 
hotel.  Most  of  the  loose  traps  in  this  room 
I've  bought  lately.  I  haven't  anything  else 
to  amuse  myself  with,"  said  Gurney,  rather 
apologetically. 

"  Well,  it's  a  very  innocent  amusement," 
said  Jack  dryly:  "stick  to  it,  by  all  means. 
I'll  tell  that  to  Mrs.  Lawlor,  it's  such  a  com- 
pliment to  society,"  and  he  leaned  idly  back, 
watching  the  noiseless  movements  of  Gur- 
ney's waiter,  who  had  swiftly  removed  the 
dessert  service  and  white  cloth,  and  put  upon 
the  crimson-covered  table  coffee  and  cigars, 
and  a  curious  flask  clasped  in  a  case  of  sil- 
ver wicker-work. 


As  soon  as  Gurney  had  found  how  long 
he  would  have  to  stay  in  the  city,  and  how 
many  distractions  he  was  likely  to  find  both 
in  business  and  society,  he  had  summoned, 
out  of  space  it  would  seem,  a  cheerful  little 
serving-man,  who  soon  came  to  be  as  well 
known  as  his  master.  He  looked  like  an 
Italian,  but  talked  with  a  thick  foreign  ac- 
cent not  easily  defined.  Gurney  called  him 
Tasse,  and  that,  though  Jack  fancied  it  tc 
be  a  sobriquet,  was  the  only  name  he  ac- 
knowledged. 

It  was  Tasse  who  had  arranged  their  Cliff 
supper,  who  secured  a  theatre  box,  who 
went  on  secret  errands;  and  whether  he  was 
butler,  valet,  confidential  messenger,  or  flat- 
tered guest  in,  the  kitchens  of  the  fine  houses, 
he  was  equally  at  home.  He  blandly  re- 
jected "tips";  he  was  discretion  itself.  Not 
all  the  sly  pumping  of  ladies  and  maids  had 
brought  them  any  nearer  to  Gurney's  habits 
or  history  ;  and  he  was  that  serious  gentle- 
man's willing  slave.  "His  face  alone  would 
drive  away  the  worst  blue  devils  a  man  ever 
had,"  said  Jack,  as  the  door  closed  on  the 
unconscious  Tasse.  "Tina  calls  him  Altro. 
She  says  he's  the  Cavaletto  of  'Little  Dorrit' 
come  to  life.  Where  did  you  get  him?" 

"I  picked  him  up  in  the  street  one  night. 
It's  a  long  story,  too  long  to  tell  now.  I 
suppose  you  think,"  he  said  after  a  pause, 
"  that  a  man  like  me  has  no  business  with 
such  an  aristocratic  appendage,  but  I  like  to 
do  a  good  many  things  for  myself  which 
other  people  like  to  have  done  for  them, 
and  vice  versa.  As  the  -spiritualists  say,  I'm 
'living  up  to  my  highest  lights,'  and  after  all, 
I  spend  so  much  less  on  my  little  whims 

than   your  millionaires   here  in do  on 

theirs,  that  I  feel  myself  a  model  of  econo- 
my. I  had  begun  to  distrust  my  own  ideals, 
and  to  doubt  whether  there  might  not  be 
something  better  waiting  for  me  in  the  out- 
side world;  but  I  shall  go  back  with  my  faith 
renewed,  and  if — "  Gurney  was  so  evidently 
talking  to  himself  that  Jack  propped  his  el- 
bows on  the  table,  and  gazed  at  him  with 
unconcealed  enjoyment;  but  his  absent- 
minded  friend  abruptly  left  his  "if"  to  find 
its  way  alone,  and  laughing  softly  at  Jack's 


572 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


[Dec. 


expression,  said,  "Well,  well,  wait  till  you 
give  me  your  promised  visit,  and  I'll  try  to 
show  you  what  I  mean." 

"By  Jove!"  Jack  burst- out,  "What  a  queer 
fellow  you  are — what  a  lucky  fellow.  You're 
not  Haroun  after  all ;  in  fact,  you  only  need 
a  sugar-loaf  hat  and  baggy  breeches  to  be 
Aladdin.  Have  you  any  wish?  Wouldn't 
you  like  a  roc's  egg,  for  instance  ?  " 

"You  forget  it  was  Mrs.  Aladdin  who 
suggested  that  ornament — but  I  met  the 
Princess  Badroulboudour  yesterday,  and  she 
was  passing  fair,"  said  Gurney  gravely,  send- 
ing up  a  cloud  of  smoke,  which  almost  hid 
his  face. 

"The  devil  you  did!"  said  Jack,  strug- 
gling to  separate  fact  from  fancy.  "Well,  a 
tray  full  of  diamonds  will  buy  her,"  he  mut- 
tered sardonically. 

Gurney  opened  his  half-closed  eyes  full  on 
his  friend,  "I  hope  not"  he  remarked  with 
much  emphasis. 

"Well,  don't  tempt  her.  Disguise  your- 
self as  a  poor  devil  of  a  clerk  with  a  paltry 
hundred  and  fifty  a  month,  and  see  what 
she'll  have  to  say  to  you." 

"That's  what  Miss  Graves  suggested  to 
me.  She  balanced  us  in  the  scale  so  as  to 
leave  me  a  mere  feather-weight  compared  to 
you." 

Jack  flushed  with  pleasure,  then  sighed, 
and  immediately  after  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed  immoderately.  "I'd  give  a 
penny  if  you  could  have  seen  the  turn  I 
gave  old  Graves  with  your  'widow's  mite' 
this  morning:  when  with  the  air  of  a  broth- 
er millionaire  I  went  Mr.  Fessenden  two 
figures  better,  they  both  thought  it  was  a 
practical  joke,  and  then  had  to  apologize  to 
me.  I  didn't  feel  half  so  mean  as  I  ex- 
pected to;  in  fact,  the  satisfaction  I  got  out 
of  those  five  minutes  is  really  worth  more 
than  you  gave  for  it,  if  you  can  figure  that 
out.  Graves  was  so  jolly  after  that  (I  know 
he  thought  I'd  stolen  or  borrowed  the  money, 
but  he  don't  stick  at  trifles),  so  paternal ;  and 
oh,  Lord  !  how  fast  he  would  kick  me  out,  if 
I  dared  to  say,  'I  love  your  daughter,'"  and 
Jack's  parenthetic  mirth  died  away  in  an- 
other deep  breath. 


"What  would  you  do  with  the  daughter?" 
asked  Gurney,  coolly. 

Jack  was  pacing  the  room  now,  and  run- 
ning his  fingers  through  his  short,  ruddy 
brown  hair,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  when  ex- 
cited. 

"Do?  Why  I'd  buy  a  little  dog-kennel 
away  out  in  the  Western  Addition,  with  a 
pocket  handkerchief  lawn  in  front,  and  pay 
for  it  on  the  installment  plan;  and  knock 
up  genteel  furniture  out  of  packing-boxes; 
and  Tina  would  scrub  the  floors,  and  wash 
dishes,  and  nurse  her  own  babies;  and  we'd 
have  a  seven-by-nine  parlor  to  receive  our 
fashionable  friends  in  when  they  came  to 
patronize  us.  Oh,  we're  both  admirably  fitted 
for  such  a  life !  Or  else,  if  the  old  man 
chose  to  smile  on  us,  I  would  borrow  money 
enough  to  show  off  at  a  swell  wedding,  and 
then  our  good  papa  would  set  us  up  and 
pay  my  debts;  and  thereafter  I'd  walk  around 
with  a  collar  on  my  neck,  and  fetch  and 
carry  and  be  fed  on  snubs,  like  the  rest  of 
the  whipped  spaniels  that  marry  for  money. 
In  either  case  I  would  be  perfectly  happy, 
of  course,"  added  Jack,  as  a  clincher  to  his 
contemptuous  irony. 

"  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  all  these  things 
as  well  as  you  do?"  after  just  a  breathing 
space.  "But  they  are  only  the  possibilities. 
The  reality  will  be  that  I'll  dangle  after  this 
fickle  young  person  till  she  marries  Fred 
Fessenden,  or  a  weak-eyed  little  Lord  some- 
body, or  you,  maybe — who  knows?  and  then 
— well,  I've  not  determined  whether  I'll 
hang  on  to  society  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth 
until  I  grow  into  a  padded  old  scarecrow 
like  Ballard,  or  be  a  selfish,  stingy,  rakish, 
pursy  man  about  town,  like  Joe  Forrington. 
There  are  inducements  on  both  sides,"  and 
he  sat  down  wearily,  as  if  he  had  exhausted 
himself  along  with  his  subject,  and  folding 
his  arms  on  the  table  buried  his  face  in  them, 
with  something  this  time  less  like  a  sigh  than 
a  sob. 

Gurney  had  not  supposed  that  Jack's 
sunny  nature  could  hold  such  a  bitterness. 
In  the  midst  of  so  much  superficial — artific- 
ial emotion,  it  was  almost  like  a  shock  to  find 
somebody  actually  showing  a  real  feeling. 


1883.] 


A  Shepherd  at  Court. 


573 


But  the  older  man  thought  it  rather  wasted 
in  this  instance. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said  lightly,  "there  are 
plenty  of  charming  young  ladies  besides  Miss 
Graves." 

"  O,  stuff!  If  you  loved  the  Princess 
Bad — what's-her-name,  would  somebody  else 
do  just  as  well?  and  will  you  kindly  pick  me 
out  a  poor  man's  wife  from  among  our  girls? 
But  I  know  what  you  mean.  You're  dying 
to  preach  to  me.  You  think  I  ought  to  turn 
from  these  snares  and  be  a  goody-goody 
Christian  Association  young  man,  improve 
my  mind  o'  nights,  live  on  fifty  dollars  a 
month  and  put  the  rest  in  the  savings  bank, 
and  get  rich.  I  did  have  a  few  hundreds, 
by-the-by,  that  I'd  hoarded  up  with  much 
weariness  to  the  flesh;  but  I  dropped  it  in 
Oriole,  because  Graves  gave  me  a  point  on 
it  as  a  great  favor,  and  that  went  the  way  of 
all  dollars.  I  might  do  a  great  many  things 
I  don't  do.  It's  no  matter  that  I  know  per- 
fectly well  I'm  invited  everywhere  because 
I'm  convenient — I  can  sing  a  little,  dance  a 
good  deal,  and  have  a  Bostonian  uncle  'of 
high  degree'  for  reference  when  my  passport 
is  asked  for.  But  I  go  all  the  same,  and  am 
glad  to  go.  That's  how  society  is  held  to- 
gether. The  circus  wouldn't  be  a  circus 
without  the  small  boys  that  creep  under  the 
tent-flaps." 

"  Such  rebellious  spirits  as  you  and  Tina 
and  Miss  Oulton  wouldn't  hold  things  to- 
gether very  long;  but  luckily  for  the  big 
show,  you're  as  stray  sands  on  the  shore," 
said  Gurney.  Through  all  his  mingled  vex- 
ation and  pity  and  amusement  at  Jack's  in- 
consistency, his  mind  went  back  to  one 
careless  little  sentence.  "  By  the  way,  you 
mentioned  Fessenden  as  a  possible  suitor 
for  Miss  Tina's  heart  or  hand.  I —  a 
— thought  he  was  engaged  to  his  cous- 
in." 

"  She  isn't  a  cousin,"  muttered  Jack,  ab- 
sently, still  intent  on  his  own  future.  "If 
you  mean  Helen  Oulton,  she's  a  'second 
cousin,  multiplied  by  a  hundred  dozens,' 
of  Mrs.  Rivers,  and  Fred's  the  old  gentle- 
man's nephew.  He  has  an  inherited  part- 
nership in  the  firm,  but  he  don't  do  any- 


thing but  play  at  being  an  Englishman.  No, 
they're  not  engaged,  I'm  certain  of  that,  but 
he's  been  very  openly  devoted  for  a  long 
time — ever  since  she  came  here — and,  of 
course,  he'll  win  in  the  end.  It's  the  only 
thing  he  shows  any  earnestness  about;  but 
he's  got  the  devil's  own  temper  under  that 
fair  skin  and  that  dead-alive  manner,  which 
always  makes  me  want  to  kick  him.  To  tell 
the  truth,  he  isn't  such  an  ass  as  he  looks," 
said  Jack,  with  doubtful  generosity.  "And 
I  couldn't  blame  Helen  for  marrying  him, 
for  she's  very  unpleasantly  situated,  to  draw 
it  mild.  Of  course,  Fessendea's  one  of  our 
swellest  young  men,  and  a  target  for  all  the 
matrimonial  arrows.  Even  your  unsophisti- 
cated eyes  must  have  seen  that  Miss  Oulton's 
not  a  favorite  in  the  'Tombs' — as  the  fellows 
call  Graves's  house — that  is,  except  for  Tina, 
who,  I  must  confess,  has  lots  of  '  sand '  in  the 
matter  of  friendships.  She  admires  you 
very  much,"  he  hesitated,  with  the  color 
mounting  to  his  face,  "and  I've  thought 
lately  that  her  mother's  ambition  had  taken 
a  new  turn."  Jack  was  evidently  bent  on 
crucifying  himself  to  the  utmost,  but  the  peal 
of  laughter  which  greeted  this  last  sugges- 
tion took  away  at  least  one  thorn.  "  Well, 
you  needn't  laugh.  You'd  make  a  very 
formidable  rival.  Mrs.  Graves  sings  your 
praises  everywhere.  She  said  in  the  loftiest 
way  the  other  day,  as  a  sort  of  knockdown 
blow  for  me,  'You  know,  my  dear  Mr. 
Crandall,  money  demands  money.'  Of 
course  it's  useless  to  rake  up  the  past  here, 
when  it's  littered  with  all  sorts  of  vulgar 
reminiscences,  but  when  Graves  took  her  out 
of  a  fourth  rate  boarding-house,  where  her 
'  Mamma '  eked  out  his  bad  breakfasts  with 
anecdotes  of  their  'family,'  there  was  no 
question  of  money  demanding  money.  Real- 
ly,, it's  only  when  people  put  on  airs  that 
these  things  are  remembered.  Why  don't 
they  think  of  that,  and  try  to  be  modest? 
Well,  I've  bored  you  long  enough,  I'm  going 
now." 

"You  had  better  give  up  your  position  in 
Russell's  office  and  stand  out  as  a  social  re- 
former," said  Gurney,  smiling  up  at  him 
lazily  from  the  depths  of  the  big  chair  where 


574 


At  Morn. 


[Dec. 


he  lay  with  his  handsome  head  thrown  back, 
his  eyes  languidly  following  Jack's  vehement 
gestures.  "  Joking  aside,  you'd  better  give 
it  up  anyhow,  and  I'll  put  you  in  the  way  of, 
not  a  fortune,  maybe,  but  something  worth 
working  for." 

"  Now,  look  here,  old  fellow,"  standing 
before  Gurney  with  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets.  "Don't  you  go  and  think  I've  been 
whining  because  I  want  help;  and  if  you're 
plotting  anything  for  my  benefit,  put  your 
plans  away.  I've  been  exercised  in  my  mind 
lately,  and  this  is  only  an  outpouring  of 
the  spirit.  I  wouldn't  talk  such  truck  to  any 
man  I  know,  not  for  the  whole  of  the  Oriole 
mine  ;  but  you  have  a  seductive  way  of  look- 
ing people  into  the  confessional.  Some 
day  I  may  come  down  to  you  for  a  position 
as  sheep-herder  or  wood-chopper,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind." 

"All  right,"  said  Gurney  simply,  "I'll  give 
it  to  you,"  putting  a  friendly  hand  on  the 
young  fellow's  shoulder. 

"George!  what  a  night,"  shivered  Jack, 

[CONTINUED  IN 


as  the  rain  drove  against  the  windows;  but 
he  resisted  Gurney's  entreaties  to  let  Tasse 
call  a  carriage — to  stay  all  night — and  went 
out  into  the  wind  and  rain,  leaving  his  host, 
it  must  be  confessed,  a  little  melancholy 
after  his  feast.  He  had  no  right  to  feel 
sorry  for  Jack,  whose  position  was  assailable 
from  all  sides,  but  he  did  feel  sorry  for  him, 
and  went  on  with  his  planning  in  spite  of 
the  interdict  laid  upon  him:  while  an  un- 
confessed  elation  tempered  his  depression 
when  he  turned  to  his  own  affairs.  If  Helen 
Oulton  were  actually  free,  if  it  was  to  be  a 
fair  field  and  no  favor,  might  he  not  convert 
her  to  something  more  than  an  appreciation 
of  curios,  for  instance?  And  by  the  ardent 
flame  of  the  wood  fire  that  glowed  in  Dr. 
Weston's  old-fashioned  hearth  was  then  and 
there  rebuilt  the  very  castle  deserted  by  Mrs. 
Rivers  the  day  before  as  a  moss-grown  ruin. 
What  the  new  architect  would  make  of  it, 
how  it  would  stand  the  buffetings  of  fortune, 
and  when  it  would  cease  to  be  a  thing  of  air, 
remained  to  be  seen. 

NEXT   NUMBER.J 


AT   MORN. 

O  PATIENT  soul  that  throbs  with  bitter  pain, 

And  finds  denied  the  boon  of  eyelids  stirred 
By  touch  of  tears;   that  hears  no  helpful  word, 

Or  bleeds  anew  to  find  it  lost  again ; 
That  sees  the  laurel  long  pursued  in  vain 

Withered  and  dropped  to  dust  through  hope  deferred, 
And  every  vision  of  fair  living  blurred 

By  blind  unreason  of  the  clouded  brain  : 

It  will  not  all  thy  days  be  dark  with  thee. 

His  pale-leafed  wreath  of  poppies  Time  will  bind 
About  thy  bruised  brow's  pathetic  scars  ; 

And  quietude  of  peace  shall  on  thee  be. 
Nay,  more;  at  morn  thou  wilt  look  back  and  find 

It  was  but  dark  that  thou  mightst  see  the  stars. 


1883.] 


Civilizing  the  Indians  of  California. 


575 


CIVILIZING  THE   INDIANS   OF   CALIFORNIA. 


IN  a  previous  number  of  this  magazine 
several  statistical  tables  and  summaries  were 
published,  relating  to  the  census  of  the  Indian 
population  of  the  United  States  and  of  the 
State  of  California.  To  those  may  be  add- 
ed the  fact  that  more  than  half  (11,041)  of 
the  Indians  in  this  State  are  residing  in  the 
counties  north  of  the  Golden  Gate  and  Car- 
quinez  Straits:  and  of  these  only  1,155  are  un- 
der Federal  supervision.  This  leaves  for  the 
remainder  of  the  State  only  6,884,  of  which 
nearly  one-half,  or  3,169,  are  under  United 
States  Agency  supervision.  Of  the  middle 
counties  none  have  over  500,  except  Inyo, 
637,  and  Fresno,  794.  The  Indians  of  the 
northern  counties  are  far  superior  to  those 
of  the  southern,  both  in  moral  and  physical 
qualities,  and  might  become  formidable  foes 
if  their  hostility  were  aroused. 

The  Indian  problem  is  so  prolific  of  ques- 
tions, moral,  educational,  antiquarian,  lin- 
guistic, legal,  military,  financial,  and  senti- 
mental, that  one  could  write  a  large  volume 
in  discussing  either  of  them.  Several  such 
have  already  been  written.  It  is  proposed 
in  this  paper  to  limit  our  attention  to  the 
practical  question :  What  can  be  done  to  civ- 
ilize the  Indians  of  California,  more  especi- 
ally those  not  already  under  treatment  by 
the  Federal  Government?  It  is  proposed, 
also,  still  farther,  to  limit  our  attention  main- 
ly to  the  younger  portion  of  our  Indian  pop- 
ulation, which  may  be  about  one-quarter,  or 
from  twenty  years  downwards;  leaving  the 
adults  to  struggle  on  in  their  own  way,  as 
they  are  now  doing,  but  to  be  aided  and  en- 
couraged as  circumstances  may  require. 
They  will  undoubtedly  be,  to  some  extent, 
affected  for  good  by  the  reflex  action  of  what 
may  be  done  for  the  younger  portion. 

The  word  civilization  has  a  wide  range  of 
meanings,  extending  all  the  way  from  that 
of  the  cabin  of  the  backwoodsman  to  that 
of  the  aristocratic  salons  of  New  York,  Lon- 
don, Paris  and  Pekin.  Major  J.  W.  Pow- 


ell, well  known  not  only  as  a  brave  officer, 
accustomed  to  service  and  explorations 
among  Indian  tribes,  but  distinguished  by 
his  writings  as  geologist,  ethnologist,  anti- 
quarian, and  indianologist,  says:  "The  at- 
tempts to  educate  the  Indians  and  teach  the 
ways  of  civilization  have  been  many ;  much 
labor  has  been  given,  much  treasure  expend- 
ed. While,  to  a  large  extent,  all  of  these 
efforts  have  disappointed  their  enthusiastic 
promoters,  yet  good  has  been  done;  but 
rather  by  the  personal  labor  of  missionaries, 
teachers,  and  frontiersmen,  associating  with 
Indians  in  their  own  land,  than  by  institu- 
tions organized  and  supported  by  wealth  and 
benevolence  not  immediately  in  contact 
with  savagely.  The  great  boon  to  the  sav- 
age tribes  of  this  country,  unrecognized  by 
themselves,  and  to  a  large  extent  unrecog- 
nized by  civilized  men,  has  been  the  pres- 
ence of  civilization,  which,  under  the  laws 
of  "acculturation"  has  irresistibly  improved 
their  culture  by  substituting  new  and  civil- 
ized for  old  and  savage  arts — new  for  old 
customs — in  short,  transforming  savage  into 
civilized  life.  These  unpremeditated  civil- 
izing influences  have  had  a  marked  effect. 
The  great  body  of  the  Indians  of  North 
America  have  passed  through  stages  of 
culture  in  the  last  hundred  years,  achieved 
by  our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors  only  by  the 
slow  course  of  events  through  a  thousand 
years." 

Of  "the  last  hundred  years,"  alluded  to 
by  Major  Powell,  one-third  has  elapsed  since 
the  Argonauts  of  '49  came  to  this  coast- 
and  during  that  time  the  Indians  of  Cali- 
fornia have  been  in  contact  with  the  civili- 
zation of  the  whites,  and  have  assimilated 
a  small  portion,  much  of  it  not  of  satisfac- 
tory quality,  and  they  are  yet  only  beginning 
to  be  civilized.  That  their  heathenism  and 
savagery  exists  among  us  in  a  practical  form 
is  proved  by  the  barbarous  butchery  of  the 
widow  and  child  of  the  deceased  chief,  Win- 


576 


Civilizing  the  Indians  of  California. 


[Dec. 


nemucca,  last  year,  by  a  band  of  Piutes,  in 
conformity  with  a  superstitious  custom  of 
that  tribe.  Winnemucca  died  at  Fort  Bid- 
well,  in  California.  The  Piute  tribe  belongs 
in  the  State  of  Nevada,  but  whether  the 
butchery  took  place  in  California  or  Nevada 
is  doubtful.  Another  instance  of  supersti- 
tious barbarity  is  related  by  Lieutenant  Gor- 
don Winslow,  in  charge  of  Hoopah  Valley 
Reservation.  "An  Indian,  who,  it  is  alleged, 
was  the  possessor  of  a  certain  poison,  and 
who  blew  it,  or  wished  it,  across  the  river  to 
some  of  his  enemies  at  different  times,  was, 
by  the  friends  of  those  whom  he  was  accus- 
ed of  thus  poisoning,  shot  and  killed  in  his 
doorway."  The  murderers  decamped  and 
have  not  been  taken.  The  kind  of  civiliza- 
tion which  we  propose  to  impart  to  the 
younger  portion  of  our  Indians  includes  an 
ordinary  common-school  education  in  the 
English  language,  arithmetic  and  geography, 
with  a  simultaneous  inculcation  of  the  plain 
rules  of  Christian  morality  and  steady  hab- 
its, and  a  training  in  schools  specially  adapt- 
ed to  the  purpose  in  the  industrial  arts,  in- 
cluding agriculture,  horticulture,  stock  rais- 
ing, the  mechanic  arts,  and  such  household 
industries  and  habits  of  order  and  cleanliness 
as  are  needed  by  the  female  pupils  to  make 
their  homes  comfortable  and  happy. 

It  will  be  assumed  in  this  paper,  without 
any  elaborate  attempt  at  argument,  that  an 
Indian  is  capable  of  civilization  to  the  ex- 
tent just  described.  It  has  been  proved  by 
the  history  of  the  Cherokees,  Choctaws  and 
Chickasaws  for  a  half  century.  As  long  ago 
as  1820-22,  Col.  Elias  Boudinot,  now  a  lead- 
ing statesman  of  the  Cherokees,  graduated 
at  the  Cornwall  training-school  in  Connecti- 
cut, while  the  tribe  was  still  living  in  Georgia. 
At  the  same  school,  and  about  the  same 
time,  graduated  John  Ridge,  a  chief  among 
the  Cherokees.  He  married  a  white  young 
lady  of  Cornwall,  took  her  to  his  Indian 
home,  raised  a  family  of  children,  and  edu- 
cated them.  His  son,  John  R.  Ridge,  a 
"forty-niner"  of  California,  was  an  editor 
and  prominent  politician  in  Nevada,  in  the 
early  days,  until  his  death.  One  of  his 
daughters  has  just  graduated  in  the  class  of 


1883,  at  the  University  of  California.  One 
of  the  early  settlers  in  Mariposa  County,  in 
its  brisk  mining  times,  was  a  Cherokee  In- 
dian, who  had  received  a  good  business 
education  in  the  schools  of  that  "nation." 
He  was  a  farmer,  butcher,  contractor  for 
making  roads  and  supplying  mines,  and  a 
better  accountant  than  the  average  of  coun- 
try-storekeepers. He  was  elected  sheriff  of 
the  county,  and  served  out  his  term  satisfac- 
torily to  the  people.  Moving  to  San  Benito 
County,  he  was  elected  sheriff  there  also, 
served  out  his  term  acceptably,  and  is  sup- 
posed to  be  still  residing  there.  One  of  his 
fellow  Cherokees  was  elected  as  supervisor 
of  Mariposa  County.  It  is  too  late  for  Cal- 
ifornians  to  allege  that  an  Indian,  even  if  civ- 
ilized, cannot  be  made  to  stay  civilized.  As 
pertinent  to  this  subject,  I  quote  a  remark 
of  Lieutenant  M.  C.  Wilkinson,  in  charge 
of  the  "Training  School  for  Indian  Youth," 
Forest  Grove,  Oregon,  in  his  report  of  i4th 
Sept.,  1882,  to  the  Indian  Bureau.  "Isn't 
it  about  time  to  bury  that  historical  omni- 
present '  Indian  who  graduated  at  Yale  with 
distinguished  honors,  and  returned  to  his 
people,  and  relapsed  into  tenfold  heathen- 
ism,' and  who  is  paraded  as  the  only  result 
of  the  labor  of  our  government  for  the  last 
two  hundred  years  in  educating  and  civiliz- 
ing the  Indian?'" 

The  Indian  training-schools  at  Hampton 
in  Virginia,  at  Carlisle  in  Pennsylvania,  and 
at  Forest  Grove  i  n  Oregon,  under  the  charge 
of  the  Interior  Department,  have  furnished 
abundant  proof  during  the  last  four  years 
of  the  efficiency  of  these  schools  in  civiliz- 
ing the  younger  Indians  of  both  sexes. 
But  we  cannot  afford  to  send  one-quarter  of 
our  18,000  Indians  of  California,  even  to  so 
near  a  training  school  as  that  at  Forest 
Grove.  We  must  have  something  nearer 
home — a  school,  if  possible,  in  each  popu- 
lous Indian  county. 

An  erroneous  idea  prevails  that  because 
the  Indians  are  at  present  spoken  of  as 
"  Wards  of  the  Government"  they  are  always 
to  remain  so,  and  the  Indian  Bureau,  with 
all  its  objectionable  appurtenances,  is  to  be 
a  perpetual  portion  of  our  executive  depart- 


1883.] 


Civilizing  the  Indians  of  California. 


577 


ment.  If  there  is  anything  in  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States  to  authorize  such 
a  state  of  affairs  as  permanent,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  find  it.  It  is  utterly  foreign 
to  the  principles  of  equal  rights  and  personal 
liberty,  and  a  self-reliant  manhood  among 
all  our  citizens,  without  distinction  of  race. 
The  Government  might  just  as  well  make 
permanent  pets  and  wards  of  the  free  blacks, 
or  of  any  one  of  the  immigrant  peoples,  of 
whom  there  arrive  every  year  twice  as  many 
as  all  our  Indian  tribes  together. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  disposition 
among  many  humane  people,  warm  friends 
of  the  Indian,  and  who  entertain  very  cor- 
rect ideas  concerning  the  future  status  of  the 
Indians,  to  clamor  for  the  immediate  realiza- 
tion of  that  status;  and  they  expect  to  ac- 
complish it  by  abolishing  the  reservations, 
breaking  up  the  tribal  organizations,  settling 
the  Indians  on  homesteads  in  severally  with 
fee  simple  titles,  admitting  the  adults  to 
the  fullest  grade  of  citizenship,  ceasing  the 
distribution  of  all  rations  for  subsistence,  and 
exterminating  the  Indian  Bureau.  All  this 
they  would  have  done  in  one,  or,  at  farthest, 
in  two  years.  These  friends  of  the  Indians 
should  remember  that  the  problem  presents 
two  classes  of  phases — the  temporary  and 
the  permanent.  The  Indian  Bureau,  the 
Reservations  with  their  agencies,  post-trader- 
ships  and  contractors,  are  necessary  evils, 
beneficial  for  a  time,  and  not  to  be  abolished 
hastily;  but  to  remain  like  the  scaffolding  of 
a  building,  only  until  certain  permanent 
plans  are  completed.  Nor  would  I  suffer 
those  phrases — "for  a  time"  and  "it  takes 
time" — to  be  used  to  cover  up  and  prolong 
indefinitely  objectionable  measures,  which 
are  merely  a  choice  of  evils,  and  must  be 
borne  till  the  Indians  are  educated  up  to  a 
sufficient  standard  of  civilization.  To  pre- 
vent this  procrastination,  let  us  hurry  up 
our  educating  and  civilizing  forces. 

Those  who  object  to  the  Government  fur- 
nishing subsistence  directly  to  the  Indians 
may  be  pleased  to  learn,  that  of  the  Califor- 
nia Indians,  only  1314  are  charged  with  a 
percentage  of  their  subsistence — (about  28^ 
per  cent.) — equal  to  the  total  support  of 
VOL.  II.— 37. 


374  Indians.  All  the  others,  about  17,500, 
are  earning  their  own  food.  Those  who 
want  the  reservations  abolished  are  informed 
that  more  than  three-quarters  of  our  Califor- 
nian  Indians  are  not  living  on  any  reserva- 
tion, nor  subject  to  any  Agency  of  the  Fed- 
eral Government.  They  are  subject  to  the 
civil  and  criminal  laws,  and  the  police  of 
the  State,  and  are  not  exempt  from  taxation : 
but  they  get  no  pro-rata  of  school  moneys 
unless  they  are  "living  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  white  persons'" ;  nor  are  the  adult 
males  admitted  to  vote. 

There  is  a  United  States  law,  approved 
March  3rd,  1875,  an  appropriation  law, 
mainly,  but  which  contains  two  sections — 
(15  and  1 6) — especially  intended  to  enable 
Indians  to  avail  themselves  of  the  general 
homestead  law  of  May  20,  1862,  and  the 
acts  amendatory  thereof.  The  law  of  March 
3rd,  1875,  applies  to  any  Indian  born  in  the 
United  States,  who  is  the  head  of  a  family, 
or  who  has  arrived  at  the  age  of  twenty-one 
years,  and  who  has  abandoned,  or  who  may 
hereafter  abandon,  his  tribal  relations.  The 
act  does  not  allow  the  Indian  the  benefit  of 
Sec.  8  of  the  homestead  law,  which  per- 
mits the  white  settler  to  pay  up  and  change 
his  homestead  title  to  an  ordinary  pre-emp- 
tion title;  and  it  also  provides  that  the  In- 
dians' homestead  title  "shall  not  be  subject 
to  alienation  or  incumbrance,  either  by  vol- 
untary conveyance,  or  the  judgment  decree 
or  order  of  any  court,  and  shall  be  and  re- 
main inalienable"  for  five  years  from  the 
date  of  the  patent.  The  homestead  law  of 
1862  allows  no  distinction  on  account  of 
race  or  color;  and  excludes  mineral  lands. 
The  substance  of  the  law  may  be  found  in 
the  volume  of  United  States  Revised  Stat- 
utes, Sections,  2,290,  2,291,  2, 292  and  2,295 
to-  2,302.  Further  details  may  be  learned 
at  the  District  Land  Office.  But  for  all 
such  legal  acts,  the  unlettered  Indian  needs 
some  trusty  friend  and  counselor  to  pilot 
him  through  the  mazes  of  the  Land  Office. 

The  Round  Valley  and  Hoopah  Valley 
Reservations  are  very  important  institutions, 
and  will  continue  to  be  so  during  the  pres- 
ent decade,  not  only  for  the  Indians  who 


578 


Civilizing  the  Indians  of  California. 


[Dec. 


reside  on  them,  but  for  the  large  body  of 
outside  Indians  in  the  northern  counties. 
They  furnish  centers  around  which  may 
gather  a  sufficient  number  of  Indians,  carry- 
ing on  farming  and  other  industrial  pursuits, 
and  receiving  education  for  their  children 
under  the  supervision  of  the  Agents,  and  by 
the  aid  of  animals,  machines,  tools  and  build- 
ings furnished  by  the  Government.  They 
serve  as  models  and  experiment  stations  to 
show  what  can  be  done  under  a  judicious 
system  of  farming  and  stock-raising,  and  its 
superiority  over  the  precarious  dependence 
on  the  chase  for  a  living.  The  crowding  of 
the  incoming  immigration  will  prevent  the 
segregation  of  any  more  large  Indian  Reser- 
vations in  this  State.  The  two  northern 
Reservations,  after  supplying  the  limited 
number  of  Indians  that  remain  upon  them 
with  allotments  in  severalty,  may  have  a  sur- 
plus to  be  divided  among  outside  Indians. 

The  boarding-school  now  being  opened  at 
Round  Valley — and  which  ought  to  be  du- 
plicated at  Hoopah  Valley — will  test  the  ef- 
ficacy of  such  schools  near  the  home  of  the 
Indians,  and  serve  as  a  model  for  other 
schools  of  the  kind  In  this  connection  it 
is  gratifying  to  observe  that  the  Agent  of 
Round  Valley,  Mr.  H.  B.  Sheldon,  has  late- 
ly attended  in  person  the  annual  examina- 
tion and  exhibition  of  the  Indian  training 
school  at  Carlisle. 

The  true  destiny  of  our  California  Indians 
is  to  become  full  citizens,  with  constitutional, 
legal,  and  social  rights  equal  to  those  en- 
joyed by  the  whites,  or  the  African  or  Moor- 
ish races  born  on  our  soil.  And  it  is  to-  pre- 
pare them  for  this  citizenship  within  a  rea- 
sonable time,  twenty  years,  if  possible, 
certainly  not  over  thirty,  that  active  meas- 
ures must  be  speedily  undertaken.  There 
are  about  13,600  of  them  outside  of  any 
Agency  of  the  Federal  Government.  They 
are  divided  into  many  bands,  each  with  a 
chief,  and  are  scattered  among  the  outlying 
counties,  mainly  the  northern.  They  sup- 
port themselves  partly  by  hunting  and  fish- 
ing, and  partly  by  working  for  wages  among 
the  whites.  They  have  been  peaceably  dis- 
posed since  the  Modoc  War,  and  that  in- 


volved on.y  one  tribe  of  a  few  hundred. 
But  they  are  still  Indians,  and  retain  many 
of  their  vices  and  their  superstitions,  and 
practice  their  cruel  and  barbarous  rites;  and 
if,  by  the  crowding  of  an  incoming  immigra- 
tion, they  were  harshly  encroached  upon, 
they  might  become  formidable  enemies. 

Two  practical  questions  now  present  them- 
selves :  How  shall  they  be  civilized,  and  Who 
shall  attend  to  it?  The  chief  thing  to  be 
done  is  to  educate  the  young  Indians.  Di- 
vide 13,600  by  4,  and  we  have  3,400  as 
about  the  number  to  be  educated.  These 
are  so  distributed  that  the  largest  number  of 
children  in  any  one  county  is  484  in  Hum- 
boldt  County,  (outside  of  Reservation);  316 
in  Mendocino,  259  in  Shasta,  and  in  other 
counties  according  to  the  table  heretofore 
furnished. 

It  may  be  as  well  here  to  look  the  fact 
squarely  in  the  face,  that  we  may  expect  little 
or  no  more  aid  from  the  Federal  Govern- 
ment than  we  now  receive.  This  is  about 
$35,000  annually,  not  under  any  treaty  stip- 
ulation, but  dependent  each  year  upon  the 
good  will  of  Congress,  which  is  restrained 
by  the  competition  of  other  Indian  districts. 
It  amounts  to  nearly  $2  per  head  for  every 
Indian  in  the  State,  or  $8  per  head  for  the 
4,324  under  Federal  Agencies.  It  would 
not  pay  half  the  school  tax  of  the  Indian 
children  of  school  age,  if  they  were  all  enum- 
erated. It  amounts  to  about  $9  per  head 
for  each  adult  male  Indian. 

But  let  us  not  despise  the  gifts  of  the  Gov- 
ernment nor  abuse  its  Agents,  but  be  thank- 
ful for  what  we  get;  and  get  more,  even 
double,  if  we  can.  The  great  objection  to 
looking  for  aid  to  the  general  Government  is 
the  loss  of  time  and  golden  opportunity. 
There  is  great  apathy  in  Congress  on  Indian 
affairs.  The  reports  of  the  Indian  Agents 
and  of  the  Commissioners  are  full  of  prayers 
and  suggestions  relating  to  other  than  finan- 
cial matters;  such  as  land  titles,  police,  crim- 
inal jurisdiction,  surveys,  etc.,  requiring 
prompt  action,  which  are  neglected  year  af- 
ter year,  to  the  great  damage  of  the  Indian 
service.  Plenty  of  instances  in  California 
could  be  cited  if  our  space  permitted.  The 


1883.] 


Civilizing  the  Indians  of  California. 


679 


Round  Valley  Reservation  furnishes  one. 
The  percentage  of  subsistence  now  paid 
there  by  the  Government  would  all  be  saved 
if  the  title  to  the  improvements  held  by  set- 
tlers were  extinguished.  All  the  Indian 
children  in  the  State  could  receive  five  years' 
education  during  the  delay  necessary  to  get 
some  very  important  act  in  Indian  affairs 
passed  by  Congress.  This  difficulty  sug- 
gests the  idea  that  the  impelling  force  must 
originate  nearer  home;  not,  as  a  general 
rule,  in  the  State  Legislature,  only  in  some 
exceptional  cases,  but  in  the  counties  them- 
selves where  the  work  of  civilization  is  to  be 
done.  Mrs.  Gen.  Bidwell  has  set  a  most 
commendable  example  by  establishing  a  pri- 
vate school  for  the  Indians  on  her  husband's 
rancho. 

Suppose  that  in  each  county  containing  a 
large  Indian  population,  a  volunteer  commit- 
tee of  benevolent  citizens  were  organized  to 
act  as  an  Indian  Bureau.  There  should  be 
at  least  five — better  seven — members.  The 
County  Superintendent  of  schools  should  be 
one;  the  clergyman  who  has  had  most  ex- 
perience in  Indian  affairs  might  be  another; 
some  earnest,  motherly  lady  of  the  Dorcas 
type  should  be  another;  one  of  the  more  sa- 
gacious, industrious,  and  sober  of  the  In- 
dians should  be  another ;  and  the  other 
three  might  be  selected  from  the  lawyers, 
doctors,  and  business  men  of  philanthropic 
instincts.  The  committee  should  be  ap- 
pointed by  some  public  meeting,  or  some 
other  expression  of  citizens  representing  the 
public  opinion  of  the  county.  The  com- 
mittee could  not,  of  course,  possess  any  legal 
power  for  the  enforcement  of  their  plans,  but 
must  rely  upon  moral  suasion  applied  both 
to  the  whites  and  the  Indians.  Their  first 
labor  should  be  statistical — to  ascertain  the 
number  and  whereabouts  of  the  Indians — 
the  number  of  school  age,  the  number  under 
school  age,  and  the  number  over  school  age 
as  far  as  those  of  twenty  inclusive: — their 
condition  as  to  modes  of  procuring  subsis- 
tence, habits  of  life,  morality  or  immorality, 
knowledge  of  English  language,  superstitions, 
savagery  and  other  details.  Another  impor- 
tant fact  to  be  ascertained  is  the  willingness 


or  unwillingness,  as  well  as  the  ability,  of  the 
adult  Indians  to  contribute  to  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  schools,  at  least  in  part.  With 
such  a  body  of  facts  as  a  basis,  the  commit- 
tee will  be  ready  to  study  up  and  adopt  its 
plans  for  action.  The  first  duty  is  to  pro- 
vide the  children  with  schools  where  they 
can  obtain  an  ordinary  common-school  edu- 
cation, and  with  it  the  common  principles  of 
Christian  morality;  and,  if  possible,  an  in- 
dustrial education.  No  language  but  Eng- 
lish should  be  taught  in  these  schools — 
certainly  no  tribal  language  should  be  per- 
petuated. 

The  details  for  providing  ways  and  means 
for  the  maintenance  of  the  schools  must  be 
regulated  by  the  committee ;  and  the  im- 
portance of  obtaining,  in  a  legal  way  and  at 
a  proper  time,  the  pro-rata  of  school-moneys 
pertaining  to  these  children  will,  of  course, 
suggest  itself.  If  further  legislation  is 
needed,  the  co-operation  of  the  various 
county  committees  can  be  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  Legislature. 

A  second  object  of  the  committee's  at- 
tention should  be  the  condition  of  the  adult 
Indians  as  regards  civil  rights,  facilities  for 
obtaining  steady  employment  in  civilized 
pursuits,  facilities  for  obtaining  land  by 
homestead  entry  under  proper  restrictions ; 
as  far  as  possible  encouraging  them  to 
abandon  intemperance,  gambling  "and  other 
vices  and  superstitions,  and  cruel  rites;  and 
especially  to  aid  in  the  enforcement  of  the 
law  against  selling  liquor  to  Indians.  As 
regards  obtaining  employment  for  adult  In- 
dians, the  inquiry  is  pertinent,  why  cannot 
they  be  employed  at  railroad  building  as- 
well  as  Chinamen  ?  If  such  a  committee 
can  be  successful  in  its  efforts  for  a  few 
years,  although  the  school  taxes  may  have 
been  augmented,  a  better  class  of  citizens 
will  have  been  raised  up,  and  the  tax-payers 
will  be  relieved  from  the  expense  of  support 
of  worthless  prisoners  and  criminal  trials; 
the  country  people  will  have  for  neighbors  in- 
dustrious and  worthy  people,  instead  of  sav- 
ages. 

The  inquiry  naturally  suggests  itself:  Why 
should  we  take  any  more  special  pains  to 


580 


Civilizing  the  Indians  of  California. 


[Dec. 


educate  the  children  of  poor  Indians  than 
those  of  poor  white  men  ?  Why  such  anxiety 
to  teach  the  English  language  to  young  In- 
dians, and  such  indifference  to  teaching  it 
to  young  Scandinavians  ?  An  answer  in 
part  might  be:  This  ye  should  do,  but  not 
leave  the  other  undone.  But  there  is  anoth- 
er reason  why.  At  the  poor  white  man's 
home  the  children  imbibe  the  English  lan- 
guage as  their  native  tongue;  so  that  at  the 
age  of  six  years  the  child  can  make  known 
its  wants  and  ideas  fluently,  if  not  grammati- 
cally. The  Indian  child,  at  the  age  of  six  or 
even  ten,  has  only  been  taught  some  miser- 
able tribal  language,  which  it  can  only  use 
among  Indians;  and  it  has  to  begin  learning 
another  language  at  school.  Again,  the 
poor  white  man's  children  are  brought  up  at 
home — or  ought  to  be — to  habits  of  cleanli- 
ness, punctuality,  obedience,  persistent  in- 
dustry and  morality.  The  Indian  child,  born 
in  a  wretched  wigwam,  amid  vermin  and 
squalor  of  all  sorts,  is  trained  to  familiarity 
with  the  loose,  lazy,  and  vicious  habits  and 
superstitions  of  savagery  practiced  by  the 
adult  Indians.  Machinists  are  familiar  with 
what  is  called  a  "dead  point"  in  the  move- 
ments of  machinery,  where  a  much  greater 
force  is  required  than  the  average  needed  to 
keep  it  in  motion.  There  is  just  such  a 
"dead  point"  in  the  social  and  educational 
life  of  the  young  Indian.  To  such  an  ex- 
tent does  this  evil  exist,  that  teachers  of  In- 
dian children  in  day  schools  complain  that 
the  child  unlearns  at  home,  at  night,  much  of 
•what  it  was  taught  in  the  daytime.  This  fact 
has  caused  the  adoption  of  the  Industrial 
Boarding-School  System,  which  has  been  suc- 
cessfully in  use  on  a  few  reservations,  and  has 
just  been  introduced  at  the  Round  Valley 
Agency. 

If  the  younger  quarter  of  our  Indian  pop- 
ulation can  receive  impetus  enough  to  carry 
them  beyond  the  dead  point  alluded  to,  and 
the  children  that  shall  be  born  of  them  can 
be  trained  in  civilized  homes,  to  speak  Eng- 
lish as  their  native  tongue,  with  the  mor- 
als and  steady  industrial  habits  that  should 
go  with  it,  the  savage  tribal  relations, 
superstitions,  barbarous  and  cruel  games, 


and  "medicine"  humbugs  of  the  adults 
will  vanish  spontaneously;  and  constitu- 
tional civil  rights,  just  laws,  Christian  mo- 
rality, homesteads  in  severally,  industrial 
trades,  common  sense  medical  practice,  and 
the  sports  and  quiet  enjoyments  of  civilized 
life  will  take  the  place  of  squalor  and  sav- 
agery. When  that  time  comes,  the  adults 
of  to-day  will  be  on  the  downward  slope  of 
life,  both  as  to  age  and  influence,  and  the 
youth  educated  during  the  next  fifteen  years 
will  be  the  leaders  of  their  people,  not  by 
force  of  law  or  ancient  traditions,  but  by  the 
force  of  intelligent  moral  influence.  The 
Indians  will  not  then  be  regarded  as  a  dis- 
tinct, half  degraded  race,  held  in  leading 
strings;  but  will  be  citizens,  with  rights  equal 
to  those  of  their  white  or  colored  neighbors. 
An  Indian  mechanic  or  farmer  will  be  at 
liberty  and  fitted  to  enter  public  land,  or  to 
change  his  domicile  to  any  other  locality, 
near  or  distant,  among  Indians  or  whites,  as 
may  suit  himself.  There  will  be  no  need  of 
reservations,  nor  agents,  nor  post-traders,  nor 
contractors,  nor  Indian  Bureaus.  There 
will  be  no  Utopia  about  it.  There  will  be 
good  Indians  and  bad  ones,  as  among  other 
races;  but  they  must  meet  the  tests  of  life 
and  be  judged  individually,  and  not  as  tribes 
or  a  collective  race.  It  is  best  neither  to 
overrate  nor  underrate  the  importance  of 
this  problem.  There  is  great  tendency  to 
apathy  on  the  subject,  because  more  than 
half  the  population  of  the  State,  residing  in 
the  counties  contiguous  to  the  Bay  of  San 
Francisco,  and  in  San  Joaquin  and  Sacra- 
mento Counties,  scarcely  ever  see  an  Indian 
at  all.  In  these  counties  there  are  only  618 
Indians,  or  only  one  to  755  of  the  total 
population.  They  would  furnish  only  about 
150  children  of  school  age,  who  may  proper- 
ly be  commended  to  the  home-missionary 
forces  of  the  various  religious  societies  in 
each  of  these  particular  counties,  and  others 
where  the  Indian  population  is  small. 

Of  course,  the  people  of  the  several  coun- 
ties are  free  to  continue  the  present  policy 
of  doing  nothing  for  the  Indians.  "Let 
them  work  out  their  own  civilization  in  their 
own  way  as  they  have  done  hitherto."  "Am 


1883.] 


Sonnet. 


581 


I  my  brother's  keeper."  The  policy  is  in- 
humane and  unjust  towards  the  Indians, 
and  will  perpetuate  a  vicious  and  dangerous 
element  of  society,  tending  to  the  corruption 
of  the  younger  whites,  and  increasing  the 
county  taxes  for  the  property-holders  to  pay. 
Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  if  the  county 
provides  no  schools  of  a  proper  kind  for  the 
Indians,  they  will  be  left  entirely  without 
schools.  The  whiskey  dealers  and  the 
"squaw-men"  have  already  provided  them, 
and  the  Indians  are  quite  as  apt  scholars  in 
the  schools  of  vice  as  in  those  of  a  better 
class.  Their  ignorance  of  our  language  does 
not  prevent  their  learning  our  vices.  An 
old  missionary  says  "vice  is  at  home  with 
any  language." 

Why  not  send  these  outside  Indians  to 
the  Reservation,  and  let  them  be  schooled 
there?  First — because  the  Indians  don't 
want  to  go.  They  don't  find  congenial  com- 
pany there,  neither  of  their  own  race  nor  of 
the  white  race.  Second — because  forcing 
Indians  from  their  own  homes  into  reserva- 
tions, against  their  own  will,  leads  to  such 
scenes  as  the  Modoc  War,  and  the  Ponca  bar- 


barities (by  the  whites),  and  such  mingling  of 
explosive  materials  as  they  are  now  experi- 
menting with  at  the  San  Carlos  Reservation 
in  Arizona. 

Hon.  J.  G.  McCallum,  formerly  a  State 
Senator,  and  for  some  years  Register  of  the 
United  States  Land  Office  at  Sacramento, 
and  more  recently  an  attorney  in  Oakland, 
practicing  especially  in  land  law-cases,  has 
been  appointed  United  States  Agent  for  the 
Mission  Indians  of  Southern  California,  and 
entered  on  his  duties  early  in  October.  It 
is  to  be  hoped  that  his  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  public  land  laws  and  of  Mexican 
ranch  titles  may  enure  to  the  benefit  of  his 
Indian  "wards"  in  their  conflicts  with  in- 
truders. 


Erratum.  In  the  November  number  of 
the  OVERLAND,  on  page  467,  in  Table  I,  in- 
sert 4,405,  instead  of  1,405,  for  Outside  In- 
dians of  Washington  Territory ;  which  makes 
total  for  that  territory  17,508,  and  requires 
corrections  in  the  summing  up  by  adding 
3,000  where  necessary.  The  grand  total  for 
the  United  States  is  339,098. 

Sherman  Day. 


SONNET. 

HIGH  in  a  Roman  tower  where  white  doves  feed 
An  artist  toils  alone.     The  plastic  clay 
He  molds  with  loving  hand  from  day  to  day, 

Till  pure  ideal  expressed  his  fond  eyes  read. 

In  busy  mart,  where  thronging  footsteps  speed, 
A  host  of  workmen  skilled  the  chisel  ply; 
The  model  fair  before  the  watchful  eye 

They  reproduce  with  care  and  patient  heed. 


The  Master  Artist  gives  a  type  most  grand 

Of  noble  life  wherefrom  ideal  to  take. 
The  workmen  we,  with  rude  or  skillful  hand, 

From  out  the  record  marble  statues  make, 
Which  for  eternity  and  time  must  stand. 

Alas!    if  idle  blows  their  beauty  break! 

Amelia    Woodward  Truesdell. 


582 


A  Country  Walk. 


[Dec. 


A   COUNTRY   WALK. 


I  AM  going  to  tell  you  of  a  country  walk 
which  I  took  last  spring  through  Devonshire 
lanes  to  a  certain  hamlet  where  old-fashioned 
speech  and  superstitions  still  find  a  home. 
It  is  grievous  to  watch  how  such  local  color- 
ing is  fast  disappearing  in  these  days  of  bus- 
tle and  movement,  when  even  the  poor  move 
from  place  to  place,  until  they  seem  likely  to 
rival  the  Americans  who  say  that  with  them 
you  can  count  on  your  fingers  the  instances 
of  three  generations  of  a  family  being  buried 
together.  But  in  our  West  Country  wilds 
the  old  roots  are  not  yet  all  torn  up,  and  I 
only  wish  that  all  who  go  among  the  poor, 
where  provincialism  still  exists,  would  write 
down  their  stories  and  expressions,  as  every 
day  such  peculiarities  are  growing  rarer  and 
rarer. 

I  fear  my  country  walk  will  not  please 
those  who  look  for  descriptions  of  nature, 
since  she  chiefly  appeals  to  me  as  a  back- 
ground for  human  nature.  I  prefer  to  "trace 
the  secret  spirit  of  humanity  which  'mid 
the  calm  oblivious  tendencies  of  nature, 
'mid  her  plants  and  weeds  and  flowers  and 
silent  overgrowings,  still  survives." 

I  took  my  way  over  the  hill  which  lay  be- 
tween me  and  my  destination,  lingering 
awhile  at  the  summit  to  view  the  landscape 
o'er.  Dr.  Watts,  himself,  would  feel  it  no 
profanity  to  hear  his  words  used  for  such  a 
landscape,  for  I  am  convinced  that  Chris- 
tian saw  just  such  a  one  when  he  looked 
southward  from  the  House  Beautiful  and 
saw  the  Delectable  Mountains  in  the  far  dis- 
tance. Verily,  now,  as  in  Bunyan's  day, 
"the  House  Beautiful  stands  at  the  wayside," 
at  least  it  certainly  does  in  Devonshire.  The 
hill  I  speak  of  enjoys  no  special  reputation, 
and  yet  if  you  had  stood  with  me  that  spring 
afternoon,  and  seen  the  broad  valley  with  its 
little  white  town  nestling  among  the  trees 
at  its  seaward  end,  and  followed  with  your 
eye  the  line  of  white  beach  as  the  red  cliffs 
gradually  rose  beside  it,  till  they  stood  out 


in  the  bold  red  mass  five  hundred  feet  high, 
which  we  call  Mount,  and  then,  subsiding  a 
little,  crept  along  the  shore  till  they  disap- 
peared in  the  blue  haze  that  makes  the  dis- 
tant curve  of  the  bay;  whatever  your  own 
home  scenery  may  be,  you  would  have  felt 
that  such  a  scene  raised  in  your  mind 
Heber's  thought: 

"  Oh  God,  O  good  beyond  compare, 
If  thus  thy  earthly  realms  are  fair, 
How  glorious  must  the  mansions  be 
Where  thy  redeemed  shall  dwell  with  thee." 

How  southern  was  the  blue  of  the  sea 
that  afternoon,  with  its  little  waves  curling 
softly  in,  crisped  into  suggestions  of  "white 
horses"  by  the  gentle  east  wind,  which  i'n 
these  regions  is  a  perfect  zephyr,  only  noticed 
from  the  added  clearness  it  gives  the  air,  so 
that  you  might  have  seen  the  far-away  tow- 
ers of  Dartmoor  rising  in  the  distance  be- 
yond Mount,  and  on  the  steep  sides  of 
Mount  itself  you  might  have  seen  every 
dint  washed  by  the  rain  in  the  soft  red 
marl;  nay,  you  would  almost  have  fancied 
you  saw  the  primrose  that  I  knew  to  be 
carpeting  its  ravines  down  to  the  very  beach, 
and  that  in  the  soft  stillness  you  heard  the 
wood  pigeons,  who  there  build  side  by  side 
with  the  sea  gulls,  so  close  are  the  trees  to 
the  water's  edge. 

The  heights  of  Exmoor  could  be  seen 
rising  through  a  gap  in  the  large  hill  which 
forms  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley,  a  hill 
on  whose  slopes  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  wandered 
when  a  boy,  and  which  was  hallowed  in  later 
years  by  the  musing  steps  of  Keble,  a  strange 
contrast  to  that  wild  sea-faring  worthy,  who, 
nevertheless,  sighed  for  the  "scallop  shell 
of  quiet,"  which  might  be  taken  as  a  fitting 
emblem  of  Keble.  , 

Up  the  valley  inland  lie  swelling  hills, 
green  and  peaceful,  with  every  now  and  then 
the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud  to  throw  their 
smiling  brightness  into  relief.  But  the 
sea  fascinates  one's  gaze,  so  that  the 


1883.] 


A  Country  Walk. 


583 


rich  inland  country  gains  but  a  passing 
glance,  and  you  turn  again  to  that  marvel- 
lous sapphire  floor  with  the  deep,  steady, 
wine-colored  shadows  under  Mount,  and  the 
little  outstanding  rocks  at  its  foot,  "Sentry 
Rock"  and  "The  Man  of  God." 

But,  like  Christian,  we  must  not  linger  to 
gaze  from  the  House  Beautiful:  we  too,  have 
a  steep  descent  before  us,  a  true  Hill  Difficul- 
ty. Every  now  and  then  as  you  follow  the 
winding  road  there  are  most  beautiful 
glimpses  through  the  trees. 

As  this  is  to  be  a  country  walk,  I  must  not 
stop  to  describe  the  quaint,  old-fashioned 
little  watering-place  through  which  our  way 
lies.  A  hundred  years  ago  it  was  fashion- 
able, and  Fanny  Burney  came  down  here  to 
recruit  after  the  fatigues  of  tying  Queen 
Charlotte's  necklace.  The  place  seems  hard- 
ly to  have  altered  since,  though  the  grandees 
who  followed  in  Fanny's  track  shortly  after- 
wards built  various  quaint  little  houses,  one 
of  which,  in  the  form  of  a  pagoda,  we  shall 
pass.  It  came  into  the  hands  of  an  eccen- 
tric old  man  who  had  been  jilted  by  some 
lady  in  his  youth.  He  made  this  house  a 
museum  of  curiosities,  and  had  the  grounds 
turned  into  a  menagerie,  parceled  out  into 
miniature  pounds,  in  which  were  llamas  and 
other  strange  beasts.  Every  Monday  he 
admitted  the  public  by  thirty  at  a  time,  and 
sat  watching  them  through  a  peephole,  hop- 
ing that  some  day  the  faithless  lady  would 
be  among  them.  The  story  does  not  say 
whether  his  long  watch  was  ever  rewarded: 
it  was  interrupted  by  death  years  ago,  and 
the  house  is  about  to  be  turned  into  an  ho- 
tel, which  will  not  number  llamas  among  its 
attractions. 

But  we  must  not  linger  in  these  quiet  old 
streets,  which  may  have  been  alive  in  the 
days  when  George  the  Third  was  King,-  but 
which  seem  to  have  been  waiting  ever  since 
for  something  to  happen,  and  to  have  waited 
in  vain:  for  the  nearest  approach  to  an 
event  which  they  ever  behold  is  when  Lady 
B,'s  carriage  and  four  drives  through  them  ; 
and  even  that,  with  its  postilions  and  out- 
riders, seems  a  survival  of  the  past,  raising 
no  sense  of  incongruity.  So  we  wander 


dreamily  through  the  silent  town,  listening  to 
Fanny's  voice  as  she  discusses  with  the  bak- 
er's wife  his  good  Majesty's  late  visit  to  Ex- 
eter, and  how  many  bonfires  his  loyal  sub- 
jects raised  in  his  honor. 

And  now  the  road  takes  us  into  real  coun- 
try lanes,  and  we  pass  by  "Jenny  Grey's 
corner,"  where  Jenny  lies  buried  with  a  stake 
through  her  heart,  and  where,  it  is  whispered, 
she  may  still  be  seen  should  anything  take 
you  that  way  at  night.  It  is  a  very  suitable 
approach  to  the  first  cottage  we  enter,  for 
we  are  going  to  call  on  old  blind  Molly;  and 
you  would  not  wonder  at  her  reputation  as  a 
witch  if  you  saw  her  on  a  winter's  day,  in 
the  great  chimney  corner,  cowering  over  the 
embers  beside  the  great  cauldron  which 
hangs  from  the  recess,  her  black  cat  bristling 
its  back  as  you  enter,  the  window  impervi- 
ous to  light  (whether  from  dislike  of  water 
or  from  love  of  warmth  I  never  quite  made 
out);  so  that  when  you  have  shut  the  door 
out  of  regard  for  Molly's  rheumatics,  only 
the  glowing  embers  and  the  wide  chimney 
shaft  help  you  in  groping  your  way  to  a 
chair.  The  cottage  is  quite  solitary,  and  its 
thatch  suffers  from  all  the  winds  of  heaven, 
as  it  is  perched  on  a  little  hill.  At  the  foot 
of  the  hill  four  roads  meet,  where  Molly 
would  doubtless  have  been  buried  long  ere 
now  with  a  stake  through  her  heart,  like 
poor  Jenny,  were  it  not  that  she  lives  in  an 
age  of  sweetness  and  light — the  only  sweet- 
ness and  light,  I  should  say,  that  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  her,  and  her  relation  even 
to  them  is  somewhat  of  a  negative  descrip- 
tion. 

I  never  myself  had  proof  of  Molly's  pow- 
ers, and  as  she'  regularly  attends  my  Bible 
reading  in  a  neighboring  cottage,  I  do  not 
feel  bound  to  take  any  steps  about  what 
may  possibly  be  only  a  scandalous  report — 
indeed,  with  amiable  weakness  I  studiously 
avoid  speaking  of  the  Witch  of  Endor  at 
my  readings.  But  the  neighbors,  though  I 
fancy  they  shirk  the  subject  with  Molly  her- 
self as  much  as  I  do,  consider  the  tale  far 
from  a  mere  scandal,  and  one  of  them  only 
expressed  the  feeling  of  the  community 
when  she  told  me  : 


584 


A   Country  Walk. 


[Dec. 


"Well,  Miss!  I  don't  know  as  she'd  du 
us  any  harm  if  she  did  come,  but  still  I  allus 
keep  something  at  the  top  of  the  chimbly 
to  hinder  her  coming  down  it." 

Molly  may  have  superhuman  powers  in 
the  matter  of  chimneys,  but  yet  we  shall 
not  be  disappointed  if  we  look  in  her  cot- 
tage for  the  human  nature  we  came  in  search 
of.  In  constitution  she  is  certainly  human, 
for  she  generally  begins  the  conversation  by 
groaning  out : 

"He  be  that  troublesome,  Miss!  I  some- 
times dii  declare  I  don't  hardly  know  how 
to  bide  wi'  he,"— the  "he,"  referring  to  her 
stomach,  which  she  proceeds  to  rub  vigor- 
ously. 

But  it  is  not  through  that  organ  alone 
that  she  is  kin  to  us  all.  I  remember  one 
day  after  I  had  been  reading  to  her,  she 
burst  out : 

"Ah,  yes!  I  know  what  trouble  be,  Miss: 
I  be  eighty-five  year  old,  and  I've  had  fif- 
teen children,  and  reared  'em  all  to  get  their 
own  living.  I  lost  five  of  my  boys  when 
they  were  young  men,  and  'twere  hard,  very 
hard  ;  but  I've  never  had  no  trouble  wi'  my 
boys — its  my  gals  as  troubled  me ;  one  or 
two  on  'em  turned  out  racketting,  and,  O 
dear,  I've  been  that  bowed  wi'  the  trouble 
of  it,  as  I  felt  I  couldn't  go  drew  [through] 
it.  When  folk  makes  away  wi'  theirselves, 
and  you  hear  a  many  say  they  can't  think 
how  they  came  to  do  it,  I've  a  thought  in 
my  heart  as  /  knowed.  But,  there!  We 
must  ha'  troubles,  and  the  only  way  is  to 
put  our  trust  in  God,  and  not  to  think  on 
'em  too  much,  but  to  hope  as  he'll  bring  us 
drew." 

It  was  touching  to  think  of  the  poor  old 
soul  feeling  for  those  rashly  importunate, 
gone  to  their  death,  a  tenderer  and  more 
understanding  pity  than  did  the  neighbors, 
making  their  comments  as  they  came  to 
gossip  with  old  Molly  the  witch,  whom  they 
secretly  considered  as  out  of  the  pale  of 
their  human  sympathies. 

Not  only  Molly,  but  most  of  the  poor,  I 
find,  put  us  to  shame  by  their  trust  in  God, 
even  though  their  expression  of  it  may  raise 
a  smile.  The  woman  who  anticipates  Mol- 


ly's aerial  visit  was  sorely  tried  last  winter  by 
sick  children,  rheumatic  gout  in  her  hands, 
and,  to  crown  all,  a  severe  illness  attacking 
her  husband,  "a  strong  laborious  man,  Miss, 
but  now  he  be  so  wake  as  death,  and  the 
weather  baint  certilated  to  strengthen  him. 
I  prayed  to  God  for  him  last  night,  I  did 
indeed,  indeed,  Miss!"  said  she,  "for  as  a 
general  rule,  Miss,  I  puts  my  providence  in 
him,  and  I'm  sure  one  can't  do  better  than 
in  one's  own  chimbly  corner,"  though,  I 
suppose,  could  one  have  read  her  thoughts 
one  would  have  found  among  them  the 
mental  reservation,  "provided  the  chimbly 
top  be  secured  against  Molly's  unlawful  en- 
try." 

The  husband  only  earned  IDS  a  week  like 
most  of  the  laborers  in  these  parts,  and  he 
might  think  himself  fortunate  to  have  only 
five  children  to  keep  upon  it,  instead  of  ten, 
like  many  of  his  neighbors.  Indeed,  a  cer- 
tain old  Heath,  in  telling  me  of  the  days  of 
his  youth,  observed  apologetically:  "You see, 
Miss,  we  were  somewhat  rough  in  the  matter 
o'  wearin'  apparel,  seein'  as  there  were  seven- 
teen of  us."  I  privately  thought  no  apology 
was  needed,  for  I  fear  that  if  I  had  had  to 
bring  up  seventeen  on  a  laborer's  wages,  I 
should  have  thought  wearin'  apparel  of  any 
kind  for  them  a  work  of  supererogation. 

Heath  was  an  amusing  old  man  to  talk  to, 
and  had  more  wits  than  could  have  been  ex- 
pected as  a  seventeenth  part  of  the  family 
intelligence.  The  winter  of  '14  was  his 
standard  of  comparison  for  the  weather,  and 
he  had  heard  his  great-grandmother  tell  of 
the  frost  of  1687.  He  well  remembered  the 
days  of  pack  horses,  the  only  suitable  con- 
veyances for  our  narrow  lanes;  and  the  in- 
troduction of  the  first  cart,  which  happened 
when  he  was  a  lad — only  as  its  driver  got 
crushed  to  death  by  it,  it  was  left  to  rot  on 
the  ground  in  Oakford  Wood,  where  the  ac- 
cident took  place;  the  mishap  was  held 
proof  positive  by  all  the  country  round  that 
there  was  no  blessing  on  new-fangled  ways, 
and  so  the  pack-horse  reigned  supreme  yet 
a  while  longer.  Many  were  Heath's  lamen- 
tations over  the  modern  prevalence  of  mach- 
inery, and  the  few  laborers  now  employed. 


1883.] 


A   Country  Walk. 


585 


He  had  been  a  laborer  himself,  and  had 
lived  all  his  life  in  the  house  where  his  great- 
grandfather was  born.  His  working  days 
were  over  when  I  knew  him,  and  he  was  but 
just  able  to  potter  about  the  garden  with  his 
cat,  who,  as  he  said,  was  fond  of  poking 
about  "tu  his  lee-sure" — a  remark  which 
would  have  fitted  himself  as  well  as  his  be- 
loved puss.  But  it  was  not  old  age  alone 
which  so  crippled  him:  he  had  been  over- 
looked by  the  parish  clerk — a  portly  trades- 
man of  the  little  town,  whom  I  never  should 
have  suspected  of  such  practices.  It  was 
an  unexpected  shock  to  his  vicar,  also,  when 
I  informed  him  of  old  Heath's  ailment,  and 
its  cause — he  knew  nothing  evil  about  the 
clerk's  eye,  he  said,  except  that  he  never 
could  catch  it  when  he  wanted  to  speak  to 
him  in  church.  But  if  the  poor  people  of 
the  place  are  to  be  believed  (and  their  in- 
formation about  skeletons  in  their  betters' 
cupboards  is  often  surprisingly  accurate), 
there  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  painful 
fact.  The  clerk,  they  say,  inherited  the 
evil  from  his  mother,  who  had  a  book  of 
witchcraft ;  and  I  am  given  to  understand 
that  old  Heath  is  not  the  only  victim  to  his 
fascinations. 

However,  these  powers  of,  we  will  not 
say  darkness,  but  of  twilight,  have  occasion- 
ally worked  to  Heath's  advantage.  Every 
one  knows  that  marvellous  gifts  are  be- 
stowed on  seventh  sons,  especially  gifts  of 
healing,  and  Heath  secured  the  assistance  of 
one  of  them  to  cure  his  daughter,  who  had  a 
bad  hip.  The  man  was  unwilling  to  under- 
take the  job,  as  he  declared  he  always  suf- 
fered intensely  himself  after  exerting  his 
powers;  but  finally  consenting,  he  said  he 
must  come  before  sunrise  seven  mornings 
in  succession  to  strike  his  hand  upon  the 
place,  and  that  the  cure  would  then  be 
complete.  The  girl's  recovery  and  his 
own  illness  did  actually  follow,  to  the  great 
strengthening  of  Heath's  faith  in  all  such 
powers. 

Fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago  you  would 
have  seen  hanging  under  most  cottage  lin- 
tels in  this  hamlet  a  sheep  or  bullock  heart, 
stuck  with  pins  and  needles  to  keep  off 


witchcraft.  I  believe  this  custom  is  now 
forsaken;  but  the  superstitions  still  prevail- 
ing about  illness  in  these  parts  are  many, 
and  of  course  the  virtues  of  charms  are  fully 
understood.  I  know  a  woman  who  has  had 
no  return  of  neuralgia  since  a  certain  "wise" 
man,  a  carpenter,  "up  tu"  Otcombe,  as 
they  say  here,  gave  her  a  text  to  sew  in  her 
stays.  Being  carried  at  midnight  over  the 
parish  boundaries  is  still  considered  a  cer- 
tain cure  for  hysteria,  and  those  who  live  on 
the  borders  often  hear  the  screams  of  the 
patients  as  this  remedy  is  literally  carried 
out.  It  is  considered  terrible  not  to  see  a 
"token"  before  death,  as  that  shows  an  un- 
prepared state  of  mind.  A  sick  girl  I  knew 
was  told  by  a  neighbor  that  she  ought  to  see 
Christ  upon  the  Cross,  and  it  made  her  low- 
spirited  for  days  because  she  could  see  noth- 
ing. At  last,  I  went  in  one  day  and  found 
her  radiant. 

"O,  Miss!"  she  said,  "I've  seen  my  vis- 
ion. The  Lord  Jesus  came  and  stood  at  the 
foot  of  my  bed;  I  was  wide  awake  ;  and 
then  he  vanished  out  of  the  window,  leaving 
the  room  full  of  light." 

An  old  man,  "a  bed-Iyer,"  as  they  say  here, 
shortly  before  his  death  told  me  he  had  seen 
a  stranger  come  into  his  room,  who  stood  at 
the  foot  of  his  bed,  looking  at  him  with  piti- 
ful eyes,  and  said,  "  Never  mind,  it  won't  be 
for  long";  "He  were  the  finest  gentleman  I 
ever  saw,  and  I  reckon  as  'twere  the  Lord 
Jesus,"  said  the  old  man,  unconsciously 
echoing  Dekkar's  feeling  that  our  Lord  must 
have  been  "the  first  true  gentleman  that  ever 
breathed."  Even  in  the  case  of  children  they 
expect  to  see  something:  a  man  near  here 
who  used  to  go  up-stairs  every  evening  when 
he  came  back  from  his  work  to  see  his  sick 
baby,  came  down  the  night  before  it  died  to 
tell  his  wife  that  it  was  all  right,  as  he  had 
seen  a  star  in  the  child's  hand.  I  suppose 
some  ray  of  the  setting'  sun  had  rested  on  its 
outstretched  palm. 

The  curious  part  is  that  their  faith  in  these 
signs  does  not  seem  upset  by  the  fact  that 
recovery,  instead  of  death,  often  ensues. 
Let  us  hope  that  they  never  assist  in  the  ful- 
filment of  the  prophecy.  I  remember  that 


586 


A  Country  Walk. 


[Dec. 


when  a  friend  of  mine  went  to  see  an  old 
woman  in  another  part  of  the  country,  after 
a  lengthened  absence,  and  asked  after  her 
husband — 

"What !"  said  the  good  old  woman,  leis- 
urely taking  off  her  spectacles  and  putting 
them  as  a  marker  in  the  big  Bible  which  lay 
open  before  her, — "What!  haven't  you 
heard  of  poor  Joe,  my  lady?" 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  he  is  dead," 
said  my  friend;  "I  had  no  idea  of  it." 

"Why,  you  see,  my  lady,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "this  is  how  it  was.  He  were  very 
old  and  suffering,  my  lady,  and  I  couldn't 
abear  to  see  him  suffer,  my  lady;  I  really 
couldn't  abear  it.  So  I  just  took  a  piece  of 
tape  out  of  the  cupboard — a  nice  clean  piece 
o'  tape,  my  lady — and  I  put  it  round  his 
neck,  just  so,  and  then  I  pulled  it  a  little 
tighter— ,y<? — he  were  very  suffering,  and  I 
couldn't  abear  to  see  him  suffer — and  I  gave 
another  little  pull,  and  another,  and  then  his 
dear  head  went  back,  and  he  gave  one  little 
squeak — and  he  was  gone,  my  lady,  gone ! 
for  you  see  I  really  couldn't  abear  to  see 
him  suffer  any  longer." 

However,  that  was  some  few  years  ago, 
and  the  "school-master"  may  have  educat- 
ed the  people  beyond  such  doings — even  as 
my  friend's  old  woman  had  been  educated 
beyond  the  still  more  primitive  stage  in 
which  Mr.  Clements  Markham  found  the 
tribe  of  the  Cocomas  in  Peru,  who  are  ac- 
customed to  eat  their  deceased  relatives,  and 
to  grind  their  bones  to  drink  in  fermented 
liquor;  "for,"  urge  they,  "is  it  not  better  to 
be  inside  a  friend  than  to  be  swallowed  up 
by  the  black  earth?"  Yes,  education  I  am 
sure  does  good  sometimes,  though  we  are  a 
little  afraid  of  it  in  this  part  of  the  world — 
as  a  rector  of  the  old  school,  talking  of  the 
culture  and  higher  standards  of  modern  days, 
once  said  to  me  in  an  anxious  and  perturbed 
voice,  "You  see,  you  never  know  where  this 
sort  of  thing  may  stop.  I  knew  a  clergyman 
who  got  to  be  so  particular  that  at  last  he 
didn't  consider  any  one  in  the  parish  fit  to 
stand  as  either  godfather  or  godmother — 
•except  himself." 

I  do  not  think,  however,  that  the  hamlet 


I  am  describing  suffers  from  any  unhealthy 
degree  of  mental  development;  although 
there  is  one  man,  old  Kirby,  who  considers 
intellect  to  be  his  forte,  and  who  delights  in 
startling  unwary  visitors  by  laying  before 
them  knotty  questions,  generally  of  a  scrip- 
tural kind,  such  as  why  Balaam  was  punished 
when  he  had  permission  to  go  with  the  mes- 
sengers, and  whether  it  was  just  that  Job, 
being  righteous,  should  suffer  so  greatly. 
He  was  standing  in  his  doorway  one  day  as 
I  passed,  and  he  fired  a  string  of  difficulties 
at  me  in  broad  Devonshire,  which  I  had  to 
solve  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  from  the 
middle  of  the  road.  As  he  was  rather  deaf, 
I  had  to  raise  my  voice,  so  that  if  my  pres- 
ence of  mind  had  deserted  me,  my  discom- 
fiture would  have  been  overheard  by  all  the 
neighbors,  who  had  gathered  at  their  win- 
dows looking  as  if  it  were  quite  as  good  as 
bull  baiting.  I  certainly  felt  rather  like  the 
bull,  with  this  merciless  old  thing  laying  one 
trap  after  another  for  me,  his  questions  being 
manifestly  put  merely  to  see  what  I  should 
say,  and  not  from  any  wish  for  information 
— of  which  he  considered  himself  to  have 
large  stores  already.  I  should  be  afraid  to 
say  how  long  he  stood  there,  with  his  wrin- 
kled old  face  puckered  up  into  smiles  of  the 
keenest  enjoyment,  as  I  managed  to  hold 
my  own;  for  I  must  say  he  took  a  pure 
pleasure  in  the  intellectual  exercise,  apart 
from  baiting  me.  Indeed,  if  his  opponent 
made  a  retort  neat  enough  to  commend  it- 
self to  him,  he  enjoyed  it  quite  as  much  as 
making  a  point  himself,  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  for  many  of  his  betters  who  share 
his  love  of  arguing.  If  the  Persian  proverb 
be  true,  that  every  time  a  man  argues  he 
loses  a  drop  of  blood  from  his  liver,  old 
Kirby  must  have  retired  with  that  organ  in  a 
singularly  bloodless  condition,  as,  at  last,  I 
got  away  with  no  blunder  that  he  perceived 
— though  I  found  afterwards  my  dates  had 
been  a  year  or  two  out  in  giving  him  the  full 
account  of  the  old  and  new  style  and  all  al- 
terations of  the  calendar,  which  he  had  ruth- 
lessly demanded  of  me.  However,  I  did 
not  feel  it  necessary  to  correct  my  statements 
when  I  next  met  him,  for  a  year  or  so  makes 


1883.] 


A   Country  Walk. 


587 


little  difference  in  our  uneventful  corner  of 
the  world,  which  takes  no  account  of  time, 
and  can  find  no  equal  for  dawdling — unless 
it  be  in  a  certain  German  province,  where  I 
have  heard  that  the  ships  on  its  river  lose 
so  much  time  on  their  passage  that,  starting 
in  spring,  they  usually  arrive  the  previous 
autumn. 

Old  Kirby,  in  particular,  takes  little  heed 
of  time;  the  state  of  Ireland  in  '98  excites 
him  quite  as  much  as  its  present  condition, 
and  the  vexed  question  of  Charles  the  First's 
execution  exercises  his  ingenuity  fully  as 
much  as  the  accounting  for  Mr.  Gladstone's 
various  "new  departures."  He  is  an  ardent 
politician,  and  Ireland  is  his  usual  topic; 
though  he  is  always  careful  first  to  inquire 
the  nationality  of  any  friend  I  may  happen 
to  have  with  me,  since  he  has  a  lively  recol- 
lection of  having  once  inadvertently  dis- 
cussed Irish  affairs  before  an  Irishman.  I 
never  heard  the  particulars,  but  I  believe  the 
consequences  were  as  serious  as  one  would 
expect.  He  looks  all  the  time  like  some  old 
magpie  in  an  ecstatic  state  of  enjoyment,  his 
keen  little  eyes  twinkling  with  fun,  and  his 
gray  head  on  one  side  to  catch  what  you 
say,  while  every  now  and  then  he  expresses 
the  delight  it  is  to  him  "to  have  some  one  sen- 
sible to  talk  to,"  adding  with  ineffable  scorn, 
"as  for  most  o'  the  folk  hereabouts,  you  might 
just  so  well  talk  to  a  dog !"  His  interests 
are,  as  I  said,  by  no  means  confined  to  mod- 
ern times;  he  borrowed  Josephus  from  me 
by  special  request  (having  once  begun  it 
some  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago),  and  no 
sooner  had  he  got  to  the  end  than  he  began 
it  all  over  again.  I  was  rather  sorry  his  lit- 
erary tastes  lay  in  that  direction,  as  he  held 
me  personally  responsible  for  all  discrepan- 
cies between  it  and  the  Bible,  and  I  feared 
also  that  he  would  detect  how  superficial  was 
my  own  acquaintance  with  Josephus,  as, 
though  I,  too,  had  read  it  in  my  youth,  I 
had  not  the  excuse  of  so  many  intermediate 
years  to  make  me  forget  it.  He  greatly  en- 
joys it  if  I  bring  him  a  book  of  my  own  ac- 
cord; but  if  I  ask  whether  he  would  like 
one,  he  thinks  it  due  to  his  dignity  to  reply 
loftily,  pointing  to  the  table  with  half  a  doz- 


en volumes  on  it :  "Biikes!  biikes!  why  I've 
abunnance  o'  biikes — biikes  o'  all  descrip- 
tions, a  library  of  biikes,  and  mostly  by  all 
authors,  I  may  say." 

A  few  years  ago  he  lost  the  light  of  his 
eyes  "his  maid,"  his  daughter  Agnes,  (here- 
abouts you  always  speak  of  your  "daughter" 
as  your  "maid")  and  since  then  he  has  lived 
alone,  though  he  is  terribly  rheumatic,  and 
the  little  hedging  and  ditching  he  is  still 
able  to  do  makes  him  gradually  worse. 

"I  asked  the  doctor,  years  agone,"  he 
said,  "if  he  could  give  me  a  cure,  and  he 
shouted  back  as  loud  as  that,  'Na!'  and  I 
allus  remembered  his  word,  'twere  as  cutting 
as  a  two-edged  sword:  'Na!  there  baint  no 
cure  for  such  as  yii,  yii  go  out  i'  the  wet  and 
drink  quarts  o'  sour  cider;  why  don't  yii 
drink  gin'?" 

Here  a  peddler  came  to  the  door,  and 
Kirby  hobbled  to  it  on  his  bandy  legs,  and 
stood  there  making  the  queerest  grins  and 
grimaces:  "Nalna!  I  wants  nowt  but  money 
— and  the  grace  o'  God." 

"But  mebbe  ye'll  want  an  almanac?" 

"  Has  ye  got  one  as  ull  tell  the  weather?" 

"Yes!" 

"And  has  ye  got  one  as  ull  tell  the  truth?'' 
whereat  the  peddler  retreated  discomfited. 

Kirby  is  a  great  friend  of  old  Heath's, 
and  is  the  only  person  who  can  manage  him 
when  he  gets  violent,  as  he  sometimes  does, 
frightening  his  two  "maids"  out  of  their 
senses,  so  that  they  run  off  for  Kirby  to 
quiet  him;  Kirby  limps  in  to  find  him  using 
terrible  language  to  his  "maids,"  and  de- 
voutly wishing  he  were  quit  of  them. 

"Now  yii  should'nt  talk  like  that,"  says 
Kirby,  "yii  know  they  tend  on  yii  as  if  you 
was  a  baby;  if  I'd  my  maid  to  dii  as  much 
for  me,  'twould  be  very  different  for  me." 
.  "Well,  I'm  sure  /  don't  want  'em,"  says 
Heath;  "yii  may  have  the  two  of  'em  for  all 
/care!" 

Kirby  is  rather  proud  of  being  able  to 
manage  such  a  difficult  "case,"  and  details 
to  me  his  efforts  for  Heath's  spiritual  im- 
provement. 

"He  be  a  maazed  man,  Miss.  I  read  un 
the  ninetieth  Psalm  the  other  day,  and  there ! 


588 


A   Country  Walk. 


[Dec. 


he  tiik  no  more  heed  on  it  than  if  'twas  a  bal- 
lat.  But  I  can  always  manage  him;  not  as  I 
can  always  agree  wi'  un;  I  crosses  un  on 
every  hand,  he  can't  say  nowt  but  what  I 
'poses  un"  (he  meant  "opposes,"  but  uposes" 
is  characteristic,  being  what  he  generally 
does  to  his  district  visitors  and  clergy),  "and 
he  always  comes  round,  though  bless  ye !  his 
maidens  can't  dii  nowt  wi'  un !  He's  always 
runnin'  on  summat  i'  the  past  as  goes  against 
un.  Very  often  'tis  the  way  the  railroad  was 
made  here. 

"  'They  waasted  a  thousan'  poun'  on  that 
theer  bit,'  he'll  say,  and  make  hisself  quite 
in  a  way  about  it. 

"'Aye,'  ses  I,  'but  it  didn't  coom  out  o' 
my  pocket,  nor  out  o'  yeorn,  did  it?' 

"'Why,  no!'  he'll  say,  after  a  bit;  'no 
more  it  dii ! ' 

"  And  sometimes  it  ull  be  the  storing  o' 
the  coal  at  the  railway.  He  sits  and  watches 
'em,  and  ull  put  hisself  about  terrible. 

"  'They  dii  waaste  such  a  deal  o'  space,' 
he'll  say. 

"  'Well,'  ses  I,  'it  ull  dii  me  no  manner  o' 
hurt,  if  so  be  as  they  stretches  the  coal  all 
along  the  line,  and  I  don't  see  as  how  it  ull 
dii  yii  any.' 

"'Well,  p'r'aps  it  don't,'  he'll  say  in  a 
while. 

"But  that's  just  his  way;  he'll  sit  and  fret 
hisself  about  anything  as  isn't  done  to  his 
mind,  just  as  if  it  was  downright  wrong; 
when  mebbe  'tisn't  no  affair  o'  his.  He's 
allus  goin'  on  about  them  houses  tii  town  as 
is  being  pulled  down,  and  says  'tis  against 
the  Commonweal;  so  ses  I,  like  the  song, 

'  Let  all  the  churches  and  chapels  fall, 
Then  there'll  be  work  for  us  masons  all.' 

"But  he  don't  see  it,  he  don't  see  it!  and 
then  he's  so  set  on  company — he's  allus  com- 
plaining as  how  he  wants  some  un  to  talk  tii 
— so  I  tells  un,  'I  don't  hold  wi  ye  there.  I 
could  live  i'  the  middle  o'  Oakford  oo-od 
[wood]  and  never  want  nowt  for  company 
but  a  crow  or  a  pigeon,  if  so  be  as  I'd  a 
maiden  to  tend  me,  same  as  yii;'  but  there! 

he  never  understands  me  when  I  say  that 

though  'tis  triie — not  but  what  I  likes  a  call 


as  well  as  any  one,  now  and  then,"  added 
the  courteous  old  thing. 

And  when  I  left  he  was  profuse  in  ac- 
knowledgments of  my  kindness  in  coming, 
for  fear  I  should  think  he  might  have  pre- 
ferred me  in  the  shape  of  a  pigeon  or  a  crow; 
and,  what  struck  me  as  still  more  gentleman- 
ly was,  that  he  would  not  appear  to  think 
that  I  could  take  his  remark  home  to  myself, 
so  his  thanks  were  at  the  end  of  my  visit, 
and  apparently  in  no  way  connected  with 
his  Thoreau-like  sentiment.  He  was  too 
well  bred  to  make  a  slip  of  the  tongue  promi- 
nent by  direct  apologies,  though  I  could  see 
what  was  in  his  mind  quite  well. 

His  criticisms  on  the  sermons  are  enough 
to  make  any  body  of  clergy  nervous:  if,  by 
some  rare  chance  one  of  the  curates  preach- 
es one  in  which  he  finds  nothing  to  cavil  at, 
his  invariable  comment  is,  "Aye !  aye  !  they 
be  giide  words,  but  bless  ye !  I  know'd  as 
'twarnt  none  o'  his\" 

"Last  Sunday  we  had  Mr.  Johnson,"  said 
he,  one  day:  "he  preached  on  Micah  five, 
eight.  I  knew  the  text  as  soon  as  ever  he'd 
given  it  out,  for  I'd  heard  it  preached  on 
years  agone,  though  Mr.  Johnson  he  didn't 
take  quite  the  same  view  of  it  neither;  but 
his  doctrine's  very  good,  though  he  dii  use 
dictionary  words,  and  so  to  a  many  o'  the 
folk  he  might  just  so  well  prache  in  French. 
And  then  he  reads  on  so  fast,  and  never 
stops  for  us  to  take  it  in  a  bit — you  daren't 
lose  a  word  or  else  you'd  be  nowhere,  but  if 
you  can  hold  hard  on  to  him,  why,  7  likes 
what  he  says." 

Dictionary  words  are  at  a  discount  in  the 
hamlet  except  with  old  Kirby,  as  was  brought 
out  in  a  conversation  I  had  with  some  wo- 
men to  whom  I  had  to  read. 

"I  hope,  Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Jackson,  "as 
you  won't  be  discouraged  because  there's  so 
few  of  us  to-day,  for  we  dii  look  for  your 
coming  so,  for  you  see  we  don't  get  just  the 
likes  of  it  at  church :  the  ministers  preach, 
and  sure  'tis  all  very  good,  but  they  don't 
speak  to  us  poor  folk  as  yii  dii — you  see, 
Miss,  we  don't  look  to  understand  the  minis- 
ters." 

"  The  ministers  !      No  ! "   broke  in  Mrs. 


1883.] 


A   Country  Walk. 


589 


Canning,  with  an  accent  of  fine  scorn, 
"  they  don't  speak  for  us  poor  folk  to  under- 
stand them,  and  I  dii  declare  when  I  see 
Mr.  Harris"  [a  most  unoffending  curate] 
"  walk  into  church,  I  walks  out." 

"Dear!  dear!"  murmured  Mrs.  Jackson, 
in  a  shocked  voice.  "  You  shouldn't  speak 
so,  Mrs.  Canning." 

"  Well,  I  allus  speak  my  mind,  and  Mr. 
Harris  he  dii  gie  me  the  fidgets  that  bad, 
I  can't  abide  him!" 

"Well!"  said  I,  laughing,  "I  hope  / 
don't  give  you  the  fidgets." 

"  You  !  dear,  no,  Miss,  I  likes  to  hear  you 
— you  put  it  so  plain,  and  you  make  it  so 
new,  somehow — I  declare  that  chapter  about 
Jesus  Christ  being  born  as  you  read  this 
afternoon,  why,  'twere  like  a  new  tale  as  I'd 
never  heard,  the  way  you  put  it,  weren't  it, 
Mrs.  Jackson?" 

"  Aye,  that  it  were  !  I  never  heard  no  one 
tell  it  so  before ;  I've  heard  a  many  speak 
on  it,  but  none  on  'em  went  so.  deep  as  I 
may  say."  (Farrar's  Life  of  Christ  had  been 
my  most  recondite  assistance  in  preparation.) 
"  And  telling  us  what  the  inns  were  like  in 
those  parts  made  it  so  real,  somehow ! " 

I  used  to  close  my  readings  with  some  of 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  I  well  remember 
the  breathless  interest  of  old  Molly,  who 
took  it  quite  literally;  and  evidently,  in  her 
own  mind,  assigned  a  recent  date  to  the 
events  recorded  in  it.  When  we  reached 
Christian's  fears  lest  he  should  fall  into  To- 
phet  while  going  through  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow,  it  made  her  quite  nervous  till  he 
got  safely  through;  and  ejaculations,  sotto 
voce,  of  "O,  my  dear  life!"  only  partially 
relieved  her  excited  feelings.  Another  time, 
opening  the  book,  I  said:  "And  where  did 
we  get  to  last  time  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see,  Miss  ! "  said  Mrs.  Jackson, 
"why  Christian  had  just  left  the  Interpre- 
ter's House." 

"  Ah,  you've  a  good  memory,  Mrs.  Jack- 
son," whereat  she  wriggled  on  her  chair  with 
grinning  delight,  and  responded : 

"  You  see,  Miss,  us  poor  folk  as  aren't  no 
scholards  think  over  a  thing,  and  think  into 
it,  if  I  may  say  so,  more  than  scholards,  I 


fancy — more  deep-like  than  them  as  knows 
more.  Now  there  was  several  things  we 
read  last  time  as  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about, 
and  one  was  Mr.  Legality.  Now,  Miss, 
what  do  you  hold  was  meant  by  him  ?  " 

"  Thinking  that  you  can  get  to  heaven  by 
being  respectable  and  never  going  before  a 
magistrate,"  replied  I,  promptly,  as  one  pos- 
sessed of  Bunyan's  full  confidence;  at  which 
authoritative  decision  a  murmur  of  applause 
arose,  and  Mrs.  Jackson,  our  hostess,  looked 
triumphantly  around,  as  if  she  had  been 
privately  boasting  of  what  she  called  my 
"plain  way." 

"Ah,  yes,  Miss,  exactly  so.  Now,  I  dii 
like  to  be  able  to  ask  about  things,  for  when 
one  meets  with  them  as  is  deeply  learned, 
one  dii  feel  so  silly  not  to  know  about  every- 
thing." 

I  fear  if  Mrs.  Jackson  was  not  like  Dr. 
Whewell,  in  having  science  for  her  forte, 
yet  that  omniscience  was  certainly  her  foible. 

After  the  reading,  a  talk  arose  on  the 
present  educational  advantages  of  children. 

"  When  I  was  young,"  said  old  Anne  Wal- 
ters, "we  thought  a  deal  o'  getting  a  Bible 
or  any  biike:  why,  I  mind  when  first  we  got 
hold  o'  the  Pilgrim's  Progress;  Mrs.  Grey, 
down  yonder,  had  it,  and  I  and  two  or  three 
more  maidens  we  used  to  take  our  lace  work 
there  and  read  it  out,  and  such  a  state  as 
we  were  in  to  hear  more;  but  now  children 
don't  mind  about  their  biikes,  they've  such 
a  many." 

"I  never  was  tii  a  church-school,"  said 
Mrs.  Jackson,  her  sister:  "I  lived  down  tii 
Newford  and  went  tii  naught  but  a  grammar- 
school,  as  you  may  call  it — an  old  woman 
who  took  the  children  and  taught  'em  when 
she  minded  of  it." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  used  to  have  a  school  at 
two  pence  a  week,  but  it  warn't  what  children 
do  now-a-days,"  said  old  Betsy  Timms. 

"Yes,"  chuckled  Mrs.  Jackson,  "and  I'd 
be  bound  as  one  could  ask  you  a  dozen 
questions  and  you  not  know  the  answers  to 
more  than  two  or  three  !" 

"  Dear  life !  La,  bless  you,  yes,"  says 
Betsy,  with  a  fat,  gleeful  laugh,  "/never  had 
no  laming." 


590 


A   Country  Walk. 


[Dec. 


"But  you'd  be  frightened" — this  is  their 
usual  word  for  astonished  — "  to  see  what 
the  children  do  larn,"  said  Mrs.  Jackson. 
"  Now,  my  little  Polly  came  in  yesterday, 
and  said  teacher  had  made  her  say  a  hymn 
about  'I'm  a  little  sinful  child';  but  'Moth- 
er,' says  she,  '  I'm  not  a  little  sinful  child, 
I'm  going  to  be  an  angel  like  my  Willie.' 
You  should  hear  her  at  her  play,  Miss;  she's 
always  pretending  as  our  two  boys,  Willie 
and  Charlie,  as  died  afore  she  was  born,  are 
playing  wi'  her,  and  she'll  always  set  two 
little  stools  by  the  fire  for  'em,  and  never  let 
nobody  sit  on  'em,  and  at  dinner  she'll  keep 
a  place  on  each  side  of  her,  and  say  :  '  Now, 
Willie,  you  sit  there,  and  Charlie,  you  come 
here  ! '  and  then  she'll  peep  round  the  settle 
and  say,  '  Now,  Willie,  Charlie,  you  come  in 
here,  'tis  tii  cold  for  you  to  bide  there  by  the 
door.'  And  then  she'll  let  no  one  touch 
their  toys :  somebody  took  up  the  ark  the 
other  day,  and  she  was  that  vexed — '  You 
mustn't  touch  my  Willie's  toy:  that's  my 
boy's.'" 

Mrs.  Jackson  went  on  to  tell  me  about 
this  Charlie,  who  was  a  cripple.  "  Some 
young  ladies  taught  him  to  read,  and  lamed 
him  one  thing  and  another,  till  at  last  he 
was  quite  a  nice  Christian,"  she  observed 
complacently,  in  the  same  tone  in  which  she 
would  have  said  he  had  quite  a  nice  appe- 
tite. 

The  night  before  I  took  my  country  walk, 
there  had  been  a  Church  of  England  Tem- 
perance Meeting,  which  both  I  and  Mrs. 
Jackson  had  attended. 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  Mr.  Brooks's 
speech?"  said  she. 

I  was  unable  to  say  much  in  his  praise  as 
an  orator — he  was  a  well-to-do  tradesman — 
though  I  had  been  rather  struck  by  his  asser- 
tion that,  "to  his  knowledge  there  was  no 
class  of  men  more  attached  to  their  children 
than  total  abstainers,"  and  also  by  the  lofty 
flights  of  eloquence  to  which  he  soared  in 
describing  "eyes,  once  drowned  in  drink, 
but  now  radiant  with  intellect,  shining  as 
stars  of  the  first  magnitude,  and  colored  with 
all  the  hues  of  the  Christian  graces."  I 
could  not  help  feeling  that  usually  it  is  any- 


thing but  the  Christian  graces  which  "color" 
eyes;  but  I  suppose  total  abstainers  are  un- 
acquainted with  the  common  kind  of  tempo- 
rarily colored  eye. 

"Ah !  he  warn't  much  to  listen  to,"  said 
Mrs.  Jackson,  loftily,  "and  I  can't  say  as  I 
was  surprised,  for  I'd  often  heard  him  tii  a 
cottage  meeting,  and  though  he's  a  very 
worthy  man,  still  he's  not  what  you  might 
call  gifted,  like  some — I'm  sure  I've  often 
said  as  we  must  make  every  allowance  for 
him,  seeing  as  he's  not  gifted.  Now  I,  Miss, 
am  well  accustomed  to  speaking  at  Good 
Templars'  Meetings  in  old  days;  I  always 
used  to  recite  for  twenty  minutes  or  so,  and 
I  should  have  been  quite  ready  last  night  if 
I'd  been  asked — not  as  I'd  a  book,  but  I  had 
it  in  my  head,  and  I  never  lose  my  nerve, 
which,  as  I  say,  Miss,  nerve  is  half  the  bat- 
tle." 

But  a  country  walk  has  its  limits,  and 
those  of  mine  were  reached ;  the  sinking  sun 
gave  warning  that  the  hill  between  me  and 
home  must  be  mounted  shortly,  and  so  I 
strolled  back  through  the  quiet  lanes,  stop- 
ping for  a  few  minutes  to  see  an  old  lady 
who  does  not  share  the  prevailing  horror  of 
dictionary  words,  though  she  pays  more  re- 
gard to  their  length  than  to  their  strict  appli- 
cability, which  makes  her  remarks  at  times 
very  striking.  My  visit  happened  to  follow 
closely  upon  one  from  the  bailiff,  who  had 
come  to  announce  that  she  must  be  evicted 
if  the  rent  were  not  forthcoming. 

"He  asked  me,"  said  she,  tearfully,  "'have 
you  no  eternity,  Mrs.  Brown?'  'No,  sir,' 
said  I  to  him,  as  solemn  as  I  says  it  now  to 
you,  'No,  sir,  I've  no  eternity.'" 

To  one  unacquainted  with  Mrs.  Brown's 
vocabulary  in  which  "eternity"  stands  for 
"alternative,"  her  statement  would  appear 
startling,  as  would  also  her  next  remark. 

"Ah,  deary  me,  Miss,  it  have  upset  me, 
for  'tis  only  the  Lord  above  as  knows  how 
terrible  I  be  afflicted  wi'  preparation  of  the 
heart."  But  if  you  know  that  "preparation" 
does  duty  for  "palpitation,"  your  fears  as  to 
her  being  too  good  for  this  world  are  set  at 
rest. 

Her  daughter  is  always  very  grateful  for 


1883.] 


A  Country  Walk. 


591 


my  visits,  and  once  when  she  was  telling  me 
that  the  curate  had  been  to  see  her  mother, 
she  added,  "He  be  a  nice  young  man  enough, 
and  I've  nowt  against  him  except  that  he's 
not  a  lady,  and  after  all  I  don't  see  as  we  can 
hardly  expect  that  of  him,  and  so  I  be  very 
pleased  that  you  comes." 

And  now  the  road  winds  up  hill  all  the 
way  by  a  more  inland  route  than  before. 
It  is  the  old  coaching  road  to  Lyme ;  along 
which  Mr.  Elliot  drove  in  that  carriage 
which  excited  Mary  Musgrove's  curiosity  in 
the  manner  known  to  all  readers  of  Miss 
Austin.  The  road  winds  gently  up  the  side 
of  the  hill,  and  as  you  near  the  top  an  old 
quarry  rises  on  one  side,  where  silvery  birch- 
es overhang  the  way,  and  close  by  you 
reach  a  copse  where  stands  a  fir  called  the 
White  Lady's  Tree.  A  treasure  was  buried 
at  its  foot  in  days  of  yore,  and  the  White 
Lady  was  murdered  there  that  her* spirit 
might  guard  it.  An  old  man  died  only  a 
few  years  ago,  who,  in  middle  life,  had  de- 
termined to  brave  the  Lady's  terrors:  he 
went  at  midnight  with  his  pickaxe,  but  hard- 
ly had  he  struck  the  ground  when  he  saw 
either  the  Lady,  or  may  be  some  strange 
moonlight  effect,  which  so  scared  him,  old 
peninsular  soldier  as  he  was,  that  he  flung 
away  his  tool  and  fled,  leaving  the  treasure 
undisturbed  to  this  day. 

And  now  home  is  close  at  hand,  Binney- 
croft  Lane  takes  you  quickly  across  the  level 
ground  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  then  you 
begin  the  short  descent  which  lies  before  you, 
with  all  around  bathed  in  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun.  You  cannot  but  pause  as  you 
reach  the  low  wall  of  the  church-yard  with 
its  little  gray  church ;  the  yew  tree  overhang- 
ing the  lich-gate  throws  its  deep  shadows 


on  the  sunlit  graves,  and  you  look  across 
from  the  quiet  dead  to  the  blue  sea  stretch- 
ing close  before  you,  which,  in  its  glassy 
stillness,  might  well  be  the  sea  before  the 
throne. 

Such  an  "earth  scene"  as  this  brings  the 
two  worlds  very  close  together.  Heaven 
seems  near,  both  by  sea  and  land,  and  you 
would  hardly  wonder  if,  in  turning,  you  saw 
the  kind  old  vicar,  whose  new-made  grave, 
with  its  crown  of  flowers,  lies  at  your  feet ; 
for  he  was  preeminently  such  "  a  country 
clergyman  "  as  Uhland  had  in  his  mind  when 
he  wrote : 

"If  e'er  the  spirits  of  the  blessed  dead 
Have  power  once  more  our  earthly  paths  to  tread, 
Thou  wilt  not  come  at  night  by  moonlight  cold, 
When  none  but  weeping  mourners  vigil  hold. 
No:  when  a  summer  morning  shines  around, 
When  in  the  sky's  expanse  no  cloud  is  found, 
When,  tall  and  yellow,  ripened  harvests  wave, 
With  here  and  there  a  red  and  blue  flower  brave, 
Then  wilt  thou  wander  thro'  the  fields  once  more, 
And  gently  greet  the  reapers  as  of  yore." 

But  now  the  last  gleam  fades,  and  we  must 
push  on  to  the  white  house  half  way  down 
the  valley,  with  nothing  between  it  and  the 
sea  but  fields  and  orchards,  with  the  dark 
red  Devonshire  cows  to  relieve  the  vivid 
green  of  the  wooded  hillsides  rising  gently 
on  either  hand,  and  in  front  of  the  house 
a  cherry  tree  in  full  blossom,  whose  boughs 
make  a  silver  network,  through  which  you 
see  the  deep  blue  of  the  sea  as  you  stand  at 
the  door,  and  think  to  yourself  that  surely 
you  have  reached  the  island-valley  of  Avil- 
ion, 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea. 

Lucy  H.  M.  Soulsby. 


592 


A  Question   Concerniny  our  Public  Libraries. 


[Dec. 


A  QUESTION   CONCERNING   OUR  PUBLIC   LIBRARIES. 


A  RECENT  article  in  an  Eastern  paper, 
after  criticising  the  books  that  are  put  into 
the  hands  of  children,  urged  a  more  careful 
supervision  of  all  literature  for  the  young 
provided  by  our  public  libraries.  This  is 
only  one  of  many  indications  of  a  feeling 
which  has  been  increasing  among  thoughtful 
people,  that  the  growth  of  the  habit  of  read- 
ing is  not  without  grave  dangers. 

The  love  of  books  has  been  for  so  long 
time  considered  praiseworthy,  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  make  many  realize  that  reading  may 
be — perhaps  is,  in  a  majority  of  cases — an 
idle  or  vicious  waste  of  time. 

Formerly  a  ' '  bookish  "  man  was  a  scholar — 
a  scholar  in  the  fashion  of  his  day.  When  the 
whole  world  rushes  into  print,  bookishness 
has  lost  its  distinctive  meaning.  A  reader 
of  books  is  about  as  distinguished  a  person 
as  a  wearer  of  clothes,  or  an  eater  of  food. 

Apparent  as  this  fact  is,  the  old  supersti- 
tion about  books  has  by  no  means  disap- 
peared even  from  the  ranks  of  the  intelligent. 
The  child  that  "loves  her  book"  is  still  re- 
garded by  many  parents  with  a  complacency 
so  satisfactory  that  little  or  no  thought  is 
given  to  investigating  the  kind  of  book  that 
occupies  so  many  hours  of  growing  life. 
The  same  parents  who  faithfully  care  for  the 
food,  clothing,  schooling,  and  companion- 
ship of  their  children,  turn  them  loose  with 
any  library,  and  neither  know  nor  care  to 
know  what  mental  food  and  companionship 
they  find  there.  To  those  who  have  taken 
the  pains  to  investigate  the  quality  of  the 
books  that  form  by  far  the  largest  part  of  the 
reading  of  the  young,  the  sight  of  those 
youthful  devotees  of  the  libraries  is  not  a 
cheerful  spectacle.  Is  it  not  time  to  enquire 
precisely  what  the  public  is  doing  for  its 
future  men  and  women,  when  it  supplies 
them  with  indiscriminate  reading?  Like  the 
public  schools,  our  libraries  are  considered 
as  mainly  useful  for  the  training  of  the  mass- 
es. It  is  an  accepted  fact  that  the  very  life 


of  the  Republic  depends  on  the  intelligence 
of  its  citizens:  therefore  educate — educate — 
educate  the  people  is  the  perpetual  exhorta- 
tion delivered  from  pulpit,  from  platform, 
and  from  the  press.  This  education  is  not 
demanded  because  it  is  a  refining  agency,  to 
polish  the  manners  and  whiten  the  hands  of 
those  who  receive  it;  nor  because  it  sweetens 
life,  and  gives  happy  hours  to  otherwise  mis- 
erable existences,  as  the  sentimentalists  are 
fond  of  asserting.  It  is  quite  as  likely  to 
darken  many  lives  with  a  knowledge  that 
brings  discontent  and  repining.  Its  wider 
vision  reveals  many  discouragements,  and 
adds  to  the  pang  of  disappointment.  Nev- 
ertheless, we  demand  it,  because  it  is  the 
only  way ;  because  it  gives  us  capacity  for 
incapacity,  and  makes  it  possible  for  every 
one  who  avails  himself  of  it  to  take  that  next 
step  in  thinking  and  in  acting  which  is  pro- 
gress. Therefore,  it  is  supremely  important 
that  not  only  the  instruction  given  in  our 
schools,  but  also  the  stimulus  added  by  the 
reading  furnished  in  our  libraries,  should  be 
of  a  sort  to  strengthen  and  inspire. 

The  theory  of  our  free  libraries  is  a  no- 
ble one.  Here  is  the  best  the  world  has  to 
give,  and  it  is  for  all.  Here  are  great  poems, 
great  biographies,  great  histories,  great  works 
of  fiction:  here  are  science  and  art,  and 
many  lighter  treasures  of  pure  and  gifted 
imaginations.  Here  are  periodicals  and 
papers  which  give  the  daily  life  of  the  dwell- 
ers on  this  queer  planet,  even  to  its  utter- 
most parts.  The  most  reluctant  tax-payer 
could  hardly  look  at  this  without  a  glow  of 
satisfaction.  How  infinite  are  the  possibili- 
ties of  mental  enlargement  packed  away  on 
these  shelves!  how  many  new  worlds  are 
opened  to  the  keen  vision  of  this  highly 
favored  new  generation. 

The  reluctance  of  any  intelligent  tax-payer, 
however,  would  be  strengthened  by  an  ex- 
amination of  other  shelves  filled  with  books 
unmistakably  well  read.  Here  are  the  dirty 


1883.] 


A  Question  Concerning  our  Public  Libraries. 


593 


books,  the  torn*  books,  and  here  may  be  seen 
in  crowds  the  eager  young  readers  whom 
the  library  is  intended  to  benefit.  By  far 
the  larger  part  of  these  books  is  trash ; 
trash  that  vitiates  the  taste  and  degrades 
the  feelings.  The  statistics  of  our  libraries 
show  that  the  largest  demand  is  for  fiction, 
and  in  fiction  that  most  relished  by  the 
many  is  the  poorest.  Leaving  out  of  our 
consideration  fiction  that  is  thoroughly  bad, 
and  which  is  not  supposed  to  be  found  in 
our  libraries  at  all,  there  is  a  large  and  ap- 
parently increasing  number  of  novels  by  ig- 
norant and  superficial  writers.  These  books 
are  filled  with  people  and  classes  of  people 
of  whom  the  authors  know  nothing,  and  are 
as  flimsy  in  conception  as  in  execution. 
They  are  unfortunately  attractive  to  young 
people,  especially  to  young  girls.  They  are, 
of  course,  love  stories,  and  are  conspicuous- 
ly devoted  to  European  nobility,  which  is, 
according  to  these  descriptions,  as  reprehen- 
sible a  class  as  the  most  zealous  communist 
could  desire.  The  heroes  and  heroines  talk 
inflated  nonsense  to  each  other,  and  pose 
and  writhe  through  the  vulgar  pages.  These 
are  the  books  that  are  oftenest  seen  in  the 
hands  of  young  girls  in  the  streets  and  in 
the  cars.  Hours  of  each  day  are  spent  rev- 
eling in  this  demoralizing  nonsense.  It  is 
no  exaggeration  to  say  that  for  every  such 
book  devoured  the  mental  fiber  is  impaired, 
the  grip  on  vigorous,  energetic  life  weakened, 
and  the  individual  made  so  much  the  less 
capable  of  wholesome  work.  When  this 
reading  has  become  a  habit,  its  enfeebling 
effect  is  apparent  enough,  and  is  only  to  be 
compared  to  the  somewhat  similar  dissipa- 
tion of  intemperate  drinking. 

It  is  urged  by  some,  that  a  class  of  people 
who  otherwise  would  never  read  begin  with 
this  literature,  and  are  led  on  to  better  tastes. 
There  may  be  exceptional  cases  of  such  ab- 
normal development,  but  all  probability  is 
against  it.  It  would  be  as  reasonable  to  as- 
sert that  sliding  down  hill  was  suitable  training 
for  mountain  climbing,  or  idle  dreaming  a 
not  impossible  preparation  for  an  active  life. 
The  mind  that  finds  enjoyment  in  this  class 
of  fiction  is  not  likely  to  seek  anything  better. 
VOL.  II.— 38 


It  is  true  that  other  influences  may  over- 
come a  perverted  taste,  and  this  is  no  doubt 
true  of  the  young  people  in  intelligent  homes. 
But  how  is  it  likely  to  be  with  the  untrained, 
common-place  majority?  There  can  be 
little  doubt  that  this  literature  is  another 
weight  added  to  the  many  it  already  carries 
in  its  struggle  for  life,  in  this  complicated 
existence  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Among  the  daughters  of  the  laboring 
poor,  it  has  been  easier  to  observe  the  mis- 
chiefs of  this  ill-directed  reading  than  in 
other  classes.  Association  with  the  chil- 
dren of  more  comfortable  homes  in  the 
public  schools  is  a  trying  ordeal  for  them 
during  their  childhood;  and  when  they  leave 
school  they  are  already  separated  from 
their  families  by  a  better  education  and  a 
higher  standard  of  speech  and  manners. 
They  must  earn  their  bread;  by  reason  of 
their  superior  intelligence  they  should  be 
able  to  do  it  in  a  better  way  then  their 
fathers  and  mothers  did  before  them.  It 
frequently  happens,  however,  that  they  do 
not  succeed  so  well.  They  despise  the  sug- 
gestions of  their  often  sensible  but  uncouth 
relatives,  and  are  more  interested  in  wishing 
and  wondering  over  their  lot,  than  in 
mending  it.  These  unhappy  girls  are  to  be 
counted  by  the  hundreds.  They  are  heavy 
burdens  in  their  poor  homes,  inefficient  and 
therefore  ill-paid  clerks  in  stores,  restless, 
unsatisfactory  servants  in  our  homes.  They 
seek  situations  as  servants  only  when  they 
must,  and  make  it  evident  that  they  think 
the  labor  beneath  them.  They  do  nothing 
well,  for  the  reason  that  they  have  no  desire 
to  excel.  Their  conception  of  work  is,  that 
it  is  a  burden  to  be  gotten  rid  of  at  the  ear- 
liest moment.  To  teach  such  inertia  is  well- 
nigh  impossible ;  there  is  no  ambition,  no 
love  of  thoroughness,  no  spirit  of  helpful- 
ness. It  is  melancholy  to  think  that  to  the 
inevitable  perplexities  of  this  class  should 
be  added  the  demoralization  of  flimsy  fic- 
tion; and  where  there  is  such  need  of 
unflinching  industry  and  clear  sight,  the 
judgment  should  be  perverted  by  false  ideals, 
and  the  vanity  nourished  by  pictures  of  im- 
possible life. 


594 


A   Question  Concerning  our  Public  Libraries. 


[Dec. 


It  would  certainly  be  absurd  to  lay  all  these 
evils  to  pernicious  reading :  indolence  and 
envy  are  very  constant  factors  in  every 
problem  of  human  life.  Poor  girls  have 
longed  to  be  rich  and  idle  before  our  re- 
public tried  to  enlighten  them,  or  the  trus- 
tees of  libraries  voted  ignorantly  on  the 
mental  food  for  the  masses.  All  the  more, 
is  it  our  duty  to  help  to  purify  somewhat  the 
turbid  stream  of  democratic  life. 

It  may  be  objected  that  since  people  like 
such  reading,  and  can  get  it,  it  is  idle  to  pro- 
test. The  privilege  of  having  what  he  wants 
and  enjoys,  be  it  hurtful  or  not,  is  one  of 
the  prerogatives  of  every  citizen  of  this  free 
country:  but  this  is  hardly  a  good  reason, 
or  any  reason,  why  our  free  libraries  should 
furnish  such  reading.  There  are  undoubted- 
ly many  things  desirable  in  the  eyes  of 
many,  which  they  do  not  expect  the  public 
to  give  them.  Free  beer  would  be  a  luxury 
to  working  men,  and  it  is  a  question  wheth- 
er it  would  not  be  wiser  to  spend  the  public 
money  on  beer  than  on  wretched  fiction. 
The  aim  of  the  free  libraries  is  to  do  some- 
thing more  than  to  amuse.  It  is  surely  not 
claiming  too  much  for  their  founders  and 
supporters,  to  say  that  it  was  and  is  their 
purpose,  with  every  book  on  the  shelves, 
every  paper  on  the  desks,  to  add  something 
to  the  literary  or  working  capital  of  all  who 
read. 

In  some  of  our  libraries  there  is  undoubt- 
edly much  conscientious  choice  of  books, 
but  this  cannot  be  said  of  most ;  and  it  is 
certainly  time  that  the  influential  men  of 
every  community  where  the  experiment  of  a 
free  library  is  being  tried  should  insist  on  a 
strict  and  intelligent  censorship. 

Where  there  is  any  danger  of  the  library's 
falling  into  the  hands  of  politicians,  there 
is  the  greater  necessity  for  watchfulness,  for 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  no  library  is  bet- 
ter than  one  under  incompetent  management. 
The  more  ignorant  the  man,  the  less  he  is 
able  to  comprehend  that  there  can  be  any- 
thing in  printed  matter,  not  absolutely  vic- 
ious, which  is  not  improving. 

There  is  another  question  concerning 
reading  which  must  before  long  claim  the 
attention  of  the  thoughtful.  There  is  little 


doubt  that  in  time  the  faults  of  our  library 
system  will  be  remedied ;  we  may  even  hope 
that  that  marvelous  collection  called  the 
Sunday  School  library  may  be  abolished, 
and  something  less  intellectually  enfeebling 
take  its  place.  But  is  not  the  reading  habit 
assuming  too  great  proportions;  is  it  not  in 
many  cases  encroaching  on  other  and  more 
wholesome  life?  Is  there  not  an  increasing 
number  of  persons,  even  of  the  intelligent, 
who  prefer  reading  about  life  to  living  it  ? 
They  are  thrilled  by  events  that  would  not 
greatly  interest  them  if  they  occurred  in  their 
own  town,  and  delight  in  printed  talk  that 
would  bore  them  in  their  own  parlors.  Are 
there  not  many  who  enjoy  William  Black's 
glowing  landscapes,  who  would  not  go  to  a 
window  to  see  a  sunset,  or  take  the  trouble 
to  walk  or  climb  to  look  on  a  lovely  scene? 
Is  social  or  even  domestic  life  all  that  it 
was  before  the  flood  of  books  overwhelmed 
us  with  its  choice  society  and  cheaper  ten- 
derness? Formerly,  when  fatigued  with  la- 
bor or  weary  of  ourselves,  the  civilized 
creature  sought  a  friend  or  friends,  and  re- 
paired himself  in  the  new  atmosphere  of 
another  and  fuller  individuality.  Most 
wholesome  and  most  human  solace !  It 
draws  out  every  better  feeling,  and  quickens 
into  activity  every  mental  power !  Now  the 
weary  man  takes  a  cigar  and  a  book;  he 
shuts  himself  up  to  his  printed  world,  and 
woe  to  the  intruder  from  real  life  who  inter- 
rupts and  cuts  short  his  fictitious  existence. 
Is  it  not  possible  to  live  too  much  in  the 
thoughts  of  others?  Outside  these  pages 
our  life,  our  short  life,  is  waiting  to  be  lived. 
How  much  there  is  that  is  beautiful  for  the 
eye,  how  much  that  is  delicious  in  open  air 
and  garden  fragrance  to  be  breathed !  There 
are  lives,  perhaps,  running  on  near  our  own, 
whose  unsought  and  unsuspected  charm  it 
is  a  grief  to  miss;  thoughts  and  words  of 
wisdom  that  wait  only  a  sympathetic  glance; 
there  are  treasures  of  neighborly  good  feel- 
ing to  warm  our  hearts  with;  and  all  the 
sweet  freshness  and  purity  of  little  children 
to  keep  our  youth  alive.  Surely  no  dead 
page,  however  noble,  should  be  allowed  to 
usurp  the  place  of  these  glowing  human  ex- 
periences. 

Harriet  D.  Palmer. 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


595 


PHYSICAL  STUDIES   OF   LAKE  TAHOE.— II. 


Color  of  the  Waters  of  Lake  Ta/zoe.—One 
of  the  most  striking  features  of  this  charm- 
ing mountain  lake  is  the  beautiful  hues  pre- 
sented by  its  pellucid  waters.  On  a  calm, 
clear,  sunny  day,  wherever  the  depth  is  not 
less  than  from  fifty  to  sixty  metres,  to  an  ob- 
server floating  above  its  surface,  the  water 
assumes  various  shades  of  blue;  from  a 
brilliant  Cyan  blue  (greenish-blue)  to  the 
most  magnificent  ultramarine  blue  or  deep 
indigo  blue.  The  shades  of  blue,  increasing 
in  darkness  in  the  order  of  the  colors  of  the 
solar  spectrum,  are  as  follows:  Cyan-blue 
(greenish  blue),  Prussian-blue,  Cobalt-blue, 
genuine  ultrarnarine-blue,  and  artificial  ultra- 
marine-blue (violet  blue).  While  traversing 
one  portion  of  the  lake  in  a  steamer,  a  lady 
endowed  with  a  remarkable  natural  appreci- 
ation and  discrimination  of  shades  of  color 
declared  that  the  exact  tint  of  the  water  at 
this  point  was  "  Marie- Louise  blue." 

The  waters  of  this  lake  exhibit  the  most 
brilliant  blueness  in  the  deep  portions,  which 
are  remote  from  the  fouling  influences  of  the 
sediment-bearing  affluents,  and  the  washings 
of  the  shores.  On  a  bright  and  calm  day, 
when  viewed  in  the  distance,  it  had  the  ul- 
tramarine hue ;  but  when  looked  fair  down 
upon,  it  was  of  almost  inky  blackness — a 
solid  dark  blue  qualified  by  a  trace  of  purple 
or  violet.  Under  these  favorable  conditions, 
the  appearance  presented  was  not  unlike 
that  of  the  liquid  in  a  vast  natural  dyeing- 
vat. 

A  clouded  state  of  the  sky,  as  was  to  be 
expected,  produced  the  well-known  effects 
due  to  the  diminished  intensity  of  light;  the 
shades  of  blue  became  darker,  and,  in  ex- 
treme cases,  almost  black-blue.  According 
to  our  observations,  the  obscurations  of  the 
sky  by  the  interposition  of  clouds  produced 
no  other  modifications  of  tints  than  those 
due  to  a  diminution  of  luminosity. 

In  places  where  the  depth  is  comparative- 
ly small  and  the  bottom  is  visibly  white,  the 


water  assumes  various  shades  of  green ;  from 
a  delicate  apple-green  to  the  most  exquisite 
emerald-green.  Near  the  southern  and 
western  shores  of  the  lake,  the  white,  sandy 
bottom  brings  out  the  green  tints  very  strik- 
ingly. In  the  charming  cid-de-sac  called 
"Emerald  Bay,"  it  is  remarkably  conspicuous 
and  exquisitely  beautiful.  In  places  where 
the  stratum  of  water  covering  white  portions 
of  the  bottom  is  only  a  few  metres  in  thick- 
ness, the  green  hue  is  not  perceptible,  unless 
viewed  from  such  a  distance  that  the  rays  of 
light  emitted  obliquely  from  the  white  sur- 
face have  traversed  a  considerable  thickness 
of  the  liquid  before  reaching  the  eye  of  the 
observer. 

The  experiments  with  the  submerged 
white  dinner-plate,  in  testing  the  transpar- 
ency of  the  water,  incidentally  manifested,  to 
some  extent,  the  influence  of  depth  on  the 
color  of  the  water.  The  white  disk  pre- 
sented a  bluish-green  tint  at  the  depth  of 
from  nine  to  twelve  metres;  at  about  fifteen 
metres  it  assumed  a  greenish-blue  hue,  and 
the  blue  element  increased  in  distinctness 
with  augmenting  depth,  until  the  disk  be- 
came invisible  or  undistinguishable  in  the  sur- 
rounding mass  of  blue  waters.  The  water 
intervening  between  the  white  disk  and  the 
observer  did  not  present  the  brilliant  and 
vivid  green  tint  which  characterized  that 
which  is  seen  in  the  shallow  portions  of  the 
lake,  where  the  bottom  is  white.  But  this, 
is  not  surprising,  when  we  consider  the  small 
amount  of  diffused  light  which  can  reach 
the  eye  from  so  limited  a  surface  of  diffus- 
ion. 

In  studying  the  chromatic  tints  of  these 
waters,  a  hollow  paste-board  cylinder,  five  or 
six  centimeters  in  diameter,  and  sixty  or 
seventy  centimeters  in  length,  was  sometimes 
employed  for  the  purpose  of  excluding  the 
surface  reflection  and  the  disturbances  due 
to  the  small  ripples  on  the  water.  When 
quietly  floating  in  a  small  row-boat,  one  end 


596 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Dec. 


of  this  exploring-tube  was  plunged  under 
the  water,  and  the  eye  of  the  observer  at  the 
other  extremity  received  the  rays  of  light 
emanating  from  the  deeper  portions  of  the 
liquid.  The  light  thus  reaching  the  eye 
presented  essentially  the  same  variety  of 
tints  in  the  various  portions  of  the  lake  as 
those  which  have  been  previously  indicated. 

Hence,  it  appears  that  under  various  con- 
ditions— such  as  depth,  purity,  state  of  sky 
and  color  of  bottom —  the  waters  of  this  lake 
manifest  nearly  all  the  chromatic  tints  pre- 
sented in  the  solar  spectrum  between  green- 
ish yellow  and  the  darkest  ultramarine-blue, 
bordering  upon  black-blue. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  waters  of  oceans 
and  seas  exhibit  similar  gradations  of  chro- 
matic hues  in  certain  regions.  Navigators 
have  been  struck  with  the  variety  and  rich- 
ness of  the  tints  presented,  in  certain  por- 
tions, by  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean 
Sea,  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Oceans,  and 
especially  those  of  the  Caribbean  Sea.  In 
some  regions  of  the  oceans  and  seas,  the 
green  hues,  and  particularly  those  tinged 
with  yellow,  are  observed  in  comparatively 
deep  waters,  or,  at  least,  where  the  depths 
are  sufficiently  great  to  prevent  the  bottom 
from  being  visible.  But  this  phenomenon 
seems  to  require  the  presence  of  a  consider- 
able amount  of  suspended  matter  in  the  wa- 
ter. In  no  portion  of  Lake  Tahoe  did  I 
observe  any  of  the  green  tints,  except  where 
the  light-colored  bottom  was  visible.  This 
was,  probably,  owing  to  the  circumstance 
that  no  considerable  quantity  of  suspended 
matter  existed  in  any  of  the  waters  observed. 

Physical  Cause  of  the  Colors  of  the 
Waters  of  Certain  Lakes  and  Seas. — The 
study  of  the  beautiful  colors  presented  by 
the  waters  of  certain  lakes  and  seas  has  ex- 
ercised the  sagacity  of  a  great  number  of 
navigators  and  physicists,  without  resulting 
in  a  perfectly  satisfactory  solution  of  the 
problem.  And  although  recent  investiga- 
tions seem  to  furnish  a  key  to  the  true  expla- 
nation, yet  the  real  cause  of  the  phenomena 
appears  to  be  very  imperfectly  understood 
even  among  physicists. 

For  example:   some   persons    persist   in 


assigning  an  important  function  to  the  blue 
of  the  sky  in  the  production  of  the  blue 
color  of  the  water.  Thus,  as  late  as  1870, 
Dr.  Aug.  A.  Hayes,  in  an  article  "On  the 
Cause  of  the  Color  of  the  Water  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva"  (Am.  J.  Sci.,  2d  series,  vol.  49, 
p.  186,  et  seq.,  1870),  having  satisfied  him- 
self by  chemical  analysis  that  no  coloring 
matter  existed  in  solution,  distinctly  ascribes 
the  blue  color  of  the  water  to  "the  reflec- 
tion and  refraction  of  an  azure  sky  in  a  col- 
orless water."  He  insists  that  the  water  of 
this  lake  "responded  in  unequal  coloration" 
to  the  state  of  the  sky,  "as  if  the  water 
mirrored  the  sky  under  this  condition  of 
beauty." 

The  question  here  presented  is  highly 
important  in  discussing  the  cause  of  the 
blue  colors  of  the  deep  waters.  For  the 
first  preliminary  point  to  be  established  is, 
whether  the  colored  light  comes  from  the 
interior  of  the  mass  of  water,  or  whether  it 
is  nothing  more  than  the  azure  tint  of  the 
sky  reflected  from  the  surface  of  the  liquid? 
In  other  terms,  whether  the  water  is  really 
a  colored  body,  qr  only  mirrors  the  color  of 
the  sky?  If  the  water  merely  performs  the 
functions  of  a  mirror,  the  explanation  of  the 
blue  color  of  such  waters  is  so  simple  and 
obvious  that  it  is  astonishing  how  it  comes 
to  pass  that  physicists  have  been  so  long 
perplexed  in  relation  to  the  solution  of  this 
problem.  This  idea  is  susceptible  of  being 
subjected  to  decisive  tests.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  phenomena  cannot  be  due  to  mirror- 
like  reflections  of  the  azure  sky,  for  the  .fol- 
lowing reasons: 

(a.)  If  the  blue  color  of  the  water  is 
produced  by  the  reflection  of  an  azure  sky, 
all  tranquil  waters  should  present  this  tint 
under  an  equally  vivid  blue  sky.  It  is  well 
known  that  this  deduction  is  not  confirmed 
by  observation. 

(&)  In  looking  vertically  down  into  the 
blue  waters — a  condition  rendering  surface 
reflection  very  small — it  is  obvious  that  the 
tints  emanate  from  the  interior  of  the  liquid. 

(c.}  When  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  sur- 
face of  the  water  is  tranquil,  the  azure  tint 
frequently  far  surpasses  in  vividness  that  of 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


597 


the  sky  itself.  This  would,  of  course,  be 
impossible,  if  the  color  was  nothing  more 
than  the  reflected  image  of  the  azure  sky; 
since  the  reflected  image  must  be  less  bril- 
liant than  the  object. 

(d.}  A  clouded  state  of  the  sky  does  not, 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  prevent  the 
recognition  of  the  blue  tint  of  the  waters; 
although,  of  course,  it  is  of  less  intensity. 
This  fact  is  attested  by  a  number  of  observ- 
ers in  relation  to  the  blue  waters  of  both 
lakes  and  seas;  and  it  is  evidently  inconsist- 
ent with  the  idea  of  a  mirror-like  reflection 
of  an  azure  sky. 

(e.}  Tranquil  waters  sometimes  reflect  the 
warm  colors  of  the  horizon,  representing  all 
the  tints  of  the  luminous  sky  so  exactly  that 
sky  and  water  appear  to  be  blended  with 
each  other.  Under  these  conditions,  the 
blue  tints  from  the  interior  of  the  liquid  are 
overpowered  by  the  more  brilliant  surface 
reflection ;  for,  if  a  gentle  breeze  ruffles  the 
surface  with  capillary  waves,  the  bright  sur- 
face tints  vanish,  and  the  blue  from  the  in- 
terior immediately  predominates. i 

(/)  My  experiments  with  the  "paste- 
board exploring-tube"  seem  to  prove  beyond 
question  that  the  color-rays  proceed  from  the 
depths  of  the  water,  and  not  from  its  sur- 
face; for,  in  this  case,  superficial  reflection 
was  eliminated. 

(g.)  Finally,  the  character  of  the  polar- 
ization impressed  upon  the  blue  light  eman- 
ating from  the  azure  waters  of  the  Lake  of 
Geneva — first  announced  by  J.  L.  Soret  in 
the  spring  of  1869,  and  subsequently  con- 
firmed by  other  observers — affords  a  satis- 
factory demonstration  that  the  blue  rays  are 
not  reflected  from  the  surface,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  are  veritable  luminous  emanations 
from  the  interior  of  the  liquid.  This  point 
will  hereafter  receive  special  consideration 

1  Indeed,  in  many  cases  this  surface  reflection  serious- 
ly interferes  with  the  vivid  perception  of  the  blue  tints 
from  the  interior.  The  beautiful  blue  light  which  illu- 
minates the  interior  of  the  famous  "Azure  Grotto  "  on 
the  shores  of  the  Island  of  Capri,  in  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
is  of  greater  splendor  because  its  waters,  while  receiving 
a  full  supply  of  the  transmitted  solar  beams  through  the 
large  subaqueous  entrance,  are  protected  from  surface 
reflection  by  the  smallness  of  the  opening  above  the 
water-level. 


in  connection  with  the  cause  of  the  blue 
color. 

The  foregoing  reasons  appear  to  be  abun- 
dantly sufficient  to  establish  the  fact  that, 
in  the  blue  waters  of  the  lakes  and  seas,  the 
color-rays  do  actually  come  from  the  interior 
of  the  mass  of  liquid.  Moreover,  the  ex- 
periments of  Soret  and  Tyndall  prove,  that 
when  a  beam  of  light  thrown  into  an  ob- 
scured chamber  is  concentrated  by  a  lens 
and  made  to  pass  through  small  masses  of 
the  blue  waters,  taken  from  a  number  of  the 
Swiss  lakes,  as  well  as  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean Sea,  the  luminous  cone  which  trav- 
ersed the  liquid,  viewed  laterally,  was  in  all 
cases  distinctly  blue.  These  experimental 
results  are  absolutely  demonstrative  of  the 
fact  that  the  diffused  blue  light  proceeds  from 
the  interior  of  the  transparent  liquid.  (Soret, 
in  '•'•Archives  des  Set..  Phys.  et  Nat."  tome 
39,  p.  357,  Dec.,  1870:  Tyndall  in  Nature, 
vol.  2,  p.  489,  Oct.  2oth,  1870.) 

Colors  of  Transparent  Liquids. — So  far  as 
known,  the  colors  of  transparent  liquids  are 
due  to  the  modifications  of  white  light  pro- 
duced in  the  interior  of  the  substances 
traversed  by  the  luminous  rays.  Besides 
the  well-known  chromatic  phenomena,  arising 
from  the  refraction  and  dispersion  of  light 
(which  are  out  of  the  question  in  relation  to 
the  subject  under  consideration),  there  are, 
in  this  class  of  bodies,  three  recognized 
causes  of  coloration,  viz. : 

i  st.  Selective  Absorption  of  Transmitted 
Light;  by  which,  through  the  extinguishing 
of  certain  rays,  the  emergent  light  is  colored. 

2nd.  Selective  Reflection  of  Light  from 
the  interior  of  the  liquid;  by  which  both 
the  transmitted  and  the  reflected  rays  are 
colored. 

3rd.  Fluorescence;  by  which  colors  are 
manifested  by  a  sort  of  selective  secondary 
radiation,  in  which  light-waves  of  greater 
length  than  those  of  the  exciting  rays  are 
emitted  from  the  interior  of  the  liquid. 

Although  the  admirable  researches  of 
G.  G.  Stokes,  Edmond  Becquerel,  Alex. 
Lallemand,  Hagenbach  and  others,  on  the 
"illumination  of  transparent  liquids,"  prove 
that  a  greater  number  of  such  bodies  possess 


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[Dec. 


the  property  of  fluorescence  than  was  for- 
merly supposed  ;  yet  all  investigators  concur 
in  classifying  pure  water  among  the  non- 
fluorescent  liquids.  Hence,  in  the  case  of 
this  liquid  in  a  state  of  purity,  the  admitted 
causes  of  coloration  are  reduced  to  two, 
viz. :  selective  absorption,  and  selective  re- 
flection in  the  interior  of  the  transparent 
mass. 

If  the  liquid  traversed  by  the  light  is  so 
constituted  that  none  of  the  rays  are  reflect- 
ed from  its  interior  parts,  while  selective  ab- 
sorption is  active,  then  the  transmitted 
light  is  alone  colored,  according  to  the  rays 
that  may  be  extinguished  by  absorption. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  transparent  liquids 
in  which  there  is  no  absorption  of  light, 
both  the  transmitted  and  the  reflected  light 
may  be  colored  by  selective  reflection.  For 
it  is  evident  that  if  some  of  the  rays  are  se- 
lectively reflected  in  the  interior  of  the 
transparent  mass,  the  transmitted  light  and 
the  reflected  light  must  present  different  col- 
ors. It  is  likewise  obvious  that  if  all  of  the 
white  light  entering  the  transparent  medium 
is  thus  disposed  of,  the  transmitted  light  and 
the  reflected  light  must  present  tints  which 
are  exactly  complementary.  In  most  cases, 
however,  when  selective  reflection  occurs, 
there  will  generally  be  some  selective  ab- 
sorption ;  consequently,  the  color  by  trans- 
mission will  not  always  be  exactly  comple- 
mentary to  the  color  by  reflection.  In  fact, 
this  exact  complementary  relation  cannot 
be  realized  when  any  portion  of  the  light  is 
absorbed. 

Moreover,  in  many  cases  in  which  there 
is  a  rapid  absorption  of  particular  rays, 
the  transmitted  and  reflected  lights  are  of 
the  same  color.  For  example:  there  are 
large  classes  of  bodies  (such  as  solutions  of 
indigo,  sulphate  of  copper,  etc.,  and  also 
various  colored  glasses),  which  are  of  the 
same  color  by  reflection  and  transmission. 
In  such  cases  the  rays  of  all  the  other  col- 
ors are  speedily  extinguished  by  absorption, 
while  a  portion  of  the  incident  characteristic 
color-rays  are  reflected,  and  the  rest  are 
transmitted.  Thus,  in  many  blue-colored 
solutions,  not  only  is  the  transmitted  light 


blue,  but  the  blue  tint  is  visible  in  all  direc- 
tions by  means  of  the  diffused  light. 

Opalescent  Aqueous  Media.  —  It  is  now 
well  established,  that  fine-divided  substances 
suspended  in  water  impart  to  it  the  property 
of  diffuse  selective  reflection,  whereby  cer- 
tain chromatic  phenomena  are  produced. 
It  has  been  long  recognized  that  if  about 
one  part  of  milk  be  added  to  fifty  parts  of 
distilled  water,  the  presence  of  the  diffused 
milk-globules  in  the  midst  of  the  liquid  im- 
parts to  it  a  bluish  tint  by  the  scattered  re- 
flected light,  while  the  transmitted  light  ac- 
quires a  yellowish  color.  Similar  phenom- 
ena are  observed  when  delicate  precipitates 
of  magnesia  or  of  amorphous  sulphur  are 
diffused  in  water;  and,  likewise,  when  weak 
alcoholic  solutions  of  certain  essential  oils 
are  mingled  with  this  liquid.  The  admir- 
able experiments  of  Ernest  Briicke  in  1852 
(Pogg.  Ann.,  vol.  88,  pp.  363-385),  prove 
that  mastic  and  other  resins,  which  are  sol- 
uble in  alcohol,  will  be  precipitated  in  a  fine- 
ly divided  state  when  added  to  water;  and 
that  when  such  a  precipitate  is  sufficiently 
diluted,  it  gives  the  liquid  a  soft  sky-like  hue 
by  the  diffuse  reflected  light,  while  the  trans- 
mitted light  is  either  yellow  or  red,  accord- 
ing to  the  thickness  of  the  stratum  traversed. 
These  results  have  been  abundantly  verified 
by  more  recent  experiments;  and  notably 
by  those  of  Tyndall  (probably  about  1857), 
and  by  those  of  the  writer  during  the  years 
1878-1879.  The  suspended  particles  of 
resin  are  so  extremely  attenuated,  that  they 
remain  mingled  with  the  water  for  months 
without  sensibly  subsiding.  In  many  instan- 
ces they  are  so  fine  as  to  escape  detection 
by  the  most  powerful  microscope ;  they  are 
ultra  microscopic  in  smallness. 

Media  which  possess  the  property  of  de- 
composing compound  white  light  by  selec- 
tive reflection  have  been  characterized  as 
opalescent.  The  distinguishing  character- 
istics of  opalescent  liquids  are:  ist.  That 
the  reflected  and  transmitted  lights  are  dif- 
ferent in  color;  and  2nd.  That  the  tints  of 
the  two  colors  are  more  or  less  complemen- 
tary. It  is  evident,  however,  that  when  the 
liquid  exercises  any  selective  absorptive  ac- 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies' of  Lake  Tahoe. 


599 


tion  on  light,  the  tints  of  both  the  reflected 
and  transmitted  lights  will  be  more  or  less 
modified,  according  to  the  character  of  the 
rays  which  are  withdrawn  by  absorption. 
Hence,  it  follows  that  the  tints  by  diffuse 
reflection  and  by  transmission  may  deviate 
more  or  less  from  the  exact  complementary 
relation. 

Color  of  Pure  Water. — In  the  investigation 
of  the  "Causes  of  the  Colors  of  Waters  of 
Certain  Lakes  and  Seas,"  it  is  manifestly  of 
primary  importance  to  determine  the  color 
of  pure  water;  for,  if  it  is  inherently  colored, 
the  tints  afforded  by  impurities  must  be 
modified  by  the  admixture  of  the  hues  pro- 
ceeding from  the  liquid  itself.  Although 
pure  water  in  small  masses  appears  to  be 
perfectly  colorless,  yet  most  physicists  have 
been  disposed  to  admit  an  intrinsically  blue 
color  as  belonging  to  absolutely  pure  water, 
when  viewed  in  sufficiently  large  masses. 
Thus,  Sir  I.  Newton,  Mariotte,  Euler,  Sir 
H.  Davy,  Count  De  Maistre,  Arago,  and 
others,  ascribe  the  azure  tints  of  the  deep 
waters  of  certain  lakes  and  seas  to  the  se- 
lective reflection  of  the  blue  rays  from  the 
molecules  of  the  liquid  itself;  while  the 
green  and  other  tints  exhibited  by  other  wa- 
ters are  due  to  impurities,  or  to  various 
modifications  and  admixtures  of  reflected 
light  from  suspended  materials  and  from  the 
bottom. 

More  recent  investigations  seem  to  furnish 
some  clew  to  the  solution  of  this  problem. 
R.  W.  Bunsen,  in  1847,  was  tne  first  to  test 
the  color  of  pure  water  by  direct  experiment. 
(Ann.  der  Chem.  und  Pharm.,  vol.  62,  pp. 
44,  45. — 1847.)  He  provided  himself  with 
a  glass  tube  5.2  centimeters  in  diameter  and 
two  metres  long,  which  was  blackened  inter- 
nally with  lamp-black  and  wax  to  within  1.3 
centimeters  of  the  end,  which  was  closed  by 
a  cork.  The  tube  being  filled  with  chemi- 
cally pure  water,  and  pieces  of  white  porce- 
lain being  thrown  into  it,  it  was  placed  in  a 
vertical  position  on  a  white  plate.  On  look- 
ing down  through  the  column  of  water  at 
the  bits  of  porcelain  at  the  bottom,  which 
were  illuminated  by  the  white  light  reflected 
from  the  plate  through  the  rim  of  clear,  un- 


coated  glass  at  the  lower  extremity,  he  ob- 
served that  they  exhibited  a  pure  blue  tint, 
the  intensity  of  which  diminished  as  the 
column  of  water  was  shortened.  The  blue 
coloration  was  also  recognized  when  a  white 
object  was  illuminated  through  the  column 
of  water  by  direct  sunlight,  and  viewed  at 
the  bottom  of  the  tube  through  a  small  lat- 
eral opening  in  the  black  coating. 

It  is  evident  that  the  blue  tints  manifested 
in  these  experiments  were  those  of  the 
transmitted  light;  and  they  indicate  that 
pure  distilled  water  absorbs  the  luminous 
rays  constituting  the  red  end  of  the  spectrum 
more  copiously  than  those  of  the  blue  ex- 
tremity. But  they  do  not  touch  the  ques- 
tion of  the  color  of  the  diffused  light  reflected 
from  the  interior  of  the  mass  of  water 
itself. 

About  1857,  John  Tyndall  confirmed  the 
results  of  Bunsen's  experiments,  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner:  "A  tin  tube,  fifteen  feet 
long  and  three  inches  in  diameter,  has  its 
ends  stopped  securely  by  pieces  of  colorless 
plate  glass.  It  is  placed  in  a  horizontal  po- 
sition, and  pure  water  is  poured  into  it 
through  a  small  lateral  pipe,  until  the  liquid 
reaches  half-way  up  the  glasses  at  the  ends ; 
the  tube  then  holds  a  semi-cylinder  of  water 
and  a  semi-cylinder  of  air.  A  white  plate, 
or  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  well-illuminated, 
is  then  placed  a  little  distance  from  the  end 
of  the  tube,  and  is  looked  at  through  the 
tube.  Two  semi-circular  spaces  are  seen, 
one  by  the  light  which  has  passed  through 
the  air,  the  other  by  the  light  which  has 
passed  through  the  water.  It  is  always 
found  that  while  the  former  semi-circle  re- 
mains white,  the  latter  is  vividly  colored." 
Professor  Tyndall  was  never  able  to  obtain 
a  pure  blue,  the  nearest  approach  to  it  being 
a  -blue-green.  When  the  beam  from  an 
electric  lamp  was  sent  through  this  tube,  the 
transmitted  image  projected  upon  a  screen 
was  found  to  be  blue-green  when  distilled 
water  was  used.  ("Glaciers  of  the  Alps," 
Part  Second.  (6.)  "Color  of  Water  and 
Ice,"  Am.  Ed.,  pp.  254,  255.  Boston,  1861.) 
It  will  be  noted  that  Professor  Tyndall 
makes  no  allusion  to  the  color  of  the  diffused 


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Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Dec. 


or  scattered  light;  indeed,  his  tin  tube  ren- 
dered it  impossible  for  him  to  observe  it. 

It  is  evident  that  at  this  time  (1857)  this 
sagacious  physicist  was  disposed  to  ascribe 
the  blue  tints  observed  in  purest  natural 
waters,  exclusively,  to  their  absorbent  ac- 
tion on  the  transmitted  light.  Thus,  extend- 
ing the  analogy  of  the  action  of  water  on 
dark  heat  to  the  luminous  rays  of  the  solar 
spectrum,  he  says:  "Water  absorbs  all  the 
extra-red  rays  of  the  sun,  and  if  the  layer  be 
thick  enough  it  invades  the  red  rays  them- 
selves. Thus,  the  greater  the  distance  the 
solar  beams  travel  through -pure  water,  the 
more  they  are  deprived  of  those  components 
which  lie  at  the  red  end  of  the  spectrum. 
The  consequence  is,  that  the  light  finally 
transmitted  by  water,  and  which  gives  it  its 
color,  is  blue."  (Op\  cit.,  supra,  p.  254.) 
According  to  this  view  it  would  seem  that 
pure  water  is  really  colored  in  the  same 
sense  as  a  weak  solution  of  indigo;  that  is, 
it  is  blue  both  by  reflected  and  transmitted 
light. 

In  December,  1861,  W.  Beetz,  of  Erlan- 
gen,  obtained  results  analogous  to  those  of 
Professors  Bunsen  and  Tyndall,  by  the  some- 
what imperfect  method  of  looking  through 
considerable  thickness  of  distilled  water  at 
the  transmitted  light  made  to  pass  by  re- 
peated reflections  across  a  box  ten  inches 
long  filled  with  this  liquid.  The  transmitted 
light  ultimately  became  dark  blue,  "with  a 
very  feeble  tinge  of  green."  (Pogg.  Ann., 
vol.  115,  pp.  137-147,  Jan.  1862;  also,  Phil. 
Mag.,  4th  series,  vol.  24,  pp.  218-224,  Sept. 
1862.) 

My  own  experiments,  executed  on  various 
occasions  in  1878-1879,  afford  complete 
verifications  of  the  results  obtained  by  the 
preceding  physicists.  My  arrangements  were 
similar  to  those  of  Professor  Tyndall,  except 
that  a  series  of  three  glass  tubes — of  about 
three  centimetres  in  clear  internal  diameter 
connected  by  india-rubber  tubing,  and  hav- 
ing an  aggregate  length  of  about  five  meters, 
was  employed  instead  of  the  tin  tube  used 
by  him.  Moreover,  instead  of  the  electric 
beam,  I  employed  solar  light  thrown  into  a 
large,  darkened  lecture-room  by  means  of  a 


"Porte-Lumiere":  the  small  beam  passing 
through  the  first  diaphragm  at  the  window 
being  rendered  nearly  uniform  in  diameter 
by  the  interposition  of  a  secondary  screen, 
with  a  small  aperture  in  it,  just  before  the 
light  entered  the  end  of  the  horizontally- 
adjusted  series  of  tubes.  By  this  arrange- 
ment, an  approximate  mathematical  ray  was 
obtained,  which  secured  the  transmission  of 
the  light  along  the  axis  of  the  column  of 
water,  without  the  possibility  of  the  emer- 
gent beam  being  mixed  with  any  light  re- 
flected from  the  internal  surface  of  the  glass 
tube.  In  every  instance  in  which  distilled 
water  was  used,  the  tint  of  the  image  of  the 
emergent  beam,  received  upon  a  white  screen, 
was  either  greenish-blue  or  yellowish-green; 
the  former  tint  seemed  to  characterize  the 
summer,  and  the  latter  hue  the  winter  experi- 
ments. Like  Professor  Tyndall,  I  failed  to 
obtain  a  pure  blue  color  in  the  transmitted 
light;  the  nearest  approach  to  it  being 
greenish-blue.  Hence,  it  appears  that,  in  a 
general  way,  my  experiments  confirm  the 
opinion  that  pure  water  absorbs  to  a  some- 
what greater  extent  the  solar  rays  constitut- 
ing the  red  end  of  the  spectrum ;  while  at 
the  same  time  they  seem  to  indicate— in 
accordance  with  the  deductions  of  Wild — 
that  the  absorption  is  more  active  at  elevated 
temperatures.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  these  results  relate  to  the  tints  of  the 
transmitted  light. 

Has  Pure  Water  any  Color  by  Diffuse 
Reflection? — In  relation  to  the  colors  ob- 
served in  the  deep  waters  of  certain  lakes 
and  seas,  it  is  evident  that  the  transmitted 
light  cannot  reach  the  eye  of  the  observer. 
Hence,  it  is  plain  that  if  such  waters  were 
perfectly  free  from  all  foreign  materials — in 
solution  or  mechanically  suspended — there 
are  only  two  methods  by  which  colored 
tints  can  emanate  from  the  interior  of  such 
a  transparent  liquid.  These  are  for  pure 
water : 

i st.  Color  tints  by  diffuse  selective  re- 
flection from,  the  aqueous  molecules. 

2nd.  Color  tints  produced  by  selective 
absorption,  and  the  diffuse  reflection  of  the 
unabsorbed  light. 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


601 


In  the  first  case,  the  tints  of  pure  water 
would  be  analogous  to  those  of  opalescent 
liquids. 

In  the  second  case,  the  hues  would  be 
analogous  to  those  of  weak-colored  solutions, 
in  which  the  colors  by  transmission  and  re- 
flection are  the  same.  In  both  cases  it  is 
absolutely  essential,  in  order  that  the  color 
tints  should  reach  the  eye  of  the  observer, 
floating  on  the  surface  of  deep  waters,  that 
the  aqueous  molecules  should  possess  the 
property  of  reflection.  The  only  difference 
being,  that  in  the  first  case  the  reflection  is 
selective,  while  in  the  second  case  all  of  the 
unextinguished  rays  are  more  or  less  reflect- 
ed. So  that  the  primary  question  which  is 
to  be  settled  is:  "\Vhether  perfectly  pure 
water  has  any  color  by  diffuse  reflection  of 
light  from  the  interior  of  the  liquid?"  This 
being  a  question  of  fact  can  only  be  settled 
by  observation  and  experiment. 

We  have  already  seen  that  Sir  I.  Newton 
and  many  of  his  successors  thought  that 
water  exercised  a  selective  reflection  on  the 
rays  of  the  sun-light  which  traversed  it.  In 
proof  of  this,  he  records  an  observation  re- 
lated to  him  by  his  distinguished  contem- 
porary and  friend,  Dr.  Edmund  Halley. 
Having  descended  under  sea-water  many 
fathoms  deep  in  a  diving-bell,  Halley  fotmd, 
in  a  clear  sun-shine  day,  a  crimson  color 
(like  a  damask  rose)  on  the  upper  part  of 
his  hand,  on  which  fell  the  solar  rays  after 
traversing  the  stratum  of  water  above  him 
and  a  glass  aperture;  whereas,  the  water  be- 
low him  and  the  under  part  of  his  hand, 
illuminated  by  light  coming  from  the  water 
beneath,  appeared  green.  From  which  New- 
ton concluded  that  the  sea  water  reflects 
the  violet  and  blue  rays  most  easily,  and 
allows  the  red  rays  to  pass  most  freely  and 
copiously  to  great  depths.  Hence,  the  di- 
rect light  of  the  sun  must  appear  red  at  all 
great  depths,  and  the  greater  the  depth  the 
fuller  and  more  intense  must  the  red  be; 
and  at  such  depths  as  the  violet  rays  scarce- 
ly reach  the  blue,  green  and  yellow  rays,  be- 
ing reflected  from  below  more  copiously 
than  the  red  ones,  must  make  a  green. 
(Newton's  Optics,  book  i,  part  2,  prop.  10, 


exp.  17.)  At  a  later  date  J.  H.  Hassenfratz 
verified  Newton's  explanation  by  means  of 
a  long  tube  blackened  inside,  closed  at  the 
ends  by  glasses,  and  filled  with  pure  water, 
through  which  the  solar  rays  were  made  to 
pass.  The  transmitted  light  became  suc- 
cessively white,  yellow,  orange  or  red,  as  the 
length  of  the  column  of  water  traversed 
was  augmented.  Annular  diaphragms  plac- 
ed at  different  points  in  the  tube  appeared 
black  on  the  side  of  the  observer,  at  the 
point  where  the  transmitted  light  was  white; 
a  feeble  violet  where  it  was  yellow;  blue 
where  it  was  orange;  and  green  where  it 
was  red.  The  diaphragms  being  illuminated 
by  the  rays  reflected  from  the  interior  por- 
tions of  the  water,  the  light  presented  a  col- 
or complementary  to  that  which  was  trans- 
mitted.1 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  both  Newton 
and  Hassenfratz  regarded  pure  water  as 
possessing  the  properties  of  an  opalescent 
medium.  On  the  other  hand,  we  have  al- 
ready shown  that  distilled  water  really  ab- 
sorbs the  solar  rays  constituting  the  red  end 
of  the  spectrum  more  copiously  than  those 
of  the  blue  end;  so  that  the  transmitted 
light  comes  out  greenish-blue.  The  discrep- 
ancy thus  indicated  is,  doubtless,  due  to  the 
circumstance  that  in  the  older  observations 
and  experiments  the  water  employed  was 
not  sufficiently  free  from  mechanically  sus- 
pended materials.  For  the  presence  of  an 
extremely  minute  quantity  of  suspended 
matter  in  distilled  water  is  sufficient  to 
change  the  color  of  the  transmitted  solar 
light  from  greenish-blue  to  yellow,  orange  or 
red,  according  to  the  amount  of  foreign  ma- 

1  The  above  account  of  Hassenfratz's  experiments  is 
taken  from  Daguin's  "  Traite  de  Physique,"  3rd  edi- 
tion, Tome  4,  Article  2,056,  p.  217. — Paris,  1868.  Not 
being  able  to  find  any  reference  to  Hassenfratz's  original 
paper,  I  wrote  to  Prof.  P.  A.  Daguin  of  Toulouse,  and 
ascertained  that  the  details  given  in  his  treatise  were 
taken  from  the  grand  "  Ency eloped ie  Methodique " 
1816,  " Dictionnaire  de  Physique,"  word  "Couleur," 
page  610.  He  further  informs  me,  that  he  has  never 
seen  the  original  memoir,  and  doubts  whether  it  was 
ever  published  in  extcnso.  The  details  given  by  Daguin 
are  said  by  him  to  be  scarcely  less  full  than  those  given 
in  the  "  Dictionnaire  de  Physique."  I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  a  copy  of  the  "  Encyclopedic  Methodique" 
on  this  coast. 


602 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Dec. 


terial  present.  Thus,  Tyndall  found  that 
when  an  alcoholic  solution  of  mastic  and 
other  resins  is  added  to  water  a  finely-divid- 
ed precipitate  is  formed,  which,  when  suf- 
ficiently diluted,  gives  the  liquid  a  blue 
color  by  reflected  light,  and  yellow  by  trans- 
mitted light.  Hence,  he  maintains  "that, 
if  a  beam  of  white  light  be  sent  through  a  li- 
quid which  contains  extremely  minute  parti- 
cles in  a  state  of  suspension,  the  short  waves 
are  more  copiously  reflected  by  such  parti- 
cles than  the  long  ones :  blue,  for  example, 
is  more  copiously  reflected  than  red." 
"When  a  long  tube  is  filled  with  clear  water, 
the  color  of  the  liquid  (blue-green),  as  before 
stated,  shows  itself  by  transmitted  light. 
The  effect  is  very  interesting  when  a  solu- 
tion of  mastic  is  permitted  to  drop  into  such 
a  tube,  and  the  fine  precipitate  to  diffuse  it- 
self in  the  water.  The  blue-green  of  the 
liquid  is  first  neutralized,  and  a  yellow  color 
shows  itself;  on  adding  more  of  the  solu- 
tion, the  color  passes  from  yellow  to  orange, 
and  from  orange  to  blood-red."  Again,  he 
says,  "It  is  evident,  this  change  of  color 
must  necessarily  exist;  for  the  blue  being 
partially  withdrawn  by  more  copious  reflec- 
tion, the  transmitted  light  must  partake  more 
or  less  of  the  character  of  the  complementa- 
ry color."  ("Glaciers  of  the  Alps."— "Col- 
ors of  the  Sky."  Edition  cit.  ante,  pp.  259 
-261.) 

My  own  experiments,  by  means  of  the  se- 
ries of  glass-tubes  already  described,  striking- 
ly confirm  the  foregoing  deductions.  In- 
deed, I  was  unable  to  find  any  natural  water, 
however  clear,  which  did  not  contain  a  suf- 
ficient amount  of  finely-divided  particles  in  a 
state  of  suspension  to  impart  the  opaline 
characters  to  the  transmitted  solar  light. 
The  purest  hydrant  water,  as  well  as  the  wa- 
ter taken  from  the  Pacific  Ocean  in  latitude 
39°  17'  North,  and  longitude  123°  58'  West 
frcm  Greenwich,  did  not  manifest  the  green- 
ish-blue tint  of  distilled  water  by  transmitted 
light,  but  exhibited  colors  of  the  emergent 
beem,  vhich  varied  frcm  yellowish-orange 
to  green,  according  to  the  amount  of  sus- 
pended matter  present  in  the  column  of 
liquid. 


As  early  as  1857,  Erofessor  Tyndall  seems 
to  have  fully  recognized  the  important  func- 
tion of  finely-divided  suspended  matter  in 
imparting  the  blue  tints  to  the  light  reaching 
the  eye  by  diffuse  reflection  from  the  interi- 
or of  masses  of  water.  This  is  distinctly  in- 
dicated in  the  account  of  his  experiments 
already  quoted.  Again,  in  speaking  of  the 
bluish  appearance  of  thin  milk,  he  says,  "Its 
blueness  is  not  due  to  absorption,  but  to 
separation  of  the  light  by  the  particles  sus- 
pended in  the  liquid."  In  reference  to  blue 
color  of  the  waters  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
on  the  9th  of  July,  1857,  he  remarks:  "It 
may  be  that  the  lake  simply  exhibits  the 
color  of  pure  viater."  ("Glaciers  of  the 
Alps."  Edition  cit.  anU,  pp.  33,  34.)  But  a 
little  later,  and  after  making  the  experiments 
previously  noted,  he  very  significantly  asks, 
"  Is  it  not  probable  that  this  action  of  finely- 
divided  matter  may  have  some  influence  on 
the  color  of  some  of  the  Swiss  lakes — on 
that  of  Geneva  for  example?'*  Again,  in 
speaking  of  the  color  of  the  water  of  this 
lake,  he  says,  "It  seems  certainly  worthy  of 
examination  whether  such  particles,  sus- 
pended in  the  water,  do  not  contribute  to 
the  production  of  that  magnificent  blue 
which  has  excited  the  admiration  of  all  who 
have  seen  it  under  favorable  circumstances." 
(Op.  cit.  supra,  p.  261.)  Nevertheless,  it  is 
quite  evident  that,  at  this  time,  Professor 
Tyndall  regarded  the  suspended  particles  as 
playing  a  comparatively  secondary  part  in 
the  production  of  the  blue  tints  of  the  natu- 
ral waters;  for  he  clearly  intimates  that  pure 
water  has  an  inherently  blue  color  in  the 
same  sense  as  a  weak  solution  of  indigo. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  twelve  years  later 
that  the  beautiful  experimental  investigations 
of  Professor  Tyndall,  in  January,  1869,  in 
relation  to  the  "blue  color  of  the  Sky,  the 
Polarization  of  Skylight,  and  oh  the  Polari- 
zation of  light  by  cloudy  matter,  generally," 
("Proceedings  of  Royal  Society,"  vol.  17, 
No.  108,  pp.  223-233.  Jan.  i4th,  1869) — 
first  suggested  to  J.  L.  Soret,  of  Geneva,  the 
analogy  which  exists,  in  regard  to  polariza- 
tion, between  the  light  of  the  sky  and  the 
blue  light  coming  from  the  water  of  the  Lake 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


603 


of  Geneva.  In  a  letter  addressed  to  Pro- 
fessor Tyndall,  dated  Geneva,  March  3151, 
1869,  M.  Soret  maintains  that  the  blue  color 
of  the  water  of  this  lake  is  due  exclusively  to 
the  suspended  solid  particles,  from  the  fact, 
which  he  established  by  direct  experiments, 
that  this  light  presents  phenomena  of  polar- 
ization identical  with  those  of  the  light  of 
the  sky.  For,  his  experiments  show:  ist. 
That  the  plane  of  polarization  is  coincident 
with  the  plane  of  incidence;  and  2nd.  That 
the  polarization  is  a  maximum,  when  the 
light  received  by  the  eye  is  emitted  at  right 
angles  to  the  direction  of  the  refracted  solar 
rays  in  the  water.  (Phil.  Mag,  4th  series, 
vol.  37,  p.  345.  May,  1869.  Also  "  Comp- 
tes  jRendus"  tome  68,  p.  911.  April  igth, 
1869.  Also,  '•''Archives  des  Sci.  Phys.  et 
Nat."  tome  35,  p.  54.  May,  1869.) 

During  the  year  1869,  and  soon  after  the 
publication  of  these  investigations  of  the 
Swiss  physicist,  Alexander  Lallemand  made 
a  number  of  interesting  communications  to 
the  French  Academy  of  Sciences  on  the 
"Illumination  of  Transparent  Bodies,"  in 
which  he  attempted  to  controvert  the  de- 
ductions of  Soret,  and  attributed  the  diffuse 
illumination  of  such  media — as  well  as  the 
peculiar  phenomena  of  polarization  above 
noticed — to  the  action  of  the  molecules  of 
water,  and  not  to  the  presence  of  foreign  cor- 
puscles in  suspension.  The  French  physicist 
bases  his  conclusions  mainly  upon  the  phe- 
nomena manifested  in  transmitting  beams  of 
solar  light  through  clear  glass  and  distilled 
water;  which  he  assumed  to  be  optically 
homogeneous  media.  (For  full  text  of  Lal- 
lemand's  Memoirs,  vide,  "Ann.  de  Chim.  et 
de  Phys.,  4th  series,  tome  22,  pp.  200-234, 
Feb.,  1871  :  and  "Ann.  de  Chim.  etdePhys., 
5th  series,  tome  8,  pp.  93-136.  May,  1876.) 
But  the  views  of  Soret  were  very  soon  abun- 
dantly verified  by  additional  and  more  re- 
fined experimental  researches,  by  which  it 
was  proved  that  under  the  searching  test  of 
a  concentrated  beam  of  light  traversing  such 
media  in  a  darkened  room,  none  of  them 
manifested  anything  approaching  to  absolute 
homogeneousness  in  relation  to  light.  Un- 
der the  hypothesis  that  the  illumination  of 


such  bodies  is  due  exclusively  to  the  pres- 
ence of  foreign  corpuscles  suspended  in 
them,  it  is  evident  that  the  more  a  non- 
fluorescent  liquid  (as  water)  is  deprived  of 
heterogeneous  particles,  the  less  must  be  its 
power  of  diffuse  illumination ;  and  if  we 
could  secure  a  complete  elimination  of  the 
particles  in  suspension,  a  concentrated  lu- 
minous beam  would  produce  no  laterally 
visible  trace  in  traversing  the  liquid.  Ac- 
cordingly, in  relation  to  water,  the  experi- 
ments of  Soret,  in  Jan.  and  Feb.  1870,  show 
that  the  most  careful  distillation  does  not 
entirely  remove  the  suspended  matter;  al- 
though in  proportion  to  the  care  with  which 
the  distillation  was  made,  the  less  was  the 
light  scattered  in  traversing  the  liquid. 
Moreover,  he  found  that  the  scattering 
power  of  the  waters  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva 
was  diminished  by  allowing  the  liquid  to  re- 
pose long  enough  (many  months)  to  permit 
the  suspended  matter  to  partially  subside. 

Conversely,  the  experiments  of  the  same 
physicist  prove  conclusively  that  when  the 
number  of  particles  in  suspension  is  aug- 
mented— provided  they  are  sufficiently  at- 
tenuated— the  power  of  illumination  in  the 
water  was  considerably  increased,  without 
modifying  the  phenomena  of  polarization. 
Thus  it  was  found  that  very  diluted  pre- 
cipitates formed  in  distilled  water  gave  rise 
to  considerable  augmentation  in  the  power 
of  diffuse  illumination,  and  the  light  emit- 
ted transversely  to  the  traversing  luminous 
beam  presented  the  same  characters  of  po- 
larization as  have  been  previously  indicated. 
For  example,  in  a  flask  filled  with  water  from 
the  Lake  of  Geneva,  which,  after  long  repose, 
manifested  a  very  feeble  power  of  illumin- 
ation when  a  drop  of  solution  of  nitrate  of 
silver  was  introduced,  the  presence  of  a 
trace  of  some  the  chlorides  gave  rise  to  a 
delicate  precipitate,  which  was  invisible  in 
diffused  light ;  but  in  a  darkened  room  it 
exhibited  a  notable  augmentation  in  the 
brightness  of  the  trace  produced  by  the  pas- 
sage of  a  concentrated  beam  of  solar  light ; 
and  the  phenomena  of  polarization  were 
complete.  The  addition  of  a  second  drop 
of  the  solution  of  nitrate  of  silver  augmented 


604 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Dec. 


the  power  of  illumination,  the  trace  of  the 
beam  appeared  distinctly  blue,  and  the  po- 
larization became  more  complete.  ("Ar- 
chives des  Sci.  Phys.  et  Nat."  tome  37,  pp. 
145-155.  Feb.,  1870.) 

In  like  manner,  the  experiments  of  Tyn- 
dall  in  October,  1870,  prove  that  while,  as  a 
general  fact,  the  concentrated  beam  of  light 
may  be  readily  tracked  through  masses  of 
the  purest  ice,  when  made  to  traverse  them 
in  various  directions;  yet  there  were  re- 
markable variations  in  the  intensity  of  the 
scattered  light,  and  in  some  places  the 
"track  of  the  beam  wholly  disappears."  In 
relation  to  water,  Tyndall  was  also  unsuc- 
cessful in  entirely  removing  the  suspended 
particles  by  the  most  careful  and  repeated 
distillations.  His  experiments  on  water  tak- 
en from  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and  from  the 
Mediterranean  Sea,  off  the  coast  of  Nice, 
show  that  the  concentrated  beam  of  light 
traversing  each  of  them  manifested  a  dis- 
tinctly blue  color  when  viewed  laterally. 
'Viewed  through  a  Nicol's  prism  the  light 
was  found  polarized,  and  the  polarization 
along  the  perpendicular  to  the  illuminating 
beam  was  a  maximum."  He  adds:  "In  no 
respect  could  I  discover  that  the  blue  of  the 
water  was  different  from  that  of  the  firma- 
nent."  (Nature,  vol.  2,  pp.  489,  490.  Oct. 
20,  1870.) 

Professor  Ed.  Hagenbach  confirmed  Sor- 
et's  views  in  relation  to  the  polarization  of 
the  blue  light  emanating  from  the  waters  of 
lakes,  by  a  series  of  observations  on  the 
Lake  of  Lucerne.  Without  contesting  the 
fact  that  the  polarization  of  the  diffused 
light  emitted  from  such  water  is  produced 
by  reflection  from  minute  particles  held  in 
suspension;  he,  nevertheless,  suggests  that 
a  certain  want  of  homogeneousness  due  to 
differences  of  temperature  in  the  layers  of 
water  might,  likewise,  give  rise  to  similar 
phenomena  of  polarization.  But  Soret  has 
shown,  by  direct  experiments,  that  it  is  not 
possible  to  attribute  the  illumination  and 
polarization  to  the  reflections  from  the  layers 
of  water  of  unequal  density.  Moreover, 
even  if  these  reflections  contribute  some- 
thing, in  certain  cases,  to  the  production  of 


the  phenomena,  it  is  evident  that,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  their  influence  must 
be  insignificant.  ("  Archives  des  Sci.  Phys. 
et  de  Nat."  tome  37,  pp  .176-181.  Feb., 
1870.) 

In  the  light  of  the  results  afforded  by  the 
preceding  experimental  investigations,  we 
are  now  prepared  to  give  a  definite  and  in- 
telligible answer  to  the  question,  "  Whether 
perfectly  pure  water  has  any  color  by  diffuse 
reflection  of  light  from  the  interior  of  the 
liquid?"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  evidence 
leading  to  a  negative  answer  to  the  forego- 
ing question  is  overwhelming.  Professor 
Tyndall's  conclusion,  in  relation  to  this 
point,  appears  to  be  a  perfectly  legitimate 
induction  from  the  ascertamed  facts.  In 
speaking  of  the  water  obtained  from  the 
fusion  of  selected  specimens  of  ice,  in 
which  extraordinary  precautions  were  taken 
for  excluding  impurities,  and  which  were  re- 
garded as  the  purest  samples  of  the  liquid 
hitherto  attained,  this  sagacious  physicist  re- 
marks: "Still  I  should  hesitate  to  call  the 
water  absolutely  pure.  When  the  concen- 
trated beam  is  sent  through  it  the  track  of 
the  beam  is  not  invisible,  but  of  the  most 
exquisitely  delicate  blue.  This  blue  is  purer 
than  that  of  the  sky,  so  that  the  matter  which 
produces  it  must  be  finer  than  that  of  the 
sky.  It  may  be,  and  indeed  has  been,  con- 
tended that  this  blue  is  scattered  by  the  very 
molecules  of  the  water,  and  not  by  matter 
suspended  in  it.  But  when  we  remember 
that  this  perfection  of  blue  is  approached 
gradually  through  stages  of  less  perfect  blue; 
and  when  we  consider  that  a  blue  in  all  re- 
spects similar  is  demonstrably  obtainable 
from  particles  mechanically  suspended;  we 
should  hesitate,  I  think,  to  conclude  that  we 
have  arrived  here  at  the  last  stage  of  purifi- 
cation. The  evidence,  I  think,  points  dis- 
tinctly to  the  conclusion  that,  could  we  push 
the  process  of  purification  still  further,  even 
this  last  delicate  trace  of  blue  would  disap- 
pear." ("Fragments  of  Science":  "Dust 
and  Disease,"  pp.  319,  320,  Am.  ed.,  N.  Y., 
1875.)  In  other  terms,  "Water  optically 
homogeneous  would  have  transmitted  the 
beam  without  revealing  the  track."  "  In 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


605 


such  water,  the  course  of  the  light  would  be 
no  more  seen  than  in  optically  pure  air.'' 
Hence,  the  scattering  of  the  light  is  not 
molecular;  but  is  evidently  due  to  the  pres- 
ence of  finely-divided  matter  in  a  state  of 
suspension,  whereby  the  shorter  waves  of  the 
beam  are  intercepted  and  diffused  more 
copiously  than  the  longer  ones ;  thus  render- 
ing the  trace  of  the  light  visible  in  the 
liquid,  and  imparting  a  blue  tint  to  the  later- 
ally scattered  polarized  light.  The  conclu- 
sion seems,  therefore,  to  be  inevitable,  that 
if  water  were  perfectly  free  from  all  foreign 
materials,  either  in  solution  or  mechanically 
suspended,  both  chemically  and  optically 
pure,  it  would  have  no  color  at  all  by  diffu- 
sion of  light:  in  fact,  inasmuch  as  no  scat- 
tered light  would  be  emitted  from  the  trav- 
ersing beam,  it  would  show  the  darkness  of 
true  transparency.1 

Cause  of  the  Blue  Color  of  Certain  Waters. 
—The  preceding  considerations  very  clearly 
indicate  that  the  real  cause  of  the  blue  tints 
of  the  waters  of  certain  lakes  and  seas  is  to 
be  traced  to  the  presence  of  finely-divided 
matter  in  a  state  of  suspension  in  the  liquid. 
We  have  seen  that  Sir  I.  Newton  and  most 
of  his  successors,  as  late  as  1869,  ascribed 
the  blue  color  of  certain  deep  waters  to  an 
inherent  selective  reflecting  property  of  its 
molecules,  by  which  they  reflected  the  blue 
rays  of  light  more  copiously  than  the  other 
rays  of  the  solar  spectrum.  Since  the  re- 
searches of  Soret,  Tyndall  and  others,  this 
selective  reflection  has  been  transferred  to 
finely-divided  particles,  which  are  known  to 
be  held  in  suspension  in  greater  or  less 
abundance,  not  only  in  all  natural  waters,  but 
even  in  the  most  carefully  distilled  water. 
When  the  depth  of  water  is  sufficiently  great 
to  preclude  any  solar  rays  reaching  the  bot- 
tom, then  the  various  shades  of  blue  which 
are  perceived  under  similar  conditions  of 
sunshine  will  depend  upon  the  attenuation 
and  abundance  of  the  materials  held  in  sus- 

1  The  presence  of  colorless  salts  in  solution  does  not 
seem  to  impair  the  transparency  of  water,  or  to  have 
any  influence  on  the  phenomena  of  coloration  by  scat- 
tered '  light.  As  previously  intimated,  there  is  no  im- 
probability in  the  supposition  that  the  existence  of  cer- 
tain salts  in  solution  might  augment  its  transparency. 


pension — the  purity  and  delicacy  of  the  tint 
increasing  with  the  smallness  and  the  degree 
of  diffusion  of  the  suspended  particles. 
Moreover,  it  is  evident  that  Tyndall  is  quite 
correct  in  assigning  to  "true  molecular  ab- 
sorption" some  agency  in  augmenting  "the 
intense  and  exceptional  blueness"  of  certain 
waters;  for  it  is  obvious  that  the  "blue  of 
scattering  by  small  particles  "  must  be  puri- 
fied by  the  abstraction  of  the  less  refrangible 
rays,  which  always  accompany  the  blue  dur- 
ing the  transmission  of  the  scattered  light  to 
the  observer. 

It  seems  to  be  very  certain  that,  were 
water  perfectly  free  from  suspended  matter 
and  coloring  substances  in  solution,  and  of 
uniform  density,  it  would  scatter  no  light  at 
all.  "  But,"  as  Tyndall  remarks,  "an  amount 
of  impurity  so  infinitesimal  as  to  be  scarcely 
expressible  in  numbers,  and  the  individual 
particles  of  which  are  so  small  as  wholly  to 
elude  the  microscope,"  may  be  revealed  in  an 
obvious  and  striking  manner  when  examined 
by  a  powerfully  concentrated  beam  of  light 
in  a  darkened  chamber.  If  the  waters  of 
the  lakes  and  seas  were  chemically  pure  and 
optically  homogeneous,  absolute  extinction 
of  the  traversing  solar  rays  would  be  the 
consequence,  if  they  were  deep  enough. 
So  that  to  an  observer,  floating  on  the  sur- 
face, such  waters  would  appear  as  black  as 
ink;  and,  apart  from  a  slight  glimmer  of  or- 
dinary light  reflected  from  the  surface,  no 
light,  and  hence  no  color,  would  reach  the 
eye  from  the  body  of  the  liquid.  Accord- 
ing to  Tyndall,  "  In  very  clear  and  very  deep 
sea-water,  this  condition  is  approximately 
fulfilled,  and  hence  the  extraordinary  dark- 
ness of  such  water."  In  some  places,  when 
looked  down  upon,  the  water  "was  of  al- 
most inky  blackness — black  qualified  by  a 
trace  of  indigo."  But  even  this  trace  of 
indigo  he  ascribes  to  the  small  amount  of 
suspended  matter,  which  is  never  absent 
even  in  the  purest  natural  water — throwing 
back  to  the  eye  a  modicum  of  light  before 
the  traversing  rays  attain  a  depth  necessary 
for  absolute  extinction.  He  adds :  "  An 
effect  precisely  similar  occurs  under  the 
moraines  of  the  Swiss  glaciers.  The  ice  is 


606 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Dec. 


here  exceptionally  compact,  and,  owing  to 
the  absence  of  the  internal  scattering  com- 
mon in  bubbled  ice,  the  light  plunges  into 
the  mass,  is  extinguished,  and  the  perfectly 
clear  ice  presents  an  appearance  of  pitchy 
blackness."  ("  Hours  of  Exercise  in  the 
Alps,"  "Voyage  to  Algeria  to  observe  the 
Eclipse."  Am.  ed.,  N.  Y.,  1871,  pp.  463- 
470.)  In  like  manner  the  waters  of  certain 
Welsh  tarns,  which  are  reputed  bottomless, 
are  said  to  present  an  inky  hue.  And  it 
is  more  than  probable  that  the  waters  of 
"Silver  Spring  "—whose  exceptional  trans- 
parency has  been  previously  indicated — 
would,  if  they  were  sufficiently  deep,  present 
a  similar  blackness  or  absence  of  all  color 
by  diffuse  reflection.1 

1  Several  more  recent  investigations  relative  to  the 
colors  of  water,  inasmuch  as  they  refer  to  the  tints  of 
the  transmitted  light,  have  not  contributed  anything 
towards  the  real  solution  of  the  problem  of  the  physical 
causes  of  the  coloration  of  natural  waters. 

(i)  The  experiments  of  F.  Boas  of  Kiel  (Wie- 
demann's  "  Beiblatter  zu  den  Ann.  der  Phys.  und 
Chem.,"  Band  V.  [1881]  p.  797),  made  by  transmitting 
light  through  water  contained  in  a  zinc  tube  fourteen 
meters  long,  as  far  as  they  go  confirm  the  deductions 
given  in  the  text.  (2)  So  likewise  do  the  experiments 
executed  in  1881  by  Dr.  A.  C.  Peale,  in  his  researches  in 
relation  to  the  colors  of  the  waters  of  the  Thermal 
Springs  of  the  Yellowstone  National  Park.  (Hayden's 
I2th  Report  of  the  U.  S.  Geological  and  Geographical 
Survey  for  1878,  vol.  II.,  p.  373,  et  seq.}  (3)  In  like 
manner,  the  results  secured  by  the  experiments  of  John 
Aitken,  communicated  to  the  "  Royal  Society  of  Edin- 
burgh," Feb.  6th,  1882  (Nature,  vol.  25,  p.  427),  fall  un- 
der the  same  category.  (4)  Even  the  more  elaborate 
researches  of  W.  Spring,  of  the  University  of  L.iege, 
("  Revue  Scientifique. "  Transl.  in  "Popular  Science 
Monthly"  for  May,  1883)  while  they  clear  up  .some 
points  in  relatioji  to  the  origin  of  the  green  tints  which 
are  mingled  with  blue  in  the  light  transmitted  through  a 
column  of  distilled  water,  do  not,  in  reality,  touch  the 
question  of  colors  seen  by  diffused  reflected  light;  which, 
of  course,  alone  can  furnish  the  tints  appearing  in  the 
natural  waters.  Like  myself,  he  employed  glass  tubes 
closed  at  the  end  with  glass  plates;  but  a  black  sheath- 
ing was  used,  which  necessarily  cut  off  the  laterally  dif- 
fused light  emanating  from  the  interior  of  the  contained 
liquid.  Moreover,  the  arrangement  was  otherwise  de- 
fective in  that  his  source  of  light  was  a  ground-glass 
pane  in  the  window  of  his  laboratory;  for  it  is  evident, 
that  the  light  emerging  from  the  tube,  under  these  con- 
ditions, would  necessarily  be  mingled  with  the  light 
modified  by  reflections  from  the  interior  surface  of  the 
glass  tubing. 

One  of  the  results,  however,  of  the  experimental  in- 
vestigations of  the  Belgian  physicist  is  a  very  interesting 
contribution  to  our  knowledge  in  relation  to  this  subject. 
He  found  that  the  addition  of  one -ten-thousandth  of 


Cause  of  the  Green  Color  of  Certain  Waters. 
— It  remains  for  us  to  explain  the  cause  of 
the  green  tints  which  the  waters  of  certain 
lakes  and  seas  assume  under  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances. These  green  colors  manifest 
themselves  under  the  following  conditions, 
viz.  : 

(a.)  In  the  finest  blue  water,  when  the 
depth  is  so  small  as  to  allow  the  transmitted 
light  to  be  reflected  from  a  bottom  which  is 
more  or  less  white.  Thus,  a  white  sandy 
bottom,  or  white  rocks  beneath  the  surface 
of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  or  of  the  Bay  of 
Naples,  or  of  Lake  Tahoe,  will,  if  the  depth 
is  not  too  great  or  too  small,  impart  a  beau- 
tiful emerald-green  to  the  waters  above  them. 

(£.)  In  the  finest  blue  water,  when  a 
white  object  is  looked  at  through  the  inter- 
vening stratum  of  water.  In  the  blue 
waters  of  the  sea,  this  is  frequently  seen  in 
looking  at  the  white  bellies  of  the  porpoises, 
as  they  gambol  about  a  ship  or  steamer.  In 
a  rough  sea,  the  light  which  has  traversed 
the  crest  of  a  wave,  and  is  reflected  back  to 
the  observer  from  the  white  foam  on  the 
remote  side,  sometimes  crowns  it  with  a  beau- 
tiful green  cap.  In  March,  1869,  I  observed 
this  phenomenon  in  the  magnificent  ultrama- 
rine waters  of  the  Caribbean  Sea.  A  stout 
white  dinner-plate  secured  to  a  sounding-line 
presents  various  tints  of  green  as  it  is  let 
down  into  the  blue  water.  Such  experiments 
were  made  by  Count  Xavier  De  Maistre  in 
the  Bay  of  Naples,  in  1832;  by  Professor 
Tyndall  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  in  December 
1870;  and  by  the  writer  in  Lake  Tahoe,  in 
August  and  September,  1873. 

(<:.)  In  waters  of  all  degrees  of  depth, 
when  a  greater  amount  of  solid  matter  is 
held  in  suspension  than  is  required  to  pro- 
duce the  blue  color  of  the  purer  deep  waters 
of  lakes  and  seas.  Thus  Tyndall,  in  his 
"  Voyage  to  Algeria  to  observe  the  Eclipse," 
in  December,  1870,  collected  nineteen  bot- 

bichloride  of  mercury  to  the  distiled  water  in  his  tubes, 
enabled  him  to  obtain  a  pure  sky-blue  by  transmitted 
light.  The  blue-green  tints  obtained  by  his  predeces- 
sors, he  ascribes  to  the  speedy  development  of  living 
organisms  in  the  purest  distilled  water.  The  poison  o  us 
qualities  of  this  salt  of  mercury  prevented  the  develop- 
ment of  the  organisms. 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


607 


ties  of  water  from  various  places  in  the 
Alantic  Ocean  between  Gibraltar  and  Spit- 
head.  These  specimens  were  taken  from 
the  sea  at  positions  where  its  waters  pre- 
sented tints  varying  from  deep  indigo-blue, 
through  bright  green,  to  yellow-green.  After 
his  return  to  England,  he  directed  the  con- 
centrated beam  from  an  electric  lamp  through 
the  several  specimens  of  water,  and  found 
that  the  blue  waters  indicated  the  presence 
of  a  small  amount  of  suspended  matter;  the 
bright  green  a  decidedly  greater  amount  of 
suspended  particles;  and  the  yellow-green 
was  exceeding  thick  with  suspended  corpus- 
cles. He  remarks:  "My  home  observa- 
tions, I  think,  clearly  established  the  asso- 
ciation of  the  green  color  of  sea  water  with 
fine  suspended  matter,  and  the  association 
of  the  ultramarine  color,  and  more  especially 
of  the  black-indigo  hue  of  sea  water,  with 
the  comparative  absence  of  such  matter." 
("Hours  of  Exercise  in  the  Alps":  "Voyage 
to  Algeria  to  observe  the  Eclipse."  Ed. 
cit,  ante,  pp.  464,  467.) 

There  is  one  feature  which  is  common  to 
all  of  the  three  above-indicated  conditions 
under  which  the  green  color  manifests  itself 
in  the  waters  of  lakes  and  seas,  viz. :  when 
a  white  or  more  or  less  light-colored  reflect- 
ing surface  is  seen  through  a  stratum  of 
intervening  water  of  sufficient  purity  and 
thickness.  Condition  (c)  is  obviously  in- 
cluded; for  it  is  evident  that  a  back-ground 
of  suspended  particles  may,  under  proper 
conditions,  form  such  a  reflecting  surface. 

Inasmuch  as  under  these  several  condi- 
tions more  or  less  of  the  transmitted  light 
is  reflected  back  to  the  eye  of  the  observer, 
it  is  evident  that  the  rays  which  reach  him 
carry  with  them  the  chromatic  modifications 
due  to  the  combined  influence  of  the  selec- 
tive absorption  of  the  water  itself,  and  the 
selective  reflection  from  the  smaller  suspend- 
ed particles.  Hence  the  chromatic  phenom- 
ena presented,  being  produced  by  the  ming- 
ling of  these  rays  in  various  proportions,  must 
manifest  complex  combinations  of  tints,  un- 
der varying  circumstances  relating  to  color  of 
bottom,  depth  of  water,  and  the  amount  and 
character  of  the  suspended  matter  present. 


In  the  explanations  of  the  green  color  of 
certain  waters  by  the  older  physicists,  we 
recognize  the  full  appreciation  of  the  in- 
fluence of  selective  reflection  in  the  produc- 
tion of  the  phenomena;  but  they  seem  to 
have  overlooked  the  important  effects  of 
molecular  absorption.  We  have  seen  that 
Sir  I.  Newton  regarded  the  green  tints  of 
sea- water  as  due  to  the  more  copious  reflec- 
tion of  the  violet,  blue  and  green  rays,  while 
those  constituting  the  red  end  of  the  spec- 
trum are  allowed  to  penetrate  to  greater 
depths.  (Optics.,  Loc.  cit.  ante.}  Sir  H.  Davy 
ascribes  it,  in  part  at  least,  to  the  presence 
of  iodine  and  bromine  in  the  waters,  impart- 
ing a  yellow  tint,  which,  mingled  with  the 
blue  color  from  pure  water,  produced  the 
sea-green.  ("Salmonia."  "Collected  Works," 
vol.  9,  p.  201.)  In  like  manner,  Count 
Xavier  De  Maistre  ascribes  the  green  tints 
to  the  yellow  light,  which,  penetrating  the 
water  and  reaching  the  white  bottom,  or 
other  light-colored  submerged  object,  and 
being  reflected  and  mixed  with  the  blue 
which  reaches  the  eye  from  all  quarters,  pro- 
duces the  green.  (Bibl.  Univ.,  vol.  51,  pp. 
259-278.  Nov.  1832:  also  Am.  J.  Sci.,  ist. 
series,  vol.  26,  pp.  65-75.— 1834.)1 

On  the  other  hand,  after  Bunsen,  in  1847, 
had  established  that  chemically  pure  water 
extinguished  the  rays  of  light  constituting 
the  red  end  of  the  solar  spectrum  more  co- 
piously than  those  of  the  blue  extremity — so 
that  the  transmitted  tints  were  more  or  less 
tinged  with  blue — some  chemists  were  in- 
clined to  attribute  the  green  color  of  certain 
waters  to  the  presence  of  foreign  coloring 
substances.  Thus,  Bunsen  himself  explained 
the  brown  color  of  many  waters,  especially 
of  the  North-German  inland  lakes,  as  pro- 
duced by  an  admixture  of  humus;  but  he 
considers  the  green  tints  of  the  Swiss  lakes 
and  the  silicious  springs  of  Iceland,  as  aris- 

1  Similarly,  Arago  has  very  ingeniously  applied  the 
same  principles  to  the  explanation  of  the  varying  colors 
of  the  waters  of  the  ocean  under  different  circumstances 
— showing  that  when  calm,  it  must  be  blue  by  the  re- 
flected light,  but  when  ruffled,  the  waves  acting  the  part 
of  prisms,  refract  to  the  eye  some  of  the  transmitted 
light  from  the  interior,  and  it  then  appears  green. 
("  Comptes  Rendus,"  tome  7,  p.  219.  July  23rd, 
1838.) 


608 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


[Dec. 


ing  from  the  color  of  the  yellowish  bottom. 
( Vide  Loc.  cit.  ante,  p.  44,  et.  seq.}  Similar- 
ly, we  find  that  Wittstein,  in  1860,  from 
chemical  considerations,  concluded  that  the 
green  color  derives  its  origin  from  organic 
admixtures,  because  the  less  organic  sub- 
stance a  water  contains,  the  less  does  the 
color  differ  from  blue;  and  with  increase  of 
organic  substances  the  blue  gradually  passes 
into  green,  and  ultimately  into  brown.  This 
is,  likewise,  the  view  taken  in  1862  by 
Beetz;  for  he  insists  that  in  all  waters  the 
observed  color  of  the  liquid  is  that  of  the 
transmitted  light,  and  not,  in  any  case,  of  the 
reflected  light.  Moreover,  he  maintains 
that  Newton,  De  Maistre,  Arago  and  others 
were  mistaken  in  classifying  water  among 
those  bodies  which  have  a  different  color  by 
transmitted  light  to  that  which  they  have  by 
reflected  light.  (Loc.  cit.  ante.} 

Leaving  out  of  consideration,  for  the  pres- 
ent, those  natural  waters  in  which  the  colors 
are  obviously  due  to  various  coloring  sub- 
stances (usually  organic)  in  solution,  or  to 
the  presence  of  minute  colored  vegetable 
and  animal  organisms  diffused  in  them; 
modern  researches  point  to  selective  mole- 
cular absorption  of  the  water  itself,  and  se- 
lective reflection  from  finely-divided  solid 
particles  held  in  suspension,  as  the  real 
cause  of  the  pure  and  rich  blue  and  green 
tints  presented  by  certain  lakes  and  seas. 
The  combined  influence  of  these  two  causes 
seems  to  be  fully  adequate  to  explain  all  the 
tints  characterizing  such  waters  as  are  desti- 
tute of  organic  coloring  matters. 

We  have  already  shown  that  if  the  waters 
were  chemically  pure  and  perfectly  free 
from  suspended  particles,  the  red  rays  of  the 
traversing  solar  light  would  be  first  absorbed 
and  disappear,  while  the  other  colored  rays 
pass  to  greater  depths,  one  after  the  other 
being  extinguished  in  their  proper  order, 
viz.  :  red,  orange,  yellow,  green,  blue  and 
violet,  until  at  last  there  is  complete  ex- 
tinction of  the  light  in  the  deeper  mass  of 
the  liquid.  But  the  presence  of  suspended 
particles  causes  a  part  of  the  traversing 
solar  light  to  be  reflected,  and  according 
as  this  reflected  light  has  come  from  vari- 


ous depths,  so  will  the  color  vary.  If,  for 
example,  the  particles  are  large  or  are  abun- 
dant, and  freely  reflect  from  a  moderate 
depth,  while  they  prevent  reflection  from  a 
greater  depth,  the  color  wiil  be  some  shade 
of  green. 

When  the  water  is  shallow,  and  a  more  or 
less  light-colored  bottom  or  submerged  ob- 
ject reflects  the  transmitted  light  to  the  ob- 
server through  the  intervening  stratum  of 
liquid,  it  is  evident  that  the  chromatic  tints 
presented  must  be  due  to  the  combined  in- 
fluence of  the  selective  absorption  of  the 
water  itself  and  the  selective  reflection  from 
the  smaller  suspended  particles.  In  oth- 
er terms,  under  these  conditions,  the  tints 
are  produced  by  the  mingling  of  the  blue 
rays  with  the  yellow,  orange,  or  red,  so  that 
the  resulting  hues  must  generally  be  some 
shade  of  green.  In  short,  all  the  facts  es- 
tablished by  modern  investigations  seem 
to  converge  and  point  to  the  admixture  of 
the  blue  rays  reflected  from  the  smaller 
suspended  particles,  with  the  yellow,  orange 
and  red  rays  reflected  from  the  grosser  mat- 
ters below,  as  the  true  physical  cause  of  the 
green  tints  of  such  waters. 

Harmony  of  Vieivs. — The  establishment 
of  the  very  important  function  of  solid  parti- 
cles held  in  suspension  in  water,  in  produc- 
ing chromatic  modifications,  both  in  the 
scattered  light  and  in  the  transmitted  light, 
serves  to  reconcile  and  to  harmonize  the  ap- 
parent discrepancies  and  contradictions  in 
the  views  of  physicists  who  have  investigated 
the  color  of  water.  We  have  already  seen 
that  Sir  I.  Newton  and  most  of  his  success- 
ors, as  late  as  1847,  regarded  water  as  be- 
longing to  the  opalescent  class  of  liquids, 
in  which  the  diffuse  reflected  light  and  the 
transmitted  light  present  more  or  less  com- 
plementary tints;  the  former  partaking  more 
of  the  colors  constituting  the  blue  end  of 
the  solar  spectrum,  while  the  latter  present- 
ed more  of  the  hues  belonging  to  the  red 
extremity.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  re^ 
cent  and  more  accurate  experiments  render 
it  quite  certain  that  in  distilled  water  the 
rays  of  the  red  end  of  the  spectrum  are 
more  copiously  absorbed  than  those  of  the 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake  Tahoe. 


609 


blue  extremity;  so  that  the  emergent  trans- 
mitted tint  is  yellowish-green  or  greenish- 
blue.  At  first  view,  these  results  appear  to 
be  discordant  and  irreconcilable.  But  it 
will  be  recollected,  that  while  even  the  most 
carefully  distilled  water  contains  a  sufficient 
amount  of  suspended  matter  to  scatter 
enough  light  to  render  the  track  of  travers- 
ing concentrated  solar  beams  visible,  yet  in 
this  case,  the  selective  reflection  of  the  blue 
rays,  due  to  the  suspended  particles,  is  not 
adequate  to  neutralize  the  selective  molecu- 
lar absorption  of  the  rays  towards  the  red 
end  of  the  spectrum.  Nevertheless,  as  has 
been  previously  shown,  the  addition  of  very 
minute  quantities  of  diffused  suspended 
matter  confers  on  distilled  water  the  di- 
chroitic  properties  of  an  opalescent  liquid. 
The  presence  of  an  exceedingly  small 
amount  of  suspended  solid  corpuscles,  by 
selectively  reflecting  the  shorter  waves  of 
light,  is  sufficient  to  neutralize  and  overcome 
the  selectively  absorbent  action  of  the  mole- 
cules of  water  on  the  longer  waves;  and 
thus  to  impart  yellow,  orange  or  red  tints  to 
the  transmitted  beam.  Moreover,  it  is  very 
questionable  whether  any  natural  waters  are 
sufficiently  free  from  suspended  matter  to 
deprive  them  of  these  dichroitic  character- 
istics. Under  this  aspect  of  the  subject, 
the  views  of  Newton  derived  from  the  ob- 
servations of  Halley,  those  of  Hassenfratz 
deduced  from  his  own  experiments,  as  well 
as  the  explanations  of  the  green  tints  of  cer- 
tain waters  given  by  De  Maistre,  Arago  and 
others,  completely  harmonize  with  the  con- 
clusions deducible  from  modern  researches, 
provided  the  property  of  selective  reflection 
is  transferred  from  the  aqueous  molecules  to 
the  finely-divided  particles  held  in  suspen- 
sion. 

As  a  striking  illustration  of  the  slight 
causes  which  sometimes  transform  the  pur- 
est water  into  an  opalescent  or  dichromatic 
liquid,  it  may  be  interesting  to  detail  one  of 
my  own  experiences.  On  the  2ist  of 
December,  1878,  the  series  of  glass  tubes 
employed  in  my  experiments  (as  previously 
indicated)  being  filled  with  distilled  water, 
the  transmitted  solar  beam  presented,  when 
VOL.  II.— 39. 


received  upon  a  white  screen  in  a  darkened 
room,  the  usual  yellowish-green  tint  of  my 
winter  observations.  On  the  24th  of  Decem- 
ber, or  after  an  interval  of  three  days,  during 
which  all  parts  of  the  apparatus  had  remain- 
ed in  situ,  I  was  much  surprised  to  find 
that  the  transmitted  solar  beam  was  en- 
feebled, and  presented  an  orange-red  color 
with  no  tinge  of  green.  Puzzled  to  discover 
what  could  have  produced  so  marked  a 
change  in  the  optical  properties  of  the 
liquid,  the  "scientific  use  of  the  imagina- 
tion" pictured  the  possible  development  of 
ultra-microscopic  germs,  infusoria,  bacteria, 
confervse,  etc.  The  next  day  (Dec.  25th) 
the  same  phenomenon  presented  itself,  when 
I  called  the  attention  of  my  assistant,  Mr. 
August  Harding  (who  had  kindly  prepared 
the  arrangement  of  tubes),  to  the  anomalous 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  the  color  of 
the  transmitted  beam.  He  suggested  that 
as  he  had  used  alcohol  in  cleaning  the  glass 
plate's  closing  the  end  of  the  tubes,  and  as 
the  plates  were  secured  to  corks  by  means 
of  Canada  balsam,  the  alcohol  absorbed  by 
the  corks,  being  gradually  diffused,  dissolved 
some  of  the  balsam,  which  solution  mingling 
with  the  water  might  produce  a  fine  resin- 
ous precipitate,  which  might  stifle  the  trans- 
mitted beam  and  scatter  the  rays  of  shorter 
wave  lengths,  thus  leaving  the  orange-red 
rays  predominant  in  the  emergent  light. 
This  view  was  speedily  verified  by  a  critical 
examination  of  the  track  of  the  traversing 
beam.  A  sensible  turbidity  was  visible  (in 
the  darkened  room)  at  the  extremities  of  the 
column  of  water  adjacent  to  the  corks  secur- 
ing the  glass  plates;  and  the  light  diffused 
laterally  at  these  portions,  when  examined 
by  a  Nicol's  prism,  was  found  to  be  distinct- 
ly polarized.  The  emergent  beam  examin- 
ed by  the  spectroscope  exhibited  orange 
and  red  in  full  intensity;  but  the  yellow  and 
green  were  greatly  diminished.  Ten  days 
later  (Jan.  2nd,  1879),  tne  solar  beam  trav- 
ersing the  same  column  of  water  emerged 
much  brighter  than  on  Christmas  day,  and 
the  tint  was  orange,  tinged  with  yellow  and 
red.  This  long  repose  caused,  doubtless, 
some  of  the  resinous  precipitate  to  become 


610 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake   Tahoe. 


[Dec. 


more  generally  diffused  or  to  subside,  and 
thus  diminished  the  turbidity  of  the  liquid. 
The  recognition  of  the  dichroism  imparted 
to  water  by  the  presence  of  finely  divided 
particles  in  suspension,  serves,  likewise,  to 
harmonize  the  conflicting  views  promulgated 
by  physicists  who  have  studied  the  chromat- 
ic phenomena  presented  by  this  liquid. 
Some  claim  that  the  rays  of  higher  refrangi- 
bility  are  more  copiously  withdrawn  by  ab- 
sorption; while  others  maintain  that  the 
rays  of  longer  wave-lengths  are  more  ab- 
sorbed. In  many  cases,  the  chromatic  tints 
ascribed  to  selective  molecular  absorption 
are,  unquestionably,  due  to  selective  diffuse 
reflection  from  the  ultra-microscopic  corpus- 
cles which  are  held  in  suspension.  ( Vide 
Jamin's  "  Cours  de  Physique,"  2nd  ed.,  tome 
3,  p.  447,  et  seq.} 

Colors  of  Sky  and  Water. — The  consider- 
ation of  the  dichroitic  properties  imparted 
by  the  presence  of  finely  divided  matter  in  a 
state  of  suspension  likewise  harmonizes  the 
views  of  the  older  physicists  with  the  deduc- 
tions from  modern  investigations.  It  was 
long  ago  insisted  that  there  existed  a  com- 
plete analogy  between  the  tints  of  the  sky 
and  those  of  the  purest  natural  waters:  in- 
deed, that  the  causes  of  the  blue  color  of 
the  sky  and  the  red  tints  of  sunrise  and  sun- 
set were  identical  with  those  of  the  pure 
natural  waters  under  corresponding  circum- 
stances. In  other  terms,  that  in  both  cases 
the  blue  tints  are  due  to  reflection,  and  the 
red  to  transmission.  In  relation  to  the  sky, 
these  have  been  long  recognized  as  the  true 
causes  of  its  variable  tints.  Now  we  have 
shown  that  the  light  transmitted  by  a  col- 
umn of  natural  water  is  in  reality  "yellow, 
orange  or  red,  like  the  light  of  sunrise  or 
sunset";  while  the  light  reflected  from  the 
attenuated  suspended  particles  partakes  of 
the  various  shades  of  blue,  like  the  hues  of 
the  sky.  Hence,  the  analogy  is  completely 
verified  upon  the  sure  basis  of  experiment. 

Moreover,  the  thermotic  researches  of 
Prof.  Tyndall  and  others  seem  to  demon- 
strate that  liquids  which  possess  absorb- 
ing qualities  for  radiant  heat  preserve  these 
properties  in  the  gaseous  or  vaporous  states. 


In  other  words,  when  a  liquid  assumes  the 
vaporous  state,  its  power  of  absorbing  heat- 
rays  follows  it  in  its  change  of  physical  con- 
dition. Hence,  it  appears  that  the  absorp- 
tion of  the  thermal-rays  seems  to  depend 
upon  the  individual  molecules  of  the  com- 
pound, and  not  upon  their  state  of  aggrega- 
tion; for  the  change  into  vapor  does  not 
alter  their  relative  powers  of  absorption. 
This  power  asserts  itself  correspondingly  in 
the  liquid  and  in  the  gaseous  states. 

Now,  although  we  have  as  yet  no  direct 
experimental  evidence  in  regard  to  the  rela- 
tive powers  of  absorption  of  various  vapors 
for  the  different  luminous  rays,  yet  these 
thermotic  results  render  it  analogically  pro- 
bable that  vapors  carry  with  them  the  same 
relative  absorbing  powers  for  the  different 
rays  of  light  which  their  liquids  enjoyed. 
Hence  we  may  conclude,  that  if  the  mix- 
ture of  air  and  aqueous  vapor  constituting 
our  atmosphere  were  perfectly  free  from 
suspended  particles  (ultra-microscopic  glob- 
ules of  water  no  less  than  solid  corpuscles), 
it  would  probably,  like  distilled  water,  ab- 
sorb more  copiously  the  rays  forming  the 
red  end  of  the  solar  spectrum  than  those  of 
the  blue  extremity;  so  that  the  green-blue 
tints  would  appear  by  transmitted  light.  But 
as  in  the  case  of  natural  waters,  the  presence 
of  finely  divided  matter  in  a  state  of  sus- 
pension in  the  atmosphere,  by  scattering  the 
shorter  waves  of  light,  neutralizes  and  over- 
comes the  effects  of  selective  molecular  ab- 
sorption; so  that,  in  reality,  yellow,  orange 
and  red  are  the  tints  transmitted  at  sunrise 
and  sunset;  while  the  light  reflected  from 
the  attenuated  suspended  particles  gives  us 
the  blue  color  of  the  sky.  It  thus  appears 
to  be  in  the  highest  degree  probable,  that 
the  dichromatic  properties  of  the  atmosphere 
are  due  to  the  same  physical  causes  as  those 
of  the  waters  of  lakes  and  seas.1 

1  Since  the  above  was  written,  Prof.  S.  P.  Langley 
has  published  the  results  of  his  refined  and  admirable 
experiments  at  Alleghany  in  the  spring  of  1881,  by 
means  of  his  "bolometer."  The  title  of  his  paper  is, 
"The  Selective  Absorption  of  Solar  Energy,"  (Vide 
Am.  Journ.  Sci.  3d.  S.,  vol.  25,  p.  169,  et seq.  March, 
1883.)  but,  when  properly  interpreted,  they  seem  to 
fortify  the  view  above  expressed.  They  indicate  that 


1883.] 


Physical  Studies  of  Lake   Tahoe. 


611 


Cause  of  Other  Colors  of  Certain  Waters. — 
Besides  the  rich  blue  and  green  tints  which 
we  have  been  considering,  the  waters  of 
lakes  and  seas  in  some  places  present  va- 
rious other  hues.  From  the  preceding  dis- 
cussion it  is  evident  that  the  shades  of  color 
presented  to  the  observer  will  depend  upon 
several  circumstances,  viz. :  (a)  The  presence 
of  coloring  matters  in  solution ;  (b}  The 
color  of  the  bottom;  (c)  The  depth  of  wa- 
ter; and  (d)  The  amount  and  character  of 
the  suspended  matter  present. 

(a.)  There  are  certain  natural  waters 
which  obviously  derive  their  colors  from  the 
presence  of  coloring  substances  in  solution. 
In  most  cases  various  organic  matters  seem 
to  be  coloring  agents.  Thus,  the  waters  of 
pools,  ponds,  and  small  lakes,  as  well  as 
those  of  their  tributaries,  in  certain  level 
forest-clad  regions,  frequently  exhibit  various 
shades  of  brown,  and  sometimes  present  a 
rich  sherry  color  when  viewed  in  consider- 
able masses.  These  tints,  doubtless,  arise 
from  the  diluted  colored  infusions  produced 
by  the  percolation  of  the  meteoric  waters 
through  decaying  leaves  and  other  organic 
substances. 

(l>).  The  color  of  the  bottom,  when  the 
water  is  sufficiently  shallow  to  reflect  back 

some  fifty-four  per  cent,  of  the  long-wave  (infra-red) 
solar  energy  is  transmitted  through  the  air  at  low-sun; 
and  only  about  eight  per  cent,  of  short-wave  (ultra-vio- 
let) radiation  reaches  us  under  similar  circumstances. 
Prof.  Langley  ascribes  this  difference  to  the  greater  ' '  se- 
lective absorption  "  of  the  short-waves  by  the  atmosphere; 
but  it  is  obvious  that  the  greater  selective  reflection  of 
these  waves  would  produce  identical  phenomena.  In 
fact,  as  we  have  seen,  Tyndall's  experiments  seem  to 
show  that  these  short-waves  are  not  absorbed  by  the  at- 
mosphere, but  are  selectively  reflected  from  the  ultra-mi- 
croscopic corpuscles  which  are  held  in  suspension. 
Hence,  we  conclude  that  the  results  recorded  by  Lang- 
ley  are  not  due  to  selective  absorption,  but  to  selective 
reflection:  so  that  a  slight  freedom  of  interpretation 
brings  these  experimental  results  into  harmony  with 
those  deduced  from  experiments  on  the  natural  waters. 
The  green  sun  occasionally  seen  in  India  (or  else- 
where) just  preceding  the  beginning  of  the  rainy  season, 
(Nature,  vol.  28,  p.  575  and  p.  588.  Oct.,  1883)  may 
be  due  to  the  selectively  absorbent  action  of  the  enor- 
mous quantity  of  aqueous  vapor  in  the  atmosphere  on 
the  red  end  of  the  spectrum,  neutralizing  and  overcom- 
ing the  effect  of  the  removal  of  the  short-waves  by  select- 
ive reflection  from  the  suspended  matter.  In  other 
cases,  the  phenomenon  may  be  due  to  volcanic  products 
projected  into  the  atmosphere. 


to  the  observer  more  or  less  of  the  trans- 
mitted light,  must  evidently  modify  the  re- 
sultant tint  presented  to  the  eye.  According 
as  the  bottom  exhibits  various  shades  of 
white,  green,  yellow,  brown  or  red,  the  ming- 
ling of  these  tints  with  the  blue  reflected 
from  the  suspended  particles  in  the  inter- 
vening stratum  of  water  must  give  rise  to 
various  chromatic  hues,  from  bluish-green  to 
yellowish-red.  There  is  much  uncertainty 
in  relation  to  the  origin  of  the  color-desig- 
nation of  the  Red  Sea;  but  it  is  by  no 
means  improbable  that  it  arose  from  the 
abundance  of  red  coral  found  in  it,  which 
imparts  a  reddish  tint  to  the  waters  occupy- 
ing the  shallow  portions.  The  waters  of 
the  Bay  of  Loango,  on  the  western  coast  of 
tropical  Africa,  have  been  observed  to  be  al- 
ways strongly  reddish,  as  if  mixed  with  blood, 
and  Captain  Tuckey  assures  us  that  the  bot- 
tom of  this  bay  is  very  red. 

(c.}  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remark 
that,  as  the  tint  of  the  light  coming  from  the 
bottom  to  the  observer  is  modified  by  the 
thickness  of  the  intervening  stratum  of 
liquid,  the  color  due  to  the  mingling  of  it 
with  the  blue  reflected  from  the  suspended 
particles  must  depend,  to  some  extent,  upon 
the  depth  of  water  as  well  as  the  hue  of  the 
bottom. 

(d.}  Lastly,  it  is  very  obvious  that  the 
amount  and  character  of  the  suspended 
matter  existing  in  the  water  must,  more  or 
less,  modify  the  color  presented  to  the  ob- 
server. Near  the  mouths  of  rivers  the  sea 
exhibits  tints  evidently  depending  upon  the 
color  of  the  suspended  materials  discharged 
into  it.  Thus,  the  Yellow  Sea  derives  its 
name  from  the  hue  imparted  to  its  waters 
by  the  large  amount  of  yellow  sediment  dis- 
charged into  it  by  the  Hoang  Ho  and  Yang- 
tse-Kiang. 

Moreover,  the  variety  of  colors  of  the  waters 
of  the  seas  may,  in  many  instances,  be  traced 
to  myriads  of  living  vegetable  and  animal  or- 
ganisms diffused  in  the  liquid..  The  unfor- 
tunate Captain  Tuckey,  while  navigating  the 
seas  on  the  western  coast  of  tropical  Africa, 
found  that  the  waters  began  to  grow  white 
on  entering  the  Gulf  of  Guinea;  and  in  the 


612  Leisure.  [Dec. 

vicinity  of   Prince's   Island   his   vessel   ap-  the  presence  of  a  minute,  thread-like,  dark 

peared  to  be  moving  in  a  sea  of  milk.     He  red  oscillatoria  or  alga.     The  same  alga  was 

ascribed  this  white  color  of  the  water  to  the  observed  by  Dupont  and  by  Darwin  as  im- 

multitude  of  minute  animals  (many  of  them  parting  a  similar  tint  to  certain  areas  of  the 

phosphorescent)   diffused  near  the  surface,  oceanic  waters.     In  other  cases  the  sea  is 

which  completely  masked  the  natural  tint  of  colored  red  by  animals  of  different  kinds,  as 

the  liquid.     In  like  manner,   according   to  by  minute  crustaceans  or  infusoriae.     Thus 

the  observations  of  Captain   Scoresby,  the  in  the  Gulf  of  California  two  distinct  shades 

olive-green  waters  of  certain  portions  of  the  of  red  are  produced  by  the  presence  of  dif- 

Arctic  Seas  owe  their  color  to  the  presence  ferent   microscopic   infusorise.     Again,    the 

of  myriads  of  medusas  and  other  animalcules,  presence  of  diatoms  frequently  gives  rise  to 

The  illustrious  Ehrenberg  having  observed  various  colorings  in  the  waters  in  certain  re- 

that  the  waters  of  the  Gulf  of  Tor,  in  the  gions  of  the  sea;  and  the  local  development 

Gulf  of  Suez,  were  colored  blood-red,  sub-  of  bacteria  has  often  given  origin  to  the  ap- 

jected  a  portion  of  them  to  microscopic  ex-  parently  mysterious  appearance  of    bloody 

animation,  and  found  the  color  to  be  due  to  spots  extending  over  very  limited  areas. 

John  Le  Conte. 


LEISURE. 
Written  in  La  Paz,  Mexico. 

Sweet  Leisure,  welcome  !    Lo  !    I  run  to  thee, 
Fall  at  thy  feet  and  kiss  them  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Not  since  my  childhood's  hours  have  I  been  free 
To  lay  my  cheek  to  thine,  or  hold  thee  more 

Than  one  short  moment  in  a  fond  embrace : 

Can  it  be  true  I  meet  thee  face  to  face  ? 

And  stranger,  if  'tis  true  that  thou  art  mine, 

Hard  to  believe,  and  harder  still  to  doubt 
When  thy  soft  arms  so  tenderly  entwine 

My  weary,  languid  form  around  about; 
And  thy  calm  voice  rehearses  in  mine   ear 
The  love  of  him  who  gently  bore  me  here 
To  meet  thee,  'neath  the  palms  beside  the   sea, 

That  I  my  fevered,  restless  feet  might  lave 
(Thy  magic  hand  all  gently  soothing  me) 

In  the  cool  waters  of  the  crystal  wave, 
Far  from  the  world,  apart,  with  thee  to  rest, 
Yet  in  a  world  complete — supremely  blest. 

Sweet  Leisure  !     while  within  my  soul  the  bliss 
Of  meeting  thee  stirs  every  pulse  and  thought; 

While  nerve  elated,  and  from  happiness 
To  rhapsody  the  senses  high  are  wrought; 

Ere  yet  within  thy  atmosphere  they  gain 

A  mood  too  tranquil,  listen  to  my  strain: 


1883.]  Leisure.  613 

Thou  art  the  Queen  of  gifts  bestowed  by  heaven, 

For  thou  in  turn  dost  richest  gifts  bestow; 
Unto  thy  hand  a  universe  is  given, 

Unto  thy  feet  are  pathways  few   may  know, 
Yet  rich  in  treasure — atoms  from  the  tide, 
And  spheres  that  circle  us  on  every  side 

Displaying  mysteries  they  cannot  solve, 
Unto  the  wise,  and  truths  none   dare   displace, 

While   from  those  truths  crude  theories   evolve, 
Whereby,    with   labored   thought   they   dimly   trace 

The   outline   of  a   Universe   so   grand 

That   they   are   mute   with   awe;   and   wondering,    stand 
As   on   a   threshold,    quivering   with    delight, 

And   thrilled   with   joy   at   what   they   have   attained, 
Yet   half  dismayed   when   on   a   nearer   sight 

Mysteries   on   mysteries   multiply,    as   though   ordained 
To   whisper   in   man's   dull,    reluctant   ear, 
To   finite   minds   a   limit   and   a   sphere. 

Rebuffed,  not  baffled  !  back  they  questioning  turn 
To  probe  that  mind,  and  analyze,  and  weigh, 

Hoping  perchance  its  mysteries  to  discern, 
Or  gain  some  subtle  clue  whereby  they  may 

Grope  through  dark  labyrinths,  and  hail  the  sea 

Of  an  eternal  past  or  broad  futurity. 

To  those  alone  on  whom  thy  hand   resting 

In   benison  (the  world  afar)  is  given 
The  joy  of  such  research — to  those  who  vesting 

All  their  intellectual  wealth  have  interwoven 
The  lore  of  generations  with  their  own, 
And  from  thee  won  rare  treasure — else   unknown —    . 

Treasure  of  knowledge  that  through  lengthened  train 
Of  keen  deduction  and  analogy  is  led 

By  deeper  knowledge  perforce  to  regain 
The  height  from  which  the  great  and  eager  fled; 

Seeking  by  reason  Nature's  truths  concealed, 

Ere  giving  faith  to  those  same  truths  revealed. 

Come,  blessed  Leisure,  bringing  unto  me, 

Thy  gentle  daughter,  tender,  pensive  Thought, 
Whose  unobtrusive  grace  on  waste,  on   sea, 

Oft  to  my  soul   companionship   hath   brought ; 
When    she   is   nigh   no   solitude,   no   night, 
But  sweet  society  and  glorious  light. 

Here   let  me   rest   reclining   in   thine   arms, 
My  duties   past — my   joys   what   thou  may'st  give 

'Neath  skies  resplendent  with   their   tropic   charms, 
Let   me   one   blessing   from   thee   now  receive: 

Awake   mine   ear  to   hear  and  understand 

The  rich    wild    notes   of  this  far  border-land. 

Margaret  A.  Brooks. 


614 


Incidents  of  Horseback  Travel  in  an  Indian   Country. 


[Dec. 


INCIDENTS   OF   HORSEBACK  TRAVEL   IN   AN  INDIAN   COUNTRY. 


MIGRATORS  on  horseback  in  a  semi-wild- 
erness, as  well  as  nomads  of  other  quarters, 
or  people  living  quietly  elsewhere,  are  lia- 
ble any  day  to  contact  with  o.ne  or  both  of 
the  two  existing  distinct  species  of  savage — 
the  real  and  the  imaginary.  Both  of  these 
gloat  over  their  unholy  triumphs,  yet  they 
are  very  unlike.  The  real  savage  is  a  crea- 
ture to  be  dreaded,  whether  found  in  a 
palace  of  art  and  luxury  and  in  a  select 
community,  or  roving  in  Nature's  solitudes 
among  the  unexplored  mountains  of  new 
territory.  The  imaginary  savage,  too,  is  a 
formidable  enemy.  He  is  one  of  those 
heartless  practical  jokers  who  deserve  the 
worst  punishment,  but  never  get  any.  He 
is  ever  mocking,  scoffing  and  menacing;  he 
is  a  -bug-a-boo,  always  threatening.  He 
neither  shoots,  scalps,  nor  strikes  with  his 
tomahawk;  but  he  might  almost  as  well  do 
so,  for  he  never  fails,  when  present,  to  make 
you  believe  he  will  do  it  the  very  next 
minute.  While  you  live  in  the  awful  sus- 
pense of  what  seems  your  inevitable  fate, 
your  nerves  are  shocked  and  your  hair  gets 
a  fit  of  curiosity,  as  it  were,  and  stands  up 
on  end  to  take  a  bird's  eye  view  of  the 
wicked  wretch ;  and  by  the  time  you  succeed 
in  making  it  lie  down  in  obedience  to  your 
will,  you  discover  that  you  are  growing  pre- 
maturely gray.  Then  you  rail  at  credulous 
fools  and  mythical  monsters  until  tired,  and, 
finally,  you  wind  up  with  a  spiritless  laugh 
and  the  stereotyped  words  :  "  Next  time  I'll 
examine  him  .before  taking  alarm."  But 
the  next  adventure  with  this  jester  comes  in 
due  time,  and  then  you  go  through  the  or- 
deal as  if  you  had  never  known  a  trickster. 

The  imaginary  species  of  savage  is  manu- 
factured from  boulders,  trunks  of  trees, 
chaparral,  barked  stumps,  the  shadows  of 
moving  branches,  four-footed  animals  and 
the  like.  They  are  not  long-lived,  but  active 
and  mischievous  enough  to  make  up  for  that. 
They  spring  into  existence  in  a  twinkling, 


and  no  one  mourns  their  loss  if  they  die 
the  next  minute.  We  have  all  seen  a  few  or 
more  of  them,  for  they  are  native  to  every 
clime. 

In  January,  '70,  eight  horsemen  were  trav- 
eling through  the  northeastern  part  of  Ari- 
zona. About  noon  one  day  they  met  three 
Navajoes,  apparently  friendly,  who  said  they 
were  hunting  strayed  ponies.  Their  peace- 
fulness,  however,  was  somewhat  doubtful, 
and  the  migrating  party  concluded  to  keep  a 
lookout  for  pits,  and  for  the  possible  sudden 
surprise  of  greater  forces. 

The  Indians  passed  on,  and  a  mile  be- 
yond the  travelers  came  upon  two  Cornish 
miners  in  camp,  but  crossing  the  country  on 
foot,  with  a  burro  to  carry  their  food  and 
blankets.  They  had  been  a  quartette  party, 
but  in  passing  them  the  three  Indians  had 
shot  their  dog,  and  they  were  bemoaning 
the  loss  of  their  faithful  night  guard.  They 
were,  too,  considerably  alarmed  for  their 
own  safety;  and  thinking  they  could  better 
evade  the  hostiles  if  alone,  they  offered 
to  sell  the  jack  for  almost  nothing.  The 
bargain  was  made,  and  the  larger  party 
moved  on.  Shortly  after,  when  a  favorable 
browsing  patch  was  found  for  their  horses, 
they  camped  for  a  lunch  and  rest.  While 
they  were  eating,  one  of  the  men  concluded 
that  he  would  like  to  send  a  message  back 
to  Prescott,  and  that  while  his  comrades 
were  dozing  and  smoking  he  would  walk 
back  to  the  Cornish  camp  and  ask  this  favor. 

Jo  took  an  ordinary  length  of  time  in 
going  the  mile's  distance,  but  it  took  him 
only  a  short  time  to  return,  and  with  so 
ghostly  a  face  that  the  sight  of  it  made  his 
seven  friends  each  snatch  up  his  gun  and 
run  for  his  horse.  Between  the  camps  were 
ridges,  gullies,  pines  and  leafless  trees,  ample 
shelter  for  any  number  of  foes  to  lie  in 
ambush,  or  steal  upon  them  to  a  rifle-shot 
reach;  yet  nothing  uncanny  was  visible. 
The  men  were  soon  on  their  journey  again. 


1883.] 


Incidents  of  Horseback  Travel  in  an  Indian   Country. 


615 


and  by  this  time  Jo  had  recovered  his  normal 
state  sufficiently  to  tell  what  was  amiss. 

"No;  I  didn't  see  a  single  Indian,"  he 
replied,  in  answer  to  the  questions  of  his 
anxious  friends. 

"  What,  then?"  they  all  asked  in  a  chorus, 
for  they  were  all  impressed  with  the  one 
idea  that  a  great  body  of  savages  was  plot- 
ting and  maneuvering  in  some  of  the  neigh- 
boring ravines. 

"Not  an  Indian;  but  what  do  you  think 
I  found?  The  two  Cornishmen  killed, 
scalped  and  mutilated  in  a  manner  to  defy 
description.  I  could  n't  stop  to  examine 
the  premises,  but  in  my  opinion  the  three 
Navajoes  came  back  and  done  it.  That 
camp  was  just  about  their  size." 

The  Indians,  as  was  evident  by  this  piece 
of  work,  had  no  confederates  near  at  hand, 
or  they  would  have  attacked  the  larger  party 
in  preference ;  but  they  must  have  had  a 
grievance,  real  or  imaginary,  to  avenge,  or 
they  would  not  have  returned  to  kill  the 
two ;  for  there  was  no  plunder  to  be  got  by 
it  except  a  couple  of  blankets,  a  few  pounds 
of  flour,  bacon,  coffee  and  sugar.  Even  the 
donkey  had  disappeared  in  their  short  ab- 
sence. 

The  horsemen  rode  on  fifteen  to  eighteen 
miles,  and  at  dusk  located  their  camp  in  a 
choice  spot  on  the.  banks  of  the  Chiquito 
Colorado.  The  river  at  that  point  had  a 
bend,  enclosing  on  three  sides  a  peninsula 
of  four  or  five  acres.  The  banks  on  both 
sides  were  ten  to  twelve  feet,  and  perpendic- 
ular. The  weather  was  quite  cold,  and 
though  snow  on  the  level  lay  only  in  sparse- 
ly scattered  patches,  the  river  had  ice  on 
either  side,  while  the  running  water  was 
more  or  less  congealed.  On  one  side  was  a 
beaver  dam.  The  less  active  water  remind- 
ed the  travelers  of  their  porridge  suppers 
while  they  were  youngsters  in  backwoods 
cabins  away  off  in  the  States.  Trees  grew 
in  abundance  on  the  enclosed  field,  and 
there  was  enough  dry  grass  for  the  occasion ; 
so  the  horses  were  turned  in,  and  the  party 
made  their  camp  in  the  neck  of  the  penin- 
sula, which  had  a  breadth  of  about  two 
hundred  feet. 


They  had  some  fear  the  Navajoes  would 
find  reinforcements  and  pursue  them,  or  if 
not,  other  straggling  bands  might  spy  them. 
Located  as  they  were,  however,  an  attack 
could  not  be  made  without  their  enemies 
risking  their  own  lives.  The  guard  had 
only  the  one  side  to  watch,  as  the  Indians 
could  not  profit  by  firing  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river.  The  cliffy  banks  offered 
them  no  shelter  from  view,  while  the  trees 
gave  the  campers  an  extra  advantage.  Thu*s 
they  were  quite  comfortably  quartered  for  a 
night's  rest. 

It  is  a  strange  truth  that  the  bravest  of 
men,  and  those  most  cool-headed  and  wick- 
ed in  times  of  real  danger — almost  certain 
death — get  sometimes  utterly  helpless  with 
fright  while  they  are  threatened  by  no 
danger  whatever.  At  such  times  they  often 
act  in  a  most  ridiculous  manner,  or  walk 
aimlessly  around  and  around,  staring  at 
every  bush,  but  making  no  effort  to  leave 
the  place  which  they  think  holds  their  un- 
avoidable destroyers.  I  have  known  men 
to  get  these  fits  who  had  had  much  experi- 
ence in  frontier  adventures,  and  to  walk  for 
hours  over  a  little  patch  of  ground  until 
their  friends  found  them  and  carried  them 
away  bodily,  while  neither  an  Indian  nor  a 
sign  of  one  had  been  discovered  by  the 
temporary  lunatic  or  by  any  one  else. 

When  the  campers  retired  for  the  night 
it  was  Jo's  turn  to  stand  as  first  guardsman; 
and  never  had  he  dreaded  it  as  he  did  then. 
He  held  his  peace,  not  wanting  to  be  a 
laughing-stock  for  his  companions;  but  his 
nerves  had  received  a  shock  at  noon  that  had 
brought  on  one  of  these  fits  of  fright,  and 
life  had  become  for  the  time  being  an  un- 
interrupted nightmare.  The  sight  he  had 
seen  haunted  him  persistently ;  every  shrub 
took  the  form  of  a  crouching  savage. 

The  seven  men  lay  down  in  a  row,  each 
rolled  up  in  his  respective  blanket  head  and 
ears,  and  soon  they  were  snoring  like  so 
many  steam  engines.  Ward,  who  was  to 
relieve  Jo  after  a  two  hours'  watch,  woke  up 
shortly,  and  seeing  Jo  standing  beside  him, 
his  knees  rattling  together,  and  his  whole 
frame  shaking,  asked  what  was  the  matter. 


616 


Incidents  of  Horseback  Travel  in  an  Indian  Country. 


[Dec. 


"Matter  enough!"  said  Jo,  his  teeth  chat- 
tering. "I'll  tell  you,  Ward,  this  is  the  cold- 
est night  I  ever  experienced.  I  do  believe 
I'm  froze  stiff  as  a  poker !  The  wind  is  just 
whistling  through  every  bone  in  my  body  ! 
The  tree-trunks,  too,"  he  added,  gladder 
than  he  wished  to  acknowledge  that  he  had 
one  of  the  seven  to  talk  to,  "keep  skulking 
around  each  other,  though  the  horses  don't 
seem  to  mind  it;  and  that  awful  burro,  he 
hangs  around  camp  here :  and  no  matter 
which  way  he  turns  he  looks  for  all  the 
world  like  a  Navajo  !" 

"Build  a  fire,  Jo,  if  you  are  cold,"  said 
Ward,  understanding  but  feigning  ignorance 
of  what  was  the  matter  with  the  sentinel. 

"Do  you  think  I  want  to  make  a  target 
of  myself?"  returned  Jo.  "It  would  be  the 
death  of  the  last  one  of  us.  I  wish  that 
jack  were  in  Halifax!" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Ward,  the  only  one  of 
the  party  who  thought  their  camp  absolutely 
safe:  "build  just  a  little  bit  of  a  fire,,  and 
hide  it  on  the  dangerous  side  by  your  blank- 
et"; and  Jo  was  at  length  persuaded  to  try  the 
experiment,  while  his  adviser  sat  up  to  watch 
for  intruders  upon  their  grounds. 

A  handful  of  dry  grass,  weed-stalks  and 
twigs  was  soon  gathered.  To  the  guard's 
consternation,  as  soon  as  the  match  ignited 
them  they  blazed  up  over  his  head.  Jo 
would  have  smothered  out  the  fire  instantly, 
but  his  friend  got  up  and  insisted  on  letting 
some  of  the  less  unruly  twigs  burn.  The  fire, 
reduced  to  about  three  inches  of  a  flickering 
flame,  and  sheltered  by  a  blanket  held  up 
on  two  sides,  could  only  be  seen  at  a  certain 
point  on  either  side  of  the  peninsula.  Jo 
was  getting  a  little  warm,  perhaps  as  much 
by  the  wide-awake  presence  of  his  friend  as 
by  the  heat  of  the  fire,  when  suddenly  a 
great  disturbance  was  heard  in  the  water. 

Jo  was  panic-stricken  in  a  moment.  "In- 
dians, boys,  Indians!"  he  cried;  "they're 
crossing  the  river  and  will  be  over  the  bank 
in  a  minute!"  kicking  the  fire  right  and  left, 
and  making  the  burning  sticks  fly  high  in 
the  air,  while  the  coals  and  cinders  were  cast 
into  the  faces  of  the  six,  who  had  been 
awakened  by  the  lively  splashing,  and  had 


jumped  to  their  feet  trying  to  realize  what 
had  happened. 

Through  the  display  of  fireworks,  Jo 
stood,  a  kicking  central  figure,  like  a  verita- 
ble savage  in  a  fantastic  war-dance.  For  a 
few  moments  all  was  confusion;  then  the 
wreck  was  deserted,  and  each  man  stationed 
himself  behind  a  tree,  his  gun  aimed  at  the 
bank  overlooking  the  dam,  and  his  finger  on 
the  trigger. 

Then  the  minutes  seemed  to  lengthen  into 
hours.  As  no  dusky  heads  rose  up  over  the 
brink,  and  nothing  further  could  be  heard  or 
seen,  they  began  by-and-by,  in  low  tones,  to 
consult  each  other's  opinions  as  to  the  mys- 
tery. One  suggested  that  the  brink  had 
caved  in  and  dumped  a  horse  overboard. 
Positive  in  this  belief,  he  crawled  off  on  all 
fours  to  reconnoitre;  but  he  soon  returned, 
having  counted  the  number  and  found  them 
all  safe.  His  next  theory  was  that  it  was 
nothing  but  a  cave;  but  he  was  alone  in  this 
belief  too,  for  they  all  knew  well  enough  that 
rocks  and  inanimate  earth  could  not  floun- 
der, flap  and  flounce  to  make  such  a  sound 
as  they  had  heard.  The  intruders,  they  be- 
gan to  think,  had  been  taken  with  cramps  in 
the  icy  water  and  had  drowned.  At  length 
one  of  them  crept  away  to  the  bank  to  take 
notes,  and  discovering  the  mischief  makers, 
he  called  out  with  more  cheer  than  elo- 
quence: 

"We're  a  lot  of  chuckle-headed  fools. 
Who  .ever  heard  of  Indians  trying  to  steal 
into  anyone's  camp,  and  then  making  such  a 
noise  about  it?  We're  a  nicely  hoaxed  com- 
munity for  this  night.  Come  here,  boys, 
and  see  your  Navajoes.  These  black  rascals 
have  been  playing  a  practical  joke  on  us.  I 
say,  Jo,  where  did  all  that  fire  come  from? 
I  thought  a  volcano  had  bursted  out  right 
under  my  nose." 

All  hastened  to  the  bank  to  satisfy  their 
curiosity,  and  saw  in  the  middle  of  the  dam 
a  family  of  restless  beavers.  The  man  was 
right ;  they  were  the  savages.  The  first 
flash  of  Jo's  fire  had  thrown  a  light  over  the 
dam,  and  brought  them  to  the  surface  to 
study  the  phenomenon ;  but  the  fire  had 
been  put  out  too  quickly  for  them.  Filled 


1883.] 


Tim's  History. 


617 


with  apprehension,  however,  they  had  skir- 
mished around  in  the  dam  until  they  caught 
a  second  glimpse  from  the  rift  between  the 
two  shielding  blankets,  and  had  all  simulta- 
neously given  the  signal  of  danger,  which  is 
done  by  lifting  the  tail  in  the  air  and  bring- 


ing the  flat  side  of  it  down  on  the  water,  with 
all  possible  force. 

When  the  excitement  of  the  false  alarm 
had  subsided,  Ward  went  on  duty,  but  Jo 
did  not  sleep  much,  as  the  burro  kept  on 
looking  like  a  Navajo. 

N.  Dagmar  Manager. 


TIM'S    HISTORY. 


"Ix's  nigh  onter  sixteen  year  ago  that 
I  brought  that  ere  dog  home,"  said  Old  Man 
Tompkins,  filling  his  pipe  and  ramming  the 
tobacco  home  by  means  of  a  little  oak  stick 
carried  for  the  purpose.  His  fingers  being 
all  far  too  large  for  the  performance  of  that 
office,  the  oak  stick  was  naturally  his  insep- 
arable companion.  "Yes,  it's  full  sixteen 
year;  and  then  I  was  livin'  about  a  hundred 
miles  nigher  the  coast,  down  to  a  place  they 
called  Spanish  City,  though  there  warn't  no 
city  there — nothin'  but  a  store,  and  a  gin- 
mill,  and  a  blacksmith's  shop,  and  the  dig- 
gin's — that's  all.  O'  course  there  was  a  few 
houses,  but  mighty  few,  and  mine  warn't  by 
no  means  the  handsomest  o'  the  lot.  There 
were  mighty  few  on  us  'at  struck  pay  gravel 
at  Spanish  City,  and  that  dog's  master  warn't 
one  on  'em.  Tell  you  Tim's  history?  Sar- 
tin,  gen'lm'n,  if  you'd  like  to  hear  it;  but  I 
didn't  reckon  you  would." 

It  was  a  December  evening  in  the  South- 
ern Sierras;  a  late  rain  had  awakened  the 
slumbering  trees,  sent  the  sap  coursing  anew 
through  their  drowsy  veins,  and  brought 
out  a  fresh  spring  crop  of  leaves.  The  day 
had  been  warm  and  heavy,  heavy  with  the 
languor  of  an  early  spring  day  on  the  Atlan- 
tic coast;  but  the  evening  breeze  was  a  little 
chill,  slightly  suggestive  of  camp-fires  and 
blankets. 

My  friend  Randall  and  I  had  had  a  long 
and  toilsome  journey  of  it.  He  was  a  tax- 
idermist, giving  his  attention  more  particu- 
larly to  the  capture  and  preparation  of  rare 
birds  for  museums,  colleges  and  private  col- 
lections. Each  year  he  made  an  excursion 
into  some  remote  corner  of  the  earth,  and 


having  secured  and  skinned  his  feathered 
prizes,  returned  to  civilization,  and  mounted 
them  at  his  leisure.  On  this  particular  ex- 
pedition I,  Sam  Clover,  had  accompanied 
him ;  first,  for  the  benefit  of  my  health, 
which  had  begun  to  suffer  through  too  much 
office  work;  and  second,  that  I  might  "write 
up"  this  region  for  the  benefit  of  the  journal 
of  whose  staff  I  was  an  ornament.  We  had 
left  Denver  early  in  the  fall,  taking  with  us 
an  outfit  of  horses,  pack-animals,  native  driv- 
ers, and  a  companion  or  two  bent  on  mis- 
sions like  unto  our  own.  Altogether,  we 
were  quite  a  formidable  little  caravan,  and 
thought  we  could  safely  bid  defiance  to  In- 
dians or  grizzlies.  We  had  traveled  leisure- 
ly and  met  with  no  serious  mishaps,  but  had 
filled  our  packs  with  treasures  prized  by  the 
geologist,  the  botanist,  and  the  taxidermist 
of  our  party.  We  had  successfully  avoided 
Death  Valley  and  other  fatal  spots,  where  it 
had  been  too  much  the  custom  for  emigrants 
to  strew  their  bones  by  the  wayside.  We 
had  crossed  spur  after  spur  of  the  Sierras  on 
the  Pacific  slope,  working  gradually  down 
toward  the  sea.  And  in  a  shady  nook,  near 
the  mouth  of  a  large  canon,  we  had  found 
"Old  Man  Tompkins's  shanty,"  as  Hawkins, 
our  chief  guide,  called  it — the  first  white 
man's  habitation  we  had  seen  in  many  a  long 
day. 

It  was  a  log-cabin,  old  and  moss-grown; 
a  "shanty"  of  quite  a  superior  order,  for 
it  boasted  two  rooms,  four  windows,  and  a 
well-defined  chimney.  Between  the  logs 
were  wide  crevices,  originally  filled  with 
adobe  clay;  but  now,  in  many  places,  giv- 
ing free  access  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 


618 


Tim's  History. 


[Dec. 


Across  the  center  of  the  door,  in  the  place 
usually  occupied  by  a  door-plate,  some  hu- 
morous individual  had  chalked  "Tomp- 
kins"; while  the  upper  portion  was  occupied 
by  a  spirited  sketch  of  a  man  on  horseback, 
intended  as  Hawkins  informed  us,  for  a 
likeness  of  the  "old  man  himself." 

Behind  the  house  ran  "the  creek,"  a  swift 
mountain  stream,  which  flowed  above  or  be- 
low ground,  as  the  fancy  took  it — just  here 
preferring  to  wind  its  way  in  the  bright  light 
of  day.  Beside  it  wound  the  trail  by  which 
we  had  just  come.  Down  below  lay  a  sea 
of  little  hills,  melting  away  into  dimness  and 
distance;  while  up  above  and  behind  us 
rose  the  tall  peaks  of  the  Sierras — golden 
silhouettes,  drawn  sharply  against  the  blue 
of  the  sky.  Up  above  the  "shanty"  roof 
towered  the  twelve-foot  flower  stalk  of  a 
yucca,  or  "Spanish  bayonet"  in  full  bloom, 
looking  like  a  huge  candelabrum,  all  alight 
with  dulcet  white  blossoms.  A  couple  of 
live  oaks  had  somehow  slipped  out  of  the 
canon  and  into  the  open,  where  they  afford- 
ed a  grateful  shade,  the  one  to  the  shanty 
door  and  the  other  to  the  not  far  distant 
corral.  Down  the  trail  an  inferior  shanty 
or  two  could  be  seen ;  and  not  far  off  the  un- 
mistakable traces  of  placer  mining  on  a  small 
scale. 

The  log-house  door  stood  hospitably  open 
— indeed,  there  was  strong  matter  for  doubt 
whether  it  had  been  closed  for  a  month  past. 
In  the  doorway  stood  its  master,  a  tall,  gaunt, 
muscular  old  man,  with  a  pair  of  gray  eyes, 
keen  yet  kindly,  and  a  wealth  of  gray  hair 
flowing  freely  over  shoulders  and  breast. 
Evidently  barbers  were  a  rarity  at  "Tomp- 
kins's  Claim."  His  dress  was  like  that  of 
most  border  men,  not  particularly  neat,  and 
certainly  far  from  gaudy.  A  gray  flannel 
shirt,  cinnamon  colored  water-proof  trousers, 
a  pair  of  gigantic  boots,  evidently  intended 
for  use  in  the  diggings,  and  an  ancient  som- 
brero completed  his  outfit.  Close  beside 
him  stood  an  aged  mastiff,  blinking  and 
drowsing  in  the  sun.  As  we  drew  near,  both 
dog  and  master  advanced  to  greet  us,  the 
latter  extending  the  hand  of  welcome  to  the 
foremost  of  our  party. 


"Wai,  gen'lm'n,"said  Old  Man  Tompkins, 
as  our  weary  cavalcade  paused  before  his 
door:  "I'm  glad  to  see  yer.  Reckon  yer'd 
better  stop  a  spell  and  rest  yerselves — looks 
as  though  that  pinto  was  pretty  nigh  petered 
out.  H'are  yer,  Jim?"  nodding  to  our  guide. 
"Come  in,  gen'lm'n,  come  in, — room  for 
all." 

So  we  dismounted,  took  the  saddles  off 
our  weary  horses,  and  settled  down  for  a  day 
or  two's  rest.  We  had  canned  vegetables  in 
plenty,  and  had  brought  in  game  enough  to 
last  for  a  week.  So  we  accepted  the  old 
gentleman's  hospitality  with  clear  conscien- 
ces, and  soon  were  cooking  our  own  supper 
in  the  kitchen,  the  smaller  of  the  two  rooms. 
The  larger  apartment  was  parlor,  bedroom, 
and  dining-room  all  combined.  On  two 
sides  were  placed  bunks  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  stray  travelers  like  ourselves;  in 
the  center  was  a  rough  table,  on  the  walls  a 
few  gaudy  lithographs  and  a  cracked  looking- 
glass.  The  hearth  was  wide  and  deep,  and 
on  it  crackled  and  flamed  a  fine  wood  fire. 
It  was  after  supper,  when  we  had  all  lighted 
our  pipes  and  drawn  around  this  cheerful 
blaze,  that  I  asked  him  about  the  dog. 

"So  yer  want  ter  hear  Tim's  history,  do 
yer?"  resumed  Old  Man  Tompkins,  after  a 
five  minutes'  pause,  apparently  spent  in  ret- 
rospection. "What  made  yer  think  Tim 
had  a  history  ?  Most  old  dogs  have  ?  Wai, 
p'raps  you're  right — they're  like  most  old 
men  in  that,  I  reckon.  Tim  hasn't  much 
of  a  one,  but  yer  shall  hear  what  he  has. 

"Yes,  it's  full  sixteen  year  ago  that  Tim 
and  me  was  first  acquainted,  and  we've 
been  fast  friends  ever  since,  haint  we,  Tim  ?" 
he  added,  pulling  the  dog's  ragged  ears,  and 
patting  his  sturdy  sides  till  it  seemed  as 
though  Tim's  ribs  would  crack  beneath  his 
master's  fervent  caresses.  He  was  a  very 
aged  dog,  this  old  Tim,  and  showed  it  in 
every  hair  of  his  rough  old  coat.  He  stood 
higher  than  his  master's  knee,  was  deep- 
chested  and  bull-necked ;  was  the  owner  of 
a  long  and  graceful  tail,  which  waved  cour- 
teously when  said  owner  was  addressed  by 
a  stranger,  but  quivered  with  delight  when 
called  into  motion  by  Old  Man  Tompkins's 


1883.] 


Tim's  History. 


619 


attentions.  His  original  color  had  been  a 
dusky  brown,  but  time  had  interspersed  so 
many  gray  hairs  among  those  of  a  darker 
hue  that  it  had  now  changed  to  a  light  pep- 
per and  salt.  His  ears  bore  scars  of  battles, 
presumably  fought  long  ago  in  his  lusty 
youth ;  while  his  sides  still  showed  marks  of 
a  severe  clawing  undergone  in  by-gone  days 
at  the  paws  of  some  wildcat  or  "painter." 
His  eyes  were  of  a  deep  glassy  blue,  misty 
in  outline,  and  blank  in  expression — the 
poor  old  orbs  being  evidently  almost  sight- 
less. He  always  sat  within  reach  of  his 
master's  hand,  generally  resting  his  muzzle 
on  the  old  man's  foot  or  knee,  and  looking 
up  into  his  face  with  the  closest  attention. 
Evidently,  the  bond  of  affection  between  the 
two  was  deep  and  strong. 

"Blind?"  asked  Old  Man  Tompkins. 
"Wai,  yes;  I  reckon  so,  or  nigh  onter  it. 
Sometimes  I  think  he's  deef,  too,  and  that 
he  kinder  smells  out  what  I  say  to  him. 
But  there's  one  very  curous  thing  about 
that  dog,  gen'lm'n,  and  that  is  he's  had  a 
whole  set  o'  new  teeth  since  he  was  fourteen 
year  old.  Look  at  'em  now — open  your 
mouth,  Tim — they're  like  those  on  most 
dogs  o'  six." 

Tim  obediently  lifted  his  lip  and  displayed 
.a  formidable  array  of  fangs  and  grinders, 
not  so  white  as  the  teeth  of  his  youth,  but 
evidently  strong  enough  still  to  "chaw"  a 
ham  bone  to  powder.  "It's  very  remarka- 
ble," continued  Old  Man  Tompkins,  releas- 
ing Tim's  upper  jaw,  and  falling  to  gently 
rubbing  his  own  leg.  "  I  never  knew  of  but 
one  other  case,  and  that  was  a  little  terrier 
bitch  o'  my  father's.  But  she  warn't  as  old 
as  Tim,  not  by  two  or  three  years,  when  she 
got  her  wisdom  teeth,  as  I  call  'em.  Tim's 
a  pretty  likely  dog  now"  continued  his  mas- 
ter, with  pardonable  pride.  "If  he  warn't 
so  fat  and  so  nigh  blind  and  deef,  he  could 
pull  down  a  deer  as  well  as  ever.  He's  'only 
grown  so  fat  lately,  and  I  think  he's  catched 
the  rheumatiz  from  me.  I  see  he's  kinder 
stiff  in  his  jints,  and  he  can't  frisk  no  more 
as  he  used  to.  When  he's  pleased,  he  just 
lollops  round  like  an  elephant;  but  he  used 
to  be  spry  as  a  squirrel. 


"  Wai,  gen'lm'n,"  and  Old  Man  Tompkins 
pushed  back  his  shabby  sombrero,  thrust  his 
abundant  gray  locks  behind  his  ears,  clasped 
his  hands  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  tilted 
his  chair  back  against  the  wall.  Then  he 
crossed  his  rheumatic  knees,  and  pointed 
with  the  foot  that  dangled  uppermost  at 
Tim's  corpulent  body,  stretched  as  near  as 
possible  to  his  master's  chair.  "  Wai,  gen'- 
lm'n, when  I  fust  saw  that  there  dog,  he 
warn't  no  older  'n  nothin'.  As  I  said,  I 
was  livin'  at  Spanish  City  in  those  days,  and 
my  old  woman  was  alive,  and  my  darter  was 
a  little  thing,  no  more'n  six  or  seven  year 
old.  Wai,  one  day  I'd  been  down  to  Quick- 
silver Gulch,  somewhere  about  twenty  mile 
from  Spanish  City,  and  I  was  comin'  home 
in  the  evenin',  ridin'  pretty  fast,  for  it  was 
gettin'  dark  and  the  road  was  full  o'  squirrel 
holes,  when  all  of  a  sudden  my  horse  shied 
and  jumped  clear  out  o'  the  road.  Wai,  I 
pulled  up  and  went  to  see  what  scared  him ; 
for  I  thought  there  might  be  some  fellow 
tight  and  lyin'  in  the  brush.  I  didn't  see 
nothin',  but  I  heerd  the  most  curous  noise, 
somethin'  like  a  baby  cryin'.  So  I  got  off 
my  horse,  and  I'd  scarcely  set  foot  on  the 
ground  when  I  heerd  the  noise  again,  and 
somethin'  touched  my  boot.  I  stooped  down 
and  picked  it  up,  and  thar  it  was,  a  half- 
growed  puppy,  a  whimperin'  and  cryin'  and 
too  lonely  for  anythin'.  How  in  the  world 
he  got  there,  ten  miles  from  any  house,  I 
haven't  the  least  idee,  unless  some  darned 
fool  put  him  out  of  an  emigrant  wagon. 
The  man  that  deserts  a  good  dog,  gen'lm'n," 
continued  Old  Man  Tompkins,  impressively, 
waving  his  pipe  in  mid-air,  "don't  deserve  a 
friend,  and  most  probably'll  never  have  one, 
for  he  won't  set  no  proper  value  on  such  a 
blessin'.  Wai,  the  puppy  was  delighted 
when  he  seen  a  man — not  much  of  a  man 
either,  gen'lm'n,  for  even  in  those  days  folks 
was  beginnin'  to  call  me  'Old  Man  Tomp- 
kins.' But  the  puppy,  he  thought  I  was  bet- 
ter'n  nothin';  so  he  danced  and  licked  my 
hands,  and  waggled  all  over  with  delight, 
and  he  hadn't  no  idee  o'  partin'  with  me  no 
more'n  I  had  with  him.  So  I  put  him  up 
on  my  horse  and  packed  him  home;  and 


620 


Tim's  History. 


[Dec. 


great  trouble  I  had  doin'  it,  too,  for  he  would 
insist  on  standin'  up  on  his  hind-legs  in  the 
saddle  when  the  horse  was  on  the  lope,  and 
tryin'  to  lick  my  face.  However,  I  got  a 
good  grip  on  him  and  didn't  let  him  fall  off, 
and  by-and-by  I  got  him  home  safe.  O, 
wasn't  my  darter  delighted!  She  hugged 
him  and  kissed  him  about  a  thousand  times, 
and  she  named  him  'Tim,'  arter  a  dog  in 
a  story-book  her  ma'd  been  a  readin'  her. 
He  took  to  it  right  away,  and  that's  been 
his  name  ever  since. 

"  Wai,  Tim  was  so  tired  that  night,  that 
arter  he'd  had  his  supper  he  just  laid  down 
beside  the  fire,  and  he  slept  there  till  the 
next  day.  Early  in  the  mornin'  he  went  out 
and  down  to  the  creek,  and  helped  himself 
to  a  drink  o'  water,  and  when  he  came  back 
I  was  sittin'  at  the  table  eatin'  my  breakfast, 
and  he  walked  right  up  to  me  and  stood 
lookin'  in  my  face  inquirin'  like,  as  though 
he  was  askin'  a  question.  I  know'd  it 
warn't  meat  he  wanted,  for  Molly — that's 
my  darter — had  fed  him  till  he  couldn't 
hold  no  more.  So  says  I : 

"'Tim,  what  do  you  want?'  He  never 
said  a  word,  but  he  waggled  his  tail  very 
hard. 

"So  I  looked  at  him  close,  and  I  seen 
plain  as  day  that  he  wanted  somethin\  So  I 
thinks  a  minute,  and  then  says  I : 

"'Tim,  do  you  like  it  here  ?"  and  he  wag- 
gled harder'n  ever.  Then  says  I : 

'"Tim,  spose  you  and  me  stick  by  each 
other  till  death  do  us  part." 

"  Wai,  will  you  believe  it,  gen'lm'n,  that 
dog  just  walked  right  up  to  me  and  offered 
me  his  paw,  just  as  if  he'd  say  plainly,  'Put 
it  there,  old  man!'  And  from  that  day  to 
this,  he  has  never  but  once  shaken  hands 
with  a  living  soul !  My  darter  tried  hard  to 
teach  him,  but  he  never  would  learn — any 
o'  you  gen'lm'n  can  try  him." 

Here  Old  Man  Tompkins  paused  in  his 
narrative  to  allow  of  the  company  making 
overtures  to  Tim ;  which  overtures  the  latter 
received  and  acknowledged  politely,  but 
after  such  fashion  as  to  throw  no  doubt  on 
his  master's  tale. 

"No,  'taint  no  use,"  remarked  Old  Man 


Tompkins  with  secret  satisfaction,  as  Tim 
gently  but  firmly  declined  all  invitations  to 
"shake  hands."  "He  never  would  and  he 
never  will.  Wai,  gen'lm'n,  Tim  grew  up 
into  a  fine  strong  dog,  as  you  see ;  and  he 
war  a  great  fighter,  and  a  great  dog  for  hunt- 
in'.  He  warn't  no  more  afraid  of  a  bear 
than  he  war  of  a  cat;  a  deer  warn't  nothin' 
to  him.  And  he  took  to  me  most  wonder- 
ful— he  was  that  fond  o'  me  that  he'd  never 
let  me  out  o'  his  sight  if  he  could  help  it. 
Now  I  sometimes  get  off  when  he's  asleep, 
and  he  don't  know  it — he's  a  powerful  sleep- 
er now  he's  old — but  he  generally  noses 
me  out  as  soon  as  he  wakes  up,  and  comes 
follerin'  arter.  But  when  he  was  young, 
nothin'  could  keep  him  away  from  me.  Once 
I  was  goin'  to  a  funeral  down  at  Topeka 
Point,  and  I  saw  from  the  cock  o'  Tim's  eye 
that  he  allowed  to  go  too.  I  knew  that 
wouldn't  do — 'twas  a  real  first-class  funeral, 
gen'lm'n,  with  a  parson  and  pall-bearers,  and 
all  that — so  I  asked  the  friend  I  was  stop- 
pin'  with  to  shut  Tim  in  the  wood-shed,  and 
so  he  did. 

"Now,  how  that  darned  dog  managed  to 
get  out  I  don't  know ;  but  just  as  we  were 
all  a  standin'  round  the  grave  with  our  hats 
off,  and  the  parson  were  a  sayin'  'ashes  to 
ashes,  and  dust  to  dust,'  and  somebody'd 
put  a  heap  o'  flowers  on  the  coffin — for  this 
was  a  family  man,  gen'lm'n,  and  a  public 
man,  and  had  no  end  o'  friends — I  heerd  a 
kind  o'  commotion  across  the  graveyard.  I 
peeked  out  from  under  my  hat,  and  there 
sure  enough  was  that  darned  old  Tim,  a 
comin'  lickety-cut  across  that  cemetery  like  a 
race  horse.  He'd  caught  sight  o'  me  on  the 
fur  side  o'  the  grave:  and  he  war  leapin' 
them  tombstones  as  though  he'd  been  at  a 
hurdle-race.  And  before  I  could  lift  a  hand 
or  do  a  thing  he  came  right  for  me,  straight 
through  them  mourners  and  pall-bearers, 
jumped  over  the  grave,  and  just  cleared  the 
coffin,  but  kicked  all  them  flowers  helter- 
skelter,  every  which  way.  The  crosses  and 
the  wreaths  and  things  flew  a  dozen  ways  for 
Sunday;  and  then  that  sacrilegious  cuss 
danced  all  over  me  in  a  second  and  just 
yelled  for  joy.  The  sexton  and  his  man 


1883.] 


Tim's  History. 


621 


jumped  round  lively  arter  the  flowers;  and 
one  o'  the  ladies  got  frightened  and  began 
to  scream  it  was  a  bear.  I  reckon  there'd 
a'  been  a  stampede  if  I  hadn't  grabbed  Tim 
by  the  neck,  and  made  for  the  back  wall  with 
him.  Wai,  I  tumbled  over  the  wall,  and  he 
jumped  arter  me;  an'  I  lay  on  the  ground 
just  howlin'  and  kickin'  with  laughin';  only 
I  stuffed  my  hankercher  in  my  mouth,  so's 
not  to  interrupt  the  ceremonies  inside.  And 
Tim  he  just  lay  beside  me,  cockin'  his  ears 
and  waggin'  his  tail:  but  I  knew  by  the  kind 
of  a  grin  he  wore  in  the  corner  o'  his  mouth, 
and  the  comical  way  he  quirled  his  tongue 
out  one  side,  that  he  knew  as  well  as  I  did 
how  funny  it  was  to  see  the  parson  waltzin' 
about  in  his  black  gown,  and  the  mourners 
faintin'  in  each  other's  arms. 

"Wai,  that  evenin'  as  I  was  a  ridin'  home 
and  Tim  was  a  cavortin'  alongside,  I  see  a 
man  with  a  shooter  standin'  beside  the  road. 

"'Hullo!' says  I,  pullin' out  mine,  'what 
are  you  up  to?' 

"'I'm  goin'  to  shoot  that  blasted  dog  o' 
yourn,'  says  he. 

'"What  for?'  says  I. 

"'For  spilin'  my  funeral,'  says  he.  And 
then  I  saw  he  was  the  undertaker,  Stumps 
by  name. 

'"You'd  better  not,'  says  I. 

'"Why  not? 'says  he. 

"'Because,' says  I,  'if  you  do,  Hurse  & 
Kasket  '11  get  ahead  o'  you  in  biz'. 

"  '  How's  that?'  says  he. 

"'Why,'  says  I,  'because  they'll  have  two 
nice  funerals,  yourn  and  mine.  If  you  shoot 
my  dog,  I'll  shoot  you.  Then  the  vigilantes 
'11  get  arter  me,  and  so  Hurse  &  Kasket  '11 
have  all  the  fun.' 

"'Do  you  mean  to  say,'  says  he,  'that 
you'll  risk  your  life  for  that  dog  ? ' 

"  '  I  do,'  says  I,  'and  why  not — he'd  do  as 
much  for  me  any  day.  Besides  that,  he's 
saved  my  darter  from  drownin' :  I  forgot  to  tell 
you,  gen'lm'n,  that  he  pulled  Molly  out  o' 
the  creek  one  day  when  she  went  in  bathing, 
and  the  current  were  too  strong  for  her. 

'"Saved  yer  darter  from  drownin',  did 
he?'  says  Stumps;  'then  there's  good  reason 
for  settin'  store  by  him.  A  dog  as  can  do 


that  ain't  born  to  be  shot,  and  'taint  I  as  '11 
shoot  him.  But  I'll  tell  yer  what  it  is,  Old 
Man,'  says  he,  puttin'  up  his  revolver  and 
leanin'  on  the  peak  o'  my  saddle  kinder 
mournful  like,  '  I've  had  a  mighty  hard  time 
over  that  funeral,  and  nobody  but  myself 
knows  what  I've  been  though.  In  the  first 
place,'  says  he  'the  Gineral's  been  very  long 
a  dyin';  and  though  I've  been  promised  the 
job  this  year  and  a  half  back,  I  was  kept 
anxious  like  through  knowin'  Hurse  &  Kas- 
ket was  a  trying  to  cut  under  me  all  the 
time.  You  see  the  Gineral's  oldest  son 
were  a  kinder  friend  o'  mine,  and  he  always 
told  me  I  should  have  the  job  as  sure  as 
eggs  was  eggs.  But  it  came  to  my  knowl- 
edge as  how  Hurse  &  Kasket  had  offered 
the  gloves  and  the  hearse  for  nothin',  if  the 
fam'ly'd  only  pay  for  the  coffin  and  carriages. 
Now,  I  wouldn't  go  that,  so  I  was  kep'  wor- 
ried all  the  time.  The  Gineral's  son  he 
thought  as  how  we'd  ought  to  have  eight 
white  horses ;  but  there  warn't  so  many  in 
town.  I  thought  four  was  enough,  and  then 
it  would  be  easier  drivin'  on  'em.  Anybody 
can  drive  four  in  hand,  but  I  don't  know  a 
man  that's  used  to  eight,  except  it's  a  mule 
teamster,  and  he  ginerally  walks.  But  the 
Gineral's  son  he  was  sot  on  eight,  so  eight 
it  had  to  be.  Then  there  was  a  great  deal 
o'  trouble  in  regard  to  the  band,'  says  Stumps: 
'  you  know  the  Gineral's  son  was  the  leader, 
and  when  they  began  a  practicin'  the  funeral 
march,  two  or  three  months  ago,  he  said 
somebody  had  ought  ter  learn  ter  take  his 
part,  so  that  he  could  ride  in  the  first  car- 
riage and  be  head-mourner.  And  besides 
that,  he  said  it  kinder  went  agin  him  to  be 
practicin'  the  funeral  march  for  his  father, 
and  he  not  dead  yet.  But  then  the  cymbal 
man  spoke  up,  and  said  he  guessed  the 
young  man  needn't  mind  it  if  the  old  man 
didn't.  For  yer  see  they  was  practicin'  right 
across  the  way,  and  the  Gineral  could  hear 
'em  just  as  well  as  if  they'd  been  in  his  own 
house.  P'raps  it  soothed  his  dyin'  moments 
to  hear  what  a  fine  march  was  goin'  to  be 
played  at  his  funeral.  Wai,  the  end  of  it 
was,'  says  Stumps,  gittin'  more  and  more 
sorrowfuller,  '  the  end  of  it  was  that  the  son 


622 


Tim's  History. 


[Dec. 


had  to  march  with  the  band  till  they  got  to 
the  cemetery  gate,  and  then  he  got  in  the 
carriage  with  his  uniform  on  and  acted  chief 
mourner.  But  that  warn't  the  worst  on  it,' 
says  he;  'the  eight  white  horses,  not  bein' 
used  to  each  other,  nor  the  drums,  and  pipes, 
and 'trumpets,  got  frightened  and  ran  away. 
I  had  Al  Norton,  the  stage-driver,  fixed  up 
in  black,  and  he  was  to  drive  the  hearse. 
But  he  never  druv  more'n  six  horses  in  his 
life,  so  the  eight  soon  pitched  him  out. 
They  ran  agin  a  post  at  the  corner,  smashed 
my  new  hearse  all  to  pieces,  and  left  the 
Gineral  just  inside  the  door  o'  the  Woodbine 
Shades.  Then  they  cut  for  the  hills,  kickin' 
up  their  heels  and  flourishin'  their  black 
gowns  about  as  if  they  was  a  dancin'  the  can- 
can. Wai,  we  picked  up  the  Gineral  and 
put  him  inter  an  express  wagon  and  druv  on 
to  the  cemetery ;  and  '  now,'  thinks  I,  '  my 
trouble  is  over,  for  there  ain't  any  more 
darned  unmanageable  beasts  in  the  way,  and 
the  parson  he  can't  go  fur  wrong.'  But  no 
sooner  was  everythin'  goin'  on  slick  as  grease, 
before  that  miserable,  blasted,  onfeelin'  dog 
o'  yourn  must  come  a  genuflexin  'round  and 
raise  Cain  ginerally.  It's  too  bad,  Tomp- 
kins,'  says  he.  '  I  declare,  I  feel  like  givin' 
up  business  altogether  and  goin'  inter  some 
other  line.  I  did  my  best  by  the  Gineral, 
and  this  is  all  it  comes  to.  I  feel  mortified 
to  death  !'  says  he. 

"I'm  glad  the  story  pleased  you,  gen'lm'n," 
remarked  Old  Man  Tompkins,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  gray  eye,  as  the  frail  shanty  shook  with 
our  laughter.  "I  kinder  thought  it  would. 
Wai,  I  comforted  up  Stumps  the  best  I 
could,  and  promised  him  all  the  custom  I 
could  get  for  him,  for  I  allowed  he  had  had 
a  pretty  poor  time  on  it.  You  see,  gen'lm'n, 
his  story  was  all  new  to  me  as  to  you ;  for  I 
hadn't  jined  the  cortadge  till  at  the  grave,  so 
I  knew  nothin'  about  the  stampeded  horses. 
Wai,  Stumps  felt  better  arter  a  bit,  and  he 
•went  back  to  town  concludin'  Tim  warn't  no 
such  bad  dog  arter  all.  You  see  I  told  him 
a  lot  o'  stories  about  Tim ;  about  the  good 
huntin'  dog  he  was,  and  all  that;  and  Stumps 
kinder  changed  his  mind.  Tim  had  stood 
there  all  the  time,  a  lookin'  first  at  one  on 


us  and  then  at  t'other;  but  I  don't  think  he 
caught  the  drift  o'  the  conversation." 

There  was  a  minute's  pause,  during  which 
Old  Man  Tompkins  brought  his  chair  to  the 
ground  and  moved  it  a  little  more  into  the 
shadow.  Next  he  slowly  put  one  hand  to 
the  back  of  his  head,  and  brought  his  hat 
down  over  his  eyes  by  the  simple  process  of 
tilting  it  up  from  behind.  Then  he  hemmed 
and  hawed  once  or  twice,  stooped  down  to 
pat  Tim,  and  with  his  face  still  bent  low 
'over  him,  resumed : 

"The  next  queer  thing  I  remember  Tim 
doin'  was  when  my  wife  died.  I  set  great 
store  by  her,  gen'l'm'n — those  o'  you  as  is 
married  p'raps  knows  what  it  is  to  have  a 
good  wife.  I  hope  you'll  never  know  what 
it  is  to  lose  her.  My  wife  and  me'd  been 
married  nigh  onter  forty  years ;  we  were  mar- 
ried young,  and  we  lived  to  grow  old  togeth- 
er. All  our  children  died  young  'cept  Mol- 
ly; and  when  she  was  about  twelve  years 
old  her  mother  took  a  cancer  and  died,  too. 
You  know,  gen'lm'n,  a  cancer  sometimes 
takes  a  long  time  to  kill,  and  that  was  the 
way  with  Sally.  I  had  to  see  her  sufferin' 
and  sufferin'  day  arter  day,  and  know  there 
couldn't  be  nothin'  done  for  her.  Wai," 
continued  the  old  man,  after  a  minute,  his 
face  bending  lower  and  lower  over  Tim, 
"  when  the  end  came  I  couldn't  stand  it  no- 
how. I  just  rushed  out  o'  the  house,  leav- 
in'  my  darter  with  her  dead  mother;  and  I 
went  out  into  the  woods,  and  put  my  ilbows 
on  my  knees  and  my  head  in  my  hands,  and 
I  cried  like  a  baby,  gen'lm'n." 

Another  short  pause,  during  which  Old 
Man  Tompkins  heaved  one  or  two  heavy 
sighs;  and  Tim,  who  had  raised  himself  on 
his  fore-paws,  stared  into  his  old  friend's 
face,  whining  piteously.  Silence  reigned 
amongst  the  rest  of  the  group.  Before  the 
door  our  two  guides  dozed  on  their  respect- 
ive blankets,  each  keeping  an  eye  and  ear 
open  in  the  direction  of  the  corral  and  our 
horses.  Through  the  open  door  the  great 
white  stars  looked  down  on  us,  big  and  fair 
and  lustrous ;  and  the  perfume  of  the  wild 
cyclamen  floated  in,  mingling  with  the  fra- 
grant incense  of  our  pipes.  Up  the  canon 


1883.] 


Tim's  History. 


623 


the  "coo-coo-coo"  of  a  belated  dove  softly 
broke  the  stillness. 

"Wai,  gen'lm'n,"  resumed  our  host  with 
his  customary  formula,  "there  aint  much  to 
say  about  that.  Only  this,  that  presently  I 
felt  somethin'  in  the  crook  o'  my  elbow,  and 
I  looked  up,  and  there  was  Tim  a  cryin'  too 
— the  great  big  tears  a  rollin'  down  his  face. 
And  he  was  a  lookin'  up  at  me  so  pitiful, 
and  tryin'  to  lick  away  my  tears;  and  then  I 
saw  he  was  a  tryin'  to  comfort  me.  And 
then  I  remembered  what  a  mean  cowardly 
thing  I  was  a  doin',  leavin'  my  poor  little 
darter  there  all  alone  by  herself;  and  that  I 
ought  to  be  doin'  for  her  what  that  dog  was 
a  doin'  for  me.  He  taught  me  my  duty  that 
time,  gen'lm'n.  So  I  just  got  up,  and  went 
back  to  the  house,  and  looked  arter  my  little 
gal,  as  I  had  orter  been  a  doin'  all  the  time. 
But  he  was  cryin'  real  tears,  gen'lm'n;  and 
wasn't  that  a  queer  thing  for  a  dog  ? 

"Arter  a  while  my  darter  grew  up,  and 
she  got  engaged  to  be  married.  She  didn't 
want  to  marry  and  leave  me  here  all  alone, 
so  she  told  the  young  man  he  must  wait. 
But  says  I,  'Lor,  Molly,  my  dear' — I  think  a 
heap  o'  my  darter,  gen'lm'n  —  says  I,  'My 
dear,  don't  you  do  no  such  thing!  Emmons 
is  a  right  good  feller,  and  it  won't  be  doin' 
the  handsome  thing  by  him  if  you  make  him 
wait  for  the  old  man  to  die.'  And  then  says 
I,  just  to  make  her  laugh,  'it  won't  be  the 
fair  thing  by  me — I  want  to  see  the  grand- 
children. If  you're  sure  Joe  Emmons  is  the 
man,'  says  I,  '  don't  you  waste  your  youth  a 
waitin'  and  a  waitin' — jest  you  git  married 
and  leave  the  old  man  to  shift  for  himself; 
he  aint  no  sich  bad  hand,  T  can  tell  you.' 

"Wai,  Molly  she  laughed,  and  she  cried, 
and  she  said  she'd  never  leave  me;  and 
while  we  was  argyin'  it,  in  come  Joe,  with 
his  face  as  bright  as  a  new  milk  pan.  Says 
he,  'Cheer  up,  Molly,  I've  found  a  way  out 
o'  the  mess ! — we  kin  git  married,  you  and  I, 
and  you  won't  have  to  leave  Mr.'  Tompkins 
behind.'  He  called  me  Mr.  Tompkins, 
gen'lm'n,  on  account  o'  expectin'  to  be  my 
son-in-law.  'I've  been  to  Topeka  Point,' 
says  he,  'and  I've  found  a  party  as  is  willin' 
to  buy  your  father's  claim,  and  to  take  pos- 


session two  months  from  this  day.  So  your 
father  can  sell  out  and  come  down  and  live 
with  us;  or  if  he's  particular  about  havin'  a 
house  o'  his  own,  why  we'll  build  him  one 
right  along  side  o'  ourn.' 

"Wai,  as  you'll  believe,  that  was  satisfac- 
tory. This  is  a  very  good  claim  o'  mine,  gen- 
'lm'n, and  it's  rich  in  minerals;  but  I  haven't 
the  capital  to  work  it,  so  all  I  could  do  was  to 
keep  possession  till  some  party  was  found  as 
had.  Wai,  Joe  Emmons,  knowin'  as  how 
my  darter  wouldn't  leave  me,  he'd  been  look- 
in'  for  a  purchaser  these  six  months,  and 
now  he'd  got  one,  and  that  settled  the  whole 
difficulty.  He  aint  no  slouch,  gen'lm'n; 
there  isn't  much  grass  as  grows  under  his 
feet.  But  Joe  has  a  good  ranch  down  in 
the  valley;  he  aint  much  on  minin' — he 
thinks  a  heap  more  o'  stock  raisin'.  So  in 
course  he  don't  want  to  leave  his  cattle  and 
come  up  here;  and  he  knowed  the  only  way 
to  git  my  darter  down  there  was  to  git  me 
there  too.  So  he  didn't  say  a  word  to  Molly 
nor  to  me,  but  knowin'  as  how  I'd  be  willin' 
to  sell,  he  jest  set  about  it  and  hunted  up  a 
customer. 

"'Now,  my  dear,'  says  I,  'that  settles  it. 
You  jest  git  married  next  week,  and  by  the 
time  your  honey-moon's  over,  I'll  be  ready 
to  come  down  and  jine  yer.'  So  Joe  he  said 
so  too,  and  arter  that  we  had  a  weddin'.  I 
daresay  you  gen'lm'n  as  comes  from  New 
York  and  Shy-kay-go  wouldn't  a  thought 
much  on  it  for  style,  but  it  was  pretty  good 
for  these  parts. 

"  But  I'm  not  tellin'  yer  very  much  about 
Tim,  am  I?"  asked  Old  Man  Tompkins, 
pulling  himself  up  short  in  the  midst  of  a 
retrospective  sigh — evidently  for  the  wedding 
festivities  past  and  gone;  "but  that's  a  corn- 
in'.  When  Molly  was  a  leavin'  home,  she 
began  to  feel  right  bad — gals  always  does,  I 
reckon — and  says  she,  '  Father,  let  me  take 
Tim  along ;  then  I  shan't  feel  so  lonely.' 
Says  I,  'Tim  shall  do  just  as  he  likes.  If 
he  wants  to  go  with  you  I  shan't  hinder  him; 
and  if  he  wants  to  stay  with  me,  why  I 
shan't  quarrel  with  him  'bout  that,  neither.' 

"So  Molly  got  in  Joe's  wagon,  and  I  call- 
ed Tim,  and  I  said  nothin'.  But  will  you  be- 


624 


Tim's  History. 


[Dec. 


lieve  it,  gen'lm'n,  she  couldn'  get  that  darned 
dog  to  go  with  her  nohow !  He  seemed  to 
know  she  warn't  comin'  back,  and  though 
he'd  run  arter  her  a  little  way,  he'd  mighty 
soon  about  face  and  come  bouncin'  back  to 
me.  Joe  wanted  her  to  be  pleased,  so  he 
jumped  out  o'  the  wagon,  and  Til  fix  him,' 
says  he.  With  that  he  ran  into  the  kitchen, 
and  brought  out  the  leg  of  a  wild  turkey; 
then  he  held  it  out  to  Tim,  and  began  trail- 
ing him  along  toward  Molly.  Tim  went 
arter  him,  and  took  it  in  his  mouth;  but 
Joe  didn't  let  go,  so  Tim  follered  a  few  steps. 
Then  all  on  a  sudden  the  idea  seemed  to 
strike  him,  and  he  looked  up  at  Joe  with 
the  most  curous  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  'I 
see  what  you're  up  to!'  Then  he  let  go  the 
bone,  and  turned  up  his  nose,  kind  of  con- 
temptuous like,  and  shut  one  eye  very  slow 
and  knowin'.  Then  he  whisked  up  his  tail, 
and  galloped  back  to  me;  and  when  he'd 
reached  me  he  stopped  just  in  front  o'  me, 
and  looked  up  in  my  eyes  very  solemn. 
Then  he  lifts  up  his  paw,  offered  'it  to  me  to 
shake,  as  much  as  to  say  'Don't  be  afraid, 
I'll  stick  by  you,  Old  Man!'  And  then, 
gen'lm'n,"  added  our  host,  with  a  humorous 
twist  of  his  mouth,  "after  I'd  accepted  o' 
the  civility  Tim  laid  down  beside  me;  and 
here  we've  been  ever  since.  And  that's  all." 

"What  did  your  daughter  say?"  asked  the 
geologist,  who,  as  was  natural  for  a  gentle- 
man of  his  profession,  had  a  taste  for  getting 
at  the  bottom  of  things. 

"Oh,  she  laughed,  and  told  Joe  he'd  bet- 
ter give  it  up.  And  all  the  fellers  as  had 
come  to  attend  the  weddin'  they  laughed 
too,  and  gave  three  cheers  for  Tim,  because 
he  wouldn't  desert  his  old  master.  Molly 
and  Joe  went  down  to  the  ranch,  and  their 
honey-moon's  up  to-day.  In  about  two 
weeks  the  new  owner  takes  possession  here; 
and  then  Tim  and  me'll  go  down  and  try 
our  hand  at  ranching  along  side  o'  Joe. 
Hadn't  we  better  turn  in,  gen'lm'n?  Reckon 
I've  kept  you  awake  too  late  already  with 
rny  long  yarns.  Come,  Tim,  you  and  I  have 
to  be  up  early,  and  off  arter  wood,  my  boy ! 
Wish  you  good-night,  gen'lm'n." 

In  another  moment  the  shanty  resounded 


with  the  snores  of  master  and  dog,  as  they 
lay  side  by  side  fast  asleep. 

•***•** 

The  morning  broke  fresh  and  cool,  cloud- 
less as  the  skies  of  Paradise,  filled  with  sweet 
odors  and  delicious  sounds,  as  must  have 
been  that  garden  wherein  God  walked.  Up 
from  the  far  distant  sea  crept  a  tiny  breeze, 
a  breeze  just  strong  enough  to  flutter  the 
leaves,  and  set  them  whispering  in  the  ears 
of  the  still  dozing  birds.  Then  up  from 
their  dewy  nests  sprang  the  larks,  and  soon 
were  singing  and  soaring  far  aloft  in  that 
deep  vault  of  blue.  Then  the  little  lizards 
began  skurrying  hither  and  thither,  running 
about,  and  bidding  each  other  a  hasty  good- 
morning.  Then  the  golden  heads  of  the 
California  poppies  nodded  to  each  other  in 
friendly  greeting;  and  the  "Indian  pinks" 
blushed  an  even  more  vivid  scarlet  in  the 
flush  of  their  first  awakening.  Then  the 
merry  sun  leaped  up  above  the  tall,  black 
mountain  ridge  behind  us;  the  blue  sea  of 
hills  spread  out  below  lost  its  azure  tint,  and 
was  flooded  with  gold.  The  little  fleecy 
mists  rolled  themselves  together  and  fled 
away,  no  one  knew  whither;  and  with  one 
accord  the  orioles,  the  goldfinches,  and  the 
magpies  shook  out  their  dazzling  plumage, 
and  shouted  aloud  their  joy  that  a  new  day 
had  come. 

But  inside  the  shanty  matters  did  not  pro- 
gress so  fast.  We  were  none  of  us,  I  think, 
unless  it  were  our  host,  glad  to  see  the  dawn. 
All  were  tired,  over  tired,  from  our  long 
journey,  from  our  watches  by  the  camp-fire, 
from  our  chilly  nights  and  scorching  days, 
from  our  long  and  toilsome  marches  over 
sand  and  rock,  from  days  spent  without 
water  and  with  but  scanty  food.  Now  all 
that  was  of  the  past;  the  border-land  had 
just  been  crossed,  a  fertile  and  fragrant  land 
been  reached.  Once  more  we  were  in  a 
white  man's  habitation,  and  knew  that  but  a 
few  days'  journey  would  bring  us  within 
sight  of  the  western  sea:  what  wonder  that 
having  bidden  good-morrow  to  the  sun,  we 
were  ready  to  roll  ourselves  over  in  our 
blankets,  and  once  more  float  off  into  the 
land  of  dreams  ? 


1883.] 


Tim's  History. 


625 


I  woke  early  to  feel  Old  Man  Tompkins 
stepping  over  me  on  his  way  to  the  door. 
"Better  sleep  it  out,  boys,"  said  he,  as  the 
botanist  and  I  raised  our  heads.  "No  trains 
to  catch  here,  or  steamboats  to  take,  and  I 
reckon  you'll  be  the  better  for  a  good,  long 
snooze.  You  see,  Tim's  settin'  you  the  ex- 
ample— he  won't  stir  this  hour  yet,  will  you, 
you  lazy  old  cuss?" — aiming  a  playful  kick 
at  the  snoring  Tim,  which,  however,  was 
carefully  directed  so  as  not  to  reach  him. 
"I'm  going  up  the  canon,  gen'lm'n,  to  get 
out  some  wood,  and  I'll  be  back  'bout  mid- 
day. Make  yourselves  at  home;  don't  be 
bashful!"  and  with  a  hospitable  wave  of  the 
hand,  he  disappeared  through  the  open  door. 
In  a  moment  we  heard  his  voice  hullooing 
a  good  morning  to  our  guides;  and  the  sounds 
which  soon  followed  proved  to  us  that  the  ear- 
ly birds  were  partaking  of  their  early  worms 
in  company.  I  turned  over  and  dozed  off 
again,  the  last  sight  that  met  my  eyes  being 
the  slumbering  hero  of  last  night's  history,  his 
lips  parted  in  a  peaceful  smile,  his  tail  wag- 
ging inanely,  and  a  series  of  little  far-away 
barks  issuing  from  his  throat.  Evidently 
the  angels  were  whispering  to  him. 

Toward  eleven  o'clock  I  woke,  consider- 
ably refreshed,  but  hungry  beyond  reason; 
and  it  took  a  large  invoice  of  Hawkins's 
flapjacks  and  quail  to  restore  my  ordinary 
state  of  being.  Tim  had  woke  before  me, 
had  breakfasted,  and  was  now  wandering 
hither  and  thither,  snuffing  at  this  and  that, 
apparently  wondering  what  had  become  of 
his  master.  Finally,  he  settled  down  be- 
side Randall  and  the  geologist,  who,  though 
still  in  a  semi-comatose  state,  hacl  roused 
themselves  sufficiently  to  light  up  their  after- 
breakfast  pipes.  These  they  were  enjoying 
stretched  at  full  length  under  the  live-oak  be- 
fore the  door,  listening  to  the  hum  of  bees, 
as  they  dodged  in  and  out  of  the  sweet  yucca 
blossoms,  and  sang  to  themselves  of  the 
gladsome  flowery  time  now  come  again. 
Redding  had  taken  his  gun  and  gone  down 
the  canon  for  game,  while  Hawkins  busied 
himself  mending  up  our  dilapidated  saddles 
and  bridles.  So  I,  too,  drew  out  my  beloved 
brier-wood  and  joined  the  smokers. 
VOL.  II. — 40 


A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed  in  quiet ;  then 
Tim  suddenly  raised  himself  on  his  fore- 
paws,  cocking  his  ears  as  though  intently 
listening.  Every  hair  down  his  spine  bristled 
with  excitement,  his  glassy  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves, and  every  nerve  seemed  strained  to 
hear.  Had  I  not  known  him  to  be  partially 
or  wholly  deaf,  I  should  have  thought  him 
listening  to  some  gruesome  sound,  too  dis- 
tant for  dull  human  ears  to  catch.  Then 
suddenly  his  head  was  raised,  and  a  long- 
drawn,  terrible  cry  issued  from  his  jaws — a  cry 
awful  as  that  of  some  human  being  in  utter 
anguish  and  despair,  but  filled  with  the  weird 
horror  to  be  heard  only  in  the  noises  of  the 
brute  creation.  It  was  a  cry  that  chilled 
us  from  head  to  foot,  and  despite  the  warm 
Californian  sun,  started  the  cold  perspiration 
on  brow  and  lip.  • 

Randall  let  fall  his  pipe  in  astonishment, 
and  stared  at  the  dog  with  open  mouth  and 
starting  eyes.  The  geologist  hastily  pushed 
himself  away  from  thedeepredjaws  whence  is- 
ued  that  dolorous  cry ;  while  Hawkins  dropped 
his  saddle  and  hastily  strode  toward  his  old 
friend.  I  looked  into  the  dog's  eyes  and 
shuddered,  for  no  nerves  could  withstand 
that  terrible  sound ;  but  before  Hawkins 
could  reach  him,  Tim  had  gathered  up  his 
fat  old  body  from  the  ground,  stretched  out 
his  rheumatic  legs,  and  started  at  topmost 
speed  up  the  canon.  He  was  so  stiff  and 
heavy  he  could  not  run  straightly,  but  wob- 
bled from  side  to  side,  his  paws  constantly 
interfering  and  nearly  tripping  him  up.  But 
the  pebbles  flew  from  his  hind  feet  in  show- 
ers, as  he  kicked  his  way  up  the  path,  and 
his  flight  was  so  swift  and  sudden  that  be- 
fore he  could  be  spoken  to  he  had  disap- 
peared. 

Hawkins  stood  staring  after  him  in  amaze- 
ment; and  "What  in  thunder's  the  matter 
with  that  dog?"  he  asked.  "I've  been 
acquainted  with  him  these  five  years,  and  I 
never  knew  him  act  like  that  before." 

The  geologist,  too,  looked  up  the  trail, 
his  eyes  following  the  direction  Tim  had 
taken.  Then  he  wiped  the  dew  from  lip 
and  brow.  "Mad,  perhaps,"  he  suggested 
in  trembling  tones.  He  was  one  of  those 


626 


Tim's  History. 


[Dec. 


persons  with  whom  "a  dog"  and  "a  mad 
<Iog"  are  synonymous  terms. 

"  No,  sir!"  replied  Hawkins,  emphatically. 
"Tim's  as  level-headed  as  his  master,  and 
that's  sayin'  a  good  deal  in  his  favor." 
And  he  resumed  his  saddle  mending  with 
such  vigor  that  his  thread  snapped  in  his 
hands. 

Twelve  o'clock  came,  but  not  so  Old  Man 
Tompkins;  then  another  hour  passed  by 
without  bringing  our  host.  By  two  o'clock, 
the  rest  of  the  party  had  straggled  in,  but  at 
three  the  old  man  was  still  absent. 

"  I  don't  half  like  this,  Mr.  Clover,"  said 
our  guide  in  a  confidential  whisper.  "I'm 
afraid  there's  something  wrong  with  Tomp- 
kins. As  a  general  thing  he's  a  remarkable 
punctual  man,  and  I  don't  quite  like  his 
staying  away  so  long  over  time.  Guess  I'll 
go  and  hunt  him  up."  And  Hawkins  com- 
menced stowing  away  his  needles  and  waxed 
thread,  his  jackknife,  and  other  sewing  ma- 
terials. 

I  was  still  weary  from  my  long  journey, 
so  dull  and  drowsy  as  to  be  but  half  a  man. 
Still  I  could  not  allow  my  host  to  get  into 
trouble,  and  I  not  lift  a  finger  to  save.  I 
looked  up  from  the  cool  spot  where  I  was 
lying,  and  questioned  Hawkins  further. 

"Is  there  any  danger  for  him  here!" 

"Well — yes;  there's  more  or  less  danger 
everywhere  for  everybody,  I  reckon.  Coun- 
try's pretty  rough  here,  though,  and  Tomp- 
kins is  rather  an  old  man  to  go  stumping 
about  alone.  Reckon  I'd  better  go  and 
look  after  him";  and  he  took  his  rifle  down 
from  a  rack  where  it  hung  just  inside  the 
door. 

"Stop,"  I  said,  rising  at  last  to  my  tired, 
dilatory  feet.  "I'll  go  with  you.  Just  hand 
down  my  rifle,  too.  Thanks — which  way 
shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Up  the  canon,  I  guess — the  old  man 
said  he  was  going  after  wood,  and  that's  the 
way  Tim  took  when  he  scooted  so  sudden. 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mr.  Clover,"  Jim  added, 
as  we  commenced  our  march,  and  put  our- 
selves beyond  ear-shot  of  the  rest  of  the 
party.  "  Tim's  actions  has  scared  me  more 
nor  the  old  man's  staying  away  so  long.  I 


don't  know  what  to  make  o'  that  dog  to-day ; 
but  I  reckon  whatever  ailed  him,  he  made  a 
bee  line  for  his  master." 

So  we  marched  up  the  canon,  Hawkins 
leading  and  picking  out  the  trail,  which  was 
sometimes  rather  blind.  I  followed  closely 
on  his  heels.  The  country  was  rough  in- 
deed; great  boulders  lay  tumbled  together 
on  the  mountain-side,  while  down  in  the 
canon's  depths  tall  cotton-woods  and  syca- 
mores lay  prone  along  the  ground,  long  fal- 
len and  now  rotted  to  powder.  So  rough 
was  it  that  my  unpracticed  eye  could  scarce- 
ly tell  ours  were  not  the  first  feet  to  tread 
this  path ;  but  Hawkins  confidently  asserted 
it  to  be  a  bonafide  trail,  and  one  quite  lately 
in  use.  As  we  advanced  the  forest  became 
thicker,  and  the  shade  really  dark  and  deep. 
Those  broad  patches  of  sunlight  to  be  seen 
in  most  woodlands  of  the  southern  Pacific 
slope  were  now  shut  out  by  thick  branching 
live-oaks,  and  heavily-leaved  grape  vines.  All 
was  dark  and  solitary,  as  though  Nature  had 
set  the  scene  for  a  tale  of  sin  or  woe.  As 
we  passed  an  asphaltum  spring,  black  and 
devilish  as  some  tributary  to  the  Styx,  Haw- 
kins suddenly  sprang  forward  with  an  oath 
bitten  in  between  his  clenched  teeth. 

Yes:  there  lay  Old  Man  Tompkins  crushed 
to  death  beneath  the  weight  of  a  new-fallen 
tree,  his  gray  head  battered  and  bruised  by 
the  stones  among  which  it  lay,  and  his  right 
arm  outstretched  toward  the  ax  and  rifle  just 
beyond  his  reach.  Close  at  hand  lay  the 
corpses  of  two  mountain  wolves,  their  foul 
bodies  still  limp  with  the  life  which  had  but 
lately  left  them,  blood  still  dripping  from 
many  a  wound,  their  savage  lips  yet  snarling 
with  fierce  longing  for  the  flesh  of  the  dying 
man. 

We  stood  silent  for  a  minute;  then  Haw- 
kins gave  a  kick  to  the  nearest  wolf.  "  Damn 
the  critters!"  said  he,  in  a  strange,  bitter 
voice,  "they've  heard  the  poor  old  man  a 
groanin',  and  couldn't  wait  till  he  was  dead ! 
But  Tim  heard  him  too!  Look  here,  Mr. 
Clover,"  and  pulling  aside  the  vines  and 
branches  nearly  covering  the  dead,  he  show- 
ed me  Tim's  faithful  head  resting  on  his 
master's  breast,  while  Old  Man  Tompkins's 


1883.] 


The  Chinese  Question. 


627 


left  arm  curled  most  lovingly  round  the  neck 
of  his  faithful  friend. 

"Is  he  dead,  Jim?"  I  asked,  laying  down 
my  rifle,  and  stooping  over  the  two  who  had 
vowed  so  long  ago,  each  in  his  own  way, 
that  naught  but  death  should  part  them. 

"Lord,  yes!"  groaned  Hawkins,  showing 
a  great  gash  in  the  dog's  throat,  that  which 
had  been  his  death  wound,  and  sent  him 
crawling  for  shelter  to  his  master's  arms. 
"They've  all  been  dead  for  hours.  Tim 


and  the  wolves  they  killed  each  other,  and 
the  old  man  must  have  died  soon  arter. 
That  dog  didn't  shake  hands  with  Tompkins 
for  nothin',  Mr.  Clover,"  added  Hawkins, 
rising  and  gazing  pitifully  down  on  the  group 
before  him.  "The  old  man  always  said  Tim 
'ud  die  for  him,  and  so  he  has.  Well,"  soft- 
ly removing  his  hat,  evidently  as  much  out 
of  respect  for  the  dog  as  for  the  man  :  "  I 
reckon  that's  the  last  of  Old  Man  Tompkins 
and  of  'Tim's  History.'" 


THE   CHINESE   QUESTION. 


THE  Chinese  Question  might  rather  be 
called  the  Immigration  Question,  for  the 
principles  underlying  it  are  general  and  not 
special  in  character.  It  only  happens  that 
the  Chinese  immigration,  for  the  first  time 
in  the  history  of  the  country,  seriously  calls 
up  for  consideration  these  principles.  It  is 
not  a  question  of  the  Chinaman,  for  or 
against :  it  is  a  question  whether  there  may 
arise  circumstances,  or  whether  there  may 
appear  a  class  of  immigration,  such  that  we 
ought  to  vary  from  our  offer  of  a  home  and 
citizenship  to  every  comer :  for  our  form  of 
government  does  not  contemplate  any  per- 
manent residence  of  a  race  of  men  without 
citizenship  and  the  right  of  suffrage. 

It  is  not  a  question  for  partisanship,  nor 
for  local  jealousies,  neither  for  the  present 
only.  For  the  whole  land  feels  the  evil  or 
the  good  which  may  appear  to  be  local;  and 
the  future  is  affected  by  the  decision  and  the 
act  of  the  present.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
whether  simply  the  laborer  of  to-day,  the 
factory  operative  of  San  Francisco,  may  be 
injured,  but  a  question  of  the  laborers  of 
the  whole  land  and  for  the  future.  It  is  not 
a  question  of  the  moral  character  of  an  es- 
pecial quarter  of  San  Francisco  or  Los  An- 
geles, but  a  question  of  the  moral  average 
of  the  nation  for  all  coming  years.  It  is 
not  a  question  of  the  clashing  and  rowdyism 
of  certain  roughs  or  mobs  in  the  byways  of 
Dupont  Street  or  China  Alley,  but  a  ques- 


tion of  the  future  clashing  or  harmonizing  of 
races  over  the  whole  land.  In  other  words, 
it  is  a  question  national,  not  local — for  the 
years,  not  simply  for  to-day;  a  question 
for  statesmanship,  not  for  party  politics. 

The  question  is  to  be  viewed  in  a  double 
light: 

i  st.     The  legal  rights  involved. 

2d.  The  moral  rights  and  duties  in  the 
case. 

The  desire  to  migrate  and  the  necessity 
for  emigration  are  as  ancient  as  the  history  of 
the  human  race.  It  is  the  natural  solution 
of  that  problem  of  over-population  which 
had  to  be  met  even  in  those  old  Syrian  days 
when  Lot  and  Abram  tented  together  in  that 
land  which  "lieth  between  Beth-el  and  Hai": 
"and  the  land  was  not  able  to  bear  them 
that  they  might  dwell  together." 

Population  in  the  older  lands  becomes  too 
dense.  The  means  of  subsistence  are  not 
sufficient  for  all.  There  are  more  people  to 
be  fed  than  food  to  feed  them,  and  a  por- 
tion must  move  on.  We  did  it.  The 
Irishman  and  the  German  are  doing  it.  The 
Chinaman  seeks  to  do  it.  The  law  that 
impels  him  is  the  same  law  that  impels  the 
Irishman  and  the  German.  We  need  not 
blame  him  for  this. 

Yet  while  the  over-crowded  population  of 
one  portion  of  the  earth  may  have  a  right 
to  emigrate,  there  is  also  another  side  to  be 
considered — the  rights  and  the  powers  of 


628 


The  Chinese  Question. 


[Dec. 


those  to  whose  land  it  may  desire  to  go.  If 
there  remained  yet  only  one  land  in  the 
world  not  over-crowded,  and  not  yet  support- 
ing its  full  quota  of  human  beings,  while  all 
others  were  burdened  with  an  over-popula- 
tion, we  might  question  whether  any  right, 
either  legal  or  moral,  could  exist  under 
which  that  land  would  be  justified  in  repel- 
ing  immigration  from  its  borders.  But 
with  many  extensive  and  fertile  regions  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe  still  almost  unoc- 
cupied, and  under  no  recognized  race  con- 
trol, the  legal  right  of  each  organized  com- 
munity to  the  absolute  control  of  its  own 
domain  can  scarcely  be  disputed.  It  is  the 
case  of  the  vineyard  and  its  owner  over 
again:  "Is  it  not  lawful  for  me  to  do  what  I 
will  with  mine  own?"  It  is  law;  and  it  is 
just  and  reasonable  law.  The  Turk  may 
say  who  shall  and  who  shall  not  settle  in  his 
land.  The  Chinaman  has  the  same  right. 
The  American  has  it  also.  It  is  the  old 
English  common  law  that  "a  man's  house 
is  his  castle,"  and  the  land  of  a  race  is  its 
home,  its  house,  its  castle. 

Viewed  in  a  moral  light,  how  is  it? 

Here  the  question  begins  to  lose  its  gen- 
eral character.  The  law  is  the  same  for  all 
races.  The  moral  rights  and  duties,  how- 
ever, of  one  race,  or  of  one  land,  are  not 
necessarily  the  moral  rights  and  duties  of 
another,  any  more  than  it  would  be  with  indi- 
vidual men.  One  man  may  have  children 
to  provide  for.  It  is  his  moral  duty  to  keep 
his  property  and  not  scatter  it  in  charity. 
Another  man  may  have  only  himself  in  the 
world.  It  is  his  moral  duty  to  distribute 
his  wealth  freely  where  it  may  help  the  less 
fortunate.  Viewed  in  a  moral  light  there  is 
a  double  duty  before  the  republic : 

i st.  To  give  refuge  and  shelter  to  the 
oppressed  of  other  lands. 

2d.  To  prove  to  the  world  the  possibil- 
ity of  self-government;  what  Lincoln  so 
well  called  "A  government  of  the  people, 
by  the  people,  and  for  the  people." 

The  first  has  to  do  with  the  individual 
man ;  the  second,  with  men  everywhere,  and 
for  all  time.  While  these  two  duties  can  be 
made  to  harmonize  it  is  well.  If  they  at 


any  time  conflict,  than  the  less  must  yield 
to  the  greater :  and  in  deciding  which  is  the 
greater  it  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  ex- 
ample to  the  many  must  necessarily  be  of 
infinitely  more  worth  than  any  relief  which 
may  be  given  to  the  few.  It  is  not  free  gov- 
ernment now,  and  here,  that  is  of  the  most 
concern.  It  is  free  government  for  all  hu- 
manity and  for  all  time.  This  I  take  it  is 
the  greater:  that  men  everywhere,  in  all 
lands  and  ages,  shall  be  able  to  point  to 
a  successful  republic  and  say:  "If  they  can 
maintain  a  government  of  the  people,  why 
may  not  we?" 

But  how  shall  we  best  maintain  and  per- 
petuate this  government  of  ours,  this  gov- 
ernment by  the  people? 

The  question  involves  in  its  answer  a  re- 
view of  the  whole  principle  underlying  rep- 
resentative government.  In  a  republic  the 
man,  the  voter,  is  the  ultimate  factor.  Upon 
him  rests  the  whole  superstructure.  It  is  of 
vital  importance,  then,  that  this  man,  this 
voter,  shall  be  one  who  is  fitted  for  the 
duties  which  must  devolve  upon  him.  It 
is  also  essential  that  population  shall  be 
homogeneous;  that  there  shall  be  no  clash- 
ing of  races,  or  of  bloods,  or  of  kin.  When 
these  things  enter,  disintegration  and  dis- 
ruption begin.  A  monarchy  may  exist  made 
up  of  many  and  diverse  peoples.  Of  this 
fact  Austria,  with  its  seventeen  different 
languages  and  races  is  a  fair  illustration. 
There  the  only  duty  of  the  masses  is  to 
obey.  But  an  Austrian  republic  would  be 
an  impossibility.  All  these  different  races, 
with  race  prejudices,  different  forms  of  faith, 
unlike  speech,  could  never  harmonize  so 
far  as  to  carry  on  a  republican  form  of  gov- 
ernment. Even  under  the  monarchy  the 
tendency  to  disruption  is  so  great  that  in- 
surrection and  revolt  are  almost  the  normal 
condition.  The  Sclav,  the  Hungarian,  the 
German,  each  draws  away  from  the  other, 
and  would  go  with  his  own  kin. 

The  homogeniety  so  essential  to  the  per- 
petuity of  republican  institutions  can  only 
come  of  a  kinship  of  birth.  The  people 
must  be  one  in  blood.  The  immigrant  must 
not  remain  a  foreigner.  He  must  become 


1883.] 


The  Chinese  Question. 


629 


absorbed  into  the  great  body  of  the  people. 
There  must  be  no  divided  allegiance.  He 
must  leave  behind  him  his  language,  his 
customs,  his  fraternities,  his  loves,  his  hates. 
In  order  that  he  shall  not  become  a  source 
of  disturbance,  it  is  essential  that  he  shall 
not  remain  a  foreign  element  in  the  body- 
politic,  nor  in  the  body-social ;  but  shall 
lose  his  race  identity,  shall  be  taken  up  and 
merged  into  the  great  common  mass,  and 
become  one  with  it.  He  must  marry  and 
intermarry,  until  his  blood  is  their  blood, 
and  their  blood  is  his. 

Every  nation  of  mixed  origin  must  go 
through  this  process.  Its  composite  nature 
must  cease.  But  there  are  reasons  which 
make  the  limit  to  which  bloods  may  mix 
a  narrow  one  for  a  republican  people.  It 
is  only  certain  races  of  the  world  which 
seem  capable  of  developing  the  tendency 
toward  or  the  capacity  for  a  representative 
form  of  government.  Some  races  tend  nat- 
urally toward  a  despotism.  The  Asiatic 
races  of  to-day  are  equally  as  old  as  that 
one  branch  which  centuries  ago  left  the 
highlands  east  of  the  Caspian — the  so-called 
Indo-European — and  moved  on  westward. 
Yet  while  this  branch  has  developed  the 
capacity  for  self-government,  the  others  have 
never  shown  any  such  tendency.  All  Asia 
has  in  the  whole  course  of  its  history  no 
single  instance  of  a  republican  form  of  gov- 
ernment. And  indeed,  of  the  Indo-Euro- 
pean races,  only  the  so-called  Germanic 
bloods  have  shown  a  marked  capacity  for 
self-government;  and  of  this  Germanic  blood 
only  the  older,  the  Anglo-Saxon  branch 
has  developed  the  capacity  in  the  highest 
degree. 

No  fact  is  better  established  in  the  breed- 
ing of  men,  as  in  the  breeding  of  animals  and 
plants,  than  that  peculiarities  of  type  tend  to 
reproduce  themselves  generation  after  gener- 
ation, and  that  they  can  scarcely  be  eradicated. 
Another  fact  is  also  well  established:  that 
the  crossing  of  the  higher  with  the  lower, 
while  it  may  be  elevating  the  latter  is  as  sure- 
ly degrading  the  former.  The  product  does 
not  occupy  the  plane  of  the  higher  order, 
but  a  plane  somewhere  between  the  two. 


It  is  a  lowering  of  the  standard.  To  mix, 
then,  this  Anglo-Saxon  blood  with  the  blood 
of  a  race  utterly  without  the  instincts  of  rep- 
resentative government  in  their  mental  con- 
stitution, is  inevitably  to  lower  the  capacity 
of  the  resulting  race  for  self-government  be- 
low the  standard  of  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
Whether  that  standard  can  be  safely  lowered 
is  a  problem  well  worth  deliberating  over; 
and  it  is  a  problem  the  answer  to  which 
should  be  settled  before  the  lowering  pro- 
cess begins.  The  interests  at  stake  are  too 
great  to  admit  of  taking  any  chances  upon 
it.  And  even  though  the  bloods  should  not 
mix,  though  the  foreign  element  should  re- 
main separate  in  race,  yet  as  our  form  of 
government  contemplates  only  citizenship 
for  all  permanent  residents,  the  effect  upon 
the  average  vote  would  be  in  a  measure  the 
same. 

Again:  theorize  as  we  may  about  the 
common  parentage  of  the  races  of  the  world 
and  the  brotherhood  of  man,  the  great  fact 
remains  that  now  the  races  of  men  are  many 
and  diverse,  and  that  except  to  a  very  limi- 
ted extent  and  among  nearly  allied  bloods, 
they  do  not  cross  well;  a  crossing  means 
only  a  hybridization,  and  the  progeny  is 
worthless.  Men  may  not  understand,  may 
not  even  suspect,  the  existence  of  the  great 
underlying  laws  of  race  life,  and  of  human 
development ;  but  nevertheless  they  are  all 
the  while  living  their  lives,  and  working  out 
their  destiny  in  obedience  to  them.  Wit- 
tingly or  unwittingly,  willingly  or  unwillingly, 
we  submit  to  their  unchanging  dictates  and 
travel  in  the  inevitable  path;  and  all  history 
teaches  this  lesson:  That  it  is  the  races  of 
pure  blood  who  have  made  the  world  what  it 
/>,  and  are  doing  the  world's  work.  And  the 
converse  of  this  is  also  true :  that  the  mixing 
of  widely  diverse  bloods  results  in  degrada- 
tion and  ruin  to  both. 

That  "Eastern  Question"  which,  like 
Banquo's  ghost,  sits  at  the  board  of  every 
European  royal  feast  and  will  not  down,  is 
simply  the  question  of  mixed  bloods.  For 
ages  Eastern  Europe  has  been  a  mingling 
ground  of  European  and  Asiatic  races, 
Greek,  Latin,  German,  Magyar,  Turk,  Sclav, 


630 


The  Chinese  Question. 


[Dec. 


until  such  a  thing  as  a  pure  race-blood  is 
scarcely  known.  As  a  result,  war — war  of 
races,  of  bloods,  of  religions,  of  sects — has 
been  the  normal  condition  for  centuries. 
The  land  has  been  one  seething  mass  of  in- 
surrection and  battle;  each  man's  hand 
raised  against  every  other:  walled  cities 
looking  down  upon  hostile  plains;  mountain 
fastnesses  frowning  out  upon  valleys  whose 
people  are  aliens  and  foemen.  Even  the 
mixing  of  bloods  differing  no  more  than  the 
Latin  and  the  Norse  resulted  in  a  demorali- 
zation so  complete  that  it  took  Western  Eu- 
rope a  thousand  years  to  recover  after  the 
downfall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  so  that  stable 
government  and  civilization  became  again 
possibilities. 

The  history  of  the  American  continent 
after  its  discovery  teaches  the  same  lesson 
in  a  manner  never  to  be  forgotten.  The 
energy  and  the  ability  of  the  Conquistadors 
was  in  a  few  generations  so  utterly  dissipated 
in  the  mixed  progeny  of  their  Indian  inter- 
marriages, that  the  grand  Spanish  domain 
which  they  had  built  up,  and  which  reached 
from  the  Mississippi  to  Cape  Horn,  fell  to 
pieces  with  its  own  weight ;  and  to  this  day 
its  fragments  have  never  been  able  to  estab- 
lish or  maintain  a  stable  government,  or 
contribute  their  just  share  to  the  world's 
work.  It  is  another  and  a  more  hopeless 
"  noche  triste"  that  has  darkened  down  upon 
the  race.  The  same  crossing  of  bloods  be- 
tween the  French  in  Canada  and  their 
Indian  neighbors  sapped  the  energy  of  the 
knightly  race  which  had  fought  over  every 
battlefield,  from  the  gates  of  Calais  to  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem;  until  Canada  passed 
with  scarcely  a  struggle  under  the  domina- 
tion of  the  English  people.  The  Anglo-Euro- 
pean alone,  of  the  races  that  came  to  the 
New  World,  kept  his  blood  pure;  and  this 
fact  has  made  him  master  of  the  continent ; 
and  it  is  this  same  pride  of  blood  which 
is  making  this  Anglo-European  master  of 
the  world.  He  will  not  mingle  with  inferior 
bloods.  He  ostracizes  the  man  of  his  race 
who  does  so  far  forget  himself.  A  social 
ban  is  upon  him  stronger,  more  irrevocable, 
than  any  law.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the 


Anglo-European  is  the  most  successful  col- 
onizer of  all  the  races  of  men.  Wherever 
he  goes,  whether  to  the  jungles  of  India, 
amid  the  backwoods  of  Canada,  under  the 
pines  of  the  Sierra,  or  to  the  islands  of  the 
seas,  he  remains  Anglo-European. 

Thus  far,  we  as  a  people  have  had  to 
meet  this  race  question  only  twice ;  for  the 
immigration  which  has  come  to  our  shores 
has  been  almost  entirely  English,  Celtic,  or 
Germanic;  kindred  races  whose  blood  mixes 
so  readily  with  our  own  that  the  second 
generation  is  American.  The  Latin  blood, 
also  of  Indo-European  origin,  but  less  close- 
ly related,  has  not  come  to  us  rapidly 
enough  to  make  more  than  a  ripple  upon 
the  current  of  the  national  life. 

The  first  essentially  alien  blood  was,  of 
course,  the  Indian.  Our  blood  would  not  mix 
with  his,  and  he  died  out  before  us.  Then 
came  the  African  blood.  This  was  an  immi- 
gration which  came  not  of  its  own  free  will. 
The  negroes  were  brought  in  large  numbers  to 
the  Southern  and  Gulf  States,  but  they  were 
brought  as  a  subject  and  inferior  race,  to  be 
held  in  bondage,  and  to  take  no  part  in 
deciding  the  destinies  of  the  country.  As 
such,  they  remained  for* two  centuries;  in 
the  land  but  not  of  it.  By  the  fortunes  of 
war  they  were  freed  from  bondage.  By  the 
spirit  of  our  institutions,  which  contemplate 
no  relationship  but  that  of  citizenship  for 
permanent  residents,  they  have  become  vot- 
ers, having  a  voice  in  the  councils  of  the 
nation.  As  a  blood  they  will  probably  re- 
main distinct.  They  are  showing  more  and 
more  a  tendency  to  segregation,  to  drawing 
apart  into  communities  by  themselves.  They 
are  here,  and  we  must  make  the  best  of  it. 
Yet,  can  any  man  question  that  they  are, 
and  must  ever  be,  a  disturbing  element  in 
our  national  future  ?  Suppose  it  were  pro- 
posed to  reopen  this  African  immigration, 
and  pour  upon  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic 
States  a  hundred  thousand  fresh  negroes 
each  year.  How  long  would  it  take  for  the 
States  receiving  the  first  wave  to  see  the 
danger  which  it  involved,  and  to  protest 
against  it  ? 

The    third    essentially   alien   blood    now 


1883.] 


The  Chinese  Question. 


631 


comes  to  us  from  the  Pacific.  It  is  the  Mon- 
golian as  represented  by  the  Chinese  race. 
With  the  immense  numbers  of  these  people 
in  their  own  land,  this  newly  developed  im- 
migration has  back  of  it  possibilities  of  such 
a  rapid  influx  as  the  African  immigration 
never  possessed.  And  it  is  coming,  not  to 
the  older,  the  thickly-settled  portion  of  the 
country,  where  our  own  race  holds  the  land 
by  a  more  secure  tenure,  but  to  the  thinly- 
settled  portion,  where  their  influence  is  pro- 
portionately greater. 

The  census  of  1880  shows  that  one-sixth 
of  the  adult  male  population  of  California  was 
then  Chinese.  During  the  two  years  next 
after  that  census  was  taken  the  immi- 
gration of  Chinese  was  proportionately  much 
more  rapid,  so  that  a  ratio  of  one-fifth 
would  probably  now  not  be  far  amiss.  And 
the  tendency  was  all  the  while,  to  a  con- 
stantly increasing  rate  of  influx.  How  is  it 
to  be  in  the  future,  unless  the  policy  of  .re- 
striction is  continued  and  enforced?  Our 
own  population  is  fifty  millions.  That  por- 
tion of  Europe  which  gives  us  our  Atlantic 
immigration  represents  a  population  of  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  millions.  China, 
which  stands  ready  to  give  us  our  Pacific 
immigration,  has  three  hundred  and  fifty 
millions. 

What  shall  we  do  with  these  people? 
There  is  no  use  shutting  our  eyes  to  the 
questions  which  must  arise.  They  have  to 
be  met.  One  of  four  things  we  must  do  : 

i st.  Mingle  our  blood  with  theirs  and 
absorb  them,  or  be  absorbed  by  them,  as 
we  do  with  our  European  immigration ;  or, 

2d.  Keep  them  as  a  separate  and  dis- 
tinct blood,  and  yet  make  citizens  of  them  ; 
or, 

3d.  Keep  them  separate  in  blood,  and 
while  granting  to  them  the  privilege  of  re- 
maining, deny  them  the  rights  of  citizenship ; 


or, 


4th.     Continue  to  restrict  immigration. 


Which  shall  it  be?  If  we  try  the  first, 
how  shall  we  escape  that  lowering  of  the 
average  capacity  for  self-government  which 
we  as  a  race  have  developed,  and  which  they 
as  a  race  have  not?  And  how  shall  we 
escape  that  evil  of  hybridization  of  blood 
of  which  the  history  of  races  shows  so  many 
sad  examples  ?  Can  we  hope  that  for  the 
first  time  in  the  history  of  the  world  a  great 
race  law  will  be  of  non-effect  ? 

If  we  try  the  second,  making  them  citi- 
zens, but  keeping  them  distinct  in  blood, 
how  shall  we  hope  to  escape  the  same  low- 
ering of  average  intelligence  in  the  resulting 
vote  ?  And  back  of  this,  what  of  the  wars 
of  races  which  have  always,  sooner  or  later, 
come  to  other  lands  of  mixed  peoples  ?  How 
about  Austria  of  to-day? 

If  we  try  the  third,  we  are  doing  violence 
to  one  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  our 
form  of  government,  and  still  more  increas- 
ing the  danger  of  that  war  of  races;  for  a 
subject  people  never  are  a  contented  people. 
It  is  only  a  question  of  numbers  when 
trouble  shall  begin.  And  could  we  carry 
out  this  plan?  There  would  always  be  the 
temptation  to  rival  political  parties  to  en- 
franchise them  for  the  purpose  of  securing 
their  vote. 

The  fourth,  restricting  immigration,  settles 
all  controversy. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  repeat:  The  great- 
est boon  which  America  gives  to  the  world 
is  not  the  right  of  asylum;  it  is  this  example 
of  a  successful  republic;  a  living,  indisputa- 
ble demonstration  of  the  truth  that  man  can 
govern  himself.  The  right  of  asylum  is  a 
mere  mote  in  the  scale  compared  with  it, 
and  should  not  for  a  moment  be  weighed 
against  it,  if  by  so  doing  it  is  found  there 
would  arise  any  possibility  of  jeopardizing 
the  ultimate  success  of  the  great  experiment. 
It"  is  man,  not  men,  that  is  to  be  considered. 
Pity  for  men  may  become  a  great  wrong 
against  man. 

/   P.    Widney. 


632 


The  Ideal  Club. 


[Dec. 


THE   IDEAL   CLUB. 


I  SHALL  not  tell  by  what  lucky  chance 
seven  of  the  nicest  people  I  know  met  at 
Volumnia's  one  dull  winter  day.  It  was  a 
day  made  for  talk,  a  day  of  misty  sky,  cold 
enough  for  a  wood  fire  of  mysterious  whis- 
pers and  sparkles  and  flames,  warm  enough 
to  make  the  outer  air  smell  of  growing  things. 

It  was  fitting  that  Volumnia  should  be 
the  hostess,  for  she  was  free  of  speech,  but 
hospitable,  courteous,  but  decided.  She  was 
a  born  commander.  Did  I  say  that  the 
"seven  nicest  people"  were  all  women? 
Well,  never  mind,  let  it  go.  They  had 
been  talking,  in  detached  groups,  of  the 
things  which  are  supposed  to  interest  women. 
The  range  is  limited,  but  it  had  gone  from 
spiced  currants  to  embroidery.  Lesbia, 
who  knew  nothing  about  either,  had  picked 
up  a  stray  magazine,  and  was  looking  over 
it,  when  she  was  startled  by  an  imperative 
voice — the  voice  of  Echo. 

"If  you  are  going  to  read,  read  aloud." 

"O,  it's  only  something  about  clubs,"  said 
the  discomfited  one,  throwing  down  the  book. 

"Ah,  but  clubs  are  so  nice,"  murmured 
Aprille. 

"What  kind  of  clubs?"  asked  Echo, 
sharply. 

"Why,  she  means  book  clubs,  of  course; 
clubs  for  mental  improvement.  You  know 
what  she  means,  Echo.  There  is  but  one 
kind  of  club  for  ambitious  womanhood." 
And  having  thus  exploded,  Lotis  sank  back 
looking  a  little  sulky. 

"I  belong  to  a  musical  club  which  is  very 
pleasant,"  murmured  Cecilia,  who  is  an  en- 
thusiast on  harmony. 

"Musical  clubs,  book  clubs,  sewing  clubs, 
are  all  nice  enough,"  quoth  Volumnia,  squar- 
ing herself,  so  to  speak,  for  a  mental  boxing 
match,  "but  what  good  do  they  do  to  us? 
You  live  in  the  city,  Cecilia,  and  in  the  city 
one  can  always  lay  his  finger  on  something 
or  somebody  who  will  give  him  a  lift.  Even 
impecuniosity  itself  has  the  Free  Library 


for  reference;  but  I'm  not  philanthropist 
enough  to  gush  over  the  feast  of  reason 
and  the  flow  of  soul  that  leaves  me  out  in 
the  cold.  Of  what  use  are  clubs  to  a  fellow 
who  lives  twelve  miles  from  a  lemon? 

"Hear!  Hear!"  called  Penelope  from 
her  corner.  Volumnia  "tipped  her  a  nod" 
a  la  Wemmick,  and  went  on  boldly.  "  Of 
what  use  is  a  club  to  Lotis,  who  sits  in  her 
office  from  eight  in  the  morning  till  eight  at 
night;  who  can't  afford  to  buy  books  to  keep 
up  the  curriculum  required  by  the  high- 
laws  and  by-laws  of  the  club  (with  an  orna- 
mental C),  whose  head  aches  and  whose 
eyes  are  blinded  by  her  work?  What  Lotis 
wants  is  a  cheerful  knot  of  intelligent  friends 
(like  ourselves,  you  know),  who  will  'chirk' 
her  up,  take  her  out  of  her  business  rut,  and 
give  her  the  result  of  their  reading  in  ex- 
change for  her  own  original  clever  thoughts." 

"  Such  reflections  are  what  one  might  call 
the  sweets  of  adversity,"  said  Lotis  faintly, 
"but  my  case  is  well  stated." 

Echo  had  been  fidgeting  in  her  chair. 
"  I  hope  you  don't  object  to  systematic  cul- 
ture, Volumnia." 

"  I  don't  object  to  anything"  (and  here 
Volumnia's  tempestuous  contralto  fairly 
flooded  the  room)  "but  systematic  stupidity; 
but  you  can't  make  roses  out  of  cabbages  by 
any  systematic  process  in  the  world,  and  you 
can't  bring  the  mountain  to  Mahomet. 
What  became  of  me  when  I  tried  to  get  up 
a  'class  in  literature'?  I  invited  the  cele- 
brated Miss  Franchise  out  to  lecture.  She 
promised  to  come  if  I  could  get  up  a  class 
of  fifteen.  '  O,  yes,'  I  said,  joyfully,  'that 
will  be  easy  enough.'  Well,  to  cut  a  long 
story  short,  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles, 
wherein  lay  two  towns,  one  with  a  popu- 
lation of  2,500,  I  found  four,  FOUR  women 
who  were  willing  to  go  into  the  system- 
atic culture  business.  One  had  to  wean 
her  baby.  Another  had  to  make  mince  pies 
for  Thanksgiving.  Half  a  dozen  couldn't 


1883.] 


The  Ideal  Club. 


633 


afford  it,  because  they  had  already  subscribed 
to  a  dancing  class:  and  so  it  went  on.  Ex- 
tremes meet.  It  was  a  question  which  they 
should  educate,  their  heads  or  their  heels, 
and  the  heels  had  it.  Now,  my  dear  Echo, 
what  would  you  have  done  in  such  a  case  ?  " 

"  Let  them  alone,  of  course,"  and  Echo 
sniffed  contemptuously. 

"  Well,  that's  what  I  did,"  said  Volumnia 
with  much  good  nature,  "  but  it  'most  broke 
my  heart  to  give  up  my  scheme  of  trying  to 
make  roses  out  of  cabbages.  It's  the  last 
of  a  series  of  experiments  I've  tried,  or  seen 
tried,  in  the  way  of  literary  culture  in  the 
provinces.  I'm  tired  of  it.  Let  them  veg- 
etate if,  they  will,  but  I'll  not  '  bourgeon 
and  grow '  with  them.  I  don't  aspire  to  be 
a  rose  myself,  but  I  would  like  to  be  a  holly- 
hock, or  even  a  bouncing  Betty:  and  some- 
how, sometime,  I  mean  to  crawl  through  the 
palings  into  the  flower  garden." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say,  dear,  that 
the  brains  are  all  in  the  cities  ?"  said  Aprille 
timidly. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  The  city  is  the  rally- 
ing place  for  ambitious  brains,  the  market 
place  for  marketable  brains :  and  while  I 
don't  mean  to  say  it  is  all  brains,  it  cer- 
tainly averages  better  than  the  country, 
where  four  females  were  found  to  hie  them- 
selves to  Miss  Franchise's  lectures.  It  is 
where  brains  belong  and  where  they  naturally 
gravitate." 

Aprille  looked  quenched,  and  Echo,  to 
reassure  her,  begged  that  she  would  come 
forward  and  give  her  experience  and  opin- 
ions in  modern  culture. 

"Oh,  the  culture's  all  right,"  said  Aprille, 
a  little  inconsequently,  "but  how  are  we  to 
get  it?  As  Volumnia  (with  so  much  origi- 
nality) says,  the  mountain  won't  come  to 
Mahomet,  and  one  Mahomet  at  least  can't 
go  to  the  mountain.  My  reading  is  confined 
to  a  monthly  magazine  or  so,  and  whatever 
stray  books  I  can  pick  up.  We  can  send  to 
the  city  libraries,  but  that's  very  unsatisfac- 
tory. You  feel  as  if  time  stood  behind  you 
with  his  hour-glass  waiting  for  you  to  finish, 
and  one  gets  into  the  habit  of  gorging  as  he 
does  at  the  railway  stations.  If  you  don't 


like  the  book  you  feel  cheated  and  like 
throwing  it  away,  but  have  to  wait  for  a 
chance  to  return  it.  If  you  do  like  it  you 
want  to  keep  it  forever,  and  feel  envious  and 
melancholy  because  you  have  to  give  it  up. 
It's  all  very  well  for  books  of  reference — 
well,  anyhow,  we're  too  far  away  from  'im- 
provement made  easy'  to  growl  over  its  pos- 
sible drawbacks." 

"A  great  deal  can  be  accomplished  with 
some  industry,"  said  Cecilia,  who  kept  house 
for  a  large  family,  took  music  lessons  and 
practiced  galore — gave  music  lessons  to 
twenty  pupils  or  so,  did  musical  critiques  for 
the  "Weekly  American,"  edited  a  column  in 
the  religious  paper,  and  found  time  to  read 
and  do  fancy  work  besides. 

"But  unluckily,  there  are  only  a  few,  a 
very  few  Cecilias,"  said  Penelope  in  a  mel- 
ancholy mumble.  "You  might  as  well  ask 
me  to  walk  from  here  to  Alaska  overland  as 
to  expect  me  to  follow  in  your  illustrious 
footsteps.  I  can't.  'By  the  laws  of  a  fate 
I  can  neither  control  nor  condemn,  I  am 
what  I  am.'  I  can  not  work  without  some 
kind  of  pay.  Echo  may  talk  about  syste- 
matic culture  till  she  loses  her  voice,  but  it 
won't  give  any  stimulus  to  pilgrim  souls  like 
mine  that  rest  in  a  desert.  Unless  I  am 
rubbed  on  some  other  steel,  I  rust.  To  read 
and  write  and  practice  without  coming  in 
contact  with  some  other  reader  or  writer  or 
musician  is  at  the  best  but  a  pallid  sort  of 
joy.  One  might  grow  into  a  bookworm 
after  a  while,  but  she  (I  give  femininity  the 
preference  on  this  occasion)  would  be  very 
stupid  company.  She  would  be  an  egotist 
and  a  monologueist."  Here  Penelope 
caught  a  fleeting  smile  on  Lotis's  face,  and 
laughed  herself  good  naturedly.  "You  think 
I  am  treading  on  my  own  toes.  Well,  that 
only  proves  my  theory  that  a  hermit  must 
be  conceited.  After  all,  I  am  pleading  the 
cause  of  the  'truly  rural'  at  large;  of  Vo- 
lumnia, of  Lesbia,  of  Aprille  here.  Cecilia 
has  no  business  among  us,  really;  she  is  a 
child  of  the  metropolis." 

Cecilia  made  a  pretty  little  face,  and 
begged  to  be  heard  in  defence  of  her  rights 
as  a^villager.  j^Her  sympathy  was  with]}  us. 


634 


The  Ideal  Club. 


[Dec. 


Was  the  memory  of  a  dozen  of  her  brightest, 
best  years  spent  in  the  country  to  count 
for  nothing?  If  she  was  a  child  of  the  city, 
it  was  only  by  adoption.  "  In  fact,"  con- 
cluded Cecilia,  in  her  pretty  girlish  manner, 
"  nobody  knows  better  than  I  the  heart- 
sickness  of  hope  deferred.  A  country  girl, 
forced  into  inharmonious  companionship, 
lacking  camaraderie  of  any  sort,  feeds  on  the 
nectar  and  ambrosia  of  dreams.  She  feels 
that  something  must  come  to  her  sooner  or 
later  of  romance,  of  worldly  experience. 
She  chafes  at  the  peaceful  monotony,  and 
scorns  delay.  In  short,  very  few  of  us  have 
the  charming  philosophy  of  Sidney  Smith. 
What  was  it  he  said  ?  '  I  am  not  leading 
precisely  the  life  I  should  choose ;  but  I  am 
resolved  to  like  it  and  to  reconcile  myself 
to  it,  which  is  more  manly  than  to  feign  my- 
self above  it,  and  to  send  up  complaints  of 
being  desolate  and  such  like  trash.  In  short, 
if  it  be  my  lot  to  crawl,  I  will  crawl  content- 
edly ;  if  to  fly,  I  will  fly  with  alacrity:  but  as 
long  as  I  can  possibly  avoid  it,  I  will  never 
be  unhappy." 

There  was  a  silence  after  Cecilia's  quota- 
tion, but  Volumnia  came  gallantly  to  the 
rescue. 

"Do  you  call  that  a  charming  philoso- 
phy?" she  asked  contemptuously,  "/call 
it  a  sluggish  content;  the  philosophy  of  des- 
pair ;  no  man  knowing  his  own  gifts  will 
calmly  sit  down  and  let  fortune  dribble  out 
his  payments  on  the  installment  plan,  with- 
out a  protest.  We  will  pardon  Sidney  Smith 
for  his  abject  submission  because  he  was  a 
clergyman;  but  nobody  except  a  clergyman 
or  a  woman  has  any  right  to  lean  on  Provi- 
dence in  that  manner." 

Cecilia  looked  a  little  shocked  and  laughed 
uneasily;  and  Lesbia,  who  felt  rather  con- 
science-troubled at  the  storm  which  she  had 
evoked,  tried  to  create  a  diversion. 

"I  should  like,  she  said  timidly,  "to 
ask  Echo,  who  seems  to  be  the  recognized 
apostle  of  culture,  what  I  shall  do — " 

"To  be  saved,"  muttered  Volumnia,  pa- 
renthetically. 

"I  don't  even  know  where  to  begin," 
Lesbia  went  on,  unheeding.  "  If  I  had  the 


library  of  a  bibliopole,  I  wouldn't  know 
what  to  take  out  of  it.  To  talk  of  systemat- 
ic culture  to  an  a-b-c-darian  in  literature  is 
foolish.  I  am  not  exactly  stupid,  and  I 
know  most  of  our  modern  writers  by  name, 
and  that's  about  all.  Even  if  I  were  in  the 
very  heart  of  progress,  I  would  not  dare  to 
ask  for  help  from  the  numerous  societies 
which  dot  our  mental  landscape.  I  take 
warning  by  the  experience  of  a  friend  of 
mine,  who  is  clever  and  world-wise,  but  who 
has  a  good  many  home  cares.  She  had  a 
thirst  for  improvement  and  sought  it  in  the 
Electra  Society  (no,  you  don't  know  it) ;  she 
knew  only  one  of  its  members,  and  with  her 
went  to  the  place  of  meeting.  Her  name 
was  proposed  for  membership,  but  that  one 
visit  showed  her  that  she  could  not  keep  up 
with  the  ardent  spirits  of  the  society,  even 
if  the  fountain  of  knowledge  remained  forever 
sealed  to  her.  So  she  told  the  friendly  mem- 
ber to  withdraw  her  name  and  application,  and 
so  thought  the  matter  settled.  A  few  weeks 
after,  she  received  an  official  notice  from 
the  Electracal  secretary,  if  I  may  call  her  so, 
stating  that  Miss  Smith  had  been  elected 
a  member  of  the  society,  and  must  be  pre- 
pared to  deliver,  at  a  certain  time,  a  lecture 
— a  lecture  on  what  do  you  think?  "  queried 
Lesbia,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  melancholy 
dark  eyes.  "  A  lecture  on  Roumanian  and 
Wallachian  Literature,  from  some  way-back 
century  to  the  present  time.  Well,  my 
friend  Miss  Smith  was  a  trifle  rusty  on  her 
topics,  and  sent  hasty  word  to  the  council 
to  "  count  her  out."  Now,  /  might  have 
been  in  my  friend's  place.  I  shudder  to 
think  how  much  deeper  would  have  been  my 
discomfiture  than  hers.  Evidently,  that  is 
not  the  place  for  me.  Now,  where  shall  I  go 
for  instruction?  What  shall  I  do  (to  para- 
phrase Volumnia)  to  be  saved  from  ignor- 
ance and  ennui?" 

"  You  must  first  find  out  your  bent,"  said 
Echo  with  a  Bostonian  flavor  of  superiority 
in  her  tone. 

"I  didn't  know  you  believed  in  bents,  at 
all,  Echo,"  put  in  Lotis  from  her  corner, 
where  she  was  dividing  herself  between  "A 
Reverend  Idol "  and  the  discussion  in  hand. 


1883.] 


The  Ideal   Club. 


635 


"  I  thought  your  creed  was  that  education 
could  be  trusted  to  do  everything,  and  that 
the  original  brain  was  merely  a  receptacle  for 
poured-in  wisdom ;  in  short,  that  education 
made  the  bent." 

This  was  such  a  recognized  bone  of  conten- 
tion between  these  two,  that  the  rest  refused 
to  take  sides  at  all,  foreseeing  an  endless 
argument,  and  Volumnia  interposed  briskly. 

"Emerson."  she  said,  in  "Society  and  Sol- 
itude "  devotes  a  whole  chapter  to  clubs,  but 
they  are  conversation  clubs,  the  reunions 
of  savants,  bon  vivdnts  and  literati :  mascu- 
line clubs,  which  are  beyond  our  ken  or  our 
ambition." 

"I  have  often,"  murmured  Penelope, 
'•'•heard  of  clubs — information  clubs,  if  I  may 
call  them  so;  I  have  known  members  of  the 
same,  have  been  invited  to  join,  have  criticis- 
ed their  progress  and  jeered  at  their  failures; 
but  I  have  never  really  seen  one  in  its  work- 
ings." 

Volumnia  turned  on  her  with  well-simu- 
lated awe :  "  You  shall  be  put  in  the  niche 
with  the  woman  who  never  saw  Pinafore," 
she  said,  solemnly.  "You  are  one  of  the 
seven  wonders  of  the  world.  A  villager 
who  knows  not  a  club  !  Go,  happy  one ! 
Sport  away  thy  butterfly  life,  and  only  re- 
member that  knowledge  is.  I  believed  in 
them  all  once;  I  fought  for  culture;  I  carried 
an  invisible  banner  with  'Excelsior'  for  its 
flaming  motto.  I  lived  in  the  hope  of  genius 
and  science,  face  to  face,  in  the  model  club. 
Now  ambition  sleeps  and  faith  is  dead.  I'm 
nothing  but  'pore  low-down  white  trash.'" 

"I  think,"  said-  Cecilia,  gently,  "that Vo- 
lumnia overrates  the  advantages  of  a  city 
life  to  the  would-be  student.  The  really 
cultured  part  of  society  is  apart  from  what 
is  known  in  the  reporter's  column  as  'The 
Social  World.'  The  social  world  cares  no 
more  for  culture  than  it  does  for  Timbuctoo 
politics,  and  for  the  most  part  frankly  con- 
fesses its  indifference.  It  reads  the  most 
popular  thing  in  novels,  and  even  dips  a 
little  into  the  lighter  monthlies,  but  it  would 
get  along  very  comfortably  without  any 
books  at  all.  It  has  libraries  and  book- 
cases for  the  same  reason  that  it  has  aubus- 


son  rugs  and  Persian  portieres,  because  they 
are  a  sort  of  sign  manual  of  respectability. 
Clearly,  we  cannot  turn  to  the  'social 
world'  for  help  in  our  mental  starvation." 
And  Cecilia  looked  more  cynical  than  we 
had  guessed  she  could  look. 

"  I  always  knew  that  the  middle  classes 
held  the  real  mind-power,"  said  Echo  calm- 
ly, "  as  they  have  the  best  education,  and  live 
the  most  sensibly  in  every  way." 

Cecilia  smiled.  "Judging  from  my  wide 
if  shallow  experience,  there  is  no  cultivated 
class  in  California  in  the  sense  we  mean. 
There  are  isolated  cases,  so  to  speak ;  but 
culture  is  not  as  yet  epidemic.  There  are 
fine  ladies  who  play  at  study,  and  little  cir- 
cles of  congenial  spirits,  some  decidedly 
Bohemian,  some  aesthetic  or  classical;  but 
I  cannot  see  that  they  are  strong  enough  to 
exercise  any  influence." 

"Well,  to  return  to  our  subject,"  said  Pe- 
nelope, "there  is  evidently  no  such  thing  as 
our  Ideal  Club;  which,  roughly  formulated, 
would  be  a  baker's  dozen,  perhaps,  of  bright 
ambitious  minds.  Nobody  must  know  too 
much  nor  too  little.  There  must  be  two  or 
three  ruling  spirits,  who  in  their  turn  are 
not  too  old  or  too  wise  to  learn.  They 
must  be  so  harmonious  that  though  seas 
swept  between  them  they  would  still  hold 
the  magic  thread  which  is  to  lead  them  to  a 
higher  life.  They  must  be  modest,  yet  self- 
reliant — yes,  yes,"  muttered  Penelope,  sar- 
castically, "it's  a  very  pretty  idea,  but  it's 
only  an  idea." 

"O,  why  couldn't  it  be?"  said  Aprille,  al- 
most angrily.  "It  would  be  so  beautiful." 

"Because,"  and  Volumnia  rose  and  stood 
with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob,  like  an 
enemy  retreating  in  good  order,  "because 
we  are  only  human, -my  dear.  Our  Ideal 
Club  could  never  pass  between  Scylla  and 
Charybdis.  It  would  either  split  or  become 
that  vilest  of  compounds,  a  mutual  admira- 
tion society,"  and  she  smiled  benignly  on  us, 
then  went  away  to  superintend  the  salad. 

A  discouraging  silence  fell  upon  us,  and 
somebody  tried  feebly  to  talk  of  every-day 
matters,  but  Echo  was  not  satisfied  with 
such  summary  disposal  of  our  topic. 


636 


Song. 


[Dec. 


"I  will  concede,"  she  said  severely,  "that 
we  can  not  do  everything,  but  we  can  do  a 
little,  which  is  much  better  than  nothing  at 
all.  Each  one  can  seek  in  his  own  way  and 
along  his  own  path  the  elements  of  the  so- 
ciety we  should  like  to  have,  and  some  time 
they  may  be  drawn  together.  It  is  not  im- 
possible, and  as  Penelope  jeeringly  says, 
it  is  a  very  pretty  scheme." 

So,  seduced  by  Echo's  earnestness  we 
vaguely  dedicated  ourselves  to  the  Ideal 
Club;  and  then  the  lunch  bell  rang,  and 
mind-hunger  was  set  aside  for  body-hunger. 
Before  the  twilight  fell  each  had  gone  his 
own  way  to  his  own  work  or  idlesse  as  the 
case  might  be. 

Since  then,  two  or  three  persevering  ones, 
holding  our  symposium  in  mind,  joined  a 
large  fraternity  known  in  derisive  circles  as 
the  "Jaw-talk-away,"  but  after  the  first  flush 
of  enthusiasm  paled,  they  found  that  it  gave 
them  a  great  deal  they  didn't  want  and  with- 
held a  great  deal  they  wanted ;  so  they  are 
still  wandering  about  like  restless  souls  in 
Purgatory. 

Aprille  kicks  against  the  pricks,  but  is  too 
young  and  inexperienced  to  find  her  own  in 
the  unclaimed  material  floating  about  her. 


Lotis  settled  back  into  her  day-dreams,  which 
ever  hang  a  misty  curtain  between  her  and 
the  world.  Lesbia  lost  her  ambition  in  love 
and  never  found  it  again ;  for  love,  though 
"'tis  not  so  deep  as  a  well  nor  so  wide  as  a 
church  door,"  is  enough :  and  Cecilia  asks 
no  odds  of  anybody,  but  makes  the  most  of 
her  opportunities,  and  sails  away  from  us 
not  selfishly  but  serenely,  to  open  seas  which 
we  toil  in  vain  to  reach.  Volumnia  at  last 
turned  back  to  music,  and  found  in  "Veloc- 
ities" and  Schumann  a  stop-gap  for  her 
seething  ambition.  Penelope  dissects  all 
their  failures  with  microscopic  fidelity,  but 
does  little  herself  except  dabble  in  the  thing 
nearest  her  hand,  drifting  with  the  tide  in  a 
purposeless  way  which  must  eventually  leave 
her  without  any  occupation  whatever.  Echo, 
being  of  Puritanistic  lineage,  holds  to  her 
convictions  as  firmly  as  does  the  bull-dog  to 
his  natural  foe.  She  believes  in  culture,  and 
thinks  she  has  found  the  cultivated  class ; 
but  the  rest  of  us,  though  we  have  seen  afar 
scintillations  which  seemed  born  of  the  jew- 
el of  our  search,  always  found  on  closer  in- 
spection the  diamond  to  be  paste;  and  so — 
and  so  the  Ideal  Club  has  never  been  real- 
ized. 

K.  M.  Bishop. 


SONG. 

Dear  Heart,  why  grieve  each  other  so? 

I  know  you  love  me, 
I  hear  your  whisper  soft  and  low, 

And  know  you  love  me. 

Why  say  harsh  words  to  me,  dear  Heart? 

You  know  you  love  me : 
Why  say  so  coldly,   "We  must  part" 

Because  you  love  me  ? 

I  would  I  had  the  words  to  tell, 

How  well  I  love  you. 
Would  I  might  all  grave  doubts  dispel, 

And  prove  I  love  you. 

Ah  !  dearest,  wait  a  little  while, 

You  know  I  love  you  : 
Some  day  with  neither  guilt  nor  guile 

You'll  know  I  love  you. 


C. 


1883.] 


Authority. 


637 


AUTHORITY. 


Is  authority  dethroned?  If  not  dethron- 
ed already,  will  it  be  in  some  near  future? 
If  not  likely  to  be  dethroned,  ought  it  to  be? 
Such  questions  are  suggested  by  certain  cur- 
rent complaints  and  current  boasts.  Com- 
plaints have  long  been  rife.  Authority  has 
been  pictured  as  a  conscienceless  tyrant,  a 
cruel  monster,  hydra-headed,  insatiate,  full 
of  all  malice.  More  recently,  boasting  has 
begun.  This  tyrant  has  been  fatally  wound- 
ed; this  monster's  heads  have  some  of  them 
been  slain,  others  scotched.  Its  dominion 
totters  to  a  final  overthrow. 

And  what  is  the  malignant  tyrant,  this 
monster  of  evil?  Of  course  we  are  not 
speaking  of  the  authority  which  rests  on 
force,  and  has  a  power  of  absolute  compul- 
sion. No  questions  are  raised  about  that 
sort  of  authority.  Of  the  only  sort  which  can 
be  discussed,  an  approximate  definition  may 
be  found  in  such  descriptions  as  John  Henry 
Newman's :  "  Conscience  is  an  authority;  the 
Bible  is  an  authority;  such  is  the  church; 
such  is  antiquity;  such  are  the  words  of  the 
wise;  such  are  hereditary  lessons ;  such  are 
ethical  truths ;  such  are  historical  memories ; 
such  are  legal  laws  and  state  maxims ;  such 
are  proverbs ;  such  are  sentiments,  presages, 
and  prepossessions."  This  description  is 
from  a  churchman's  point  of  view.  A  jurist 
might  make  a  different  enumeration.  A 
metaphysician  and  a  practical  statesman 
would  not  emphasize  the  same  points.  It 
is  near  enough  to  our  purpose  to  say  that 
authority  includes  all  those  prescriptions, 
rules,  customs,  influences  and  antecedents 
which  tend  to  shape  the  judgments  and  the 
choices  of  men.  A  popular  lecturer  is  re- 
ported as  saying  :  "  Influence  is  persuasion, 
authority  is  coercion  "  ;  but  the  distinction 
is  less  than  half  true.  The  authority  which 
alone  comes  up  for  discussion  is  in  its  very 
nature  non-compulsory.  Law  is  an  author- 
ity ;  but,  in  our  sense  of  the  word,  not  as 
laying  on  us  an  irresistible  iron  hand,  but 


only  as  securing  a  reasonable  and  willing 
obedience.  In  all  civic  life  men  yield  vol- 
untarily to  authority ;  swept  on,  it  may  be, 
with  scarcely  a  recognition  of  the  current 
that  bears  them,  but  able  at  any  time  to 
turn  and  row  up-stream.  In  religion  the 
great  antagonist  of  authority,  as  Cardinal 
Newman  puts  it,  is  private  judgment.  Au- 
thority is  no  resistless  tyrant,  for  force  takes 
us  into  quite  another  domain.  Whatever 
tyranny  there  may  be  in  authority,  its  victims 
all  have  the  indefeasible  right  of  rebellion. 
The  tree  cannot  rebel  against  the  ax  that 
smites  it.  The  planets  cannot  rebel  against 
the  physical  law  of  gravitation.  Human 
souls  do  find  it  possible  to  resist  the  strong- 
est claims  of  authority.  This  is,  therefore, 
a  moral  power,  exercised  over  natures  en- 
dowed with  freedom  of  will,  having  the 
whole  play  of  its  energies  in  the  sphere  of 
voluntary  human  conduct.  This  simple  dis- 
tinction is  enough  to  throw  more  than  a 
shadow  of  doubt  over  the  complaints  al- 
ready spoken  of.  There  is  in  authority,  as 
we  mean  it,  no  absolute  slavery,  from  which 
men  need  emancipation.  There  is  in  it  no 
crushing  oriental  tyranny,  no  Napoleonic  op- 
pression, no  haughty  compulsion  like  that 
of  imperial  Rome. 

What  do  men  mean,  then,  when  they  speak 
of  the  tyranny  of  authority?  They  can  mean 
only  that  the  strength  of  prescriptions,  rules, 
customs,  influences  and  antecedents  is  so 
great  that  men's  judgments  and  choices  are 
actually  swayed  by  them,  even  when  it  would 
be  for  their  interest  to  break  away  from  the 
old  lines  of  conduct.  In  this  there  is  a  large 
measure  of  truth.  But  the  fault  is  far  less 
in  the  prescriptions,  customs  and  antecedent 
influences  than  in  the  too  acquiescent  judg- 
ments of  freely  acting  men. 
.  But  is  this  the  only  danger  in  shaping 
human  conduct?  Is  there  no  opposite  dan- 
ger of  caring  too  little  for  the  old,  and  run- 
ning foolishly  or  insanely  after  the  new  ?  Is 


638 


Authority. 


[Dec. 


authority  to  be  ignominiously  degraded  and 
entirely  discarded?  Such  is  the  tendency 
of  our  day.  Is  it  altogether  wholesome? 
Is  it  really  safe  ? 

The  claim  now-a-days  is,  that  there  may 
be  a  perfectly  unrestrained  utterance  of  new 
doctrines,  however  subversive  of  the  old,  not 
through  the  ordinary  channels  of  public  ut- 
terance, but  in  presence  of  the  rising  gener- 
ation; that  no  teacher  in  any  school  or  in- 
stitution of  learning  should  feel  himself  in 
the  least  fettered  by  the  opinions  of  the  ma- 
jority or  by  the  authority  of  the  past ;  that 
it  is,  in  fact,  the  duty  of  every  teacher  to 
promulgate  his  ideas,  however  radical,  and 
the  duty  of  all  who  do  not  like  these 
ideas  to  stand  aside  and  say  nothing,  while 
their  children  and  youth  are  indoctrinated 
with  sentiments  which  they,  the  parents  and 
guardians,  believe  to  be  wrong  and  pernici- 
ous. The  only  duty  of  such  parents  and 
guardians  is  to  select  a  teacher  of  ability, 
give  him  the  best  advantages,  leave  him  to 
form  his  own  opinions,  and  then  allow  him 
to  teach  these  opinions  without  let  or  hin- 
drance. We  have  to  answer  the  question, 
whether  such  freedom  of  utterance  is  rightly 
demanded.  There  are  various  fields  of  hu- 
man conduct  on  which  the  justice  of  the 
claim  may  be  tested. 

Let  us  look,  for  example,  at  the  sphere  of 
the  good  citizen.  He  is  a  voluntary  actor 
in  this  sphere.  No  law  can  compel  him  to 
be  faithful  to  his  civic  relations.  But  many 
things,  in  a  well-ordered  community,  come 
in  to  influence  him  to  do  a  citizen's  duty. 
Statute  laws  are  teachers  of  duty ;  the  cus- 
toms of  society  conform  to  the  laws,  and 
carry  their  spirit  further  along  in  conduct; 
the  settled  sentiments  of.  the  community 
tend  in  the  same  direction.  A  well-meaning 
American  citizen  is  hemmed  in  on  every 
side  by  such  barriers  ;  barriers  which  are  not 
adamantine;  which  he  could  easily  break 
through  and  over,  but  which  are  strong 
enough  to  constrain  his  judgment  and  his 
conduct.  He  is  held  by  silken  fetters,  so  soft- 
thai  he  does  not  think  of  their  pressure,  so 
strong  that  it  would  cost  him  an  effort  to 
break  them.  Are  these  fetters  useful  ?  Are 


these  barriers  a  blessing  to  the  man  and  to 
the  community  ?  If  we  say  no,  we  cut  the 
citizen  loose  from  all  restraint.  We  send  him 
out  on  the  sea  of  life  without  a  chart  or  com- 
pass. He  has  his  own  nature — let  us  sup- 
pose it  sound  and  true.  But  human  nature 
is  a  prey  to  various  impulses,  some  useful 
and  some  hurtful.  He  has  a  conscience ; 
but  how  many  consciences  are  blunted  by 
passion  and  self-interest !  If  we  take  from 
him  all  the  influence  of  authority,  we  shut 
him  up  to  a  narrow  round  of  individual  ex- 
periments. He  can  learn  nothing  from  oth- 
ers, at  least  without  weighing  it  and  testing 
it  for  himself.  Every  citizen  becomes  an 
isolated  unit.  There  are  no  consentaneous, 
harmonious  movements  of  masses  of  men ; 
no  common  impulses  to  sway  them,  to  incite 
them  to  lofty  deeds  in  times  of  national  peril; 
no  martyr-spirit  that  touches  hearts  prepared 
for  sacrifice,  and  flashes  like  the  lightning 
from  soul  to  soul,  till  a  whole  nation  is  en- 
kindled and  offers  itself  on  the  altar  of  the 
national  honor.  The  things  that  have  made 
nations  great,  heroic,  noble,  would  have  no 
place  among  a  people  deaf  to  the  voices  of 
the  past,  sensitive  to  no  external  influences 
from  the  present. 

In  a  nation  like  ours,  can  we  afford  to 
cut  loose  from  all  authority?  \Vhere,  then, 
would  be  the  incentives  to  national  glory, 
where  the  fountains  of  a  swelling  patriotism, 
where  the  barest  holding-place  for  a  nation's 
pillars  of  support?  National  life  is  more 
than  the  aggregate  of  individual  lives.  It  is 
a  separate  and  powerful  vitality,  nourished 
by  the  deeds  of  former  generations,  quick- 
ened by  sympathy  with  the  feelings  and  sen- 
timents of  many  great  and  good  men. 
There  is  a  national  pulse :  and  he  who  feels 
no  responsive  throb  in  his  own  veins  is  an 
incomplete  and  sorry  citizen. 

The  sentiments  proper  to  a  patriot  and 
good  citizen  are  not  accidental:  they  grow 
out  of  direct  teachings  and  transmitted  feel- 
ings. Suppose,  then,  it  were  claimed  that 
it  is  no  matter  what  one's  political  teaching 
is:  you  must  not  trammel  the  teacher  by 
prescriptions  and  prejudices;  you  can  not  in- 
sist on  a  set  of  stereotyped  opinions.  Select 


1883.] 
an  able 


Authority. 


639 


n  able  teacher;  equip  him  well;  then  let 
him  have  perfect  freedom  of  utterance. 
How  would  that  work  for  the  nation's  wel- 
fare? In  our  common-school  system  we  re- 
quire allegiance  to  the  common  government. 
The  trustees  take  a  formal  oath ;  the  teach- 
ers are  required  to  "instruct  the  pupils  in 
the  principles  of  a  free  government,  and  to 
train  them  up  to  a  true  comprehension  of 
the  rights,  duties  and  dignity  of  American 
citizenship."  Here  is  authority  in  full  blast. 
The  tender  minds  of  the  children  are  not 
left  to  be  formed  at  haphazard  on  the  sub- 
ject of  civic  duties.  It  is  thought  no  wrong 
to  the  rising  generation  to  imbue  them  with 
the  principles  of  their  government  and  with 
a  love  for  their  country.  Freedom  of  utter- 
ance is  not  allowed  the  teacher,  so  far  that 
he  may  strike  at  the  foundations  of  our  free 
institutions :  he  may  not  advocate  a  return 
to  absolute  monarchy,  nor  a  lapse  into  an- 
archy. We  say  that  patriotism  has  a  right 
to  be  first  in  the  field  of  thought,  and  judg- 
ment, and  feeling;  that  our  national  welfare 
is  of  such  vast  importance  that  it  cannot  be 
left  to  the  unaided  impulses  of  American 
youth.  We  train  them  for  their  civic  du- 
ties: we  seek  to  inspire  them  with  a  sacred 
sentiment  of  love  of  country,  and  of  freedom, 
and  of  good  institutions.  While  we  do  this, 
we  do  not  affirm  that  all  wisdom  was  with 
our  fathers,  nor  that  we,  who  have  changed 
some  things  in  our  institutions,  have  nothing 
more  to  change.  We  only  say  that  a  fair 
presumption  is  on  the  side  of  our  existing 
institutions;  that  changes,  if  made  at  all, 
should  conserve  the  best  results  of  the  past ; 
and  that  radical,  violent  changes  may  work 
irreparable  mischief.  So  we  ought  to  adhere 
to  authority,  while  we  yield  it  no  blind  obe- 
dience. And,  therefore,  freedom  of  teaching 
in  political  matters  must  have  some  metes 
and  bounds.  There  will  always  be  venture- 
some theorists,  sometimes  very  able  ones, 
who  take  a  pride  in  independent,  unbalanced 
thinking.  There  will  always  be  men  of  a 
sensational  or  a  demagogic  spirit,  whose  de- 
light is  to  startle  and  dazzle  plain  men.  We 
tolerate  such  theorists,  even  when  they  pro- 
pose to  sacrifice  all  the  past  for  a  visionary 


future.  We  let  them  meet  in  conventions, 
and  use  the  public  press,  and  challenge  pub- 
lic attention;  feeling  confident  that  a  well- 
instructed  community  will  pick  out  the  grains 
from  their  heap  of  chaff,  and  blow  the  chaff 
away.  But  we  do  not  put  these  extreme 
theorists  in  our  school-rooms.  We  do  not 
allow  absolute  monarchy  or  anarchy,  so- 
cialism, nihilism,  or  red  revolutionism,  to 
be  taught  our  children  at  the  public  ex- 
pense. 

Still  more:  As  between  plausible  theories 
of  government,  we  have  a  decided  choice, 
and  insist  on  teaching  our  chosen  theory. 
Much  can  be  said  in  favor  of  a  constitutional 
monarchy,  like  that  of  Great  Britain.  Some 
of  our  theorists  incline  to  give  it  the  prefer- 
ence over  our  republican  system.  But  we 
do  not  allow  them  to  teach  their  doctrines 
in  our  schools.  Our  government  is  a  repub- 
lic: it  has  a  right  to  instil  and  inculcate 
republican  principles.  Constitutional  mon- 
archy is  a  very  respectable  thing;  but  we 
can  not,  in  our  country,  afford  to  advocate 
it  at  the  public  cost,  to  the  undermining  of 
a  system  which  most  of  us  deem  so  much 
better.  Our  presumption  is  in  favor  of  free 
popular  government;  and  this  presumption 
has  a  right  to  all  the  advantages  of  authority 
— to  the  prescriptions,  maxims,  customs,  in- 
fluences, and  prepossessions  which  tend  to 
give  our  system  the  first  place  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people.  There  is  here  no  injustice. 
The  other  form  of  government  is  not  de- 
barred from  a  public  hearing.  If  it  is  really 
superior,  it  will  work  its  way  in  the  end  to  a 
full  acceptance.  The  change  will  be  so 
gradual  that  no  harm  will  result.  While  the 
old  is  giving  way,  there  will  be  time  to  fash- 
ion and  prepare  the  new.  No  cataclysm 
will  ensue;  no  anarchy  nor  bloodshed  will 
mark  the  transition.  In  Great  Britain  the 
presumption  is  the  other  way.  If,  as  is  not 
unlikely,  the  monarchical  theory  wanes  there, 
and  the  republican  theory  comes  to  prevail, 
it  is  infinitely  better  that  the  latter  assume 
the  onus  probandi ;  that  it  contest  and  win 
against  odds  every  inch  of  ground.  That 
will  give  a  peaceful  and  healthful  transition, 
instead  of  the  bloody  alternations  which 


640 


Authority. 


[Dec. 


have   dimmed   the   glory   and    sapped   the 
strength  of  fickle  and  fiery  France. 

For  another  test  of  the  claims  of  authority, 
we  may  take  the  maxims  of  propriety  in  hu- 
man conduct.  Civilized  communities  have 
agreed  that  certain  things  are  proper  and 
decent  in  a  well-ordered  society,  and  certain  - 
other  things  improper  and  indecent.  On 
some  points  of  propriety  these  communities 
may  be  mistaken.  Less  civilized  peoples 
make  a  stumbling  block  of  things  which  we 
deem  proper.  The  Turk  keeps  his  women 
closely  veiled  in  public;  the  Englishman  de- 
lights to  show  off  his  charming  princesses 
and  ladies  of  rank.  Civilized  Greece  shut 
up  wives  at  home;  the  Roman  matron  was 
given  a  much  larger  liberty.  In  our  own 
day  the  dictates  of  feminine  dress  are  arbi- 
trary, and  in  some  respects  absurd.  We  can 
leave  aside  all  such  minor  points,  determin- 
ed as  they  are  by  caprice  or  fashion.  But 
we  have  remaining  certain  dictates  of  pro- 
priety which  all  civilized  peoples  respect, 
which  only  fanatics  transgress.  The  Quak- 
eress who  walked  unclad  into  a  New  Eng- 
land meeting-house  was  a  fanatic;  and  we 
can  not  wonder  that  the  Puritans  abhorred 
her  (however  unjustly)  and  her  co-religion- 
ists. A  decent  attire  is  the  first  mark  of 
civilization  among  heathen  tribes  lifted  by 
Christian  teachings. 

If  a  party  or  sect  should  arise  among  us, 
boldly  proclaiming  a  return  to  this  heathen 
simplicity,  it  would  be  an  intolerable  .offense, 
and  the  community  would  at  once  put  it 
down.  If  a  teacher  of  children  should  in- 
dulge in  such  freedom  of  teaching,  he  would 
be  as  rank  a  fanatic  as  the  New  England 
Quakeress,  and  be  as  summarily  dealt  with. 
For  less  offenses  the  rule  holds  good  in  the 
corresponding  degree.  While  profane  speech 
is  rarely  punished  by  the  civil  law,  it  is 
frowned  on  in  respectable  families,  and  ban- 
ned from  the  teacher's  desk.  The  hard 
drinker  is  not  imprisoned  for  his  habits;  but 
if  he  should  try,  in  a  school-room,  to  indoc- 
trinate his  pupils  in  the  theory  and  practice 
of  intemperance,  his  occupation  would  be 
gone.  There  are  various  improprieties  of 
conduct,  not  gross  nor  criminal,  which  so- 


ciety tolerates  in  individuals,  but  does  not 
allow  to  be  taught  to  its  children  and  youth. 
The  teacher,  in  a  well-ordered  community, 
must  not  be  outlandish  in  dress,  nor  clown- 
ish in  manners,  nor  wild  in  behavior.  If  his 
freedom  includes  these  things,  society  pro- 
tects itself  by  withdrawing  the  young  from 
his  presence.  In  points  where  no  principle 
is  at  stake,  a  decent  regard  for  the  opinions 
and  prejudices  of  the  community  practically 
limits  individual  freedom.  Social  improve- 
ments in  things  unessential  are  obliged,  very 
properly,  to  make  their  way  slowly,  and  to 
overcome  the  presumptions  from  antecedent 
usages. 

Where  conduct  is  not  immediately  in- 
volved, the  claims  of  authority  may  be  such 
that  no  teacher  can  fly  in  the  face  of  it. 
Scientific  truth  has  some  inalienable  rights 
that  cannot  be  yielded  to  individual  caprice. 
The  consensus  of  scientific  men  is  a  court 
from  which  there  is  no  appeal.  Few  men 
have  searched  out  for  themselves  the  facts 
relating  to  our  solar  system;  but  we  trust 
the  unanimous  voice  of  the  astronomers. 
We  are  simply  amused  at  the  obstinacy  of 
our  anti-Galileo,  the  Reverend  John  Jasper, 
when  he  declares  that  "the  sun  do  move" 
around  the  earth;  but  no  Jasper,  black  or 
white,  would  be  allowed  to  teach  our  chil- 
dren this  astronomical  heresy.  Alchemy 
w.as  once  believed  in :  would  it  be  suffered 
now  to  take  the  place  of  chemistry,  when 
some  erratic  teacher  chose  to  espouse  it  ? 

We  may  turn  now  to  the  province  of  Eth- 
ics. Ethics  is  the  theory  of  which  morals  is 
the  practice.  Men  agree  substantially  as  to 
practical  morality;  they  differ  as  to  its  theo- 
retical grounds.  Some  ethical  theories  seem 
unimportant  in  their  deviations  from  accus- 
tomed teachings;  others  are  more  or  less 
revolutionary.  Is  no  restraint  to  be  put  on 
any  new  teaching?  Those  theories  have 
access  to  the  public  ear;  they  can  be  printed 
and  spread  broadcast  in  the  community. 
But  shall  they  be  taught  in  our  schools,  at 
the  caprice  of  the  individual  teacher?  There 
is,  for  example,  a  theory  that  right  and 
wrong  doing  depend,  not  on  the  choices  of  a 
freely  acting  moral  nature,  but  on  an  inflex- 


1883.] 


Authority. 


641 


ible  environment.  What  seems  freedom  of 
will  is  a  delusion.  All  human  actions  are 
determined  by  an  irresistible  necessity.  Ex- 
cellent men  have  held  and  promulgated  this 
theory.  Possibly  more  hold  it  now  than  we 
suppose,  in  these  days  of  a  rampant  mate- 
rialism— more  than  at  any  previous  time. 
"Thought  is  free;  the  press  is  free;  public 
assemblies  are  free:  the  advocates  of  this 
theory  of  ethics  can  go  on  holding  and  pro- 
mulgating it  to  the  bitter  end.  But  the 
large  majority  of  our  people  are  not  yet 
ready  to  adopt  it.  They  believe  in  freedom 
of  will,  in  self-determining  moral  natures. 
They  rear  their  families  on  this  old-time  the- 
ory :  on  this  theory  they  make  their  laws  and 
punish  their  criminals.  Suppose,  now,  that 
in  our  schools  and  public  seminaries  of  learn- 
ing there  should  arise  a  race  of  instructors 
who  are  necessarians;  teaching  that  a  child 
cannot  help  doing  wrong,  and  that  a  crimi- 
nal cannot  help  breaking  the  law.  Here  is 
a  theory  of  ethics  adapted  to  produce  imme- 
diate and  disastrous  results.  The  guardians 
of  the  young  see  at  once  that  it  is  revolu- 
tionary, destructive  of  good  order  in  the 
school-room,  in  the  family,  in  society  at 
large.  What  would  they  do  with  this  new 
race  of  teachers  ?  What  could  they  do,  but 
withdraw  their  charges  from  such  instruc- 
tion ?  There  is  surely  a  strong  and  time- 
honored  presumption  in  favor  of  the  old 
doctrine  of  human  responsibility.  By  that 
doctrine  many  generations  of  self-restraining 
men  and  women  have  been  trained  in  the 
past.  It  has  the  "promise  and  potency"  of 
a  healthful  influence  on  innumerable  gener- 
ations to  come.  There  is  no  higher  dictate 
than  self-preservation;  and  the  self-preserva- 
tion of  society  demands  that  the  old  doc- 
trine have  a  first  and  full  hearing  in  every 
family  and  every  school.  Here  is  certainly 
a  case  where  freedom  of  teaching  must  not 
be  allowed  its  fullest  possible  play. 

And  there  are  moral  teachings  and  influ- 
ences so  flagrantly  immoral  as  to  make  any 
public  utterance  an  offence  against  the  com- 
mon weal.  Such  are  the  free-love  doctrines 
and  practices  of  the  Oneida  community.  Such 
are  the  most  repulsive  phases  of  Mormon- 
VOT.  TT.— 41. 


ism.  There  comes  a  time  when  the  civil 
law  interferes  to  restrain  immoral  teachings, 
as  it  restrains  indecent  publications. 

How,  then,  will  it  be  in  the  kindred 
province  of  religion?  There  is  no  end  to 
the  ridicule  heaped  on  those  who  object  to 
the  freest  utterances  of  religious  or  anti-re- 
ligious opinions.  How,  it  is  asked,  can  you 
fetter  the  seeker  after  truth?  And  how  can 
you  restrain  him  from  promulgating  the  truth 
that  he  thinks  he  has  found?  He  may  be 
mistaken,  but  we  are  not  his  keepers.  Re- 
ligion is  an  open  field,  and  he  who  walks  out 
therein,  exploring  its  bounds,  finding  for  him- 
self the  green  pastures  and  still  waters  that 
suit  him  best,  must  have  no  padlock  on  his 
lips.  He  must  be  at  liberty,  not  only  to  cry 
aloud  to  the  Father  of  his  spirit,  but  to  echo 
the  Father's  answering  voice.  If  no  voice 
comes  to  him,  if  the  universe  seems  dumb 
to  his  appeal,  he  must  be  allowed  to  utter 
his  disappointment;  to  declare  that  there  is 
no  God,  no  soul,  no  future  world;  to  make 
the  welkin  ring  with  the  cry  of  despair. 
Well,  all  this  is  freely  done  in  our  day.  Writ- 
ers and  speakers  give  forth  their  negations 
and  their  erratic  affirmations  with  the  largest 
liberty.  They  find  their  fit  audience,  wheth- 
er few  or  many.  But  in  addition  to  this  they 
claim  the  right  of  instilling  into  the  minds 
of  the  young  all  their  own  doubts,  and  de- 
nials, and  assertions;  their  destructive  and 
constructive  hypotheses.  Whose  business  is 
it  to  interfere?  Thought  is  free  as  air:  let 
it  fly  forth  unbidden,  and  flash  unopposed 
into  every  breathing  soul.  That  is  the  claim : 
is  it  a  fair  one  ? 

Religion  is  an  atmosphere.  The  atmos- 
phere may  be  clear  or  murky,  light  or  dense : 
but  it  is  essential  to  man's  spiritual  nature. 
In  some  religious  atmosphere  the  nations 
of  the  earth  have  dwelt.  If  a  few  degraded 
tribes  have  acknowledged  no  religious  aspir- 
ations, they  show  by  contrast  the  universal- 
ity and  strength  of  the  religious  feeling. 
Certain  nations  go  by  the  name  of  Christian, 
and  these  are  the  foremost  nations  of  the 
world.  The  Christian  religion  is  a  definite 
thing.  Held  in  somewhat  varying  forms,  it 
is  in  each  form  a  living  and  powerful  influence 


642 


Authority. 


[Dec. 


to  the  people  who  hold  it.  We  may  set  aside 
its  excrescences,  which  are  human  accretions; 
and  if  we  penetrate  to  its  heart  and  center, 
we  find  among  Christian  nations  a  system  of 
belief  to  which  they  owe  their  purest  moral- 
ity, their  noblest  incentives,  their  dearest 
and  brightest  hopes.  It  is  a  system  with  a 
history,  and  with  historic  foundations.  It 
is  stronger  now  than  it  ever  was  before.  It 
has  shown  an  increasing  power  to  bless  the 
human  race.  Furthermore,  it  is  a  system 
which  proclaims  the  need  of  its  own  teach- 
ings. On  its  theory  of  the  world,  the  world 
can  not  do  without  it,  can  not  be  left  in  ig- 
norance of  its  claims.  It  asserts  a  universal 
human  weakness,  and  to  that  weakness  it 
offers  restorative  help.  Here  is  a  trans- 
forming element,  an  all-important  safe- 
guard. If  the  young  grow  up  without 
it,  they  lose  the  most  potent  influence  for 
good.  If  they  are  taught  to  despise  it, 
they  are  put  on  a  false  track  for  their  whole 
career. 

Such  opinions  are  held  by  the  great  ma- 
jority in  Christian  lands.  A  small  minority, 
respectable  in  ability  and  influence,  think 
the  Christian  religion  is  outgrown,  and  now 
worse  than  useless.  They  utter  their  views 
in  public;  they  gain  a  foremost  hearing  in 
magazines  and  reviews,  as  well  as  in  more 
solid  publications.  No  one  denies  them  this 
right.  But  when  they  come,  as  many  of 
them  do,  to  claim  an  equal  hearing  in  our 
public  schools,  the  matter  assumes  a  very 
different  aspect.  Antecedent  probability 
among  us  is  in  favor  of  the  Christian  reli- 
gion. The  presumption,  thus  far,  is  over- 
whelming on  the  side  of  its  teachings.  •  Can 
a  Christian  community  look  on  with  indiffer 
ence  while  its  dearest  possessions  are  taken, 
from  it  ?  Can  it,  without  a  protest,  see  itself 
robbed  of  the  guardianship  of  its  children  ? 
Can  it  stand  by  unmoved  and  hear  its  most 
sacred  beliefs  disparaged  and  sneered  at  in 
the  presence  of  its  youth  ?  No  more  than 
the  patriot  can  be  indifferent  while  the  doc- 
trines of  disloyalty  are  taught  to  his  farrlily. 
He  would  not  nourish  a  progeny  of  rebels  ; 
he  must  teach  his  children  his  own  principles 
of  loyalty,  imbue  them  with  his  own  love  of 


country  and  our  free  institutions.  The  Chris- 
tian's faith  is  vital  to  his  citizenship  in  a  heav- 
enly country.  It  is  a  prime  dictate  of  al- 
legiance to  the  great  government  of  Him 
whom  he  believes  to  be  King  of  kings  and 
Lord  of  lords.  He  is  not  to  be  called  a 
fanatic,  he  is  not  to  be  teased  and  harried, 
for  acting  on  this  only  consistent  view  of  his 
responsibilities.  It  is  the  logical  outcome  of 
positions  held  for  many  centuries  by  multi- 
tudes of  reasonable  and  cool-headed  men. 
If  their  belief  is  all  a  mistake,  the  world  will, 
in  due  time,  find  it  out.  But  till  it  is  proved 
a  mistake,  he  must  adhere  to  his  faith  and 
follow  out  his  teachings.  The  presumption 
on  the  side  of  those  teachings  is  still  enor- 
mous. It  is  the  sheerest  audacity  to  claim 
that  both  sides  have  an  equal  standing  in 
the  court  of  Christian  nations. 

In  our  public  educational  system  we  show 
a  sufficiently  tender  regard  for  men  of  di- 
vergent views,  when  we  simply  secularize  the 
schools.  We  do  not  force  the  religious 
views  of  the  majority  upon  the  small  minor- 
ity. But  it  is  a  compact  with  two  sides. 
If  the  general  belief  is  not  to  be  inculcated 
in  our  schools,  neither  is  it  to  be  assailed. 
Freedom  of  utterance  is  not  to  be  carried  by 
teachers  to  the  extent  of  opposing  and  un- 
dermining in  any  public  way  the  general 
Christian  faith — a  faith  consecrated  by  so 
many  millions  of  worthy  lives;  a  faith  which 
has  in  it  so  much  that  is  pure  and  noble,  its 
opponents  themselves  being  judges;  a  faith 
which  has  behind  it  so  many  hallowed  usages, 
prescriptions,  influences  and  prepossessions, 
in  short,  so  much  of  genuine  and  command- 
ing authority. 

There  will  come  a  time  in  many  lives 
when  all  ethical  and  religious  questions  are 
to  be  re-opened.  Authority  cannot  stifle  in- 
quiry, even  on  the  most  sacred  themes. 
But  such  inquiries  demand  a  maturer  mind, 
a  wiser  and  more  candid  judgment,  than  we 
find  in  the  school,  or  usually  in  the  college. 
It  is  the  height  of  folly  to  precipitate  these 
inquiries  on  the  crude  and  thoughtless  years 
of  early  life.  To  take  away  the  teachings  of 
the  great  and  sacred  past,  is  to  tumble  the 
unfledged  bird  out  of  its  only  safe  nest,  to 


1883.] 


Authority. 


643 


'  bid  a  toddling  child  shoulder  the  heavy  ar- 
mor of  a  full-grown  man. 

Let  us  fully  understand  the  point  of  our 
discussion.     The  question  is   not,  whether 
there  has  been  too  much  blind  adherence  to 
authority:  doubtless  there  has  been.     It  is 
not,    whether  there  should  be  progress  in 
things    political,    social,    ethical,    religious: 
doubtless  there  should  be;  and  the  prophets 
and  champions  of  true  progress  deserve  ex- 
cellently  of    their    fellow-men.      In   many 
places  and  in  many  ways  there  has  been 
need  of  reform ;  and  there  is  need  of  it  still. 
We  ought  not  to  settle  down  content  with 
what  is  oppressive,  either  in  our  government- 
al and  social  framework,  or  in  our  inner  and 
spiritual  life.     The  question  is  not,  whether 
it  is  lawful  for  one  to  break  away  from  old 
opinions  and  beliefs,  even  if  he  stands  alone: 
reformers   have   always  started   out   single- 
handed.     Nor  is  it  whether,  if  the  fire  burns 
in  one's  bones,  he  should  weakly  stifle  it: 
"the  prophet  that  hath  a  dream,  let  him  tell 
a  dream."     If  it  be  but  a  dream,  it  may  stir 
the   world  to  a  higher  ideal  and  a  nobler 
life.      The  question  is,  whether   there   are 
sentiments   and   usages   and    principles   so 
deeply  rooted  in  the  past  as  to  have  a  strong 
presumption  in  their  favor;  a  presumption 
so  strong  that  the  onus  probandiis  altogether 
on   the   innovator.      And   further,   whether 
there  are  institutions  and  beliefs  so  sacred 
to  the  majority  in  certain  civilized  commu- 
nities, and  deemed  by  them  so  fundament- 
ally important   to   good   government,  good 
morals,  and  good  religion,  that  the  minority 
have  no  right  to  use  the  common  funds  and 
common  endowments  in  tearing  them  down. 
And  especially,  whether  freedom  of  utter- 
ance in  public  schools  and  educational  insti- 
tutions and   learned   societies  is  to  be  un- 
der no  possible  check;  to  be  limited  only 
by  individual  caprice  and  sensational  con- 
ceit. 

Or  the  question  may  be  stated  thus :  Is 
the  centrifugal  movement  in  the  world's  pro- 
gress to  recognize  no  counterbalancing  cen- 
tripetal force?  It  is  an  old  saying  that  some 
are  born  to  be  radicals,  and  others  conserva- 
tives ;  and  that  the  safe  progress  of  society 


results  from  the  equipoise  of  the  elements 
they  represent.  There  have  always  been,  in 
the  leading  nations,  two  opposing  camps.  If 
the  one  had  altogether  prevailed,  there  would 
have  been  no  progress ;  if  the  other,  a  pro- 
gress so  rapid  and  wild  as  to  throw  the  world 
back  into  chaos.  Sometimes,  among  these 
best  nations,  the  conservatives  have  been  too 
strong,  and  the  dial  has  gone  a  few  degrees 
backward :  such  times  were  those  which  saw 
the  Caesarism  of  pagan  Rome,  and  the  later 
terrors  of  the  Romish  hierarchy.  Sometimes 
the  radicals  have  bounded  madly  forward, 
and  led  to  such  scenes  as  those  of  the  French 
Revolution.  Radicalism  is  a  tangential  force, 
needing  -ever  its  due  counterpoise.  The  two 
working  together  beget  harmony,  life,  pro- 
gress; as  the  centrifugal  and  centripetal 
forces  of  the  solar  system  preserve  the  kos- 
mos,  the  beautiful  order — while  yet  the  earth 
and  its  sister  planets  go  speeding  on  at  a 
really  tremendous  pace.  Such  a  counter- 
poise there  must  be  in  the  moral  and  spirit- 
ual world.  Its  need  is  recognized  by  the 
champions  of  that  type  of  religion  which 
rests  most  on  authority.  Cardinal  Newman, 
for  example,  in  speaking  of  the  perpetual 
conflict  between  authority  and  private  judg- 
ment, makes  this  assertion:  "It  is  the  vast 
Catholic  body  itself,  and  it  only,  which  af- 
fords an  arena  for  both  combatants  in  that 
awful,  never-dying  duel.  It  is  necessary  for 
the  very  life  of  religion,  viewed  in  its  large 
operations  and  its  history,  that  the  warfare 
should  be  incessantly  carried  on."  And  he 
proceeds  to  show  from  his  point  of  view,  how 
infallibility,  as  claimed  by  his  Church,  and 
reason,  with  its  ceaseless  tugging  at  its  teth- 
er, constitute  the  needed  forces:  and  so 
Catholic  Christendom  "presents  a  continu- 
ous picture  of  authority  and  private  judg- 
ment alternately  advancing  and  retreating  as 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide."  This  is  from 
a  champion  of  conservatism.  Can  not  the 
thorough-going  radical  make  a  like  conces- 
sion? If  he  can  not,  must  we  not  make  it 
for  him?  We  can  no  more  give  ourselves, 
without  safeguards,  into  the  hands  of  blind 
iconoclasts,  than  we  can  settle  down  into  the 
opposite  extreme  of  subservience  and  inac- 


644 


Annctta. 


[Dec. 


tion.  The  Greeks  had  a  wise  maxim, 
"Nothing  too  much";  translated  by  the 
Romans  into  " Ne  quid  nimt's."  It  is  a 
good  motto  for  us.  If  a  golden  mean  is 
anywhere  valuable  and  invaluable,  it  is  in 


the  teachings  that  regulate  human  conduct 
and  bear  on  human  destiny.  All  hail  to  the 
genuine  man  of  progress !  A  blessing  on  the 
men  of  the  past  who  have  left  us  so  rich  a 
legacy. 

M.  Kellogg. 


ANNETTA. 


XXL 


RODNEY  BELL  had  put  a  question  to  which 
one  might  naturally  suppose  he  would  de- 
mand an  immediate  response.  Yet  when 
Annetta,  instead  of  answering,  asked  anoth- 
er and  irrelevant  question,  his  mind  went 
.promptly  off  upon  the  new  track  without 
any  apparent  shock  to  his  sensibilities. 

"Larry  OToole!"  he  echoed,  "Why,  I 
can't  tell  unless  I  refer  to  the  book."  And 
he  met  that  glance  of  gentle  upraiding,  which 
he  had  once  before  missed  seeing,  with  an 
air  of  perfect  openness. 

"  Would  you  mind  looking  into  the  mat- 
ter now,  Rodney  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all." 

Following  Bell,  as  reentering  the  house 
he  marched  toward  the  office,  Annetta's 
thoughts  were  resting  comfortably  upon  his 
behavior.  What  a  weight  off  her  mind  to 
think  he  might  be  able  to  explain  things  she 
could  not  understand. 

"  How  long  since  Larry  OToole  quit 
work?" 

Rodney  had  evidently  been  pondering  her 
query  while,  at  much  waste  of  matches,  he 
succeeded  in  lighting  the  gas ;  Annetta  wait- 
ing meekly  in  darkness  material  and  mental 
for  the  deferred  illumination.  The  jet— a' 
long  vicious  tongue — sputtering  up  at  last, 
Annetta  drew  forth  the  pay-roll,  and  Rodney 
went  diligently  to  bend  over  it  with  her,  his 
short  forefinger  following  her  slender  one 
down  the  list  of  names. 

"  H'm,  let  me  see —  " 

"  Here  it  is,  Rodney." 

"Yes;  O'Toole,  Larry" — sweeping  across 


the  page  to  where  "  Paid  off"  marked  the 
close  of  certain  hieroglyphics. 

Rodney's  stubby  index  pausing  there,  his 
eyes  climbed  the  appropriate  column. 

"What  date  is  that  at  the  top,  Netta? 
the  seventeenth,  isn't  it?  Look  for  your- 
self. There,  you  have  it.  O'Toole  was  paid 
off  on  the  seventeenth." 

He  stood  up  and  gazed  full  in  her  face,  as 
with  candid  inquiry  touching  her  object  in 
thus  catechizing  him. 

"  But,  Rodney  " — wrinkling  her  brows — 
"don't  you  think  that  Larry  has  been  gone 
two  weeks  from  camp  instead  of  three  days, 
as  this  indicates?" 

"  Why,  no,  he  hasn't ;  unless — 

But  Annetta  hastened  to  lay  before  him 
with  a  minuteness  purely  feminine,  just  how 
she  happened  to  be  in  possession  of  the 
facts  of  Larry's  particular  case. 

Bell  listened  until  prepared  to  interrupt 
with  a  "  Ry  Jove !  Netta,  I  think  you're  right." 

"I  know  I'm  right.  For  there's  Maggy 
to  back  what  I  say,  and  Mrs.  O'Toole  "- 
uttering  these  names  triumphantly,  and  with 
the  conclusive  air  of  a  child — or  woman — 
unaccustomed  to  have  her  unadorned  word 
hold  good. 

"  Mrs.  O'Toole  would  certainly  have  no 
object  in  telling  me  how  Larry  has  been 
walking  over  to  North  Beach  every  working 
day  for  a  fortnight,  if  it  isn't  true.  I  went 
to  see  her,  Rodney,  intending  to  find  out 
directly,  if  I  couldn't  indirectly.  I  had  been 
studying  the  pay-roll  quite  carefully — because 
— because — why  should  I  disguise  the  truth 
from  you  ?  Some  one  has  been  calling  your 
honesty  into  question,  and  your  method  of( 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


keeping  the  pay-roll  is  a  particular  point  upon 
which  he  urged  investigation." 

Annetta  had  not  meant,  at  starting,  to  be 
so  explicit.  But  how  could  she  refrain,  with 
Rodney  staring  at  her  as  if  for  full  explan- 
ation of  her  extraordinary  conduct? 

When  she  ended  in  some  confusion,  won- 
dering if  she  would  be  able  to  refuse  to  tell 
who  had  been  talking,  Rodney  still  eyed  her, 
and  so  blankly  that  her  winning  smile,  spon- 
taneously springing  forth  to  disarm  expected 
wrath,  was  nothing  more  to  him  than  to  a 
stone  the  flicker  of  a  stray  sunbeam  over  its 
hard  surface.  The  anticipated  question  as 
to  her  counsellor  did  not  come.  Rodney 
began  instead  to  say  in  his  most  disconnect- 
ed fashion,  and  yet  with  pompous  hems  and 
haws: 

"I  think — though  of  course  I  can't  keep 
all  these  things  in  my  head — that  O'Toole 
was  one  of  a  half-dozen  boys  'sacked'  some- 
where along  about  the  beginning  of  the 
month." 

"On  the  third,  Rodney." 

"Ahem!  Had  to  reduce  the  force,  you 
know.  But  cash  didn't  rain  down  from 
heaven  or  spring  up  out  of  the  ground  to 
settle  with  'em.  So,  for  fear  they'd  kick,  I 
sent  'em  with  a  'recommend'  to  Seth  Orms- 
by — big  contractor — friend  of  mine.  He 
gave  every  last  one  of  'em  work." 

"But  why  is  Larry  credited  with  the  two 
weeks?"  Annettta  continued  pleasantly, 
anxious  to  have  the  whole  matter  cleared  up 
that  she  might  smile  away  Dr.  Bernard's 
suspicions. 

"He  isn't!  How  do  you  know  he  is?" 
Rodney  burst  in. 

"Don't  these  marks"? — finding  certain 
slanting  lines  with  her  eye  first,"  then  her  fin- 
ger. 

But  Rodney,  examining  the  page,  inter- 
rupted as  domineeringly  as  ever  Tom  in  the 
old  days,  "How  do  you  know  that  the 
amount  set  down  here  includes  pay  for  the 
fortnight  ?  Have  you  reckoned  up  Larry's 
whole  time  from  the  day  Tom  took  him  on  ? 
Are  you  prepared  to  state  that  the  sum  giv- 
en him  wasn't  due  on  the  third  ?  " 

"I  am  not,  Rodney.     But — "  meeting  his 


overbearing  manner  with  rising  spirit — "I 
will  look  at  your  figures  and  see  if  they  are 
correct." 

"Very  well,"  Rodney  returned,  modifying 
his  attitude  somewhat,  "Shall  we  go  over  the 
book  together?" 

"That  is  what  I  wish." 
•   Bell  jerked  the  ledger  away  from  Annetta 
and  towards  himself,  talking  fast  as  he  noisi- 
ly turned  the  leaves. 

"I  don't  object  to  having  my  accounts 
overhauled.  Every  thing  I  do  is  done 
straight,  you  bet.  My  books  are  open  to 
any  angel  or  devil  who  wants  to  pry  into 
them.  We've  got  to  go  'way  back.  Let  me 
see.  Tom  died  in  September — lord!  What 
am  I  saying?  I  ought  to  know  that  date — 
the  thirty-first  of  December — well  enough. 
I've  written  it  time  and  time  over.  M'm. 
Larry  was  hired  in  November  ?  No;  earlierv 
October — September.  Here  it  is :  'O'Toole, 
Larry.'  Now  you  understand — "  straighten- 
ing himself  up  and  shaking  the  pencil  drawn 
out  for  service  at  her,  "the  men's  wages  had 
been  running  behind  long  before  Tom  died." 

"I  have  reason  to  know  it,"  Annetta 
sighed. 

"Well,  we've  got  to  find  how  many  days 
Larry  was  on  duty  each  month,  how  much, 
in  little  trifling  sums,  he  drew,  and — "  con- 
sulting his  watch,  "had  we  better  start  at  it 
this  evening?" 

"  How  late  is  it  ?  " 

"  Half  past  ten.  If  you're  not  in  any  par- 
ticular rush — " 

Annetta  merely  shook  her  head.  She  did 
not  care  to  explain  her  impulsive  longing  to 
know  Rodney  free  from  any  possible  charge, 
even  of  carelessness. 

"Very  well ;  I'll  come  to-morrow  evening," 
Rodney  said.  "Got  an  engagement  with 
the  boys,  but  I'll  get  off  so's  to  be  here  at 
half-past  seven." 

He  had  closed  the  book. 

"  But  Rodney—" 

"  Well  ? " 

"Pray  tell  me  who  were  the  men  dis- 
missed on  the  same  date?" 

"  As  Larry  ?  " 

Bell's  manner  of  speech,  grown  smooth 


646 


Annetta. 


[Dec. 


and  gay,  instantly  deteriorated  toward  inco- 
herence. He  hummed  and  hawed  again, 
tweaked  his  mustache,  fussed  over  the  leaves 
of  the  ledger  without  seeming  to  look  at 
anything  in  particular,  and  finally  mumbled, 
"  I  don't  remember;  but  I  can  get  the  names 
from  Tompkins." 

Tompkins,  now  casually  referred  to,  was 
a  young  person  whom  Rodney  had  recently 
hired  as  his  special  clerk  and  factotum. 

"Never  mind:  Maggy  knows,"  Annetta 
answered.  "  Of  course,  'twill  be  worth  while 
to  see  if  the  same  mistake  has  been  made 
with  regard  to  them  as  in  Larry's  case." 

Bell  did  not  permit  Annetta's  indirect  as- 
sertion to  pass  unchallenged. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  talking  about  a 
mistake  before  you  know  there's  been  any  ?  " 

Annetta  laughed  cheerfully.  "You  needn't 
be  so  cross.  We'll  lay  the  subject  over  un- 
til to-morrow  evening." 

This  said,  Rodney  became  passably  good- 
humored,  and  remarking  that  his  hostess 
seemed  tired  and  sleepy,  he  asked,  suiting 
an  off-hand  action  to  the  words,  if  he 
mightn't  help  her  lock  up  for  the  night.  As 
he  clicked  the  latches  and  clapped  the  blinds 
of  that  window  which  opened  out  of  the 
office  upon  the  small  private  street  leading 
to  the  stables,  Annetta's  house-wifely  eye 
fell  upon  the  burned  matches  he  had  scat- 
tered about.  She  was  still  gathering  these 
together  when  Rodney  announced  all  .secure, 
and  proceeded,  somewhat  unceremoniously, 
to  extinguish  the  gas. 

Such  was  now  his  hilarity  of  spirits,  that 
he  would  straightway  have  embraced  Annet- 
ta ;  but  she  contrived  to  elude  his  groping 
arms.  Nevertheless,  he  departed  laughingly 
through  the  office  door,  which  being  bolted 
after  him,  Annetta  hastened  through  the 
lonesome  silence  of  Tom's  chamber,  and  so 
got  up-stairs  into  her  own. 

With  such  promptitude  did  Bell  re-enter 
the  house  on  the  following  evening  that  An- 
netta was  excited  to  merry  comment. 

"  What's  going  to  happen,  Rodney  ?  Did 
you  come  to  tell  me  the  skies  are  falling?" 

He  did  not  wait  to  be  ushered  into  the 
office. 


When  Annetta  joined  him  there,  he  was 
seated  at  the  desk,  and  had  pulled  all  the 
ledgers  into  confusion.  He  whirled  around 
as  she  approached,  and  lifted  his  brows  upon 
her  with  mild  interrogation. 

"Well?" 

"  Well ! " 

"  Where  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  pay-roll  ?  Why  'twas  in  that  third 
compartment — no ;  on  the  right." 

"  I've  got  every  book  out.  See  for  your- 
self. It  is  not  among  them." 

Annetta  examined  the  scattered  ledger?. 
Her  air  of  easy  certainty  changed  to  one  of 
troubled  indecision.  She  found  herself 
launched  upon  a  search  which  proved  long 
and  anxious.  She  had  Maggy  in,  vainly  to 
question  her.  She  opened  every  drawer  of 
the  desk,  now  (like  Tom's  chamber)  in  rigor- 
ous and  melancholy  order. 

Meanwhile,  Bell  walked  the  floor  bluster- 
ing. The  book  should  have  been  given  him 
to  keep.  Nobody  ever  meddled  with  any- 
thing in  his  office.  Why  wasn't  the  door 
leading  into  the  back-yard  kept  locked? 
Nor  did  he  seem  to  hear  when  Annetta 
declared  that  it  hadn't  been  opened  since 
she  had  closed  and  bolted  it  after  him 
the  previous  evening.  What  was  to  hinder 
tramps  from  getting  into  the  house  that  way, 
and  walking  off  with  whatever  they  could 
lay  their  thieving  hands  on?  The  men's 
time,  the  accounts  of  their  wages,  would  be 
in  a  damned  pretty  muddle  now.  If  the 
confounded  book  didn't  turn  up,  it  must  be 
advertised,  and  a  reward — a  big  reward — 
offered'  for  it.  He'd  pay  twenty-five  or  even 
fifty  dollars  out  of  his  own  pocket  sooner 
than  not  get  it  back ! 

The  book  failed  to  turn  up,  then  or  af- 
terward, although  notice  of  its  loss  duly 
appeared  in  the  public  prints.  As  for  An- 
netta's mild  investigations  into  Rodney's 
conduct  of  affairs,  many  things  conspired  to 
lead  her  to  forget  all  about  them.  Whom 
else  than  Rodney  had  she  to  lean  upon 
in  the  business  troubles  thickening  about 
her? 

The  very  sorrowful  day  was  at  hand  when 
she  must  nervously  discuss  the  civil  suit 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


647 


instituted  by  Calson  to  force  a  judicial  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  justice  of  his  claim. 

In  vain  Bell  harangued  Annetta  upon  her 
too  evident  distress. 

"He  hasn't  a  scratch  of  Tom's  pen  to  sub- 
stantiate his  statements,  Netta.  He'll  never 
get  judgment,  or  if  he  does,  you  know,  we'll 
take  precious  good  care  'tis  never  satisfied." 

This  door  of  hope,  although  hinged  to 
swing  both  ways,  seemed  to  offer  Annetta  no 
egress  from  her  difficulties.  She  grieved 
like  the  tender-hearted  young  woman  she 
was. 

"How  dreadful  to  be  at  war  with  my 
brother's  old  friend.  Oh,  if  Tom  might 
only  whisper  one  word  across  the  gulf ! — I 
wish  I  had  approved  the  claim." 

"  Nonsense  !  I  tell  you  the  man  hasn't 
a  legal  leg  to  stand  on." 

This  Rodney  could  declare  and  reiterate 
with  great  vigor.  Yet  not  three  hours  be- 
fore, during  a  chance  interview  with  Calson, 
he  had  acknowledged  in  the  most  friendly 
manner  a  personal  conviction  of  the  justice 
of  Calson's  cause. 

Another  matter  bore  heavily  upon  Annet- 
ta's  hopes.  The  property  owners  all  along 
the  interminable  line  of  the road  ex- 
tension had  protested,  basing  their  action 
upon  an  alleged  flaw  in  the  contract. 

".They've  engaged  Calson's  lawyer,"  Rod- 
ney explained,  "  which  leads  me  to  believe 
that  Calson  himself  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
fuss.  Darn  his  ugly  pictures !  The  merest 
rumor  that  the  property  owners  might 
combine,  made  collections  miserably  thin  ! 
We're  in  a  devilish  close  box,  and  no  mis- 
take. As  the  Frenchman  said,  '  Money's 
ver'  intoxicated '  with  us,  eh,  Netta  ?  " 

Rodney's  attempted  imitation  of  a  foreign 
accent  was  not  clever ;  yet  he  appeared  to 
enjoy  it  hugely.  And  indeed,  the  condition 
of  affairs  which  he  had  described,  although 
melancholy  enough,  had  no  visible  effect 
upon  his  spirits.  His  air  was  one  of  boun- 
teous prosperity.  Whatever  pinch  Annetta 
might  be  made  to  feel,  he  had  not  yet  lacked 
the  wherewithal  to  enjoy  fine  clothing,  fine 
suppers,  fast  teams. 

If  his  business  activity  had  been  noted  in 


Tom's  time,  it  was  almost  notorious  now. 
He  seemed  to  have  interests  afoot  in  many 
parts  of  the  city,  for  in  many  parts  was  his 
workaday  figure  well  known.  He  drove  here, 
there,  and  everywhere;  from  "camp"  to 
"camp,"  from  "dump"  to  "dump,"  along 
crowded  streets  and  unfinished  roads,  al- 
ways at  the  same  tearing  pace.  Yet  rack  as 
faithful  "  Dick  "  might,  the  beast  never  could 
get  his  master  quickly  enough  to  any  jour- 
ney's end. 

Rumor  said  that  Rodney's  long  hours  of 
incessant  hurry  often  ran  into  nights  of  wild 
jollity.  However  this  may  be,  he  sometimes 
presented  himself  before  Annetta  in  a  state 
of  heaviness  and  exhaustion,  which  excited 
her  pity.  Not  but  that  she  rated  him  sound- 
ly for  his  overwork. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  you  insuf- 
ferably stupid  fellow  !"  she  exclaimed  one 
evening.  "  Are  you  going  to  sleep  before 
my  very  face  ?  " 

Her  trenchant  tones  did  not  prevent  Rod- 
ney from  surrendering  his  lolling  head  more 
utterly  to  the  sofa's  arm. 

"I  know  I'm  stupid,"he  mumbled.  "Go 
away,  and  don't  look  at  me.  Just  throw  a 
shawl  across  my  shoulders  and  let  me  alone 
for  half-an-hour.  I'll  wake  up  then  as  bright 
as  a  dollar,  and  we'll  talk  business.  Lord  " 
— with  a  restless  toss  of  arms  that  struck  an 
observer  as  a  trifle  too  short  for  his  body — 
"  how  my  muscles  ache — and  my  head — is 
—like—  to — sp — lit. " 

Annetta  stood  watching  him  as  his  eyes, 
after  rolling  a  little  under  weighted  lids  clos- 
ed, and  his  thickish  red  lips  fell  apart.  How 
peacefully  he  slept !  His  forehead,  encroach- 
ed upon  but  slightly  by  blonde  hair,  worn 
immaculately  smooth,  was  as  fair  and  free 
from  lines  as  a  child's. 

Then  Annetta  grew  merrily  pitiless, 
"  Home  with  you  !. "  she  scolded.  "  And 
don't  come  here  again  of  an  evening  when 
you.  ought  to  be  abed !  "  repeating  as  many 
of  her  words  in  the  form  of  ejaculations  as 
were  needed,  accompanied  with  shoulder- 
shakings  to  arouse  him. 

Rodney  sat  up  reluctantly ;  but  once 
awake,  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of  accepting 


648 


Annetta. 


[Dec. 


his  summary  dismissal.  Even  the  mere  wink 
of  sleep  so  adroitly  stolen  had  refreshed  him. 
After  talking  over  Calson's  suit  and  the  dead- 
lock in  the  affairs  of  the road  extension, 

an  elan  of  youthful  ardor  moved  him  toward 
a  more  attractive  theme.  Suddenly,  when 
Annetta  was  least  expecting  it,  he  reiterated 
the  question,  in  substance  if  not  in  form, 
which  she  had  already  parried. 

"  Netta,  why  do  you  keep  me  in  misery 
until  the  darned  old  estate  is  settled  ?" 

Nor  were  his  words  so  supplicating  as  one 
might  imagine.  His  tones  took  on  the  tri- 
umph of  a  successful  wooing.  Possessory 
anticipation  boldly  sunned  itself  in  his  laugh- 
ing glance.  He  walked  across  the  room  to 
seize  Annetta's  hand  and  make  buoyant  an- 
nouncement. 

"  You're  to  belong  to  me  sooner  or  later : 
why  not  sooner?" 

"To  belong  to  you!  " 

Annetta's  mockery  was  very  light,  although 
she  diligently  resumed  control  of  her  fingers. 

"Of  course,"  pompously  doubling  his 
chin.  "Else  you  wouldn't  have  encouraged 
my  attentions." 

Annetta  stared  at  him  in  unfeigned  aston- 
ishment. 

"And — and  people  expect  us  to  marry." 

Annetta  had  suffered  him  to  stand  near 
her.  She  now  impulsively  drew  back  from 
him  as  an  embodiment  of  the  expectation 
referred  to  so  complacently. 

"Rodney,"  said  she,  quivering  a  little  with 
indignation,  "  must  I  infer  that  you  have 
allowed  remarks  to  be  made — our  names  to 
be  coupled?  Who  has  dared — " 

"All  the  boys  in  camp,"  Rodney  began 
comfortably. 

"  The  boys  in  camp!  Those  rude,  igno- 
rant boors  !'•' 

"You  don't  let  me  finish  :  the  boys  gossip, 
of  course,  though  not  in  my  presence.  And 
— and  all  Tom's  old  friends  say — " 

"  Name  a  single  one  of  Tom's  old  friends !" 
with  an  air  of  scornful  incredulity. 

"  Ahem !  a  dozen  if  you  please;  Ben  Leavitt 
spoke  to  me  about  it  only  yesterday.  Said 
he  supposed  we'd  settled  other  matters  quick- 
er than  those  of  the  estate.  And  Jim — " 


"  Do  you  mean  Dr.  Bernard  ?  " 

"Who  else?  Jim  told  me  'twas  reported 
about  town  that  we  are  already  married — se- 
cretly, you  know.  Wish  'twas  true,  Netta." 

Had  any  one  ventured  to  predict  to  An- 
netta before  this  conversation  began  that 
she  could  be  so  angry  with  Rodney  Bell,  she 
would  have  laughed  in  pleased  unbelief. 
What  if  from  a  gentle  tolerance  of  Rodney's 
shortcomings  she  had  been  gradually  grow- 
ing into  a  cheerful  blindness  to  them?  The 
process  was  checked  at  once,  and  violently. 
All  Rodney's  worst  faults  importuned  her 
from  his  present  attitude. 

Her  indignation  was  by  no  means  silent. 
Mr.  Leavitt  nor  Dr.  Bernard  nor  Rodney 
escaped  her  flaming  scorn.  When  she  had 
lashed  the  three  with  a  woman's  only  weap- 
on, she  singled  out  one  name  for  contemptu- 
ous repetition. 

"  Dr.  Bernard ! " 

"Yes,"  explained  Rodney,  rather  enjoying 
her  exhibition  of  temper,  "and  Jim  said 
that  if  I  hadn't  got  Netta  yet,  I  was  to  get 
her  by  all  means,  fair  or  foul,  as  quickly  as 
possible." 

"  'Netta ! ' "  echoed  the  angry  girl.  "No; 
quietly  insolent  as  Dr.  Bernard  is,  he  would 
never  be  so  gratuitously  impudent." 

"You  haven't  objected  to  my  calling  you 
that,"  said  Rodney,  a  trifle  sullenly. 

"Ah,  you  insufferable  idiot!  how  did  you 
answer  Dr.  Bernard  ?  Repeat  every  word, 
sir!" 

"Oh,  I — ahem!  I  told  him  that  I'd  never 
proposed  to  you  yet,  and  wouldn't,  of  course, 
until  the  estate  should  be  settled." 

"Not  dreaming  that  Dr.  Bernard's  sole 
aim  was  to  induce  you  to  repose  entire  con- 
fidence in  him! " 

Annetta's  utterance  was  scornful;  yet,  in 
truth,  her  imperious  anxiety  was  somewhat 
appeased.  How  would  it  have  been  aug- 
mented had  she  known  just  what  had  taken 
place. 

"  Your  sweet  little  principal's  the  very 
woman  of  all  women  for  you,  Rodney,"  Dr. 
Bernard  had  declared  with  mellow  cordiality. 
"But  I  guess  you  don't  need  any  one  to  tell 
you  that.  You've  played  your  hand  for 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


every  spot  'twas  worth  since  Bartmore  threw 
up  his." 

Then  Rodney?  Well,  out  of  his  brim- 
ling  elation  and  self-confidence,  he  had,  at 
irst,  merely  winked.  Pressed  further,  he 
iad  acknowledged  that  the  wedding  would 
come  off  as  soon  as  "  she  "  could  put  aside 
her  mourning. 

Now,  in  Annetta's  presence,  by  way  of 
setting  her  ejaculations  at  naught,  Rodney 
sputtered  with  an  access  of  offended  dignity, 
"Jim's  a  very  particular  friend  of  mine." 

Annetta  laughed.  "His  conduct  proves  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Promise  to  behave  reasonably,  and  I'll 
tell  you.  It  was  this  '  very  particular  friend' 
who  urged  me  to  look  into  your  method  of 
keeping  the  pay-roll.  You  remember  I  said 
some  one  had  been  warning  me." 
•  "  No ;  I  don't  remember.  You  didn't  say 
anything  about  Jim." 

"I  thought  it  wiser  not  to  mention  names. 
But  I've  changed  my  mind.  Dr.  Bernard 
is  far  from  being  a  friend  of  yours.  Bear 
this  enlightenment  patiently  and  show  your- 
self a  man." 

But  Rodney  chose  to  show  himself  a  man 
in  a  fashion  other  than  self-control.  An 
angry  redness  rushed  to  the  very  roots  of  his 
sleek  hair.  His  mind  seemed  to  be  blown 
a  dozen  different  ways,  as  by  contending 
draughts  of  thought. 

"  Did  Jim  dare — the  idea  of  your  keeping 
such  a  thing  from  me!  I'll  kill  the  damned 
sneak !  Nobody  shall  defame  me  and  live !" 

Annetta's  temper  had  reached  its  highest 
point.  She  broke  into  a  soft  ripple  of  mer- 
riment. 

"  O,  Rodney  !  I've  heard  expressions  so 
like  those  before — not  from  your  lips  !  Tis 
plainly  to  be  seen  upon  what  model  you 
have  formed  yourself.  The  original  was  not 
without  power;  the  imitation  is  ludicrous." 

Rodney  pretended  disdainful  ignorance  of 
Annetta's  meaning.  Yet  his  adoption  of 
certain  forms  of  speech  and  of  an  overbear- 
ing manner,  peculiarly  Tom  Bartmore's,  had 
not  been  unconscious. 

"I  mean  blood!"  he  shouted,  really  en- 
raged. 


He  strutted  about,  flaring  his  nostrils  and 
snapping  his  eyelids  as  his  wont  was  when 
unable  to  gaze  frankly. 

"  I'm  not  to  be  laughed  at.  I  come  of  a 
killing  family.  My  mother  shot  two  bur- 
glars before  I  was  born,  and  my  brother 
Jonas  let  daylight  into  a  fellow  who  insulted 
him." 

Annetta  laughed  until  tears  wet  her  curl- 
ing lashes.  She  used  her  first  controllable 
breath  however  to  restore  peace ;  following  up 
her  pleadings  by  a  solemn  assurance  that  un- 
less her  visitor  modified  his  behaviour,  she 
would  leave  the  room  and  refuse  to  see  him, 
she  finally  induced  Rodney  to  be  silent. 

"  I  have  something  very  serious  indeed,  to 
say  to  you,  Rodney  !"  she  declared,  her  man- 
ner suiting  her  words. 

Whether  or  not  the  young  man  apprehend- 
ed her  meaning,  he  consented  to  perch  him- 
self in  a  chair,  or  rather  on  its  very  edge, 
his  chin  doubled  between  the  stiff  flare  of 
his  standing  collar,  his  eyelids  still  busy. 
Then  Annetta,  not  untouched  by  this  evi- 
dent perturbation,  yet  intent  upon  her  pur- 
pose, stood  before  him,  explaining  with  wo- 
manly gentleness  of  tone  and  glance  why  he 
must  forever  give  over  the  futile  hopes  he 
had  held  in  regard  to  herself. 

"  I  cannot  care  for  you,  Rodney.  Don't 
you  fancy  that  my  indifference  may  be  over- 
come. I  wish  to  save  you  pain.  I  should 
have  spoken  out  before.  I  will  even  tell 
you  what  I  have  never  breathed  to  a  living 
soul ;  for  you  have  been  like  a  brother  to  me 

since  God   took   mine I   care   for 

somebody  else,  before  whom  all  other  men 
seem  insignificant,  untrustworthy.  If  I  never  . 
see — him — again,  it  will  make  no  difference 
except  in — suffering." 

The  last  word,  whispered,  and  with  a  suf- 
fpcative  sense  of  its  meaning,  though  in  con- 
fession, was  prompted  by  the  tenderest  sym- 
pathy for  what  Rodney  might  now  be  feel- 
ing. Did  she  not  know  the  pangs  of  a 
despised  affection  ? 

Her  listener's  uneasiness  had  visibly  in- 
creased. Curious  as  were  its  manifestations, 
Annetta  had  no  smile.  Her  tears  fell,  large 
and  slow,  as  poor  Rodney  sat  there,  the 


650 


Annetta. 


[Dec. 


briskness,  the  fury,  the  vanity,  the  gayety — 
all  that  could  animate — utterly  gone  out  of 
him.  His  one  determination  appeared  to 
be  to  avoid  any  encountering  of  her  glance; 
to  which  end  he  diligently  craned  his  neck, 
lifting  his  chin  safely  over  this  or  the  other 
point  of  his  collar,  and  turning  his  head  to 
right  or  to  left,  wherever  she  was  not. 

Awaiting  some  speech  from  him,  Annetta 
only  caught  a  mumble  of  "  Suit  yourself," 
and  falling  back,  grieved  and  disappointed, 
she  impetuously  dashed  away  her  tears. 

Rodney  rose  after  an  ungracious  silence, 
and,  crossing  the  room,  took  up  his  shining 
beaver,  which  he  donned  with  an  air  of  ir- 
resolution. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  wounded  you,  Rod- 
ney," Annetta  murmured  wistfully. 

He  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  trousers' 
pockets,  snapped  his  eyelids  at  a  picture 
hung  high  on  the  opposite  wall,  before  he 
said,  surlily: 

"  I  hope  for  your  own  sake,  you're  not 
thinking  too  much  of  that  damned — Doc- 
tor ! " 

"  Dr.  Bernard  !     God  forbid  ! " 

"  Who  is  it,  who  can  it  be  you  care  for  ?  " 
Rodney  burst  forth,  still  without  glancing  her 
way,  "  I'm  sure  there's  no  man  about  you 
now  fit  for  a  decent  girl " — this  with  spiteful 
emphasis — "  to  choose  for  a  husband." 

"  I  haven't  chosen  any  one,  Rodney4— 
But  don't  seek  to — 

"  Is  it — is  it " — Rodney  interrupted  her, 
his  speech  stammering,  his  unsheathed  rage 
suddenly  scathing  her  in  a  fierce,  darting  look. 
"  Somehow  I  think  that — yes ;  you  used  to  act 
damnably  over  the — the  Eastern  chap,  who 

played  Tom  so  about  the street  property. 

By  God  !  Tom  told  me — but  I  fancied  he 
was  joking — that  the  puppy  wanted  to  mar- 
ry you  !  " 

Annetta's  sole  reply  was  to  point  imperi- 
ously to  the  door. 

Wrought  up  to  a  furious  pitch,  and  find- 
ing some  violent  movement  necessary,  Rod- 
ney took  her  at  her  gesture,  and  flung  his 
miserable  self  forthwith  into  outer  darkness, 
where,  doubtless,  did  ensue  wailing  and 
gnashing  of  teeth. 


XXII. 

Several  days  passed,  bringing  troublesome 
matters  of  business  to  the  Bartmore  house, 
but  no  agent  to  assist  in  their  transac- 
tion. 

To  be  plain,  the  troublesome  matters  of 
business  were  divers  impatient  creditors  who 
could  not  be  brought  to  see  why  Miss  An- 
netta Bartmore  should  not  sell  the  gown 
from  her  well-clothed  back,  the  rings  from 
her  shapely  fingers,  the  beloved  piano  from 
her  parlor,  and  straightway  settle  their  claims. 
Her  purse  being  empty,  no  alternative  oc- 
curred to  Annetta  but  to  direct  the  men 
(laborers,  far  less  awed  in  her  presence  than 
they  had  been  in  Tom's  day)  to  Bell's  down- 
town office.  Vainly.  They  returned  more 
importunate  than  before,  having  met  with 
other  creditors  of  the  estate  hanging  about 
Bell's  office,  but.  with  no  success  in  their 
quest.  Annetta  began  to  consider  the  ad- 
visability of  consulting  Mr.  Baring. 

But  toward  noon  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
as,  dressed  for  a  walk,  she  was  leaving  the 
garden,  Rodney  drove  up  to  the  gate,  speak- 
ing in  his  most  bustling  manner  even  while 
alighting  from  his  buggy. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Net — Miss  Bart- 
more ?  Come  back  into  the  office.  I  have 
some  papers  here  for  you  to  sign.  Ought 
to  be  done  at  once,  so  that  I  can  take  them 
along  with  me.  Claims.  All  correct.  I've 
looked  into  them  myself." 

Annetta  eyed  the  friend  whom  she  was 
afraid  she  had  lost  wistfully.  The  week 
had  been  quite  forlorn  without  his  lively  in- 
roads. 

Yet  she  must  demur.  "I  haven't  a  mo- 
ment to  spare,  Rodney." 

She  would  not  copy  his  ostentatious  for- 
mality. 

"  Do  you  know  Jerry  is  very  low  again  ? 
And  I've  faithfully  promised  Mrs.  McArdle 
to  sit  with  him  while  she's  busy  over  dinner. 
I'm  late  now." 

"  A  second  later  won't  matter,"  Rodney 
urged. 

Annetta  unbuttoned  her  right-hand  glove 
with  an  undecided  air. 


1883.] 


Annetta. 


651 


A  rumble  as  of  approaching  cart^  broke 
on  her  ear. 

"No  !  I  cannot,  Rodney.  Give  me  the 
papers.  I'll  sign  them  this  evening.  You're 
sure  they're  all  right  ?  You  may  get  them  to- 
morrow." 

"  I'll  not  be  here  " — ungraciously. 

"  Well ;  I'll  carry  them  safe  to  your  office. 
Wont  that  do  ?  " 

He  whirled  himself  on  his  heel,  sprang 
into  his  buggy,  urged  Dick  forward  down 
the  steep,  broken  grade,  and  was  gone.  An- 
netta  put  the  papers  into  the  satchel  she 
carried,  and  went  on  her  way,  reaching 
"camp"  but  a  few  seconds  in  advance  of 
the  carts. 

Mrs.  McArdle,  too,  had  heard  their  clank- 
ing; had  heard  it  as  a  signal  to  have  the 
mid-day  meal  in  readiness.  She  began  to 
clatter  around  the  long,  blackened  tables, 
filling  an  interminable  row  of  tin  cups  from 
the  bucket  of  tea  which  she  carried,  and 
leaving  behind  her  as  she  moved  a  dissolv- 
ing wake  of  steam.  Half  way  between  ta- 
bles and  range,  wild  with  hurry  and  wet  with 
perspiration,  she  met  Annetta  appearing  cool 
and  quiet.  Whereupon  she  burst  out  in 
blatant  greeting. 

"  It's  no  lie  to  say  but  yez  air  browsic  !  " 
uttering  a  favorite  adjective,  which  freely 
rendered  means  plump  and  fresh,  with  an 
unmistakable  twang  of  resentment. 

A  huge  frying  pan  sharply  hissed  and 
sputtered,  amid  gigantic  bubbling  pots,  over 
the  fierce  fire.  Mrs.  McArdle  clashed  down 
her  bucket  to  catch  this  up,  and  overturn 
its  well- browned  contents  into  a  deep  tin 
platter,  talking  on.  "It's  for  the  likes  o'yez 
to  be  goin'  about,  fut  for  fut,  weel-a-waggie 
"  here  communicating  by  twistings  of 
her  lank  body  a  lashing  effect  to  the  be- 
draggled hem  of  her  skirt.  "An'  ivery 
shtep  yez  take,  yez  casht  back  an  eye ! " 
Ignoring  this  exhibition  of  temper,  thinking 
it  not  unreasonable,  perhaps,  all  culinary 
anxieties  considered,  Annetta  turned  the 
subject  by  asking  if  Jerry  were  better. 

"  Betther!"  shouted  Me  Ardle,  beginning 
to  prod  a  long  fork  violently  into  a  black 
vessel  filled  to  its  throat  with  boiling  pota- 


toes. "  He'll  niver  be  betther  whiles  I  kin 
tatther  round  an'  do  for  him,  begorra.  It's 
the  likes  o'  Jerry'll  play  the  gintleman  so 
long  as  fine  ladies  comes  to  sit  be  him,  an' 
niver  a jhought  iv  her  as  is  shweatin'  like  the 
day  rainin'  to  airn  a  pinch  o'  money — I  may 
be  put  from  gitten,  begorra  !" 

Reflections  upon  Jerry's  gentlemanly 
ways  might  be  indulged  in  with  some  cir- 
cumlocution, but  nothing  save  an  almost 
savage  directness  would  serve  McArdle's 
turn  when  she  touched  upon  matters  per- 
taining to  her  pocket.  Had  that  financial 
thrust  been  less  vigorous,  it  would  not  have 
missed  the  breast  at  which  it  was  aimed. 
Annetta  found  herself  these  late  days  grown 
super-sensitive  to  any  allusion  to  her  indebt- 
edness. Tears  sprang  into  her  eyes  under 
the  blood-shot  leer  of  McArdle's.  But  what 
could  she  answer?  What  promise  dare  she 
breathe?  Alas  !  She  could  no  longer  say, 
"When  the  road  is  finished  !"  She  could 
only  go  quickly  up  the  creaking  stairs,  glad 
to  escape  McArdle's  tongue,  and  the  mob  of 
men  pouring  with  scuffling  haste  into  the 
dining-room. 

Glad  to  escape — to  what  ?  Jerry's  cham- 
ber presented  only  piteous  sights  and  sounds. 
The  sick  man's  limbs*were  writhing  under 
the  twisted  bedcovers.  A  dirty,  red-cotton 
handkerchief,  spread  over  his  face  as  a  pro- 
tection against  the  bites  of  ravenous  flies, 
swarming  everywhere,  yet  nowhere  so  thick- 
ly as  about  the  bed,  fluttered  with  his  rapid 
breathing. 

Annetta's  approach  was  noiseless.  Her 
soft  black  dress  gave  out  no  rustle.  She 
stood  a  moment  looking  down  sorrowfully 
upon  the  sick-bed. 

Rude  laughter  burst  forth  below  stairs. 
The  very  floor  seemed  to  tremble  with  the 
loud  clattering  of  cups  and  plates;  with  the 
guttural  hurry  of  many  voices.  Then  through 
an  instant's  hush,  Mrs.  McArdle's  tones 
rose  up  harshly.  "  What's  the  harrd  knots 
in  our  hands  to  thim  who  can  kape  their 
fingers  waxh-like  be  our  toil  an'  shweat  ?  " 

Whereat,  Annetta's  added  sorrow  exhaling 
in  a  tremulous  sigh,  instantly  a  coarse  hand, 
such  as  McArdle  had  indifferently  described, 


652 


Annetta. 


[Dec. 


flew  out  of  the  bedcovers  to  jerk  away  the 
red  kerchief,  and  show  Jerry's  face  all  quiv- 
ering with  eagerness. 

"Och,  glory  to  God!"  came  those  mum- 
bling accents  broken  by  gasps  and  sobs,  "it's 
hersel'  shtandin'  like  an  angel  beside  the  sick 
an'  sore!" 

Annetta  met  this  enthusiastic  greeting  with 
pitying  words  and  looks,  and  set  herself  at 
once  to  render  Jerry's  condition  more  com- 
fortable. A  fresh  linen  pillow-slip  which 
she  had  brought,  a  clean  coverlet,  induced 
him  to  sigh,  "Arrah,  that  makes  a  man  feel 
more  dacent  an'  Christian." 

Yet  when  Mrs.  McArdle  came  up-stairs 
after  dinner  was  over,  to  stand,  her  bared 
arms  folded,  looking  down  unmoved  upon 
Annetta's  modest  improvements,  Jerry's 
mind  had  wandered  again.  His  breath  was 
drawn  swiftly  in  monotonous  gasps,  and  given 
forth  in  stifled  "wirra-wirra's"  and  groaning 
ejaculations  of  "O  me  mout' !  O  me  mout' !" 

Untouched  by  these  evidences  of  distress, 
his  wife  proceeded  garrulously  to  detail  his 
fevered  imaginings  of  the  night  before,  and 
with  the  unadorned  simplicity  as  of  actual 
doings. 

"He  was  afther  the  pore  boss  all  night 
wid  the  hatchet.  The  boss  was  down  be  the 
fut  iv  the  bed  an'  popin'  up  ivery  minute  to 
fetch  a  face  at  him.  'There  he  is,  Ann!' 
Jerry  wud  chry,  an'  he'd  be  to  hit  Misther 
Bairtmpre  a  slash  wid  the  wiping.  An'  the 
hatchet  was  always  afther  flyin'  off  the  han- 
dle, an'  Jerry  always  sindin'  me  to  find  it,  an 
screamin'  for  what  yez  know." 

Perfectly  aware  that  any  mention  of  whis- 
key must  promptly  induce  a  furious  demand 
for  it  on  the  part  of  the  patient,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Ardle had  wisely  forborne  such  mention. 
Yet  vainly.  Whether  Jerry  heard,  or  wheth- 
er the  old  need  began  unassisted  to  gnaw 
more  fiercely,  he  immediately  evinced  a 
fearful  and  staring  eagerness. 

"Give  it  to  me!"  he  yelled.  "Wan 
weeny  little  sup — a  whole  tumbler-full,  ye 
damned  ould  stingy  hag  !" 

Thus  importuned,  Mrs.  McArdle  doled 
him  out  a  medicated  mixture  from  a  drug- 
gist's vial,  to  get  curses  for  her  pains. 


"That's  too  wake,  by  God!  Wud  yez 
shtarve  me  hairt  alive?" 

"The  death-hunger,"  explained  Mrs.  Mc- 
Ardle, dryly.  "An' see  how  he  picks  at  the 
bed-covers.  That's  a  sign.  I've  sint  for 
Father  Pathrick  to  come." 

"  Father  Pathrick  be  beggared !"  shrieked 
the  tortured  wretch. 

"Ochone,  Jerry  dear,"  returned  Mrs.  Me 
Ardle,  in  her  perfunctory  tone  of  consolation, 
"Yez  must  be  an'inted  wid  howly  oil  before 
yez  die." 

Agonizing  as  this  sick-chamber  was  to  her 
sensibilities  and  her  senses.  Annetta  heroi- 
cally endured  its  foul  atmosphere,  its  hideous 
outcries,  until  the  camp-supper  was  ended. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  having 
meanwhile  supped  and  rested,  Annetta  sud- 
denly remembered  the  papers  Rodney  had 
given  her,  and  went  into  the  office  there  to 
sign  them.  Her  pen  dipped  in  ink,  she 
paused  a  moment  to  glance  at  the  backings. 

Three  of  the  claims  were  for  various 
amounts  due  to  laborers  formerly  in  her 
brother's  employ;  the  fourth  was  that  of 
a  sub-contractor  for  constructing  a  wooden 
sewer,  laying  sidewalks  and  curbs  along  a 
certain  carefully  described  line  of  street; 
the  fifth  greatly  surprised  her  by  presenting 
the  name  of  Rodney  Bell. 

Annetta  read  and  read  again.  She  began 
to  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  A  sudden 
terror  had  seized  her.  She  rose  to  look 
around  the  room  as  if  to  escape  from  some 
conviction  whose  walls  narrowed  cruelly 
about  her  heart.  The  paper  fell  rustling  to 
the  carpet. 

"My  God!  what  can  it  mean?  .... 
Twenty  thousand  dollars?  I  shall  be  a  beg- 
gar!" 

Maggy  had  gone  to  bed.  As  the  house 
grew  stiller  and  stiller,  Annetta  could  hear 
the  sleeping  girl's  loud  deep  breathing  trem- 
bling downward  along  the  walls.  Weird 
taps  as  of  ghostly  fingers  came  at  the  win- 
dows. Stealthy  footsteps  measured  the  ve- 
randa from  end  to  end.  The  floors  creaked 
mysteriously.  Deep  humming  and  thrum- 
ming noises,  singular  tricklings  and  drip- 


1883.] 


William  Watrous  Crane,  Jr. 


653 


pings  rose  and  fell  on  her  ears :  in  short,  all 
the  disturbances  by  which  advancing  night 
announces  itself  to  a  highly  excited  imagin- 
ation troubled  Annetta's  lonely  vigils.  Yet 
not  so  fearfully  as  her  own  thoughts.  At 
one  moment  she  was  fiercely  upbraiding  her- 
self for  reposing  confidence  in  anybody;  at 
another,  she  was  asking  pathetically,  "What 
could  I  do?" 

Now  reviewing  Rodney's  dealings  with 
her  since  Tom's  death,  she  saw  treachery 
in  all  things;  the  verification  of  Dr.  Ber- 
nard's worst  suggestions.  Then  she  sprang 
up,  crying :  "  He  must  explain  this  claim — 
he  can  explain  it,  I  know.  I  will  see  him 
to-morrow." 

If  the  to-morrow  ever  came  !  How  easy 
now  to  sympathize  with  Tom's  old  impatience 
of  night  and  inaction !  How  full  must  his 
brain  have  been  of  plans  and  schemes !' 
Annetta's  seemed  like  to  burst  sometimes. 

Later,  when  the  slow  march  of  the  sleep- 
less hours  most  oppressed  her,  she  stole — 
not  unimpressed  by  the  phantom-like  silence 
of  her  own  motions — into  the  parlor,  minded 
to  while  away  some  moments  in  softest 


[CONTINUED  IN  NEXT  NUMBER.] 


music.  But,  opening  the  piano,  she  chanced 
to  drop  a  hand  against  the  strings,  and  the 
reverberations  of  sound  mysterious,  hollow, 
so  terrified  her  that,  like  Fear  in  the  immor- 
tal ode,  she  recoiled,  knowing  not  why. 
Had  she  not  often  played  with  those  thick 
responsive  wires — those  giant  nerves — of  her 
dear  instrument?  But  this  mood  of  hers 
was  too  sad,  too  excitable,  for  such  listen- 
ing. 

Very  weary  at  last,  she  leaned  her  head 
upon  Tom's  desk  in  the  office  (where  she 
had  been  writing  a  letter)  and,  falling  asleep, 
straightway  dreamed.  The  tall  figure  and 
stalwart,  appearing  before  her,  was  unmis- 
takable. Yet  the  voice  speaking  from  those 
black-bearded  lips  had  other  than  the  ex- 
pected tones.  It  was  mild,  husky,  monot- 
onous. And  the  gaze  seeking  hers  seemed 
to  steal  from  under  pale,  lowering  brows. 
So  that  Annetta  cried  aloud:  "Go  away, 
Dan!  You  are  as  base  as  the  rest!"  and 
woke  to  broad  daylight  and  its  distinct  in- 
dividualities. A  sealed  envelope  lying  where 
Annetta's  uneasy  head  had  lain,  bore  this 
name  :  "  Daniel  Meagher." 

Evelyn  M.  Ludlum. 


WILLIAM   WATROUS   CRANE,   JR. 


[THIS  paper  was  prepared  by  a  committee 
of  the  Berkeley  Club,  and  read  before  that 
body  as  a  memorial  of  a  lost  member,  and 
was  thus  originally  designed  for  a  limited 
circle  of  friends.  The  public  value  of  Mr. 
Crane's  life  and  character  are  sufficient  rea- 
son for  giving  it  wider  circulation  here.  A 
minor  reason,  but  one  more  special  to  the 
functions  of  the  magazine,  is  the  informal 
and  yet  real  relation  which  he  had  held 
to  the  OVERLAND.  This  relation  was  only 
one  among  many  illustrations  of  his  sym- 
pathy with  all  kinds  of  elevating  influences 
in  the  community.  It  was  hardly  to  have 
been  expected  that  he  would  be  one  of  the 
half-dozen  men  in  the  State  to  have  the  most 
cordial  interest  in  a  magazine  of  more  or  less 


popular  literature;  for  apart  from  a  serene 
sense  of  humor,  and  much  love  for  music, 
his  tastes  were  almost  entirely  what  are 
called  "serious."  He  by  no  means  eschewed 
the  reading  of  fiction  and  other  light  liter- 
ature ;  but  it  usually  failed  to  awaken  any  in- 
terest in  him,  except  when  it  was  merely  the 
cloak  for  study  of  life  and  society — the 
studies  of  Henry  James,  Jr.,  for  instance: 
and  he  more  than  once  said  that  he  should 
like  to  read  a  novel  that  contained  no  char- 
acters but  men,  and  no  love  affairs ;  there  was 
ample  material  for  interest  in  studies  of  the 
working  of  ambitions  and  aspirations,  of  the 
relations  created  by  business  and  intellectual 
life.  None  the  less,  no  one  was  more  ready 
to  appreciate  the  mission  in  the  community 


654 


William  Watrous  Crane,  Jn. 


[Dec. 


of  pure  literature,  and  to  give  cordial  sup- 
port to  magazine  enterprise  than  Mr.  Crane. 
During  the  last  year  of  the  old  OVERLAND, 
various  circumstances  brought  him  into 
nearer  acquaintance  with  it,  and  he  became 
deeply  interested  in  its  preservation.  He 
was  one  of  those  most  frequently  in  con- 
sultation with  proprietor  and  editor  when  the 
financial  outlook  grew  grave,  and  one  of 
those  who  organized  a  consultation  among 
its  friends  as  to  the  possibility  of  avoiding 
suspension.  Had  the  consultation  resulted 
in  finding  twenty  men  ready  to  do  as  much 
pecuniarily  as  Mr.  Crane,  the  magazine  would 
never  have  suspended.  When,  therefore,  the 
proposal  to  revive  the  OVERLAND  was  made, 
his  sympathy  was  enlisted  from  the  very 
first ;  and  without  any  formal  connection 
with  the  magazine,  "only  a  friend  of  the 
family"  in  his  own  phrase,  he  was  from  the 
first,  with  hardly  an  exception,  the  man  to 
whom  the  managers  turned  most  readily, 
constantly,  and  confidently  for  any  such  help 
as  he  could  render,  and  the  one  who  fol- 
lowed the  affairs  of  the  magazine  with  the 
closest  interest  and  fullest  knowledge.  In 
addition  to  signed  articles,  Mr.  Crane  habit- 
ually contributed  to  the  OVERLAND  its  re- 
views and  editorials  on  public  and  political 
topics.  In  unsigned  writings,  no  less  than 
in  signed,  he  never  departed  by  so  much 
as  the  turn  of  an  expression  from  his  real 
convictions.  "I  do  not  know  how  to  write 
except  just  as  I  think,"  was  his  repeated  re- 
mark.] 

IN  the  death  of  William  Watrous  Crane, 
Jr.,  the  immediate  circle  of  his  friends  and 
the  community  of  which  he  was  a  worthy  and 
honored  citizen  suffer  a  loss  that  can  be  fully 
appreciated  only  when  we  reflect  on  the  pur- 
ity of  his  life  and  speech,  the  sincerity  of  his 
friendship,  the  clearness  of  his  intellectual 
insight,  and  the  earnestness  of  his  efforts  on 
behalf  of  the  common  weal.  He  was  born 
in  New  York  City,  September  i4th,  1831; 
and  his  early  life  was  spent  in  New  York  and 
New  Jersey.  His  education,  general  and  pro- 
fessional, was  obtained  in  New  York  schools, 
in  some  of  the  courses  at  Columbia  college, 


and  in  law  offices.  In  1852  he  was  admitted 
to  the  bar,  and  soon  began  the  practice  of 
his  profession  at  San  Leandro,  then  the 
county  seat  of  Alameda  County,  California. 
In  a  few  years  he  transferred  his  practice  to 
San  Francisco,  where,  with  some  interrup- 
tions, he  continued  it  for  twenty-six  years. 
His  residence  in  this  State  was  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, where  he  was  married  to  Miss  Hannah 
Austin ;  at  San  Leandro,  and  for  about  twenty 
years  in  Oakland.  In  1859  he  was  elected 
district-attorney  for  Alameda  County.  In 
1862  he  represented  the  same  county  in  the 
State  senate.  In  1866  he  was  elected  mayor 
of  Oakland.  In  business  and  financial  cir- 
cles he  assumed  leading  responsibilities,  be- 
ing at  the  time  of  his  death  a  bank  director 
and  the  president  of  the  Oakland  Gaslight 
Company.  With  rare  adaptation  for  public 
stations,  he  was  too  independent  to  seek  for 
office,  or  to  keep  on,  when  once  in  office,  in 
the  upward  course  of  an  ambitious  politician. 
His  best  public  services  were  rendered  vol- 
untarily, in  unofficial  methods  and  without 
expectation  of  promotion.  Especial  men- 
tion should  be  made  of  his  devotion  to  the 
cause  of  political  reform.  He  contributed 
largely,  by  his  pen  and  his  purse,  to  the 
dissemination  of  right  political  principles. 
Early  interested  in  the  national  organization 
for  Civil  Service  Reform,  he  was  the  leading 
spirit  in  establishing  a  branch  of  that  orga- 
nization on  this  coast,  and  was  its  president 
at  the  time  of  his  death.  These  are  the 
barest  outlines  of  a  life  full  of  quiet  activ- 
ity, and  animated  by  an  unusual  degree  of 
public  spirit. 

Mr.  Crane  became  connected  with  the 
Berkeley  Club  not  long  after  its  organiza- 
tion; and  his  fellow-members  have  known 
how  valuable  was  his  presence,  how  pleasant 
his  social  intercourse,  how  hearty  and  effi- 
cient his  participation  in  our  discussions. 
He  was  a  model  controversialist,  alert  and 
attentive  to  opposing  views,  courteous  in  re- 
ply, earnest  in  spirit,  but  serene  in  temper. 
Familiar  with  much  of  the  most  stimulating 
modern  thought,  he  was  bold  in  maintain- 
ing new  positions,  cool  and  careful  in  con- 
necting them  with  older  teachings.  His 


1883.] 


William  Watrous  Crane,  Jr. 


655 


mind  was  eminently  deliberative,  impartial, 
reasonable  in  its  processes. 

The  years  embraced  in  the  history  of  the 
Berkeley  Club  constitute  the  most  fruitful 
period  of  Mr.  Crane's  intellectual  life.  Dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  this  time  he  was,  to 
a  very  great  extent,  free  from  the  work  of 
his  profession.  He  was  a  man  of  leisure, 
who  made  rare  use  of  his  opportunities. 
The  topics  which  especially  engaged  his  at- 
tention were  political  topics.  He  visited 
Europe  twice  during  this  period,  once  in 
1869-70,  and  again  in  1879-80.  On  both 
occasions  he  was  attracted,  more  or  less,  by 
those  things  which  attract  every  intelligent 
traveler;  but  at  the  same  time  his  activity 
there  showed  that  his  one  predominant  pur- 
pose was  to  familiarize  himself  with  the 
political  literature  and  the  political  institu- 
tions of  the  continent. 

Some  of  the  results  of  these  years  of  study 
and  reflection  have  been  given  to  the  public. 
They  are  found  in  essays  contributed  to  the 
"Overland  Monthly,"  "The  Californian," 
and  the  "Berkeley  Quarterly,"  and  in  his 
contribution  to  a  volume  on  "  Politics." 
One  of  the  earliest  of  these  productions  was 
an  article  on  "  Communism,"  printed  in  the 
"Overland  Monthly "  for  March,  1875.  It 
was  re-written,  greatly  enlarged,  and  pub- 
lished as  a  pamphlet  in  1878,  under  the 
title  "Communism:  its  History  and  Aims." 
Among  Mr.  Crane's  later  essays,  the  follow- 
ing were  printed  in  the  "Californian":  "The 
First  Legislature  on  this  Continent " ;  "A 
Winter  in  Berlin";  "Up  the  Moselle  and 
Around  Metz"  ;  "  Herbert  Spencer's  'Politi- 
cal Institutions '"  ;  "  Three  American  States- 
men." One  of  these,  the  essay  on  "Herbert 
Spencer's  '  Political  Institutions,' "  was  read 
before  the  Berkeley  Club,  as  was  also  one  at 
least  of  the  following  list,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  the  "  Berkeley. Quarterly  "  :  "  Prob- 
lems of  the  Day";  "Government";  "The 
Jews  in  Germany";  "What  is  involved  in 
the  Irish  Agitation  "  "  "  Recent  Change  in 
the  Value  of  Money  " ;  "  The  New  German 
Empire";  "Centralization";  "The  Nation"; 
"The  Precursors  of  Nihilism." 

These    essays    were     largely    occasional 


pieces,  and  more  or  less  ephemeral  in  char- 
acter; but  the  little  book  on  "Politics," 
which  was  wrought  out  more  deliberately 
and  under  the  influence  of  a  two-sided  criti- 
cism, gives  expression  to  much  of  Mr. 
Crane's  maturest  thinking,  and  justifies  a 
very  favorable  judgment  as  to  his  political 
insight.  It  was  the  outgrowth  of  conversa- 
tions with  a  friend  and  co-worker  during  a 
vacation  trip  in  the  region  of  Mt.  Shasta.  It. 
was  suggested  that  to  an  examination  and 
formal  presentation  of  political  topics  one 
might  bring  a  knowledge  of  history,  and  the 
other  a  knowledge  of  law ;  and  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  all  intelligent  discussion  of  pol- 
itics involves  data  drawn  from  these  two 
sources,  they  proposed  to  combine  their 
forces  and  write  a  book  which  should  have 
as  its  primary  aim  to  furnish  students  of  the 
University  a  brief  introduction  to  this  study 
of  politics.  Although  the  book  was  com- 
pleted as  a  joint  production,  it  was  possible 
to  maintain  in  it  unity  of  treatment,  because 
of  the  fullness,  freedom  and  candor  of  the 
debates  through  which  divergent  views  were 
harmonized.  There  was  no  yielding  for 
politeness'  sake,  and  none  of  that  stubborn- 
ness which  refuses  to  be  persuaded  on  good 
evidence.  In  these  private  discussions,  as  one 
point  after  another  came  up  for  consideration, 
Mr.  Crane  was  always  sincere,  always  frank, 
never  too  readily  convinced,  and  always  a 
gentleman  in  the  best  sense  of  the  term. 

Later,  there  was  conceived  the  idea  of 
making  the  volume  on  "Politics"  an  intro- 
duction to  an  extended  comparative  view  of 
the  constitutional  history  and  constitutional 
law  of  western  nations;  and  the  details  of 
a  plan  for  such  a  work  were  prominent  in  the 
thoughts  and  conversation  of  Mr.  Crane 
during  his  last  days  of  health.  In  these  last 
days,  moreover,  on  the  invitation  of  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  communicated  through 
Mr.  Horace  E.  Scudder,  he  determined  to 
write  a  social  and  political  history  of  Cal- 
ifornia for  the  series  of  American  Common- 
wealths now  in  course  of  publication  by  that 
firm;  in  fact,  among  the  last  letters  he  ever 
wrote  was  one  accepting  Mr.  Scudder's  prop- 
osition. The  following  is  the  letter: 


656 


William  Watrous  Crane,  Jr. 


[Dec. 


SAN  FRANCISCO,  June  22d,  1883. 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER,  Esq. : 

Dear  Sir:  Your  kind  favor  of  the  yth 
inst.  reached  me  four  or  five  days  ago.  The 
delay  in  answering  your  letter  is  due  to  the 
doubt  whether  I  can  adequately  accomplish 
what  you  desire.  The  general  plan  strikes 
me  as  offering  a  line  of  books  which  ought 
to  find,  and  I  am  sure  will  find,  an  appre- 
ciative public;  and  I  have  concluded  that  if 
I  can  assist  you,  I  shall  be  happy  to  under- 
take the  preparation  of  a  work  on  California. 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  about  this 
State,  more,  probably,  than  about  any  State 
west  of  the  Alleghanies ;  and  yet  even  now, 
as  you  say,  we  are  seen  in  a  "confused  light." 
Very  likely  this  is  in  large  part  unavoidable, 
because  of  our  remoteness.  This  element 
of  remoteness  affects  us  in  various  ways;  it 
makes  the  conditions  in  which  we  work  rath- 
er colonial  than  imperial,  though  at  the  same 
time  it  has  preserved  to  the  community  a 
certain  kind  of  individuality,  and,  at  least, 
has  made  us  almost  wholly  depend  upon  our- 
selves for  the  solution  of  some  Very  difficult 
political  problems.  There  was  certainly  a 
picturesque  element  in  our  early  life,  which 
has  not  entirely  disappeared,  and  which 
could  be  made  effective  in  the  kind  of  work 
in  view :  though,  I  take  it  your  idea  is  to 
show  the  growth  of  the  commonwealth;  that 
is,  the  growth  of  the  forces,  social  and  politi- 
cal, that  have  combined  to  produce  the  par- 
ticular self-governing  community  to  be  seen 
here  at  this  day.  It  is  rather  an  orderly 
narration  of  these  forces  than  the  detailed 
annals  of  the  State  that  you  wish :  it  is  not 
the  narrative  of  our  history  or  the  mere  dis- 
cussion of  affairs,  but  a  grouping  of  the 
salient  facts  of  our  life.  In  short,  here  is  an 
organic  community :  how  has  it  become  what 
it  is?  Possibly,  I  may  not  fully  take  in  your 
plan ;  I  think  I  do,  however. 

Will  you   kindly   inform    me   when   you 
propose  to  begin  the  publication  of  the  se- 
ries,'and  when  you  wish  me  to  be  ready. 
Very  truly  yours, 

W.  W.  CRANE,  JR. 

During  all  his  life  Mr.  Crane's  was  evi- 
dently a  growing  niind.  With  some  defects 
of  early  training,  he  aimed  to  make  himself 


a  thoroughly  educated  man.  In  his  busiest 
years  he  found  time  for  solid  reading  and 
study.  He  studied  much  with  pen  in  hand ; 
and,  as  his  leisure  increased,  he  gave  him- 
self more  and  more  to  the  work  of  compo- 
sition. His  writing  was  never  superficial. 
He  chose  worthy  themes,  and  labored  at 
them  with  a  resolute  purpose  to  gain  new 
light  on  them,  and  to  impart  that  light  to 
others. 

Studies  in  politics  and  social  affairs  fur- 
nish the  characteristic  work  of  his  intellectual 
life,  especially  during  the  last  decade  ;  and 
in  his  special  field  of  thought  he  displayed 
an  unusually  clear  understanding.  His 
thinking  was  straightforward  and  unbiased 
by  sentimentalism.  In  fact,  his  thinking 
was  better  than  his  expression.  His  style 
was  generally  clear,  but  often  redundant,  and 
thus  wanting  in  directness  and  force.  It 
needed  pruning,  and  with  this  it  might  have 
become  attractive  in  the  essay.  As  a  public 
lecturer,  Mr.  Crane  was  deliberate  and 
thoughtful;  but  he  did  not  possess  in  full 
measure  that  power  by  which  the  orator  car- 
ries with  him,  in  his  course  of  thought,  all 
classes  of  his  hearers.  This  lack  was  owing 
in  part  to  his  literary  style,  and  in  part  also 
to  the  fact  that  he  always  appeared  in  the 
attitude  of  a  seeker  of  truth,  rather  than  of  a 
bold  proclaimer  of  truth  already  discovered. 
He  used  no  tricks  for  persuading.  His 
mind  was  remarkably  candid;  it  was  honest 
with  itself,  and  dealt  honestly  with  others. 
He  allowed  his  reasoning  to  take  no  bribes 
of  prejudice.  His  earnest  desire  to  get  near- 
er the  truth  made  him  a  satisfactory  listener 
to  good  argument. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  life,  Mr.  Crane's 
mind  appeared  to  be  driven  by  a  new  im- 
pulse. He  worked  like  one  having  a  task 
to  perform,  and  conscious  that  his  time 
was  short.  As  the  final  revision  of  the 
manuscript  of  "Politics"  dragged  on  from 
week  to  week,  he  grew  solicitous,  almost 
impatient,  for  its  completion.  He  may  have 
been  moved  by  a  premonition  of  approach- 
ing dissolution;  but  it  is  more  likely  that  his 
restless  activity  was  the  effect  of  a  mind 
eager  to  gain  new  points  of  view  and  occupy 
new  fields  of  thought ;  for  he  died  in  the 
prime  of  his  intellectual  powers. 


1883.] 


Current  Comment. 


657 


CURRENT   COMMENT. 


THE  arrival  of  Matthew  Arnold  on  the  Atlantic 
Coast  has  been  noted  with  a  very  considerable  degree 
of  sympathetic  interest  by  the  reading  people  on  the 
Pacific.  The  length  of  Mr.  Arnold's  stay  in  this 
country,  and  the  extent  of  his  travels,  are  so  far  as 
we  have  seen  unannounced;  which  leaves  open  a 
possibility  that  he  may  consider — as  others  have 
done— a  visit  to  the  extreme  West  an  essential  part 
of  a  tour  of  American  exploration.  Certainly,  if  one 
wishes  to  "do"  the  United  States  thoroughly,  the 
Pacific  cannot  be  omitted.  If  Mr.  Arnold's  visit, 
however,  is  merely  intended  to  catch  an  impression 
of  the  scholarly  and  literary  class  of  this  country,  he 
will  find  so  many  more  of  them  to  the  square  mile  in 
the  East  than  in  the  West,  that  it  will  not  be  worth 
his  while  to  depart  from  the  Atlantic  sea-board.  It 
is  there  that  the  books  are  written,  and  that  the  col- 
leges of  high  rank  gather  thickly.  A  recent  article 
by  E.  E.  Hale  gives  the  opinion  of  publishers  and 
book-dealers,  to  the  effect  that  it  is  by  no  means  chief- 
ly along  the  Atlantic  that  the  books  are  read;  that 
from  the  great  producing  centers  of  the  East  they  are 
distributed  with  surprising  impartiality  over  the  enor- 
mous areas  of  the  West.  It  would  be  an  interesting 
point  for  inquiry  to  find  just  what  books  and  how 
many  are  distributed  in  this  State,  compared  with 
the  same  figures  in  the  Central  West,  the  East  and 
the  South.  That  that  nucleus  of  our  reading  classes 
which  may  be  called  the  intellectual  group  reads  as 
much  and  as  discriminatingly  as  that  of  any  state  is 
evident  to  the  most  casual  observation,  and  is  a  mat- 
ter of  course;  for  this  group  consists  of  the  best  of 
other  sections  transplanted  hither  without  change, 
and  of  their  children.  But  the  proportion  borne  by 
these  to  the  whole  reading  public,  and  by  the  read- 
ing to  the  non-reading  public,  is  a  different  matter. 
In  any  case,  however  the  \Vest  and  the  Pacific  may 
stand  as  recipients  of  letters  and  science  and  art, 
they  are  not,  to  any  extent  worth  considering,  produc- 
ers. So  far  as  a  visitor  from  abroad  comes  to  see 
the  producers  and  the  processes  of  production  of  the 
intellectual  commodities  of  America,  he  can  have  lit- 
tle occasion  to  go  far  westward. 

THERE  are  some  respects,  however,  in  which  the 
Pacific  commonwealth  is  of  especial  interest  to  the 
student  of  society.  There  is,  of  course,  the  sense  of 
the  greatness  and  substantial  uniformity  of  the  coun- 
try, to  be  fairly  grasped  only  by  the  trans-continen- 
tal trip — that  is,  perhaps,  what  most  of  our  visitors 
come  for;  there  is  the  surprise  of  finding  a  civilization 
far  less  crude,  a  state  of  society  far  less  wild,  than  the 
almost  invariable  preconception — but  there  are  mag- 
azine articles  and  files  of  papers  enough  extant  to 
VOL.  II.— 42. 


correct  the  preconception  without  the  week's  journey ; 
there  is  always  the  climate  and  the  scenery,  but  those 
are  matters  of  more  interest  to  the  tourist  than  to  the 
student  of  society.  The  real  peculiarity  of  our  pres- 
ent Pacific  civilization  is  that  it  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
completely  realized  embodiment  of  the  purely  com- 
mercial civilization  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  We  are 
in  the  habit  of  calling  society  "crude"  here;  but  we 
suffer  from  the  limitations  of  our  language  in  using 
the  epithet.  If  crude  means  unripe,  or  anything  akin 
to  what  in  the  bright  lexicon  of  youth  is  called 
"green,"  then  the  commercial  civilization  hardly  de- 
serves the  word;  harsh,  unmellowed  it  certainly  is, 
but  in  no  wise  rustic  or  unsophisticated.  It  is  a 
highly  developed  society  in  its  own  way;  and  that 
way  seems  to  be  really  the  modern  tendency  every- 
where, carried  here  to  a  unique  extreme.  The  growing 
weight  of  the  commercial  motive  in  English  society; 
the  growing  power  of  money  there  as  compared  with 
rank;  the  tendency  of  the  poorer  classes  to  throw 
off  subjection  to  all  authority,  checked  only  by  the 
domination  of  money;  the  increased  amount  of  indus- 
trial and  commercial  talent  in  the  community,  and 
the  increased  respect  paid  it  by  voting  constituencies, 
by  fashionable  society,  by  youth  in  shaping  its  ideals 
— all  these  things  have  been  noted  by  critics  of  En- 
glish society,  and  have  been  set  down  not  so  much 
to  English  traits  as  to  the  spirit  of  the  century.  The 
same  tendencies  in  a  less  degree  press  through  the 
weight  of  opposing  influences  in  almost  every  coun- 
try. That  America  is  the  realization  of  what  in  Eng- 
land is  only  a  tendency  has  long  been  the  accepted 
doctrine.  But  we  imagine  that  when  the  social  crit- 
ics come  to  compare  California  with  the  East,  they 
will  conclude  that  she  has  gone  so  much  farther  on 
the  same  path,  that  the  achievements  therein  of  New 
York  must  still  be  ranked  as  "tendency,"  the  full 
blossoming  of  which  may  be  seen  here.  The  speed 
with  which  money  will  open  all  doors  on  the  Pacific  ap- 
pears to  bear  some  such  ratio  to  the  speed  with  which 
it  will  do  so  on  the  Atlantic,  as  that  does  to  the  same 
in  England:  the  reluctance  with  which  money  flows  in- 
to other  than  commercial  channels,  and  the  prejudice 
against  accepting  any  other  gauge  of  value,  are  in 
like  manner  carried  here  to  their  legitimate  extreme. 
Herbert  Spencer  commented  on  the  business-worn 
aspect  of  the  Americans  that  he  saw;  but  the  greater 
wear  and  tear  of  business  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  the 
higher  proportion  of  brain  and  nerve  diseases,  the 
earlier  whitening  head,  are  subjects  of  common  com- 
ment. The  number  and  magnitude  of  Pacific  million- 
aire fortunes;  the  paucity  of  a  middle  class  ;  indeed,  all 
distinctive  traits  of  a  commercial  civilization  are  in- 
tensifications of  the  signs  of  the  times  elsewhere. 


658 


Book  Reviews. 


[Dec. 


IT  would,  perhaps,  not  be  far  out  of  the  way  to 
say  that  California  is  in  almost  every  respect  an  in- 
tensification of  the  American  spirit.  The  position  in 
literature  that  has  been  of  old  assigned  to  the  Ameri- 
can girl  seems  to  be  becoming  narrowed  more  and 
more  to  the  Western,  or  even  the  Californian  girl. 
^Socially,  a  man  can  get  the  smell  of  retail  whiskey  as 
readily  off  his  fingers  here  as  of  leather  on  the  Atlan- 
tic, or  of  wholesale  iron  in  England;  he  may  gain  and 
lose  four  fortunes  here  to  two  in  the  same  time,  in 
New  York,  or  one  in  England;  the  Anglo-Saxon 
union  of  chivalrous  admiration  with  frank  camerade- 
rie  toward  women,  by  virtue  of  which  England  both 
shocks  the  continent  and  plumes  herself,  is  notorious- 
ly intensified  in  the  American  Anglo-Saxon,  while 
the  Californian  Anglo-Saxon  carries  both  chivalry 
and  cameraderie  still  farther.  Nowhere  is  woman 
surrounded  with  more  of  a  certain  deference  of  treat- 
ment, a  subtle  acknowledgment  of  something  to  her 
credit  in  that  she  is  a  woman;  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
nowhere  are  men  so  ready  to  take  her  on  her  own 
merits,  admit  her  to  whatever  avenues  of  employ- 
ment she  can  show  herself  capable  of,  consult  her 


judgment  as  an  equal,  trust  her  discretion  in  ques- 
tions of  behavior.  Equal  education  in  the  highest 
schools  goes  as  naturally  without  saying  here  as  in 
the  middle  schools  in  the  East.  The  colleges  and 
medical  schools  have  always  been  open  to  women  as 
a  matter  of  course;  the  barrier  to  the  law  school  fell 
at  an  easy  push;  women  have  found  not  merely  the 
study,  but  the  actual  practice,  of  both  medicine  and 
law  unattended  by  the  least  discourtesy  or  even  so- 
cial disadvantage.  All  this  is  merely  America,  "only 
more  so."  In  the  single  respect  of  having  a  less  ex- 
acting moral  sense  than  the  average  of  America,  Cal- 
ifornia fails  of  intensified  Americanism.  Intellectual- 
ly— in  art,  literature,  education,  science — we  stand 
related  to  New  England  and  New  York  very  much 
as  they  did  to  England  previous  to  the  present  liter- 
ary epoch:  their  source  of  supplies  was  there;  their 
literary  models,  their  critics;  they  were  just  cultivat- 
ing into  existence  a  literature  of  their  own — provin- 
cial enough  then,  and  no  doubt  magnified  by  local 
admiration  in  a  provincial  enough  fashion;  yet  in  it 
was  the  root  of  the  present  admirable  development  of 
American  literature. 


BOOK   REVIEWS. 


Lieutenant-Commander  De  Long's 
Journals.1 

The  very  full  journals  kept  by  Captain  De  Long 
from  his  departure  from  San  Francisco  up  to  within 
a  few  hours  of  his  death  are  published  in  two  hand- 
some volumes  of  about  400  pages  each.  They  are 
preceded  by  some  biographical  account  of  the  author, 
and  followed  by  an  account  of  the  rescue  of  the  sur- 
vivors, the  search,  and  the  findings  of  the  Court  of 
Inquiry:  but  in  the  main  The  Voyage  of  the  Jeannette 
is  from  De  Long's  own  pen.  Although  the  reading 
public  knew  that  his  papers  had  all  been  saved,  in- 
cluding log,  journals  etc.,  it  will  be  a  surprise  to  al- 
most every  one  to  find  how  completely  ' '  he,  being 
dead,  yet  speaketh,"in  this  account:  it  is  like  hear- 
ing one  come  back  from  the  grave,  to  get  our  first  de- 
tailed knowledge  of  the  voyage  in  which  he  perished 
from  his  own  narrative. 

It  is  probable  that  in  all  the  literature  of  explora- 
tion, this  book  will  always  stand  out  alone  for  the 
mournfulness  of  its  story.  Tragedy  is  not  uncommon 
in  the  history  of  adventure;  but  tragedy  so  pathetic 
as  this  is  more  than  uncommon.  Of  course,  a  large 

1  The  Voyage  of  the  Jeannette  ;  Journals  of  Lieuten- 
ant-Commander De  Long.  Edited  by  his  Wife.  Bos- 
on: Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883.  Sold  by  sub- 
cription  only:  S.  Carson,  Agent. 


share  of  this  pathos  is  due  to  the  authorship  of  the 
book:  no  one  but  De  Long  himself  could  have  told 
us  adequately  what  the  full  misery  of  the  Jeannette's 
voyage  was.  Physical  suffering  enough  there  has 
often  been  in  exploring  voyages — no  doubt  more 
than  the  Jeannette  party  encountered;  but  the  long 
mental  torture  of  the  twenty-one  months'  drift  in  the 
ice  stands  by  itself.  To  Captain  De  Long  himself — 
no  doubt  in  a  less  degree  to  the  rest,  but  eminently 
to  him — the  danger,  suspense,  and  nervous  strain  of 
these  months  were  minor  elements  of  distress;  his 
sense  of  utter  defeat,  humiliation,  and  helplessness, 
as  the  months  melted  away  in  inaction,  was  over- 
whelming. Arrested  in  the  very  first  movement 
toward  actual  exploration — not  a  week  out  from  the 
last  port,  not  beyond  the  range  of  whalers;  held  for 
nearly  two  years  drifting  about  in  a  narrow  region, 
of  no  importance  to  the  explorer;  constantly  in  dan- 
ger and  liable  to  be  crushed  to  fragments  at  any  hour, 
yet  achieving  nothing,  while  the  time  possible  to  re- 
main in  the  Arctic  shortened  hopelessly;  as  bitterly 
sensitive  as  any  human  temperament  could  be  to  the 
humiliation  of  failure;  feeling  it  almost  an  involunta- 
ry breach  of  faith  with  the  liberal  patron  of  the  ex- 
pedition to  thus  take  his  ship  into  the  Arctic  for 
nothing;  then,  by  a  sudden  crash,  deprived  of  his 
vessel,  after  keeping  her  afloat  by  pumping  for  more 


1883.] 


Book  Jieviews. 


659 


than  a  year,  and  so  keeping  her  in  condition  that  it 
is  entirely  possible,  if  once  he  had  got  her  free,  he 
might  have  worked  through  to  the  Atlantic,  and  had 
at  least  his  life  and  his  ship  and  a  repetition  of  Nor- 
denskjold's  discovery  of  the  Northwest  Passage  to 
show  for  his  pains  and  Bennett's  money;  then  the 
labor  of  the  sledges;  the  terrible  passage  across  the 
ice  and  in  the  boats  to  Siberia;  the  rapid  deepening 
in  the  Lena  Delta  of  his  completely  mournful  fate 
from  the  first  conviction  that  he  must  relinquish  the 
one  hope  still  remaining  to  him — that  of  bringing 
safely  home  all  those  under  his  charge — through  the 
falling  away  one  by  one  of  his  companions,  to  the 
ghastly  end: — a  story  that  will  place  Captain  De 
Long's  name  among  the  few  in  history  great  by  the 
greatness  of  their  suffering.  It  is  more  like  fiction 
than  like  real  life — not  like  modern  fiction,  but  like 
a  Greek  tragedy  in  its  grand  and  simple  mournfulness, 
its  accumulating  weight  and  almost  intolerable  cli- 
max, its  pathetic  details. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  De  Long's  Journals 
are  mournfully  written  books.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  even  sprightly,  unfailing  in  courage  and 
cheerfulness,  full  of  sense  of  humor.  Their  literary 
merit  is  very  considerable;  unless  the  wife  who  ed- 
ited them  used  a  wonderfully  judicious  retouching 
hand,  this  gallant  sailor  possessed  all  the  qualities  of 
an  entertaining  writer.  During  the  months  when 
his  leisure  for  writing  was  so  great,  the  Journal 
abounds  in  anecdotes  of  the  dogs,  of  the  Indians 
Alexey  and  Aneguin,  or  the  Chinamen  Ah  Sam  and 
Charles  Tong  Sing,  in  whose  quaint  ways  he  seems 
to  have  taken  an  unfailing  interest.  The  interest  in 
little  things,  and  especially  in  little  things  concerning 
human  nature,  is  one  of  the  many  peculiarly  gentle- 
manly things  in  De  Long's  character  that  this  record 
reveals.  Nothing  could  be  simpler,  franker,  more 
manly  and  genial.  Sensitive  in  every  direction  he 
seems  to  have  been— to  natural  beauty,  to  reflective 
and  religious  feeling,  to  personal  relations.  Yet  he 
was  thoroughly  objective,  and  no  weight  of  time  on 
his  hands  ever  betrayed  him  into  wasting  paper  over 
egotisms.  The  antics  of  the  "hoodlum  gang" 
among  the  dogs  might  go  into  the  book,  or  a  de- 
scription of  an  aurora;  but  never  any  dissecting  of 
Captain  De  Long  or  his  feelings.  Only  occasion- 
ally, and  in  simple  language,  does  a  sentence  get 
upon  paper  that  betrays  his  overwhelming  sense  of 
failure,  the  intolerableness  of  his  position.  It  must 
be  heart-breaking  to  personal  friends  to  read  the 
long  succession  of  resolute  hopes;  in  the  face  of 
every  thickening  disaster  it  is,  "  Never  say  die,"  or 
— again  and  again— "  The  darkest  hour  is  just  be- 
fore dawn."  Even  in  the  Delta  the  proverb  is  joy- 
ously repeated,  upon  the  shooting  of  their  last 
deer.  One  can  hardly  help  the  thought  that  he 
was  not  far  wrong,  after  all;  the  end  that  he  met 
was  perhaps  what  he  would  have  chosen,  as  the  only 
thing  that  could  dignify  his  failure.  To  a  certain 
class  of  lofty  temperaments — and  De  Long's  seems 


to  have  been  one  of  these — a  cherished  object  is  the 
dearest  thing  in  life,  dearer  than  life  itself;  and  fail- 
ure in  such  an  object  the  worst  of  calamities.  So 
calm  and  free  from  exaggeration  are  all  his  words, 
that  we  are  inclined  to  believe  that  he  literally 
meant  what  he  wrote  in  passages  such  as  these: 

"So  thoroughly  do  we  feel  that  we  are  accom- 
plishing nothing,  that  some  of  us  think  that  the  food 
we  eat  and  the  coal  burned  to  cook  it  are  utter  and 

absolute  waste No   matter   how   much   we 

have  endured,  no  matter  how  often  we  have  been  in 
jeopardy,  no  matter  that  we  bring  the  ship  and  our- 
selves back  to  the  starting-point,  no  matter  if  we 
were  absent  ten  years  instead  of  one,  we  have 
failed-  ....  and  we  and  our  narratives  together  are 
thrown  into  the  world's  dreary  waste-basket,  and  re- 
called and  remembered  only  to  be  vilified  and  ridi- 
culed." 

"My  duty  to  those  who  came  with  me  is  to  see 
them  safely  back,  and  to  devote  all  my  mind  and 
strength  to  that  end.  My  duty  to  those  depending 
on  me  for  support  hereafter  impels  me  to  desire  that 
I  should  return  also;  but  those  two  duties  apart,  I 
fancy  it  would  have  made  but  little  difference  if  I 
had  gone  down  with  my  ship.  But  as  there  is  nothing 
done  without  some  good  purpose  being  served,  I 
must  endeavor  to  look  my  misfortune  in  the  face. 
....  It  will  be  hard,  however,  to  be  known  here- 
after as  a  man  who  undertook  a  polar  expedition  and 
sunk  his  ship  at  the  77th  parallel." 

In  all  the  bitterness  of  his  private  thoughts,  De 
Long  never  lost  the  least  nerve.  Nor  did  he  and 
his  officers  ever,  during  all  the  months  of  despond- 
ency, relax  the  most  punctilious  attention  to  every 
possible  scientific  observation,  the  most  rigid  care  of 
the  ship  and  of  the  health  of  the  party,  and  even  an 
unfailing  habit  of  cheerfulness.  The  officers  and 
crew  throughout  seem  to  have  been  a  remarkable 
body,  with  all  the  qualities  of  heroes.  Of  the  one 
painful  episode  which  the  newspapers  made  so  much 
of,  this  book  is  absolutely  silent — an  omission  that 
shows  good  taste  in  the  editor.  The  high  excellence 
shown  by  the  two  Chinamen  is  a  point  worthy  of 
note.  The  whole  crew  did  great  credit  to  the  com- 
mander's discrimination  and  knowledge  of  men,  dis- 
played in  selecting  them. 

Nothing  could  be  better  than  the  editing  of  these 
Journals;  the  few  words  of  introduction  and  close 
are  so  modest,  straightforward  and  calm  as  to  in- 
crease respect  for  the  writer.  There  is  nothing  that 
can  .be  called  eulogy,  nor  a  word  or  tone  in  the  whole 
that  accents  the  personality  of  the  writer  or  the  fact 
of  her  relations  to  De  Long.  Her  sympathy  seems 
to  have  been  entirely  with  his  ambitions,  though  the 
only  direct  expression  of  such  sympathy  is  in  the 
closing  words:  "Something  was  added  to  the  stock 
of  the  world's  knowledge;  a  slight  gain  was  made  in 
the  solution  of  the  Arctic  problem.  Is  it  said  that 
too  high  a  price  in  the  lives  of  men  was  paid  for  this 
knowledge?  Not  by  such  cold  calculation  is  human 


660 


Book  Reviews. 


[Dec. 


endeavor  measured.  Sacrifice  is  nobler  than  ease, 
unselfish  life  is  consummated  in  lonely  death,  and  the 
world  is  richer  by  this  gift  of  suffering." 

The  two  volumes  of  The  Voyage  of  the  Jeannette 
are  especially  well  printed,  the  illustrations  satis- 
factory, and  the  charts  excellent,  except  that  the 
chart  of  the  various  journeyings  in  the  Lena  Delta  is 
not  as  clear  as  it  might  have  been  made  by  the  use  of 
more  colors  in  tracing  lines  of  march,  and  similar  de- 
vices. One  of  the  exhaustive  modern  indexes  is  add- 
ed, besides  several  appendices  containing  a  few  scien- 
tific reports  and  similar  matters  :  the  most  important 
of  these  is  a  plan  for  an  Arctic  vessel,  as  drawn 
from  their  experience,  the  work  of  Melville  and 
De  Long. 

How  to  Help  the  Poor.1 

"THOUGH  I  bestow  all  my  goods  to  feed  the  poor, 
and  have  not  charity,  it  profiteth  me  nothing,''  is  the 
quotation  that  introduces  Mrs.  Fields's  most  sensible 
and  excellent  little  book;  and  the  chapters  that  fol- 
low explain  with  all  earnestness  the  distinction — be- 
come, in  our  modern  environment,  even  an  antago- 
nism— between  charity  and  the  bestowal  of  goods 
to  feed  the  poor.  To  the  student  of  society  it  is,  of 
course,  no  new  idea  that  civilization  is  weighted  al- 
most fatally  by  the  growth  of  a  helplessly  poor  caste, 
dependent  by  preference,  destitute  far  less  in  goods 
than  in  mental  and  moral  muscle;  and  that  the  great 
bulk  of  private  charity,  and  still  more  of  public 
alms,  is  a  direct  premium  to  the  growth  of  this  class: 
but  such  a  doctrine  has  made  very  little  way  among 
the  great  bulk  of  alms-givers.  To  these  Mrs.  Fields's 
book  is  addressed;  and  it  is,  we  think,  for  the  general 
reader  the  best  presentation  of  the  subject — at  once 
sound  and  popular — yet  issued.  The  best  review  we 
can  make  of  it  is  to  advise  every  one  who  spends  as 
much  as  a  dollar  in  "  charity,"  so  called,  to  devote 
the  first  sixty  cents  of  that  dollar  to  possessing  him- 
self of  Mrs.  Fields's  book,  and  then  he  will  stand  a 
better  chance  of  not  doing  absolute  harm  with  the 
remaining  forty  cents. 

The  immediate  substitute  for  indiscriminate  alms- 
giving that  the  book  is  intended  to  help  is  the  Boston 
system  for  organizing  charitable  work — a  sort  of 
clearing  house  arrangement,  to  secure  co-operation 
among  the  existing  charitable  societies,  and  between 
them  and  private  beneficence.  This  organization  is 
that  almost  unheard-of  thing,  a  good  work  that  is 
not  in  need  of  money,  but  only  of  workers;  not  that 
it  is  rich,  but  that  it  does  not  include  in  its  work  the 
use  of  money — merely  the  collection  of  knowledge 
for  the  intelligent  guidance  of  those  using  money 
through  the  regular  channels.  A  similar  organiza- 
tion would  be  possible  in  many  places;  in  many 
others,  the  reader  must  not  expect  to  be  able  to  copy 
literally,  but  merely  to  understand  the  principle  of 
reform,  and  work  out  the  special  adaptation  of  it 

1  How  to  Help  the  Poor.  By  Mrs.  James  T.  Fields. 
Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883.  For. sale  by 
Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 


desirable  for  his  own  community.  Any  farther  idea 
of  this  principle  can  best  be  given  by  quotation: 

"To  teach  the  poor  how  to  use  even  the  small 
share  of  goods  and  talents  intrusted  to  them,  proves 
to  be  almost  the  only  true  help  of  a  worldly  sort 
which  it  is  possible  to  give  them.  Other  gifts, 
through  the  long  ages  tried  and  found  wanting,  we 
must  have  done  with.  Nearly  one  million  of  dollars 
in  public  and  private  charities  have  been  given  away 
in  one  year  in  Boston  alone;  and  this  large  sum  has 
brought,  by  way  of  return,  a  more  fixed  body  of 
persons  who  live  upon  the  expectation  of  public 
assistance,  and  whose  degradation  becomes  daily 
deeper.  The  truth  has  been  made  clear  to  us  that 
expenditure  of  money  and  goods  alone  does  not  alle- 
viate poverty We  have  followed  the  law  and 

not  the  spirit  of  the  Master;  but  the  law  is  dead, 
and  he  still  lives  among  us,  the  shepherd  of  his  sheep, 
speaking  through  these  hungry  and  suffering  children, 
and  praying  us  not  to  give  the  meat  which  perisheth, 
but  the  meat  which  shall  endure." 

"The  old  method  of  working  for  the  poor  always 
left  the  man  in  the  swamp,  but  threw  him  biscuits  to 
keep  him  from  starving.  By  means  of  throwing 
him  biscuits  enough,  he  managed  to  make  the  oozy 
place  appear  soft  and  even  comfortable.  The  new 
method  is  to  throw  him  a  plank.  He  cannot  eat  or 
drink  the  plank,  but  he  can  scramble  out  upon  it, 
and  have  his  share  of  the  labors  and  rewards  which 
the  experience  of  life  brings  both  to  high  and  low." 

"  In  short,  we  have  received  the  children  of  pau- 
perized Europe  into  our  open  arms,  and  have  won- 
dered at  first,  then  felt  ourselves  repelled  by  the  sad 
issue  of  our  careless  hospitality." 

"They  are  with  us It  remains  with   us  to 

train  them  into  decent  members  of  society,  or  to 
fold  our  hands  and  let  the  crowd  of  imbeciles  and 
drunkards  and  criminals  and  lunatics  increase  year 
by  year,  till  suddenly  some  frightful  social  convulsion 
opens  the  eyes  that  have  refused  to  see." 

Recent  Volumes  of  Verse. 

THE  most  of  the  verse  issued  in  recent  volumes  is 
not  recent  verse;  and  the  fact  is  a  matter  of  con- 
gratulation. From  the  character  of  volumes  whose 
contents  are  new,  one  would  conclude  that  no  good 
verse  is  being  written,  were  it  not  that  a  small  group 
of  writers  still  do  the  muse  credit  through  the  col- 
umns of  the  magazines.  Most  of  these  writers,  how- 
ever, do  not  seem  to  care  to  collect  their  verses; 
and — with  a  few  exceptions,  notably  in  the  case  of 
Aldrich — the  publication  of  a  volume  of  verses 
seems  to  be  fast  becoming  a  confession  that  the 
author  could  not  get  his  verses  into  the  magazines. 
Accordingly,  the  poetical  enterprises  of  the  publish- 
ers for  the  holiday  season  turn  principally  to  re- 
publications  of  standard  poetry,  either  in  specially 
handsome  or  specially  handy  form.  Of  the  first 
sort  is  the  earliest  and  perhaps  the  most  notice- 
able of  holiday  issues  of  the  season:  Twenty  Poems 


1883.] 


Book  Reviews. 


661 


from  Longfellow,1  illustrated  by  his  son,  the  artist, 
Ernest  Longfellow.  There  are  fifty  illustrations, 
and  the  twenty  poems  that  are  selected  for  them  are 
fairly  representative  of  the  poet's  range  of  subject 
and  manner.  The  conjunction  of  son  and  father  in 
the  two  arts  that  make  up  the  book  is,  okcourse,  the 
point  of  great  interest,  and  ought  to  make  it  a  fa- 
vorite among  the  holiday  books.  There  seems  to  be 
a  good  deal  of  harmony  between  the  genius  of  father 
and  son,  making  it  possible  for  the  one  to  render  in 
pencil  very  fairly  the  spirit  of  the  other;  it  should 
be  said  that  these  engravings  are  from  paintings,  and 
therefore  not  as  full  renderings  of  the  intention  of 
the  artist  as  if  they  had  been  designed  in  the  first 
place  to  express  his  conception  without  color. 

SOMEWHAT  more  sumptuous  than  the  Longfellow 
volume  is  an  "Artists'  Edition"  of  Gray's  Elegy,* 
notable  as  the  first  attempt  to  bring  out  this  poem  in 
elaborate  form.  The  twenty-two  engravings  on  as 
many  pages  (the  right-hand  page  alone  receiving 
both  illustration  and  verse,  faced  by  a  blank  left-hand 
page),  are  drawn  by  nineteen  artists,  of  whom  W. 
Hamilton  Gibson  and  R.  Swain  Gifford  are  the  most 
eminent  names,  and  engraved  by  eighteen  different 
engravers.  That  they  are  all  of  great  beauty,  and 
make  a  most  acceptable  holiday  volume,  we  need 
hardly  say.  There  seems  to  have  been  a  certain 
difficulty  experienced  by  the  artists  in  discriminating 
between  Old  England  and  New  England  rusticity, 
in  the  character  of  landscape  and  figures;  a  difficulty 
hardly  avoidable. 

ON  the  other  hand,  in  the  line  of  the  cheap  and  con- 
venient, a  Longfellow  reprint  appears  again  in  the 
shape  of  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,z  arranged 
for  acting  in  parlor  theatricals  and  school  exhibitions 
— a  little  fifteen-cent  paper  book  (Number  Three  of 
the  "  Riverside  Literature  Series  "),  which  we  should 
think  would  prove  very  acceptable  for  the  purpose 
for  which  it  is  designed.  It  is  a  good  suggestion 
that  the  historically  accurate  description  of  surround- 
ings and  costumes,  together  with  the  intrinsic  worth 
•of  the  poem  and  the  interest  which  children  always 
find  in  acting  and  personation,  will  make  its  use  in 
schools  a  better  educating  influence  than  the  recita- 
tion of  many  short  "pieces."  Longfellow  is  already 
peculiarly  the  poet  of  children,  and  much  has  al- 
ready been  done,  with  excellent  results,  in  the  way 
of  introducing  him  to  the  public  schools;  it  is  even 
customary  in  many  of  the  schools  of  the  country  to 
celebrate  his  birthday — a  curious  phase 'of  popular 
reverence  to  a  poet,  that  perhaps  illustrates  more 

1  Twenty  Poems  from  Longfellow.     Illustrated  from 
paintings   by   his   son,    Ernest    Longfellow.       Boston : 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1883.     For  sale  by  Billings, 
Harbourne  &  Co. 

2  An  Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard.     By 
Thomas   Gray.     The  Artists'   Edition.      Philadelphia: 
J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.     1883. 

8  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish.  By  Henry 
Wadsworth  Longfellow.  Arranged  in  Seven  Scenes. 
Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883.  For  sale  by 
Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 


vividly  than  anything  else  the  peculiar  adaptation 
of  Longfellow's  genius  to  the  general  taste  of  America. 
IN  The  Bay  of  Seven  Islands,  Etc.,*  the  twenty- 
two  poems  of  Whittier  that  have  come  into  print 
since  the  latest  collection  of  his  works  are  brought 
together  in  an  attractive  little  volume.  As  most  of 
our  readers  have  from  time  to  time  read  these  poems 
as  they  appeared  in  various  journals  (for  in  whatever 
journal  published,  almost  every  one  has  been  seized 
up  and  copied  and  recopied  all  over  the  country  by 
the  press),  we  will  not  dwell  upon  them  with  any 
extended  criticism.  They  are  what  all  Mr.  Whit- 
tier's  later  poetry  has  been;  somewhat  unequal,  yet 
in  every  line,  after  all,  showing  the  firm  hand  of  the 
veteran  and  the  genuine  poetic  .spirit.  He  seems 
certainly  destined  to  be  one  of  the  happy  writers 
who  go  on  to  the  end  without  a  period  of  decay  and 
weakness;  for  though  every  volume  he  now  prints 
contains  much  that  is  less  than  his  best,  the  same 
has  always  been  true  of  him;  and  so  sweet  and  lofty 
is  the  spirit  of  everything,  and  in  its  way  so 
strong  the  expression,  that  no  critic  can  bring  him- 
self to  wish,  for  bare  art's  sake,  that  Whittier  had 
preserved  his  poetic  rank  at  a  higher  point  by  writ- 
ing none  but  his  most  elevated  and  artistic  lyrics. 
Not  that  the  present,  or  any  recent  volume  of  the 
poet  touches  any  such  mark  as  the  best  poems  of 
his  prime;  but  to  settle  into  a  quiet  level  of  excel- 
lence is  a  very  different  thing  from  weakness  and 
decadence. 

OF  recent  verse,  the  most  ambitious  issue,  not 
only  of  this  year  but  of  several  years,  is  a  volume 
called  Poems  Antique  and  Modern,5  by  C.  L.  Moore. 
The  collection  includes  six  long  poems,  ranging 
in  length  from  some  four  hundred  to  nearly  three 
thousand  lines,  and  six  briefer  ones,  which  the  author 
calls  "Lyrics,"  though  only  three  have  any  lyric 
spirit.  Nothing  could  be  better  than  the  taste  with 
which  these  poems  are  issued:  the  very  appearance 
of  the  book  gives  an  impression  of  dignified  confi- 
dence on  the  author's  part  that  he  had  something 
worth  reading  to  offer  the  world.  And  in  our  judg- 
ment, the  poems  ought  to  attract  a  certain  amount 
of  consideration,  for  they  are  at  least  not  ordinary; 
but  whether  they  do  or  not,  they  will  have  to  be 
set  down  in  the  end  as  of  no  high  rank.  There 
has  gone  into  them  a  certain — perhaps  a  not  incon- 
siderable—amount of  what  we  may  call  capacity  of 
poetic  execution,  but  without  sufficient  basis  of 
poetic  thought  and  feeling  to  give  them  any  real 
value.  They  are  of  the  "fleshly  school,"  but  not 
grossly  so;  in  fact,  one  catches  subtly  the  suspicion 
that  the  author  has  felt  himself  compelled  by  his 
theories  to  be  more  "  fleshly  "  than  his  own  sponta- 
neous taste  would  dictate.  That  element  of  Hel- 
lenism that  exists  in  subordination  in  Keats  and 

4  The  Bay  of  Seven  Islands,  Etc.  By  John  Green- 
leaf  Whittier.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
1883.  For  sale  by  Billings,  Harboume  &  Co. 

6  Poems  Antique  and  Modern.  By  Charles  Leonard 
Moore.  Philadelphia;  John  E.  Potter  &  Co.  1883. 


662 


Book  JReviews. 


[Dec. 


Shelley,  and  constitutes  the  common  trait  in  Swin- 
burne, Oscar  Wilde  and  Walt  Whitman,  is  the  chief 
motive  in  them  all — the  worship  of  the  purely  natur- 
al, and  of  that  which  is  beautiful  merely  to  the  senses. 
In  "Herakles"  there  is  certainly  something  of  a 
large,  vigorous  and  dignified  wording  of  this  worship, 
much  that  is  happy  in  epithet  and  impressive  in 
picturing,  and  a  certain  metrical  power;  but  not 
nearly  enough  to  infuse  worth  through  the  whole 
four  thousand  lines;  there  is,  besides,  enough  affecta- 
tion to  make  much  of  the  largeness  and  dignity  re- 
solve themselves  on  a  near  view  into  the  paint  and 
stucco  of  a  wooden  castle.  There  is  throughout  a 
good  deal  of  metrical  ability,  and  in  "  Prometheus," 
a  real  echo  of  /Eschylus  (or  perhaps  an  echo  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  echo  of  ^Eschylus).  In  the  ode  to  Poe 
we  find  the  only  really  original  and  happy  conceit  of 
any  extent  in  the  poems,  though  there  are  many  in 
epithets.  The  substance  of  this  conceit  can  be  given 
by  the  quotation  of  a  few  lines  (and  the  whole  devel- 
opment of  it  would  'have  been  stronger  in  fifty  than 
in  the  two  hundred  used)  : 

' '  For  he  was  not  of  mortal  progeny  ; 
Born  in  the  under-world  of  utter  woe, 
Sad  sombre  poet  of  Persephone, 

His  home  he  did  forego, 
****** 

What  cared  he  for  day's  gaudy,  glowing  deeds 
The  fiery-blowing  flowers  of  the  earth 

Or  the  wind's  lusty  breath  ? 
Still  did  he  long  for  the  black  shades  and  deep, 
Still  for  the  thickets  inextricable, 
Still  for  the  empty  shadows  of  the  gods, 
Still  for  the  hueless  faces  of  the  dead. 
****** 

He  knew  the  secret  of  his  birth  ;  he  knew 
The  low,  the  lost,  the  oft-lamented  path 
That  led  unto  his  home. 

****** 

Too  wise  he  was  with  memories  of  his  youth 
To  change  for  gaudy  shows  death's  awful  truth. " 

In  this,  and  in  other  passages,  there  is  real  imagi- 
nation, and  of  no  mean  quality.  The  language  of 
all  the  poems  has  so  entirely  the  air  of  education  that 
one  is  surprised  to  come  upon  an  occasional  solecism, 
such  as  the  invariable  accenting  of  "  horizon );  on  the 
first  syllable. 

He  and  She 1  is  properly  to  be  classed  as  a  volume 
of  verse,  in  spite  of  the  alternation  of  verse  and 
prose,  since  the  prose  constitutes  only  a  connecting 
or  commenting  thread  for  the  verse.  Mr.  Story's 
verses,  though  by  no  means  of  the  highest  rank,  are 
always  good,  always  have  their  modicum  of  genuine 
poetry,  and  often  deserve  much  higher  praise  than 
this.  The  present  collection  contains  some  twenty- 
five  poems,  grave  and  gay,  love  and  literary  criticism, 
descriptive  and  society  verse,  read  by  "him"  to 
"her,"  and  connected  by  their  comments.  These 
comments — cast  into  dialogue — are  by  no  means  an 

1  He  and  She:  or  A  Poet's  Portfolio.  By  W.  W. 
Story.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883. 


unimportant  addition  to  the  little  book,  for  they  con- 
tain not  merely  an  essay  flavor  of  very  fair  rank,  but 
a  prepossessing  touch  of  romance,  a  hint  of  deeper 
feeling  suppressed,  that  at  once  puzzles  and  interests 
the  reader  like  a  chapter  from  life.  The  poems,  on 
the  contrary,  have  not  enough  of  the  suggestive; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  author's  protest  in  one  of  them 
against  over-refining,  would  be  better  for  that  con- 
densation, that  concentration  into  shorter  compass  of 
all  the  meaning  and  beauty  of  the  poem,  which  is 
really  the  chief  good  of  the  refining  process.  Mr. 
Story  is  vastly  better  in  grave  verse  than  gay;  grave, 
with  a  somewhat  intellectual  cast,  touched  strongly 
with  pensive,  rather  than  with  passionate  feeling. 
Accordingly,  the  sonnets  in  this  volume,  the  Hora- 
tian  Ode  "To  Victor"  and  the  "  lo  Victis "  are 
about  the  best.  The  last,  beginning  strongly,  weak- 
ens toward  the  end,  as  though  the  writer  had  laid  it 
down  half-finished,  and  had  taken  it  up  afterward 
when  unable  to  recall  the  original  impulse,  or  catch 
again  the  movement  of  rhythm,  at  once  spirited  and 
dignified,  with  which  "he  began.  Yet  not  merely 
through  the  average  of  these  poems,  but  in  even  the 
least  good,  the  reader  could  not  fail  to  recognize  the 
hand  of  thorough  intelligence,  and  of  genuine  poet- 
ic spirit. 

UNDER  title  of  The  Earlier  Poems  of  Anna 
M.  Morrison1*  are  published  a  number  of  poems 
written  with  a  few  exceptions  prior  to  the  age  of 
twenty,  by  a  lady  who  appears  from  the  prefixed  bi- 
ographical and  other  notices,  and  the  affixed  press 
congratulations  on  the  forthcoming  volume,  to  be  a 
favorite  with  the  press  and  public  of  the  northern 
counties,  where  she  has  always  lived,  and  has  been 
well  received  as  a  lecturer.  Her  lectures,  it  is  ex- 
plained, were  delivered  for  the  pecuniary  help  of  her 
family,  while  she  was  still  a  young  girl;  a  fact  that 
enlisted  sympathy  greatly  in  her  behalf.  A  compli- 
mentary letter  on  the  intended  publication  of  the 
poems  introduces  the  volume,  and  we  note  among 
its  signatures  several  names  of  prominence.  We 
have  never  seen  a  book  so  fortified  with  preliminary 
eulogy;  but  after  reading  all  the  explanations  of  the 
author's  disadvantages  of  education  in  all  senses,  one 
finds  the  verses  surprisingly  good,  all  circumstances 
considered.  It  is  never  possible  to  say  with  regard 
to  that  poetic  impulse  which  so  frequently  inspires 
persons  of  limited  education  to  verse  writing,  whether 
it  is  of  the  quality  which  education  would  develoj> 
into  higher  poetic  ability,  or  of  that  which  education 
would  prove  merely  a  crude  exhibition  of  apprecia- 
tiveness. 

WE  have  derived  genuine  satisfaction  from  going 
through  a  collection  of  new  poems,3  by  Theodor 
Kirchhoff,  the  well-known  German-American  poet 

2  The    Earlier   Poems  of  Anna  M.    Morrison.    San 
Francisco:   A.  L.  Bancroft  &  Co.     1883.    For  sale   by 
Chilion  Beach. 

3  Balladen  und  Neue  Gedichte  von  Theodor  Kirch- 
hoff.    Altona  :     C.   Th.    Schlueter.     For  sale  by  J.  B. 
Golly  &  Co. 


1883.] 


Book  JReviews. 


663 


of  San  Francisco.  Loftiness  of  conception  and  a 
great  beauty  of  language,  together  with  an  easy  and 
graceful  flow  of  verse,  distinguish  both  the  "  Balla- 
den"  and  the  " Lyrisch-epische  Gedichte"  and  we 
desire  to  call  our  readers'  special  attention  to  "Die 
Gr'dber  am  Donner  See,"  "Pattu  und  Lavaletta" 
"  Mond-nacht  im  Yosemmctithal"  "  Auf  dem  Mottnt 
Diablo"  "  Der  Riese  von  Mariposa, "  "Mount  Ta- 
coma,"  and  "Texaner  Reiterlied,"  As  these  titles 
indicate,  most  of  the  subjects  refer  to  Californian 
points  of  interest,  and  will  afford  delightful  reading  for 
those  conversant  with  the  German  tongue.  The  book 
is  very  tastefully  gotten  up  in  European  style,  and 
will  be  an  ornament  to  every  library. 

Briefer  Notice. 

IN  Putnam's  "  Handy  Book  Series  of  Things 
Worth  Knowing"  is  issued  Work  for  Women,'1  a 
convenient  reference  list  of  various  occupations  pos- 
sible to  women,  the  earnings  possible  in  each,  its 
present  condition  as  to  accessibility,  agreeableness, 
competition,  and  so  on,  the  qualification  or  prepara- 
tion necessary,  and  similar  practical  facts.  The 
occupationsincludedare:  Industrial  Designing,  Short- 
hand Writing,  Telegraphy,  Feather  Curling,  Photog- 
raphy, Professional  Nursing,  Proof-Readers,  Com- 
positors and  Book-Binders,  the  Drama,  Lecturers 
and  Readers,  Book-Agents,  Dress-Making,  Millin- 
ery, Teaching;  with  brief  notes  on  Market  Gardening, 
Poultry-Raising,  Bee-keeping,  Housekeepers,  Cash- 
iers, Buttonhole  Making,  Horticulture,  Authorship, 
Type-Writing,  and  WTorking  in  Brass.  There  is  not 
the  least  of  the  "  Ysolte  of  the  white  hands"  spirit 
about  this  manual;  on  the  contrary,  its  collection  of 
hard  facts  leaves  the  reader  to  draw  the  general  con- 
clusion that  a  woman  without  capital,  if  she  is 
not  afraid  of  soiling  her  hands,  of  long  hours  and 
hard  work,  need  not  have  great  difficulty  in  support- 
ing herself,  but  need  hardly  hope  for  more  than  that; 
or  if  she  will  make  herself  mistress  of  some  one 
ability  requiring  preliminary  training,  there  are  a  few 
lines  in  which  she  may  hope  for  earnings  enough  to  se- 
cure modest  comfort.  The  best  chance  appears  to  be  in 
short-hand  writing,  feather-curling,  nursing  and  book- 
agent  work;  all  of  these  except  the  last  require  both 
natural  capacity  and  arduous  training  (strange  though 
the  statement  may  appear  as  to  feather-curling);  the 
book-agent  work  requires  only  natural  capacity,  and 
.is  on  the  whole  the  employment  of  highest  profits  in 
the  list.  Men  are  said  to  earn  from  $4,000  to  $10- 
ooo  a  year  in  this  occupation;  women,  however, 
make  less,  chiefly  because  they  work  more  irrregularly 
and  are  more  easily  discouraged.  The  scale  of  earn- 
ings, the  amount  of  competition,  etc.,  in  the  various 
trades,  will  differ  more  or  less  in  our  section  from 
those  given  in  this  manual,  which  is,  of  course, 
drawn  from  investigation  in  Eastern  cities;  but  many 
of  the  facts  are  of  general  application,  and  we  should 

1  Work  for  Women.  By  George  J.  Manson.  New 
York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883.  For  sale  by  Bil- 
lings, Harbourne  &  Co. 


advise  its  reading  even  here. Houghton,  MifHin  & 

Co.  have  already  issued  eight  volumes  of  a  very  satis- 
factory uniform  edition  of  Emerson's  works,  which  will 
be  very  nearly  complete,  though  it  will  not  comprise 
absolutely  everything  that  is  in  existence  from  his 
pen.  Eight  volumes  will  contain  the  whole  of  his 
prose  works  hitherto  collected;  a  ninth  volume  will 
contain  all  of  the  poems  that  he  himself  chose  to 
form  an  edition  of  "Selected  Poems,"  with  the 
addition  of  a  number  of  others,  some  hitherto  un- 
published; and  lectures,  addresses,  and  so  forth,  hith- 
erto uncollected  or  even  unprinted,  will  make  up  the  - 
tenth  and  eleventh  volumes.  The  series,  therefore, 
gives  the  public  everything  from  Mr.  Emerson's  pen 
except  some  of  his  poems  and  some  of  his  unpub- 
lished manuscripts.  The  selection  among  the  un- 
published manuscripts  is  made,  according  to  Mr. 
Emerson's  will,  by  his  literary  executor,  J.  E.  Cabot, 
acting  in  co-operation  with  his  children.  The  vol- 
umes of  this  edition  now  out  are  Nature,  Addresses 
and  Lectures'2'  (to  which  is  prefixed  a  portrait 
"  etched  by  Mr.  Schoff  from  a  photographic  copy  of 
a  daguerreotype  taken  in  1847  or  1848,  probably  in 
England,"  and  much  better  than  one  would  suppose 
possible);  the  two  volumes  of  Essays;  Representa- 
tive Men;  English  Traits;  The  Conduct  of  Life; 

Society  and  Solitude;  Letters  and  Social  Aims. 

As  the  holiday  season  approaches,  the  second  volume 
of  the  New  Bodley  Series  duly  appears.  The  orig- 
inal series  of  five  books  carried  the  now  so  well- 
known  children  through  various  journeyings  between 
i848and  1852;  the  present  series  takes  their  children 
through  instructive  tours  abroad  in  1880  and  1881. 
It  need  hardly  be  said  that  the  Bodley  books  are  the 
most  successful  of  all  this  class  of  juveniles,  and  the 
present  volume,  The  English  Bodley  Family?  is  not 
inferior  to  its  predecessors.  The  discovery  of  an 
English  family  of  the  name,  and  of  an  ancestra 
connection  therewith,  supplies  the  means  of  giving 
human  interest  to  the  historic  studies  into  the  rela- 
tions of  England  and  America,  as  the  ancestral  'con- 
nection with  Holland  in  the  previous  volume  intro- 
duced the  connection  between  Dutch  and  American 
history. A  paper-covered  series  of  the  best  re- 
cent French  stories  is  begun  by  William  R.  Jen- 
kins, with  Dosia.^  The  print  is  good  and  clear,  but 
the  external  appearance  of  the  book  is  shabby,  not 
equal  to  the  French  comedies  from  the  same  pub- 
lishing house. Numbers  5  and  6  of  the  Theatre 

Contemporain^  come  to  us,    "  Le  Pluie  et  le  Beau 

.  2  Nature,  Addresses  and  Lectures;  Essays,  Vols.  I., 
II.;  Representative  Men;  English  Traits;  The  Conduct 
of  Life;  Society  and  Solitude;  Letters  and  Social  Aims. 
By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.  1883.  For  sale  by  Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 

8  The  English  Bodley  Familyl.  By  Horace  Scudder. 
Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1883.  For  sale  by 
Billings,  Harbourne  &  Co. 

*  Dosia.  Par  Henry  Greville.  New  York:  William 
R.  Jenkins.  1883. 

5  Theatre  Contemporain.  Number  5:  Le  Pluie  et  le 
Beau  Temps,  par  Le'onGozlan;  Autour  d'un  Berceau. 
par  M.  Ernest  Legouvd.  Number  6.  La  Fee,  par 
Octave  Feuillet.  New  York:  William  R.  Jenkins.  1883, 


664 


Outcroppings. 


[Dec. 


Temps,"  and  "  Autour  d'un  Berceau,"  making  up 
number  5,  and  La  Fee  number  6. The  mono- 
graph on  Brain-Rest,1  by  Dr.  J.  Leonard  Corn- 
ing, of  the  Hudson  River  State  Hospital  for  the 
Insane,  deals  with  the  causes  and  treatment  of 
insomnia.  The  causes  he  classifies  as  either  pure- 
ly psychical  ("Idiopathic  Insomnia  "),  a  common 
result  of  the  exciting  American  method  of  life, 
or  physical — the  various  cases  of  irritation  of  the 
peripheral  nervous  system  ("Symptomatic  Insom- 
nia ").  The  two  conditions  of  cerebral  hyperasmia 
and  cerebral  anaemia  are  considered  especially. 
The  author's  recommendations  as  to  treatment 
are  largely  with  reference  to  these  conditions,  which 
he  would  treat  by  carotid  compression  or  other 
mechanical  process  ;  he  also  defends  the  cautious 
use  of  bromides  and  the  whole  class  of  internal 
hypnotics,  but  does  not  omit  to  mention  the  impor- 
tance of  regimen  in  the  way  of  warm  baths,  horseback 

exercise,  and  so  forth. We  receive  from  its  editor  a 

pamphlet2  containing  a  full  list  of  the  salaries  of  all  civil 
service  employees  (except  the  lowest  grade  of  postmast- 
ers), the  civil  service  law,  the  rules  and  regulations  for 
examination,  with  specimen  examination  questions 
in  the  custom  house,  post  office,  and  classified  de- 
partmental service.  It  is  intended  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  those  looking  to  the  civil  service  for  a  pro- 
fession, now  that  its  positions  are  comparatively  open 
to  the  unpolitical  public.  We  should  say  that  it  gave 
exhaustively  the  information  wished  by  such  persons, 
did  we  not  fail  to  find  in  it  any  indication  as  to  which 
of  all  the  enumerated  positions  the  candidate  be- 
comes eligible  to  by  success  in  examination;  for  any- 
thing we  find  to  the  contrary,  it  might  be  to  a  foreign 
embassy. Circular  of  Information  of  the  Bureau  of 

1  Brain-Rest.     By  J.  Leonard  Coming,  M.  D.     New 
York:  G.  P.  PutnamYs  Sons.     1883. 

2  Copp's  Salary  List  and  Civil  Service  Rules.     Pre- 
pared under  direction   of  Henry  N.  Copp.     Washing- 
ton, D.  C.     Henry  N.  Copp.     1883. 


Education,  No.  3,  1883,  gives  the  proceedings  of  the 
Department  of  Superintendence  of  the  National 
Educational  Association  at  its  meeting  at  Washing- 
ton, February  20-22,  1883.  The  most  valuable 
papers  read  were  those  of  Dr.  Harris  of  Concord, 
Mass.,  showing  from  the  census  returns  as  to  occu- 
pations the  practical  impossibility  of  teaching  trades 
with  the  least  advantage  in  schools;  and  that  of  Rev. 
A.  G.  Haygood,  of  Georgia,  on  the  dangers  of  uni- 
versal suffrage  unless  the  illiterate  masses  can  be 
educated.  Both  papers  were  thoroughly  sensible 
utterances;  Mr.  Haygood's  was  an  appeal  on  the 
more  vital  subject,  but  Dr.  Harris's  specially  com- 
mendable in  being  a  clear-headed  exposition  of  falla- 
cies just  now  taking  unfortunate  possession  of  the 
public  mind.  We  hope  no  reader  of  this  will  .com- 
mit himself  to  any  action  or  influence  on  the  ques- 
tion of  industrial  education  till  he  has  read  Dr. 
Harris's  convincing  figures.  In  Health- Notes  for 
Students*  Professor  Wilder  prints  the  lectures  on 
hygiene  and  regimen  that  he  delivers  to  Freshman 

Classes  at  Cornell. Village  Communities  of  Cape 

Anne  and  Salem,  by  Herbert  B.  Adams,  makes 
Nos.  IX  and  X  of  the  Johns  Hopkins  University 
Studies  in  Historical  and  Political  Science;  and  The 
Genesis  of  a  New  England  State  5  (Connecticut),  by 
Alexander  Johnston,  No.  XL  The  numbers  dealing 
with  Cape  Anne  and  Salem  are  made  up  of  six  sepa- 
rate essays  from  the  historical  collections  of  the 
Essex  Institute.  One  number  more  will  complete 
the  present  series,  and  a  new  one  will  be  begun  im- 
mediately, carried  out  in  the  same  manner  by  month- 
ly monographs. 

8  Health-Notes  for  Students.  By  Burt  G.  Wilder. 
New  York:  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  1883. 

4  Village  Communities  of  Cape  Anne  and  Salem.  By 
Herbert  B.  Adams.  Baltimore:  Johns  Hopkins  Uni- 
versity. 1883. 

6  The  Genesis  of  a  New  England  State  (Connecticut). 
By  Alexander  Johnston.  Baltimore:.  Johns  Hopkins 
University.  1883. 


OUTCROPPINGS. 


Private  Letters  of  Travel. 

The  following  descriptions  of  travel,  northward 
and  eastward,  both  written  by  California  girls,  are 
from  private  letters  that  have  been  handed  to  us, 
though  the  first  one  had  previously  found  its  way  into 
print  locally. 

****** 

SITKA,  June,  1883. 

"A  sailing  on  the  sea."  After  a  short  stop  at 
Tacoma  for  freight,  and  a  few  more  hours  at  Port 
Townsend,  we  were  off  for  Alaska,  early  in  the 
morning  of  June  8.  Up  the  straits  past  San  Juan 
island,  through  the  Narrows — a  small  passage  crook- 
ed like  an  elbow.  As  we  approached,  it  was  almost 


impossible  to  see  where  the  steamer  was  going,  for 
we  were  apparently  aiming  to  go  through  a  mountain. 
But  presently  the  way  opened  before  us,  and  after 
two  sharp  turns,  we  were  steaming  up  the  straits  of 
Georgia.  On,  straight  on,  leaving  a  glorious  view 
of  Mt.  Baker  behind  us,  a  pale  gold  in  the  soft,  blue 
sky ;  past  Nanaimo  and  Departure  bay,  through  the 
Seymour  narrows,  where  the  current  when  we  first 
felt  its  force  was  so  strong  as  to  swing  the  steamer 
around  a  little,  wind  and  tide  both  being  against  her  ; 
a  strong  wind  blowing  across  the  mountains  from  the 
sea,  and  through  the  woods,  salt  and  deliciously 
fragrant  of  fir,  spruce  and  pine;  a  light  fog  floating 
here  and  there,  sometimes  enveloping  us  in  a  fine 
mist,  or  spreading  itself  like  a  thin  veil  over  the 
water  ;  again  caught  by  the  sweet,  warm  wind  rising 


1883.] 


Outcroppings. 


665 


in  a  mass,  it  is  whirled  around  some  mountain  top,  and 
passing  over  is  lost  to  sight.  Up  to  the  end  of  Van- 
couver's island,  and  across  Queen  Charlotte's  Sound, 
on  the  morning  of  the  gth.  All  day  we  were  passing 
through  some  of  the  finest  scenery  of  the  excursion — 
Grenville  channel — the  mountains  on  both  sides, 
rugged  and  grand,  lifting  their  snowy  brows  thou- 
sands of  feet  in  the  air,  sometimes  with  misty  veils 
over  their  rough  faces,  and  again  thrusting  their  sharp 
peaks  of  gray  rock  through  the  snow  powdered 
over  them  ;  some  so  covered  with  trees  that  dis- 
tance gave  them  a  velvety  appearance ;  here  a  preci- 
pice of  gray  rock  rising  up  from  the  fathomless  water 
for  3,000  or  4,000  feet  into  the  mist  and  snow  above  ; 
there  a  waterfall,  losing  itself  in  the  deep,  green  water 
as  it  fell.  Once  we  saw  a  mountain  sheep,  like  a 
white  dot,  high  up  on  a  rocky  spot  crowning  one  of 
the  mountains,  but  a  short  toot  of  the  steamer's 
whistle  sent  it  scampering  out  of  sight. 

Na-ha  bay,  where  we  arrived  in  the  evening,  is  a 
little  gem  with  a  setting  of  high  mountains,  on  the 
west  extremely  high,  so  that  at  a  little  distance,  the 
steamer  lying  at  anchor  just  below  resembled  a 
small  boat.  After  lunch  we  went  ashore,  and  after  a 
rough  scramble  of  about  half  a  mile  through  the 
dense  woods  over  a  mossy  carpet,  we  came  to  the 
Na-ha  fall.  Not  less  than  sixty  feet  in  height,  over 
moss-grown  rocks,  it  comes  tumbling  down  like  milk 
into  the  pool  below,  and  then,  seemingly  satisfied 
with  the  feat  it  has  accomplished,  goes  rippling  along 
to  the  bay.  The  only  unpleasantnesses  were  mosqui- 
toes, small  black  flies,  and  a  plant  very  appropriately 
called  the  "devil's  walking  stick."  Shooting  up  as 
high  as  six  feet  and  over,  and  covered  with  fine  thorns 
from  the  beginning  of  its  long  straight  stem  to  the 
end  of  its  broad  flat  leaves  that  branch  out  at  the  top, 
it  is  by  no  means  pleasant  to  encounter.  When  it 
stings  it  leaves  a  small  red  mark,  and  a  mosquito  bite 
is  a  dream  of  Paradise  in  comparison. 

We  arrived  at  Wrangel  at  4  A.  M.,  the  next  day. 
A  fine  rain  was  falling,  so  the  place  looked  desolation 
itself.  A  few  of  us  went  over  to  the  other  end  of 
town  to  see  the  Totem  poles.  Fifty  or  sixty  feet 
high,  sometimes  higher,  with  all  sorts  of  figures 
carved  on  them,  they  represented  the  family  tree  or 
history  of  a  chief,  the  greatest  having  the  highest 
poles.  A  few  hours  later  we  were  winding  through 
Wrangel  Straits,  a  narrow  passage  that  saved  us  at 
least  100  miles  on  the  open  sea.  The  scenery  was 
beautiful,  and  as  the  weather  was  pleasant,  we  were 
able  to  enjoy  it  all.  Several  of  the  gentlemen 
amused  themselves  by  firing  at  the  eagles  we  saw 
from  time  to  time,  but  did  not  seem  to  do  much  more 
than  frighten  them  from  their  perches.  We  saw, 
besides,  one  deer  and  a  red  fox.  Just  after  we  left 
the  straits,  we  saw  the  first  glacier,  the  Great  Glacier 
as  it  is  called  on  the  map,  and  a  little  further  on,  a 
second.  The  evenings  had  been  getting  perceptibly 
longer,  even  before  we  reached  Wrangel ;  in  fact  the 
darkest  hour  of  the  night  before  we  arrived  there 
was  only  twilight,  and  now  the  sun  set  at  9  o'clock, 
the  children  on  board  making  great  endeavors  to  be 
allowed  to  remain  up  as  long  as  the  sun  did.  It  was 
delightful  to  be  able  to  sit  up  all  night,  were  we  so 
inclined,  and  view  the  magnificent  scenery  through 
which  we  were  passing  as  well  as  if  it  were  only  a 
cloudy  clay. 

Juneau,  where  we  found  ourselves  on  the  morning 
of  the  1 3th,  is  the  most  picturesque  place  we  have 
seen.  On  a  clearing  at  the  foot  of  a  very  high 
mountain  lies  the  little  town  ;  from  there,  stretching 
along  the  beach,  are  most  of  the  Indian  dwellings. 


We  were  reminded  of  pictures  of  Swiss  scenery;  the 
water  smooth  and  mirror-like,  enclosed  by  a  horse- 
shoe of  mountains,  with  more  distant  ones  barring 
the  entrance,  might  well  be  taken  for  a  lake.  Then 
the  village  scattered  along  its  shore,  the  high  snow- 
topped  mountains  above,  with  several  waterfalls 
coming  down  their  steep  sides,  made  a  scene  quite 
equal  to  the  pictures,  although  possibly  falling  short 
of  the  originals.  *  *  *  After  lunch,  on  continu- 
ing our  wandering  beyond  the  town,  across  a  path 
like  a  wet  sponge,  over  roots  and  sticks,  we  found 
another  Indian  village.  On  the  largest  house  was  a 
sign,  "  Klow-kek  Auke,  Chief."  We  entered  with- 
out ceremony,  and  found  the  occupants  all  at  work, 
some  weaving  baskets,  others  knitting — the  latter 
accomplishment  having  been  acquired  at  the  mission 
school  in  Fort  Wrangel.  The  house  was  neat  and 
clean,  far  superior  to  any  of  the  others,  though  built 
in  the  same  way,  of  logs  and  shakes.  In  the  center 
of  a  planked  floor  a  square,  well  graveled,  is  left  for 
the  fireplace,  an  opening  above  in  the  roof  letting  out 
the  smoke,  letting  in  (?)  the  fresh  air  and  light.  One 
house  had  a  small  sign  over  the  door,  to  the  effect 
that  "Jake  is  a  good  boy,  a  working  man,  friend  of 
the  whites,  and  demands  protection."  Hardly  equal 
to  the  one  at  Wrapgel,  who  has  already  made  his 
will  notifying  all,  by  a  sign  over  his  door,  with  the 
words,  "  Analash.  Let  all  who  read  know  that  I  am 
a  friend  to  the  whites.  This  house  is  mine,  and 
when  I  die  belongs  to  my  wife."  Many  of  the 
women  and  children  had  their  faces  blackened,  but 
when  questioned  as  to  the  reason  for  doing  so,  would 
laugh  and  refuse  to  say.  We  were  told  afterwards  by 
a  pioneer,  that  it  was  done  for  such  a  variety  of 
causes  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  enumerate 
them.  If  they  have  lost  a  friend,  are  happy  or  un- 
happy ;  if  a  wife  has  quarreled  with  her  husband,  or 
he  with  her,  etc.  We  saw  some  very  handsome  furs 
in  one  of  the  stores.  Silver  fox  for  $20  and  upwards, 
sea  and  land  otter — the  former  at  $80  or  $100,  and 
the  latter  from  $4  to  $8 — mountain  sheep,  red  fox, 
bear  and  wolverine,  beaver  and  seal,  and  robes  made 
of  squirrel  skins.  We  had  an  opportunity  of  buying 
a  handsome  bear  skin  from  an  Indian  for  $3,  but 
thinking  we  could  get  it  in  the  afternoon,  lost  it,  for 
we  saw  it  later  in  the  N.  W.  T.  Go's  store  and  found 
they  had  given  $4  for  it,  and  would  probably  sell  it 
for  double.  The  mines  at  Juneau  are  not  as  yet 
very  well  developed,  with  the  exception  of  the  placer 
mines,  which  are  paying  well,  though  the  gold  is  very 
fine  and  difficult  to  gather.  It  is  only  a  question  of 
time,  however,  when  they  will  be  exhausted,  and  the 
prosperity  of  the  town  will  depend  upon  the  richness 
of  the  quartz  mines.  There  are  two  mills  running, 
one  at  the  Takou  mines,  three  miles  back  of  the  town, 
the  other  on  Douglas  island.  The  ledge  on  Douglas 
island  is  reported  to  be  650  feet  wide,  but  it  is  not  yet 
known  how  well  it  will  pay. 

On  arriving  opposite  the  great  Davidson  glacier, 
the  captain  stopped  the  steamer  and  gave  us  time  to 
have  a  good  view  of  the  wonder.  Sloping  down  to- 
ward us  between  two  great  mountains,  there  it  lay  in 
their  shadow,  its  deep  transparent  blue  crevices  like 
amethysts  set  in  the  silvery  ice.  The  sun,  still  high 
in  the  heavens,  shone  brightly  on  the  forests  that 
cover  the  mountains  on  the  other  side  of  the  inlet, 
and  showed  a  small  glacier  in  dazzling  light,  its 
amethyst  paled  into  delicate  blue.  So  we  went  on, 
watching  the  wonderful  scenes  as  they  shifted,  until 
wearied  by  our  efforts  to  outstay  the  sun,  we  retired 
to  our  rooms  in  broad  daylight. 

We  left  KiHisnoo  at  noon,  and  soon  were  in  Peril 


666 


Outcroppings. 


[Dec. 


straits.  *  *  The  passage  over  the  first  rapids 
was  quiet,  the  rocks  beneath  only  betraying  them- 
selves in  smooth  spots,  or  the  water  slightly  ruffled 
by  the  wind  ;  but  upon  approaching  closer,  the  small 
whirlpools  and  eddies  showed  themselves.  The 
second  rapids  were  not  much  farther  down,  so  we 
scarcely  realized  that  we  had  passed  the  first,  before 
we  came  to  them.  There  the  current  circling  around 
the  rocks  deep  below  the  surface  showed  much  more 
plainly  as  the  Idaho  turned  now  this  way,  now  the 
other,  first  heading  toward  a  point  of  land,  then  turn- 
ing across  to  an  island  on  the  other  side,  zig-zagging 
her  way  through  a  narrow  channel  in  a  way  that 
seemed  incredible  to  us — and  we  were  safe  over  the 
rapids.  The  landscapes  became  still  more  beautiful 
as  went  on,  passing  through  places  where  the  moun- 
tains seemed  divided  only  by  the  channel  through 
which  we  were  going,  and  ready  to  meet  again  as  we 
passed  out  of  sight  ;  by  innumerable  islands,  some- 
times with  a  glimpse  of  the  sea,  and  a  tantalizing 
view  of  Mt.  Edgecumb  hiding  its  face  in  the  clouds  ; 
then  Old  Sitka,  where  the  massacre  of  the  Russians 
by  the  Indians  took  place  in  1802.  On,  on,  islands 
and  sea  on  one  side,  mountains  and  snow  on  the  other, 
until  Sitka  came  in  sight ;  then  as  we  neared  the  gap 
between  the  mountains  the  gun  was  fired,  repeated 
immediately  by  the  echo  once,  twice — then  a  long 
silence,  followed  by  a  whispering  sound  that  soon  be- 
came a  roar  like  a  heavy  wind  through  the  trees,  and 
dying  away  in  the  distance. 

In  the  morning,  with  an  Indian  policeman  for  a 
guide,  we  went  through  the  Indian  village,  and  call- 
ed on  Mrs.  Tom,  the  richest  proprietor  in  the  place. 
We  found  her  seated  on  the  floor,  washing  her  hair, 
but  not  at  all  embarrassed  by  her  visitors,  she  threw  it 
back  from  her  face,  and,  after  arranging  the  bracelets 
on  her  arms  to  better  advantage,  was  ready  to  en- 
ter into  conversation.  Her  house,  which  is  a  new 
one,  cost  her  about  $3,000  to  build.  She  was  very 
stout,  with  a  good-natured  face ;  had  one  or  two 
rings  on  each  finger,  seven  bracelets  on  one  arm  and 
nine  on  the  other.  She  put  on  more  before  we  left, 
making  in  all  about  twenty-five,  and  then  she  had  at 
least  a  dozen  left.  The  wealth  of  these  Indians  is 
mostly  in  blankets.  They  buy  cedar  chests  to  store 
them  in;  as  they  fill  one,  buying  another.  Mrs.  Tom 
had  six  or  seven.  It  is  not  an  uncommon  thing,  even 
in  civilized  life,  for  a  woman's  wealth  to  procure  her  a 
husband,  but  Mrs.  Tom  bought  hers  and  paid  cash 
for  him.  She  was  rich,  and  taking  a  fancy  to  a  slave, 
bought  him.  As  he  is  rather  better  looking  than  the 
majority  of  Indian  men,  perhaps  it  is  hardly  to  be 
wonderered  at.  * 

The  church  is  in  the  form  of  a  Greek  cross ;  has  a 
pale  green  dome  over  the  center,  and  a  bell-tower 
supported  by  another  and  smaller  dome.  One  wing 
contains  an  exquisite  painting  of  the  Virgin  and  child, 
copied  from  the  original  picture  at  Moscow.  All  the 
drapery  is  of  solid  silver  and  the  halo  of  gold,  so  of 
the  painting  nothing  is  seen  but  the  faces  and  back- 
ground. The  back  wing  is  the  altar,  raised  by  three 
broad  steps  and  four  doors,  the  two  in  the  centre 
carved  and  heavily  gilded,  with  silver  bas-reliefs. 
Above,  are  large  pictures,  covered  with  silver,  like 
that  of  the  Madonna.  Father  Metropolsky  kindly 
brought  out  many  things  of  interest ;  among  them 
magnificent  robes  of  gold  and  silver  brocade,  and  the 
bishop's  crown,  almost  covered  with  pearls  and 
amethysts.  The  ornaments,  immense  candlesticks 
and  candelabra,  were  of  silver,  so  that  the  effect  of  the 
interior  of  the  church  is  extremely  rich.  We  were 


told  that  on  one  picture  alone  there  are  eleven  pounds 

of  silver. 

*  *  *  *  * 

* 
IVY  WANDESFORDE  KERSEY. 


MUENCHEN,  Aug.  4th,  1883. 
DEAR  FRIENDS: 

'  At  this  moment  I  look  from  a  third  story  window 
upon  tiled-roof  houses,  with  queer  little  windows 
and  sheets  of  water  coming  down  between.  We 
have  had  four  pleasant  days  in  three  weeks,  and  if 
you  could  hear  certain  parties,  who  "have  seen  bet- 
ter days,"  using  emphatic  English,  or  good  stout 
North  American  adjectives,  you  would  recognize 
said  parties  at  once  as  the  blooming  trio  that  depart- 
ed San  Francisco  the  3Oth  of  May.  But  as  no  de- 
scription of  what  I  see  at  present  can  be  of  interest, 
I  will  go  back  to  what  has  passed  since  I  sat  with 
you  in  the  very  room  where  you  are  now,  likely, 
reading  this  letter.  The  overland  trip  was  very 
pleasant,  perfectly  new  to  me;  and  besides  seriously 
displacing  some  of  the  bones  of  my  cranium  by  the 
complicated  performance  of  dressing  and  undressing 
in  those  sleeping  cars,  nothing  of  importance  occur- 
red. Mr.  L.  was  on  board,  and  a  Dr.  F.  of  Oakland, 
beside  a  young  man  whose  vocation  in  life  we  could 
not  make  out,  as  he  wavered  between  an  exceedingly 
sharp  game  of  cards  and  the  whole  of  Moody  and 
Sankey  hymns.  Flirting  was  also  an  accomplishment 
of  his,  but  after  a  most  awful  sketch  of  him  by  E.  he 
subsided,  and  devoted  himself  to  a  young  married 
woman  with  blonde  hair. 

We  did  the  usual  amount  of  changing  and  getting 
our  tickets  punched,  and  asked  questions  of  the  con- 
ductors (no  one  of  whom  stayed  on  board  long 
enough  to  answer  any  very  difficult  questions),  and 
generally  amused  ourselves  until  we  reached  Mt. 
Pleasant,  where  my  cousin  was  waiting  to  receive  us. 
Here  was  a  new  feature ;  with  only  five  cousins  to 
bless  my  lot  in  California,  here  are— just  even  forty, 
including  Hancock  and  Garfield,  the  twins.  We 
left  there  the  iQth  and  reached  New  York  city  the 
2ist.  We  ate  a  little  breakfast  and  found  our  friends, 
who  escorted  us  around  the  city  for  the  remainder  of 
the  day.  The  energy  with  which  the  sun  shone  was 
marvelous  ;  it  was  boiling  all  day,  and  a  gentle 
simmer  all  night.  But  we  saw  a  good  deal ;  and  let 
me  tell  you,  the  most  esthetic  fashion  is  stained  glass. 
We  saw  the  Vanderbilt  mansions,  the  rows  of  flat- 
fronted  brick  houses  ;  the  delight  of  New  Yorkers, 
the  elevated  railroad,  which  is  simply  horrid,  and 
shows  off  the  worst  part  of  the  city  to  great  advan- 
tage. We  visited  Central  Park  and  saw  the  Obelisk. 
Poor  old  thing  !  it  looks  as  if  it  were  a  long  way  from 
home,  and  as  I  told  it  that  I  was  going  to  cross  the 
ocean  and  be  a  good  deal  nearer  Cleopatra's  home, 
it  winked  its  clear  old  eye  at  me  and  sent  its  regards. 
The  night  of  the  22d,  accompanied  by  our  friends, 
we  crossed  to  Jersey  City,  where  lay  the  Waesland 
which  was  to  bear  us  across  the  ocean.  We  occupied 
our  stateroom  that  night,  and  at  seven  next  morning 
there  were  many  good-byes,  and  tears,  and  handker- 
chiefs, and  much  shaking  of  hands,  but  the  little 
red-headed  steamship  agent  was  the  only  one  we 
knew  at  all ;  presently,  there  a  was  a  little  jar,  a 
splash  ;  the  gang-plank  was  brought  in ;  a  big  splash; 
more  tears,  more  handkerchiefs;  and  we  were  off ! 
truly  off  for  Europe,  which,  until  this  moment,  has 
not  seemed  a  reality.  But  now  we  are  baptised  in 
the  sea-foam  and  consecrated  to  our  work. 


1883.] 


Outeroppings. 


667 


Our  sea  was  very  smooth  until  the  seventh  day  out, 
and  then  it  rolled  and  rocked  in  a  most  boisterous 
way.  Just  as  this  rough  weather  commenced,  we 
thought  it  would  be  fine  to  dance  ;  so  the  Virginia 
reel  was  considered  appropriate,  and  a  Catholic  priest 
volunteering  to  play  the  piano  for  us,  we  made  our- 
selves very  happy.  The  next  night  we  went  on  deck 
to  dance  ;  two  violinists  were  found  in  the  steerage  ; 
the  red  lanterns  were  swung  up,  and  away  we  went. 
It's  all  very  nice  dancing  at  a  ball  with  a  gentleman 
on  a  solid  floor,  but  when  you  try  it  on  the  slippery 
rolling  deck  of  a  steamer,  your  past  life  rises  before 
you  at  every  turn  !  I  send  a  sketch.  Of  course  my 
style  of  drawing  is  different  from  my  sister's,  but 
could  you  have  seen  us,  you  would  give  me  credit  for 
being  true  to  the  life.  But  the  musicians  !  could  you 
have  heard  them  !  The  second  violinist  played  from 
inspiration  alone ;  he  was  at  no  time  less  than  a 
measure  behind  his  comrade  ;  he  introduced  67th 
notes  and  seventh/^  and  ties  and  double  bow-knots 
with  a  prodigality  never  before  equalled.  We  might 
have  given  him  the  start  of  a  bar  or  two,  but  did  not 
think  of  it  until  too  late.  After  the  first  dance,  four 
of  us  poor  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  of  Wagnerian  art 
consulted  together  as  to  whether  it  were  best  to  jump 
overboard  at  once,  or  take  the  next  sailing  vessel  at 
Antwerp  for  Patagonia.  (By  the  advice  of  friends 
and  the  aid  of  the  ship's  surgeon,  we  all  came  on  to 
Munich.) 

The  only  real  event  took  place  the  night  of  this 
"ball  "  on  deck,  which  was  the  arrival  of  an  anony- 
mous young  lady  in  the  steerage,  and  her  christening 
on  the  9th  of  July.  It  made  a  lovely  picture  down  in 
the  hold  there,  with  no  light  but  that  of  the  seven 
candles  on  the  temporary  altar.  Back  of  this  hung  a 
banner  of  white  satin  trimmed  with  gold  lace,  and  on 
the  altar  the  silver  vessels  for  baptising.  The  god- 
mother and  god-father  were  Bohemians — rather 
young — with  strong  vigorous  faces  and  very  smoothly 
brushed  hair.  The  woman  wore  a  dark  green  sacque 
and  a  red  shawl  over  her  head  ;  the  man  wore  a  very 
short  coat  and  held  a  broad-brimmed,  light-colored 
hat  in  his  hand.  The  baby,  of  course,  was  in  white 
(nicely  fitted  out  as  to  wardrobe  by  the  ladies  of  the 
first  cabin),  and  the  tall  priest  in  his  black  robes  and 
white  satin  vestments;  think  of  this,  and  then  take 
for  the  picture  the  moment  when  these  two  hold  the 
lighted  candles  in  their  hands,  while  the  priest  raises 
his  in  benediction  ;  the  strong  light  on  their  rough- 
hewn  faces,  the  white  bundle  of  humanity  and  the 
priest's  refined  features;  while  out  from  the  back- 
ground appear,  though  in  shadow,  the  respectful  looks 
and  comely  features  of  the  cabin  passengers.  It  was 
artistic  in  the  extreme.  The  baby  was  named  Marie 
— because  it  was  born  on  Mary's  Day ;  also  Nikol- 
etta — in  honor  of  Captain  Nichols  ;  also  Waeslandina 
— in  honor  of  the  ship  Waesland  ;  also  Hudak,  per- 
haps at  the  request  of  the  father,  as  that  was  the 
name  he  was  "sailing  under." 

Well,  when  we  got  out  of  this  place  —  was  it  ? 
— really?  lend  me  your  glass  —  yes  —  L  AND!! 
we  all  exclaimed,  and  rushed  to  starboard  to  see — the 
Isle  of  Wight  ?  Nein  !  It  was  Pt.  Lizard,  and  then 
Eddystone,  and  the  Isle  of  Wight  next  morning. 
But — as  it  often  happens — we  were  not  so  glad  as  we 
thought  we  were  going  to  be  ;  new  friends  had  been 
made,  and  twelve  days  of  constant  association  had 
made  a  little  world  which  must  perforce  be  dissolved, 
when  port  was  reached.  We  take  a  peep  at  Bright- 
on, and  watch  the  shades  of  night  settle  down  on 
Dover.  The  channel  was  smooth  as  glass.  (Note — 
There  are  different  kinds  of  glass.)  The  sun  rose 


beautifully  at  Flushing  when  another  pilot  came  on 
board,  and  we  had  to  lie  at  the  mouth  of  the  Scheldt 
river  two  or  three  hours  waiting  for  the  tide,  which 
at  last  carried  us  up  the  river,  past  dykes  and  the  lovely 
old  windmills.  I  can  draw  a  windmill  in  a  breezy 
sort  of  a  way,  but — I  refrain. 

More  good-byes  are  being  said  and  addresses  given 
during  these  hours  than  you  can  imagine.  But  the 
spire  of  the  cathedral  comes  in  view,  and  the  trunks 
come  out  of  the  hold,  and  our  good-byes  are  told 
over  again  :  the  plank  is  put  out  and  off  we — "don't 
go " — as  somebody  has  lost  some  diamonds  in  the 
second  cabin,  and  the  police  come  on  board.  Our 
trunks,  meanwhile,  are  being  chalked  by  the  lenient 
custom-house  officers  ;  our  friend  rushes  up  in  a  tragic 
way.  "  The  carriage  waits,"  and  amid  the  ye-ho-ing 
of  sailors  and  calls  of  droschke  drivers,  w.e  plant  our 
feet  once  more  on  terra  firma,  thankful  for  our 
pleasant  journey  and  safe  voyage,  and  delighted  with 
our  surroundings.  Now  that  the  party  is  dispersed, 
I  can  tell  who  have  been  the  traveling  companions. 
Mr.  C.  and  Mr.  W.,  of  Boston,  both  musicians , 
three  artists;  a  Professor  of  Greek,  wife  and  child; 
going  to  Athens  ;  a  young  lady  and  her  aunt,  the 
former  on  her  way  to  Paris  to  study  painting  for  six 
weeks  (fact) ;  numerous  travelers  for  pleasure  ;  a  fine 
young  Hollander  ;  a  man  just  returning  to  his  home 
in  Antwerp  from  a  trip  round  the  world  (awfully 
handsome,  too)  ;  a  converted  (Catholic)  Jew,  who 
was — well,  a  little  non  compos  mentis  ;  a  Bohemian 
priest  ;  an  Episcopal  clergyman,  and  our  very  dear 
Father  Wotruba — the  pet  of  the  whole  ship.  He 
was  Professor  of  Sciences  in  a  college  in  Portugal;  he 
played  well ;  accompanied  us  in  Rubenstein's  duos 
and  other  songs  ;  told  stories,  and  from  the  captain 
down  to  the  children  he  was  the  favorite. 

Antwerp  is  a  lovely  city,  very  old,  and  quaint-look- 
ing in  the  extreme.  The  houses  are  very  tall,  with 
queer  tiled  roofs,  many  having  the  front  and  back 
corners  flattened  down,  and  others  on  top  of  the 
facade  have  queer  little  steps.  The  streets  are  quite 
crooked  and  narrow,  and  there  are  about  7,000,000 
windows  in  a  building,  and  each  one  small.  Here 
are  Rubens's  masterpieces  and  residence.  But  I  can- 
not tell  you  everything,  or  rather,  will  not,  for  per- 
haps I  have  not  the  gift  of  making  you  see  as  I  saw 
it.  Of  course,  the  East  was  rather  strange  and  odd 
to  one  who  has  no  recollection  of  any  place  but 
California ;  and  then  to  come  here  and  see  a  new 
people,  new  cast  of  features,  strange  dresses,  strange 
language,  customs  and  manners — it  compelled  me  to 
open  my  mouth  and  eyes,  and  I  nearly  dislocated  the 
celluloid  muscle  at  the  back  of  my  neck  bobbing  my 
head ;  and  I  fear  my  eyes  will  always  be  a  little  queer 
from  trying  to  keep  one  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
and  the  other  on  the  passers-by  !  But  here,  with  all 
its  pathos  and  power,  comes  "Oh!  the  clang  of  the 
wooden  shoon";  it  never  affected  me  much  before. 
The  women  here  do  all  sorts  of  work  ;  are  harnessed 
to  carts,  clean  the  streets,  keep  the  street  car  tracks 
clean,  peddle  milk,  berries,  vegetables,  haul  immense 
loads  of  boxes  and  barrels,  work  in  fields,  milk  the 
cows,  make  and  carry  mortar,  carry  bricks,  keep 
fruit,  furniture,  clothing  and  second-hand  stores, 
butcher  shops,  sausage  shops,  and  heaven  knows 
what  else.  The  dresses  are  odd,  consisting  of  a  full 
short  skirt,  a  basque,  with  a  little  shawl  over  the 
shoulders,  or  a  short,  loose  sacque  of  black  silk  ; 
wooden  shoes  and  colored  stockings,  and  on  their 
heads  nothing,  or  else  a  very  large  black  silk  hand- 
kerchief tied  tightly  about  the  forehead  and  the  four 
corners  waving  in  the  breeze.  The  older  ladies  wear 


668 


Outcroppings. 


[Dec. 


white  lace  caps  which  look  something  like  an  inter- 
rogation point.  They  carry  baskets  to  market,  but 
paper  is  scarce  in  all  Europe,  I  believe;  there  they 
put  a  new  piece  of  flannel,  some  cherries  and  a  few 
rolls,  all  in  higgle-dy,  piggle-dy;  and  in  Munich  they 
hand  you  a  dustpan  or  shovel,  without  a  scrap  of 
paper,  and  by  request  only  is  anything  wrapped,  and 
then  in  a  newspaper.  Only  in  fine  dry  goods  stores 
do  they  have  decent  paper  ;  even  the  music  I  bought 
is  put  up  in  what  we  call  butcher-shop  paper. 

Of  course,  we  went  to  the  Cathedral.  The  spire  is 
famous  for  its  beauty  and  lightness  or  delicacy ;  is 
466  feet  high.  Here  are  chimes  of  sixty  bells  set  in 
position  four  hundred  years  ago,  this  year.  One  is 
so  large  that  it  takes  sixteen  men  to  ring  it;  it  is 
called  Carolus,  after  Charles  V.,  and  weighs  16,000 
pounds.  "Quite  a  belle?  "  nicht  wakr!"  Did  we 
hear  them  ?  Yes  !  and  what  do  you  suppose  those 
sedate  old  bells  rang  out  above  our  heads  at  6  P.  M.  ? 
A  passage  from  Mandolinata  !  If  I  expected  to  hear 
gems  of  Palestrina,  I  was  mistaken.  In  this  Cathe- 
dral hang  Rubens's  chef  d' auvres,  "  The  Assumption 
of  the  Virgin,"  "The  Elevation  of  the  Cross,"  and 
"The  Descent  from  the  Cross  ";  but,  be  it  known  to 
the  world,  under  green  curtains  which  only  roll  up  to 
the  tune  of  a  franc  a  head  for  travelers.  Our  party 
numbered  eighteen;  eighteen  francs  !  !  It  was  a 
swindle  !  It  was  ridiculous,  and  to  the  sachem  that 
had  charge  of  this  big  wigwam,  we,  as  American 
citizens  and  citizenesses  rebelled  and  objected;  but  the 
thin-visaged  gent,  with  his  numberless  silver  chains 
about  his  neck,  terminating  on  his  breast  in  an  orna- 
mental tin  pie-plate  or  something,  shook  his  gray 
locks,  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart,  (where  I  hope  for 
the  peace  of  medical  societies  it  was  properly  situated) 
and  stood  stiff  at  eighteen  francs  !  There  was  a 
stampede,  and  after  the  smoke  had  cleared  away  from 
a  perfect  conflagration  of  square  English  with  little 
sparks  of  California  expressive  adjectives — we — nine 
of  us — found  ourselves  alone  with  the  pie-pan  man, 
counting  into  his  lean  paw  the  sum  of  nine  francs.  I 
spoke  of  that  man's  heart,  but  in  thinking  of  it  I'm 
sure  it  was  fossilized,  for  we  did  not  have  a  half-hour 
of  sunlight  left  for  our  nine  francs.  Now,  some  days 
I  can  rave  over  those  pictures,  but  it  is  always  when 
I  tell  about  the  pictures  before  I  tell  about  the  man, 
and  to-day  I'm  fairly  caught.  Yet,  after  all,  who  can 
describe  a  picture,  a  piece  of  music,  or  the  perfume  of 
a  flower  ;  the  three  things  that  I  trust  will  abound  in 
heaven.  When  we  first  entered  the  church,  we  found 
a  number  of  old  people,  of  peasants,  and  several 
priests,  and  rightly  inferring  that  vespers  were  about 
to  take  place,  we  took  low  high-backed  chairs  and 
waited.  Soon  the  organ  began  very,  very  softly,  as 
if  not  to  frighten  the  life-like  images — a  wonder  in 
carving — nor  to  push  its  way  too  roughly  through  the 
broad  bands  of  red  and  purple  light  that  flooded  the 
place ;  gently  it  wound  about  the  pillars  and  kissed 
the  foot  of  an  angel  above  the  altar,  touched  softly 


the  names  of  the  dead,  whose  tablets  cover  the  floor 
of  the  nave  and  corridors,  and  then  growing  stronger, 
rose  higher  and  higher,  until  it  thundered  against  the 
vaulted  roof  and  was  finally  driven  back  to  quiet  by  the 
entrance  of  the  priest  with  the  Host.  His  robe  was 
magnificent  ;  soon  he  began  to  chant,  answered  by 
the  choir  of  men ;  and  after  he  had  finished  and 
while  the  sweet  odors  of  incense  mingled  with  the  rose 
and  violet  lights,  a  fine  baritone  rang  out  clear  and 
strong  in  a  wonderful  way.  My  dear,  dear  friends,  I 
was  all  of  a  tremble  ;  I  felt  like  pinching  to  see  if  it 
were  really  I ;  and  I  do  believe  I  would  have  broken 
down  completely,  if  an  old  woman  had  not  come  up 
here  and  demanded  ten  centimes  apiece  for  the  use  of 
the  chairs  we  were  in  !  Well,  it  got  so  we  were 
afraid  to  stand  up,  much  less  sit  down.  Here  are 
wonderful  carvings  in  wood,  statuettes  and  bas-reliefs. 
But  the  day  closed;  table  d'hote  at  6:30 — we  ate 
two  mortal  hours — and  I'd  just  as  lief  live  on  paper 
cuffs  and  dried  apples,  as  to  be  compelled  to  have 
table  d'hote  every  day  at  6  o'clock.  The  next  day- 
no,  I'll  finish  that  night.  We  were  all  tired  and  dis- 
gusted, and  one  of  our  jolliest  number  had  a  boil  on 
his  neck,  and  our  feet  hurt  so  we  couldn't  keep  still. 
Father  Wotruba  wanted  to  cheer  us,  so  carried  us  all 
into  the  parlor  at  Hotel  de  la  Paix — lighted  the 
candles  on  the  piano,  and  insisted  on  music !  But  the 
pedal  squeaked,  and  squeaked  louder  and  more  dis- 
mally as  we  tried  to  play  louder  to  drown  it.  At 
last  Mr.  C.  said  : 

"We  have  been  imposed  upon"  (he  was  one  of  the 
party  who  left  the  Cathedral),  "and  bulldozed,  and 
treated  outrageously  ever  since  we  landed,  but  this 
caps  the  climax.  Shall  we  yield  or  shall  we  take  ven- 
geance ?" 

We  eagerly  cried  for  vengeance.  So  he  sat  down, 
and  improvised  a  piece,  so  that  the  squeak  would  come 
in  at  the  rests,  and  it  was  the  funniest  thing  I  ever 
heard.  At  3  o'clock  we  were  seated  in  the  car  "nacA 
Miinchen\"  We  only  had  three  baskets,  three  hand- 
satchels,  two  shawl-straps,  four  wraps,  two  bags  of 
fruit,  and  one  bottle  of  wine.  If  I  travel  again,  I 
shall  either  take  more  or  less,  for  just  that  amount  is 
disagreeable.  The  country  between  here  and  Ant- 
werp is  one  magnificent  garden — no  fences,  few 
hedges,  but  covered  throughout  every  foot  with  fruit, 
flowers,  vegetables,  or  grain ;  it  was  like  riding 
through  570  miles  of  park — such  lovely  stone  bridges, 
where  Uncle  Sam  would  simply  use  his  Liberty  Pole 
and  jump  over.  Such  magnificent  roads  like  a  gray 
ribbon  run  through  the  carpet  of  green.  Where  a  road 
crosses  the  railroad  track,  a  long  blue  and  white  pole 
is  placed  as  a  barrier,  and  a  man  on  duty  in  the  bluest 
of  uniforms  to  attend  it.  I  believe  it  is  raised  by 
some  pulleys,  but  he  looks  brave  as  can  be,  while  his 
wife  probably  looks  from  some  neighboring  field  as 
she  plows  or  digs  potatoes,  and  sighs  with  pleasure 
as  she  thinks  how  handsome  and  brave  he  looks. 
Auf  wiedersehen, 

M.  W. 


THE 


FOX*     XttOi 


ANNOUNCEMENTS. 

The  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  for  January,  1884,  will  begin  the  third 
volume  and  second  year  of  the  magazine  since  its  revival. 

Probably  at  no  time  during  the  history  of  the  magazine  (dating  back  to 
its  inception  in  July,  1868)  have  such  decided  and  substantial  gains  been 
made  during  the  publication  of  any  volume  as  have  been  made  during  the 
publication  of  the  volume  which  closes  with  the  present  number.  The  pres- 
ent owners  and  publishers  are  much  encouraged  to  believe  that  the  mag- 
azine has  found  a  permanent  place  in  the  homes  and  in  the  affections  of 
the  people  of  the  Pacific  Coast,  who  take  pride  in  the  literature  of  the 
Coast.  The  aim  has  been  to  develope  that  which  is  best,  most  pure  and 
elevating  in  tone  and  character. 

During  the  year  1884,  every  effort  will  be  made,  not  merely  to  main- 
tain the  character  of  the  OVERLAND,  but  constantly  raise  it.  The  usual 
editorial  departments  will  be  maintained,  and  notable  improvements  will 
besought  in  every  direction.  Special  announcements  follow  in  the  next 
pages. 

PUBLISHER'S  TERMS,  &c. 

The  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  for  1884,  in  addition  to  its  usual  variety  of 
valuable  studies  upon  important  topics,  will  contain  various  discussions 
of  the 


CHINESE  QUESTION 

from  temperate  and  thoughtful  points  of  view.  It  aims  by  means  of  a 
series  of  records  of  actual  experience  in  various  occupations  and  places, 
by  studies  of  Chinese  character,  and  by  inviting  the  better  class  of  dis- 
cussion, to  bring  a  clearer  light  to  bear  upon  this  question  than  has  ever 
been  done. 

PACIFIC  HISTORICAL  STUDIES 

will  continue  to  constitute  a  leading  feature  of  the  OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 

THE    PIONEER    SKETCHES 

from  time  to  time  published  during  1883,  will  continue  to  appear  at  in- 
tervals during  1884.  An  important  series  of  historical  papers,  dealing  with 
the  building  up  of  the  Pacific  civilization,  will  be  begun  during  this  year- 
Into  this  series  will  enter  the  papers  upon  the  FOUNDATION  AND  EARLY 
HISTORY  OF  THE  CHURCHES  OF  THIS  STATE,  by  pioneer  clergymen,  an- 
nounced for  1883,  and  postponed  in  order  to  make  part  of  a  completer 
series ;  also  sketches  of  the  foundation  of  Schools,  Colleges,  Art,  Liter- 
ature, Journalism  and  Drama.  SHERMAN  DAY,  DR.  J.  A.  BENTON,  PROF. 
STRATTON,  SUPERINTENDENT  A.  J.  MOULDER,  and  other  well-known  early 
Californians,  will  contribute  to  these  historical  studies. 

The  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  for  1884  will  continue  to  make  a  specialty 
of  sketches  of  Pacific  Travel  and  studies  of  Nature  on  this  Coast,  scien- 
tific and  general;  Alaska  and  the  Northwest,  China  and  Japan  will  be 
subjects  of  description  and  study. 

Character  Sketches  and  Studies  of  Life  and  Manners  on  the  Pacific 
will  continue  to  appear. 

The  STORIES,  SERIALS,  AND  POEMS  of  the  OVERLAND  will  continue  to 
be  chiefly  Pacific  and  characteristic,  or  by  writers  of  this  Coast.  In  ad- 
dition to  the  usual  attractive  variety  of  these,  we  mention  specially  the 
conclusion  of  ANNETTA  in  the  OVERLAND  for  January,  1884. 

The  anonymous  serial,  A  SHEPHERD  AT  COURT,  will  run  through  part 
of  the  year.  The  especially  high  character  which  the  OVERLAND  has  es- 
tablished in  REVIEWS,  ESSAYS  AND  LITERARY  CRITICISM  will  be  maintained. 
In  SCIENCE,  especially  that  which  deals  with  the  special  scientific  ques- 
tions of  this  Coast,  the  names  of  Doctors  John  Le  Conte  and  Joseph  Le 
Conte,  Professor  Hilgard  and  R.  E.  C.  Stearns  stand  foremost  among  the 
contributors  who  will  be  on  its  staff  during  1884. 

2 


The  investigations  which  have  been  made  during  the  year  into  the 
possibility  of  obtaining  Illustrations  of  high  grade,  under  the  disadvan- 
tages of  limited  facilities  on  this  Coast,  and  distance  from  the 'centers  of 
engraving  art,  have  led  to  the  hope  that  the  OVERLAND  will  be  able  dur- 
ing the  year  to  place  satisfactory  Illustrations  before  its  readers. 


WRITERS  OF  THE   "OVERLAND   MONTHLY." 


PUBLIC  AND  INDUSTRIAL  TOPICS. 


Hon.  Horace  Davis, 

Prof.  John  Norton  Pomeroy, 

Irving  M.  Scott, 

C.  T.  Hopkins, 

Hon.  Newton  Booth, 

Hon.  John  F.  Miller, 


Alexander  Del  Mar, 

William  M.  Bunker, 

Dr.  J.  P.  Widney, 

Pres.  Wm.  T.  Reid,  State  University, 

Hon.  Andrew  McF.  Davis, 

Sherman  Day, 


Hon.  Theodore  Hittell,  and  others. 


ESSAYS,  SCIENCE,  PHILOSOPHY,  ETC. 


Prof.  John  Le  Conte,  State  University, 

"    Joseph  "      "         "  " 

"    Martin  Kellogg     "  " 

u    Eugene  Hilgard    "  " 

"    Bernard  Moses,    "  « 

"    Josiah  Royce,  Harvard  University, 

«    E.  R.  Sill, 

R.  E.  C.  Stearns,  Smithsonian  Institute, 
Pres.  D.  C.  Oilman,  Johns  Hopkins  University, 
Prof.  Herbert  B.  Adams.  "          "  " 

"    R.  T.  Ely,  «          «  « 

L.  W.  Wilhelm,  «          «  « 

John  Johnson,  Jr..  "          "  " 

Chas.  H.  Shinn,  «          "  « 

Prof.  Edwin  D.  Sanborn,  Dartmouth  College, 
Prof.  L.  W.  Spring,  Kansas  State  University, 
Wm.  H.  Rideing,  Editor  Youth's  Companion, 


Dr.  Horatio  Stebbins, 
John  Muir, 
Edward  Everett  Hale, 
William  Elliot  Griffis, 
G.  S.  Godkin, 
T.  H.  Rearden, 
John  H.  Boalt, 
Wm.  C.  Bartlett, 
Alfred  A.  Wheeler, 
Frances  Fuller  Victor, 
William  Sloane  Kennedy, 
Milicent  Washburn  Shinn, 

J.  G.  Lemmon, 

C.  T.  H.  Palmer, 

Jas.  O'Meara, 

Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke, 

Esmeralda  Boyle, 


Dr.  J.  D.  B.  Stillman, 

Dr.  Charles  D.  Barrows, 

Prof.  George  Davidson,  U.  S.  Coast  Survey, 

Capt.  C.  L.  Hooper,  U.  S.  N., 

Prof.  C.  C.  Parry, 


Gen.  A.  V.  Kautz,  U.  S.  A. 
Susan  Powers, 
S.  P.  McD.  Miller, 
Enrique  Farmer, 

Prof.  G.  Frederick  Wright,  Oberlin, 
and  others. 


SKETCHES  AND  STORIES. 


Charles  Warren  Stoddard, 

Noah  Brooks, 

J.  W.  Gaily, 

Sam  Davis, 

W.  C.  Morrow, 

Joaquin  Miller, 

D.  S.  Richardson, 

Josephine  Clifford, 

Y.  H.  Addis, 

Maria  L.  Pool, 


Mary  W.  Glascock, 
Leonard  Kip, 
EveJyn  M.  Ludlum, 
Margaret  Collier  Graham, 
K.  M.  Bishop, 
Kate  Heath, 
Mary  H.  Field, 
Edward  Kirkpatrick, 
Henry  Liddell, 
Col.  William  Winthrop,  and  others. 


POETRY. 


H.  H. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps, 
Ina  D.  Coolbrith, 
E.  R.  Sill, 

James  Berry  Bensel, 
Seddie  E.  Anderson, 
John  Vance  Cheney, 
Carlotta  Perry, 
Elaine  Goodale, 
Dora  Read  Goodale 


Edgar  Fawcett, 
Joaquin  Miller, 
Milicent  Washburn  Shinn, 
Charles  S.  Greene, 
Henrietta  R.  Eliot, 
Edmund  Warren  Russell, 
Katharine  Royce, 
Joel  Benton, 
Wilbur  Larremore, 
Caroline  F.  Mason, 


Robertson  Trowbridge,  and  others. 


The  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  for  January,  1884,  will  contain  a  paper  by 
PPOF.  E.  W.  HILGARD  upon  THE  WINE  INTEREST  IN  CALIFORNIA;  the 
conclusion  of  THE  PHYSICAL  STUDIES  OF  LAKE  TAHOE,  by  Dr.  John  Le 
Conte  ;  a  discussion  of  the  Caucus  System  of  Government,  and  of  desir- 
able amendments  tc  our  Constitution,  to  reform  this  system ;  one  or  two 
PIONEER  SKETCHES,  and  a  NEW  YEAR  STORY  ;  besides  the  usual  variety 

of  contents. 

4 


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