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SCRIBNER S 



MAGAZINE 



PUBLISHED MONTHLY 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



VOLUME VIII JULY - DECEMBER 



W/c I 




CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS NEW YORK 
F.WARNE-uCS LONDON- 



COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS. 




TROWS 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, 
NEW YORK. 



CONTENTS 



OF 



SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 

VOLUME VIII. JULY-DECEMBER, 1890. 



AFRICA. See Ivory, The Tale of a Tusk of; Slave Ship, 
the Last ; and AFRICA, in Vol. VII. 

AFRICAN RIVER AND LAKE SYSTEMS, . . . THOMAS STEVENS, . . . .335 
With a map. . 

ALLEN S, MR, ANXIETY, -. . 130 

AMERICAN NOMAD, THE, 396 

AMY ROBS ART, KENIL WORTH, AND WARWICK, WILLIAM H. RIDEING, . . 709 

Illustrations by W. L. Taylor. 

"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD," .... GEORGE A. HIBBARD, . . .721 

BASKET OF ANITA, THE, GRACE ELLERT CHANNING, . . 199 

Illustrated by Henry H. Sherk. 

BIRD CRADLES W. HAMILTON GIBSON, ... 41 

With illustrations from drawings by the author. 

CABLE EXPEDITION, WITH A, HERBERT LAWS WEBB, . . .399 

Illustrations by Burns, Fitler, W. L. Metcalf, and Dear 
born Gardiner. See ELECTRICITY, Vols. V , VI , and 
VII. 

CANON OF THE COLORADO, THROUGH THE 

GRAND, ROBERT BREWSTER STANTON, . 591 

Illustrations from photographs by the author, and by F. 

A. Nims, and from drawings by V. Perard, M. J. 

Burns, and W. C. Fitler. 

" CHRISTIE S," ......... HUMPHRY WARD, . 758 

Illustrated by Harry Furniss. 

CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST, THE JOHN W. ROOT, . . . .416 

Illustrated by H. Hawley and W. C. Fitler, and from 
photographs. See Homes in City Suburbs and Coun 
try. 

CLERK OF THE WEATHER, THE, . . . . T. R. SULLIVAN, . . . . 343 
COLORADO RIVER. See Canon of, Through the Grand. 

COUNTRY HOUSE, THE, DONALD G. MITCHELL, . . .313 

Illustrations by Woodward, Bacher, Perard, Hawley, 
and Fitler, and from photographs. See Homes in City 
Suburbs and Country. 

CROWN JEWEL, A HELIGOLAND, . C. EMMA CHENEY, . , .377 

Illustrations by Woodward, Pe rard, Fitter, and H. W. 
Hall, and from photographs. 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR, A, . . . . FRANK FRENCH, . . . .557 
Illustrations drawn and engraved by the author. 

DECLINE AND FALL ANNIE ELIOT, 225 

Illustrated by Frank Fowler. 

DEMOCRACY AND DISTINCTION, 393 

DR. MATERIALISM US, F. J. STIMSON, 547 

FEATHERS OF LOST BIRDS, . 132 

FRAY BENTO S BELL, . . . . " . . . CHARLES PAUL MAcKiE, . . 485 

FRENCH VIEW OF AMERICAN COLLEGE ATH 
LETICS, A, 525 

GALLEGHER A NEWSPAPER STORY, .... RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, . . 156 

Illustrated by C. D. Gibson. 

GOOD NATURE AND THE IDEAL, 394 

HATTERAS AND HENLOPEN. See Sand- Waves at. 
HELIGOLAND. See Crown Jewel, A. 

HOMES IN CITY SUBURBS AND COUNTRY. See 

City House in the West ; Country House ; Suburban 
House; also City House in the JSast and South, Vol. 
VII , 693, and Co-operative Home Winning, Vol. VII , 
569. 

HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK, .... EDWARD MARSTON, . . . .210 
Illustration from drawing made at Cairo by Joseph Bell 
and by Lucien Davis. 

INELIGIBILITIES OF THE RICH, 526 

IN THE VALLEY Chapters XXXV -XXXVII. (Begun 

in September, 1889 concluded.) HAROLD FREDERIC, .... 81 

Illustration by Howard Pyle. 

IVORY, THE TALE OF A TUSK OF, . . . . HERBERT WARD, . . 531 

Illustrations by Frederic Villiers. 

JAPONICA FIRST PAPER JAPAN, THE COUNTRY, SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, 663 

With frontispiece 1 The Plank Way to Benten Cave." 
Illustrations by Robert Blum. 

JERRY PART FIRST, Chapters VII -XV ; PART SECOND, 
Chapters I. -XVIII. ; PART THIRD, Chapters I.-III. 
(Begun in June, 1890 to be continued.} 20,184,284,437,569,774 

KENILWORTH. See Amy Robsart. 

LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND, THE, . NEWMAN SMYTH, 493 

Illustrated by J. D. Woodward and M. J. Burns. 

LITERATURE AND CHRISTMAS, . 789 

MAINE WOODS. See Lake Country of New England. 

MAN AND THE NEWSPAPER, THE, 793 

MECHANICAL CRITICISM, . . 658 

MEMORY OF THE WAR, 657 

MILLET AND RECENT CRITICISM, .... WALTER CRANSTON LARNED, . . 390 
MORELLI. See Neapolitan Art. 

MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN, . . RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 685 

Illustrated by C. D. Gibson. 

NATIONAL THEATRE, A, .790 

NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA I , II , III , . N. S. SHALER, . . 360, 473, 645 

NEAPOLITAN ART MORELLI, . . . . . . A. F. JACASSY, . 735 

Illustrations by Domenico Morelli and A. F. Jacassy. 

NEW ENGLAND INGENUE, A, JOHN SEYMOUR WOOD 241 

Illustrated by C. D. Gibson. 



OBSOLETE DISTINCTION, AN, 263 

PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS, THE, . . E. H. and E. W. BLASHFIELD 
With frontispiece u ExquiF 4 """ "* TV A -<--~ - ~ TI:,; " 
and other illustrations by 



With frontispiece " Exquisites of D Artagnan s Time," 
illustrations by E. H. Blashfield. 



CONTENTS. v 

PAGE 

PASSING OF A WEEK, THE, . . , . 263 

PASTORAL WITHOUT WORDS, A, .... HOWARD PYLE, .... 696 
(Twelve drawings. ) 

PLUMB IDIOT, THE, OCTAVE THANET, . . . .749 

Illustrated by W. L. Metcalf. 

POINT OP VIEW, THE. 

Allen s, Mr., Anxiety, 130. National Theatre, A, 790. 

American Nomad, The, 396. Obsolete Distinction, An, 262. 

Democracy and Distinction, 393. Passing of a Week, The, 2t>3. 

Feathers of Lost Birds, 132. Pursuit of Happiness, The, 130. 

French View of American College Athletics, A, 525. Running in Grooves, 791 . 

Good Nature and the Ideal, 394. Spartan Virtue, The, 659. 

Ineligibilities of the Rich, 526. Study of Heirs, A, 527. 

Literature and Christmas, 789. Sympathy in Authorship, 528. 

Man and the Newspaper, The, 792. Taking it Seriously, 129. 

Mechanical Criticism, 658. Tyranny of Things, The, 261. 

Memory of the War, 657. Wanted, A Manual, 395. 

PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, THE, .... MRS. SYLVANUS REED, . . .514 
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS, THE, 130 

RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN, THE. 

IV. To His OWN REPUTATION, E. L. GODKIN, 58 

V. To His OWN PROPERTY JAMES S. NORTON, . . . .307 

See, also, I As a Householder ; II As a User of the 
Public Streets ; III As a User of Public Conveyances, 
Vol. VII, 417, 625, 771. 

RUNNING IN GROOVES, 791 

SAND-WAVES AT HENLOPEN AND HATTERAS, . JOHN R. SPEARS, . . . .507 
Illustrated by Victor Perard. 

SENTIMENTAL ANNEX, A, H. C. BUNNER, 257 

SERGEANT GORE, LsRor ARMSTRONG, ... 173 

Illustrated by W. L. Metcalf. 

SLAVE-SHIP, THE LAST, GEORGE HOWE, M.D., . . .113 

SPARTAN VIRTUE, THE, 659 

STANLEY. See How Stanley Wrote his Book, " Emin 
Pasha Relief Expedition, The," Vol. VII., 662, and 
AFRICA. 

STUDY OF HEIRS, A, j 527 

SUBURBAN HOUSE, THE BRUCE PRICE, .... 3 

With illustrations by O. H. Bacher and C. F. Bragdon, 
and from photographs ; see Homes in City Suburbs 
and Country. 

SURF AND SURF-BATHING, DUFFIELD OSBORNE, . . .100 

Illustrations by W. S. Allen and M. J. Burns. 

SYMPATHY IN AUTHORSHIP, 528 

TAKING IT SERIOUSLY, . -. . . . . . 129 

THREE MUSKETEERS, THE. See Paris of. 

TRAINING OF A NURSE, THE, MARY CADWALADER JONES, . . 613 

TYRANNY OF THINGS, THE -. ... 261 

UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT, WITH, . RUFUS FAIRCHILD ZOGBAUM, . . 267 

With frontispiece " In the Morning Watch," and other 
illustrations by the author. 

UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS, OCTAVE THANET, .... 68 

WANTED, A MANUAL, . . 395 

WARWICK. See Amy Robsart. 

WHITE SQUADRON, FROM PORT TO PORT WITH 

THE . RUFUS FAIRCHILD ZOGBAUM, . . 453 

With frontispiece u Signalling to Moorings," and other 
illustrations by the author. 

YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS, WITH, RUFUS FAIRCHILD ZOGBAUM, . . 625 

Illustrations by the author. 



vi CONTENTS. 



POETRY. 

A DIALOGUE, . . . .... . . ANDREW LANG, . . . .155 

AUTUMN SONG, DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, . . 436 

CARDINAL NEWMAN Two SONNETS I. ... AUBREY DE VERB, . . . . 546 

II. ... INIGO DEANE, 546 

DIRGE, . . . FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN, . . 283 

5.59, . ....... . CHARLES F. LUMMIS, . . . 513 

FROM THE JAPANESE, . V" .... RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, . . 757 

FUGITIVES, . .... . GRAHAM R. TOMSON, . . .656 

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE XIII To THE FOUNT BAN- 

DUSIA, 19 

With frontispiece u O Babbling Spring," by J. R. 
Weguelin. See also Horace, Vol. VII, 899. 

[Austin Dobson s Translation in rondeau form. Re 
printed by permission. J 

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE IX THE LOVERS QUARREL, 415 

With frontispiece "The Lovers Quarrel," by J. R. 
Weguelin. 

[Mr. Gladstone s Translation. Reprinted by permis 
sion.] 

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE XXIX To MAECENAS The 

Translation by HELEN LEAH REED, . . . 683 

This version won, in 1890, the Sargent Prize, offered an 
nually to the students of Harvard University. 

HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA, THE ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, . . 95 

Illustrations drawn from Mr. Stevenson s photographs . 

IN BROCELIANDE, . ..-.. 643 

IN GLAD WEATHER, CHARLES B. GOING, . . . .112 

LADY HANNAH, THE A BALLAD OF CAPTAIN KIDD, JAMES HERBERT MORSE, . . .772 

LIFE AND NATURE, . -. ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN, . . .556 

OLD AGE, . . . . C. P. CRANCH 435 

PITY, O GOD! GRACE ELLERY CHANNING, . .388 

REED PLAYER, THE, DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, . . 720 

RENUNCIATION, . . . .... . . EMILY DICKINSON, .... 240 

REVISITING A GREEN NOOK, . . . . . ANNIE FIELDS, . . . .473 

SEASON S BOON THE, . . . . . . . G . MELVILLE UPTON, 223 

Illustrated by J. H. Twachtman. 

SHfiKH ABD ALLAH, THE . . CLINTON SCOLLARD, 358 

Illustrations by Chester Loomis and Kenyon Cox. 

SISTERS TRAGEDY, THE-A.D. 1670^ .... THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, 181 

With ornamental designs by Kenyon Cox. 

TO THE CRICKET, ." . A. LAMPMAN, .... 8 

VAGRANT LOVE-A RONDEL, . . . . . . LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, . 484 

WHERE SHE COMES, CHARLES B. GOING, . 357 

WINE OF LUSITANIA, ... . , . EDITH M. THOMAS, . 493 




BT J. K. WEGUELIN. 



"O BABBLING SPRING." 

[Horace, Book III., Ode XIII.] 

(See page 19.) 



ENGRAVED BT HENRY WOLF. 




SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. vni. 



JULY, 1890. 



No. 1. 




THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 

By Bruce Price. 



DURING the last century, and the 
first half of the present one, coun 
try life in America had assumed a 
popular and well-defined existence, and 
through all the old Atlantic States nu 
merous seats and homes had been built 
that were distinctive and beautiful in 
character. Many of these, upon the 
larger estates and in the suburbs of the 
great cities, were of such size and com 
manding proportions as to be really 
mansions. But throughout the country 
generally, and particularly in and about 
the important towns and villages, were 
numerous quiet and well- designed homes 
resting in their own grounds. 

The life in these homes during this 
period was quite as characteristic as the 
homes themselves. In the country towns 
of Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, 
and the New England States, lived a 
charming people, who in their ample 
way dispensed a broad hospitality and 
made a society, intelligent, refined, and 



almost chivalric in its intercourse. But 
the progress and development of the 
country set many influences at work 
upon the disintegration of this life. 
The spread of the great cities razed 
many of the fine suburban houses ; the 
division of property broke up the coun 
try estates and reduced the town s. The 
war told upon both, and with the wider, 
broader, more nervous life that followed 
upon the restoration of peace, the old 
life soon became almost a myth. Com 
merce, business, and the race for wealth 
at once engaged the whole nation ; the 
cities filled and grew, and the country 
fell away year by year. 

The fashion, almost universal at this 
time with city people, was to spend a 
few days, or weeks at most, during the 
heated term, at the great hotels of 
" the springs," " the summer resort," or 
the sea-shore. There were many, of 
course, who, loving the country, sought 
its quiet, and roughed it on a farm, and 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



a few others who built, and passed their 
summers in villas in the suburban coun 
try. 

But from the whirl and heat of the 
city, the summer hotel, with its artificial 
life and huddling quarters, was a poor 
resource, and early in the seventies the 
country cottage a cheap frame nonde 
script, without cellar or plumbing be 
gan to appear. These cottages were for the 
most part very simple affairs, built with 
steep roofs and shallow verandas, and 
called Gothic. They were the forerun 
ners of a movement that took, at the time, 
the form almost of a craze. Cramped 
in the confined quarters of their city 




t Tacoma, Wash. 



houses, with children growing up about 
them, numbers looked to the country 
and longed for some place where they 
could have free air and abundant room. 
The fever of this desire spread like an 
epidemic and developed the epoch of 
the suburban villa cities, with amazing 
results. About the outlying towns near 
the great northern cities large tracts of 
country were laid out in villa sites and 
coursed with avenues and boulevards, 
paved and curbed, and bordered with 
sickly infantile elms and maples. Block 
upon block of " villas " sprang up, hide 
ous structures of wood, covered with 
jig-sawed work, with high stoops, and 
capped with the lately im 
ported so - called French 
roof ; all standing in their 
own grounds and all planned 
upon the same motif- a city 
house planted in the coun 
try. The traveller n earing 
New York or Philadelphia 
went through acres of these 
villas in all stages of prog 
ress, from the raw boards to 
the gorgeous primary reds, 
yellows, and greens in which 
their cheap, vulgar details 
were glaringly set off. 

These villa cities were 
short-lived ; the Centennial 
Exposition at Philadelphia 
soon following, brought our 
people together and showed 
them many truths. It tau ght 
them that back of all the 
uses of life there could be 
art in everything. One beau 
tiful truth fell upon many, 
Colcott s group of English 
cottages, the head-quarters 
of the English Commission 
to the Exposition, built in 
half-timbered and shingled 
work, revealed how lovely a 
thing a cottage could be 
when built with artistic in 
telligence. The influence of 
these buildings upon both 
the public and professional 
mind was, at the time, very 
great. They showed us not 
only the ugliness and unfit- 
ness of the French -roof villa, 
but taught us to appreciate, 



6 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



from the example of their own fitness, 
the merit and beauty of our national 
work about us on all sides. Colcott, in 
England, for his inspiration had gone 



others, feeling the beauty of such places, 
built upon their lines. 

And so the tide turned. The migra 
tion back to the country annually be- 



back to the best period of his own na- came greater and greater, until now, 
tional homes. His contemporaries were whether these homes are to be per- 




House at Morristown, N. J. 
(McKim, Mead, & White, Architects.) 



doing the same. The good of the old 
was being revived there ; and soon the 
good in the old with us was sought out 
and studied. 

Men whose paths led them through 
our older towns could not but contrast 
their quiet beauty with the vulgar in 
congruity of these mushroom " villa ci 
ties." Their broad, turf-bordered roads, 
with avenues of great trees spanning 
the way from side to side ; and the 
old white houses, simple in form, re 
fined in detail, broad and generous in 
plan and treatment ; with the yard in 
front, the garden at rear, the one filled 
with rose-trees, oleanders, rose-of- 
Sharon bushes, and box-bordered walks, 
the other with fruit-trees and hedges, 
and garden-beds and borders of holly 
hocks or sunflowers. Many, going into 
the nearer accessible towns, found these 
old homes and made them theirs ; while 



manent or for the summer only, the 
problem, how properly to build them, is 
a fixed one for the architect, and fills 
his thoughts and crowds his boards. 
Climate and habits of life have clearly 
marked for him the bounds of the 
problem. The modest cottage of a few 
years ago, built to rough it in through 
the hot days of summer, gives place to 
the more hospitable home of to-day. 
This home must be snug and comfort 
able, with broad hearth stones and warm 
walls to shield its tenants through the 
biting days of autumn and winter. The 
heat of summer demands shady porches 
and wide verandas ; the cold of winter 
snug corners and sunny rooms two op 
posite conditions to be reconciled under 
the same roof. The rooms must be wide, 
with through drafts inviting the cooling 
winds of summer, yet low studded and 
shielded against the blasts of winter. 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



The house must be ample for summer 
guests and summer hospitality, com 
pact for the family gathering around 
the winter fireside, and home-like at all 
times. 

And these homes what are they now 
and what shall they be ? Passing them 
in review we have a retrospect of about 
fourteen years. The movement taking 
form, as we have seen, about the Centen 
nial year, matured as we know it to-day. 
In viewing the work of this period it is 
not to the point to consider the larger es 
tablishments of Newport, Mount Desert, 
Lenox, or the great places that have been 
raised up all through different parts of 
the country ; it is either the permanent 
home or the summer residence of the 
man of moderately independent means 
that interests us houses costing from 
five to twenty thousand dollars. 

In all this work the scheme of the 
plan, whether the cost be of the less or 
greater amount, is now almost identical. 

The ordinary older cottages, those of 
a quarter of a century ago, were generally 
planned with a single entrance facing 
the approach ; this opened from a porch 
into a passage rather than a hall, with 
the stairways starting a few paces within 



kitchen beyond the other. Between 
the last two came the butlery and ser 
vants stairs, and the back-door, which 
usually in the family life of the oc 
cupants became the thoroughfare to and 
from the house. This, pure and simple, 
was the general plan from which the 
house of to-day started. Step by step 
it developed. First the passage was at 
tacked, and being broadened became a 
hall ; the staircase fell away from near 
the threshold to a less obtrusive place, 
with landings and returns, and windows 
opening upon them. As the hall grew, 
the parlor, as its uses and purposes were 
more absorbed by the hall, became of 
less importance. The fireplace became a 
prominent feature, and placed in the hall 
and more elaborately treated, became 
an ingle-nook, with the mantel over it, 
forming an imposing chimney-piece. Im 
proving thus its separate features upon 
the old, the newer plan advanced further 
in the disposition of these features. The 
new hall having become broad and am 
ple, and the rendezvous and seat of the 
home life, took its position in the most 
desirable place in the advanced plan. 
The house grew up about it, following 
with the other features and details in 




House at Cumberland, Md. 
(Notman, Architect.) 



and running straight up against the side- 
wall to the floor above ; the parlor and 
library to right and left, with the 
dining-room beyond the one and the 



their proper sequence, until now, from 
the sum of all that has been done, the 
resulting general plan, with its control 
ling conditions of site, can be adduced. 



8 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



Resolving these conditions of site again 
into general conditions, the result of 
both is this : to plan and place the house 



time. And so it is important to keep 
these features separate. 

As all sites are not alike, so all plans 




Cottage at Newport, R. I. 
(Price, Architect.) 



upon its site so that the approach and 
entrance-door shall be upon one side 
and the lawn and living rooms upon the 
opposite. Stating it directly, the best 
work enables us to approach by a drive 
upon one side, alight at an entrance- 
porch, enter by an entrance-hall, ad 
vance thence into the hall, and through 
it out upon the veranda, and so on upon 
the lawn. This is the simple result, and 
the reason is as simple. The entrance is 
for access ; the hall, veranda, lawn, and 
the prospect beyond, belong to the pri 
vate life of the house. Tradesmen or 
visitors, however welcome, cannot be 
dropped into the midst of the family 
group. Even the welcome guest wishes 
to cross the threshold and meet the out 
stretched hand and cordial greeting 
within. Even Liberty Hall must have 
its defence. 

If the road to the house crosses the 
lawn and comes at once upon the hall, 
veranda, and seat of the home life, the 
home life is open to intrusion at any 



cannot be alike ; but knowing the site 
and studying well the access to and the 
prospect from it, the intelligent archi 
tect can readily arrange his plan to suit. 
If the approach is from the north, and 
the site falls off gradually to the south, 
with the view toward that quarter, then 
the solution of the problem is simple and 
direct and at its best. The house is placed 
well to the northern boundary, leaving 
it sufficiently away from the thorough 
fare to insure privacy and space for the 
turn of the drive. The greater portion 
of the site is thus given to the lawn 
upon the south side. The house is 
placed with its long axis east and west, 
its approach and entrance upon the 
north side, its living rooms, hall, veranda, 
and lawn upon the south, and it stands 
thus in itself a barrier between the tur 
moil of the world and the peace and 
privacy within and beyond its portals. 

If the site commands the south, and 
the approach is from that quarter also, 
the drive must be thrown to the east or 



10 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



west extreme, and, continuing well be 
yond the plane of the house, must circle 
either at the end for the entrance or be 
brought fully around to the north side 
and the entrance made there. The road 
must also be shielded with plantations 
and shrubbery. 

Of course apart from these consider 
ations of approach and outlook, every 
site has its other conditions of exposure, 
etc. The prevailing winds in summer 
and winter must be studied. It may 
have, upon one hand, an ugly prospect, or 
upon another, a disagreeable neighbor ; 
there are many points, in fact, to be care 
fully weighed, and many characteristics 
of its own calling for skill and judgment. 
But with its disadvantages the site must 
still have its good points or it is not a 
site, and as the architect overcomes the 
former and avails of the latter, so much 



stands its values, just in that proportion 
will be the success of his result. 

Such is the proper house, where a 
site of some extent, comparatively iso 
lated, and open to the surrounding coun 
try can be chosen. 

But when the site lies in the midst of 
other properties already built upon, and 
possessing in common with them only 
the single outlook to the front, then the 
conditions of the problem require that 
the house shall be planned with its main 
approach and living rooms alike upon 
this single open front. Even so, unless 
the lot is very narrow, a house such as is 
shown, with its grounds, in the plan on 
p. 4 of a house at Tacoma, commends it 
self as still possessing, though hemmed 
in on three sides by residences and out 
buildings, all the salient advantages of 
a house built in an open country. 




House at Kenwood, III. 
(Burnham & Root, Architects.) 



the greater is his credit and skill, for he Here the house is placed well over 
will discover that in proportion as he upon one side of the lot ; the carriage- 
studies and knows his site and under- drive and walk are over against the 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



11 



other ; the entrance-hall is at the rear 
of the library, with the entrance and en 
trance-porch at the side. In the angle 
of the house there is room for the turn 
in the drive. The grounds in front of 



at one corner of the front (as in the 
Long Island house), with the hall in the 
centre and the living porch upon the 
opposite corner, would give a plan meet 
ing many of the above requirements. 




House at Evanston, III. 
(Burnham & Koot, Architects.) 



the porch are terraced, and bordering 
the walk from the angle of the ter 
race to the en trance- porch are beds of 
flowers and plantations of low shrub 
bery. The house, with its porch and 
principal rooms thus commanded by 
the approach and the highway, is yet so 
planned and placed upon the site as to 
be in no way dominated by them. [See 
p. 14] 

A house built upon grounds on Long 
Island, required, from the nature of its 
site, a scheme of plan similar to the Ta- 
coma house, with the difference that the 
entrance is at the front corner. It 
would be well suited for such a situa 
tion as the one above described is built 
upon. 

If the site is too narrow for the drive 
and entrance at the side, the approach, 
entrance-porch, and entrance arranged 



But building sites laid out in nests of 
lots are usually narrow, and give, at best, 
to the sides of the houses built upon 
them only light and air spaces. Upon 
these the house is generally built across 
the middle of the lot, sitting back a 
rod or two from the road, with a walk 
leading from a gate in the middle of the 
front. Another gate and walk at one 
side, for tradesmen and servants, leads 
to the rear. For such conditions of 
site the problem of plan has many so 
lutions. 

A house recently built at Tuxedo [p. 
3] would meet this problem very fairly. 
In this house the entrance is made at 
once at the centre into the hall. The 
porch stretches across the entire front 
and extends a space beyond at either 
side. Thus exedras are formed at the 
ends and give the desired living porches 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



13 



away from the centre and removed from 
the intrusion of the entrance. 

Also a house at Morristown, N. J. [p. 
6], built by Mr. McKim some years since, 
gives an excellent solution of this " de 
fence against the highway " idea. This 
house, apart from its planning and plac 
ing, is a most successful bit of shingle 
work, designed upon old colonial lines. 

Many of the old-time houses, built 
upon such lots, are models of proper 
planning. A house in Cumberland, Md. 
[p. 7], is, in some respects, the most de 
lightfully arranged home I know. It was 
built in the early forties from drawings 
by Notman. The site is upon a hill falling 
off sharply to the rear, with a prospect 
at the back of the town below, and the 
mountains, and narrows between them, 
in the distance. The house is practically 
one-storied, and the charm of the plan 



Through the centre, from front to rear, 
runs the hall, fifteen feet wide and sixty 
feet long from door to door. Upon 
this hall open all the living rooms ; at 
the front, .on the right, is the parlor ; on 
the left, the library. Beyond the parlor, 
on the one side, are the family bed 
chambers, and beyond the library, on 
the other, comes first a guest-chamber, 
then the pantry and stair-hall, and the 
dining-room at the rear. In the roof 
are additional bedrooms, and in the 
rear basement is the kitchen, laundry, 
etc. Across the back of the house runs 
a wide porch, with a broad stair leading 
down to the lawn and gardens. 

The quarters, or servants building, 
was separate and to the left and rear of 
the main house. With the works of 
over a half century to judge it by, I do 
not see how a better plan could be de- 




House at Cincinnati, O 
(Trowbridge, Architect.) 



the is the directness and simplicity of its 
treatment. 

The long axis of the house is with 
the length of the lot, north and south. 



vised for the site. Certain changes and 
improvements, notably in the plumbing, 
heating, and lighting, have been made at 
times by the present owner, but the body 



14 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



of the house is intact as Notman left it, 
classical in proportion, simple in outline, 
and refined in detail. There are num 
bers of inclosed lots about the suburbs 
of New York where just such a house 
could be charmingly placed. 

In comparing architecturally the work 
of to-day with that of the various build 
ers from colonial times up to Notman 
and his contemporaries, it would seem 
that their best work, being based strictly 
upon the study of classic proportions, 
would outlive the mass of ours. And this 
for the simple reason that mere novelties 
will not wear well. In architecture more 
than in any other art, the work must 
commend itself for some other reason 
than its cleverness or originality, or it 
will very early wear out its welcome. 
" Quaint," " novel," " picturesque," are 
terms freely used about us to-day, and 
" architectural," rarely. 

The old builders were architectural, 
first and always, and quaint was perhaps 
as far as they ever got beyond that. It 
is not maintained that there is nothing 



too, and picturesque and beautiful and 
original, and will last. But it will last 
because its motive is purely and archi 
tecturally expressed and based upon ar 
tistic principles stronger than the orig 
inality of its handling. 

The old builders, though their works 
were at times dull and meagre and thin, 
were yet never undignified, never out 
rageous, and never forsook the idea that 
their work had a definite purpose and 
that that purpose must be expressed in 
it. In the Long Island, Tacoma, and 
Tuxedo houses it was with a thought of 
the old builders and their purposes that 
they were designed. The gambrel and 
deep roofs are much as they made them, 
and the entablature and columns are as 
the rules of the orders give them. 

The Tacoma house, the Armistead cot 
tage at Newport [p. 8], and the Tuxedo 
house, the writer considers a fair solution, 
architecturally and picturesquely, of the 
problem of the suburban home of mod 
erate pretensions. Other examples are 
numerous ; notably Mrs. Stoughton s 
house at Cambridge, Mass. [p. 9], one 
of Richardson s de 
signs, though built 
of shingle in the 
simplest way, is in 
plan, mass, and 
treatment, one of 
his best works. In 
two instances of 




House at Tacoma, Wash. 

in the new equal to the old, or noth 
ing good that is not based upon some 
older model ; or nothing good that is 
quaint in its effect, and both novel and 
picturesque as well. On the contrary, 
there is abundance in the new, superior 
in every way to the old, and architects 
greater and abler than the old ; and 
much of their work is quaint and novel 



suburban houses by Messrs. Burnham & 
Root, near Chicago [pp. 10 and 11], the 
architects have met the problem most 
fairly, and show in their picturesque 
composition that the thought of the 
home was first and most important. 
Of the quaint and artistic smaller 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



15 



cottage, two examples, most opposite in 
their motif and materials, yet both 
equally delightful in their architectural 
results, are seen in the house at Short 
Hills, N. J. [p. 12], built by Mr. Charles 



any of its forerunners upon the borders 
of the Loire or among the hills of Eng 
land. 

The Megalithical houses, of which 
Richardson s famous Gate Lodge upon 




English Suburban House. 
(Norman Shaw Architect.) 



A. Rich, for himself, and the other in 
the suburbs of Cincinnati [p. 13], built 
by Mr. Trowbridge. 

Of houses of greater pretensions the 
field is full. The Osborn house at Ma- 
maroneck [p. 5] may be taken as an 
example of the best of this type. The 
approach is from the land side. The 
house is entered from a porte-cochere 
through its centre. The division of its 
features is in perfect sequence. Ah 1 the 
living rooms and verandas are upon 
the water side ; the offices and entrances 
upon the other. The home life is per 
fectly defended and protected. Archi 
tecturally the work is handled with 
great dignity and art. Its materials are 
rough granite and cedar shingles, and 
though born of a French motif it is 
the exponent of no style. It is moulded 
to the needs of its uses, and the result is 
a genuine American art creation, as good 
in itself and as honest in its purpose as 



the Ames estate near Boston was per 
haps the first example, appeal strongly 
to the original bent of the American 
mind. The Lodge and Keep at the 
main gates of Tuxedo are built of the 
mossy and weather-beaten rocks and 
boulders found upon the slopes of the 
park. These are set into the walls with 
out tool marks or fractures, and the 
beds and joints chocked with rock 
moss. The house built at Boulder Point, 
upon Tuxedo Lake, is a fair type of this 
sort. The house stands upon a cliff pro 
jecting into the lake, and its walls are 
carried up with the same character of 
rock as the cliff. The starting-courses 
are of the largest rocks that could be 
handled, and above, they grow smaller 
as they approach the top. Great skill 
is shown in the execution of the work. 
The stones are all selected with flat 
faces and fitted one against the other 
with great patience and care, and the 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



17 



result is the appearance of cyclopean 
masonry centuries old. In arrange 
ment, though the house is planned to 
overcome the many difficulties of its 
site, the principle of the separation of 
the approaches from the living quarters, 
etc., is maintained. 

In the details of the interior of the 
house of to-day, the hall, and especially 
its fireplace, has received much attention. 
The " ingle-nook " has been taken up 
and treated in many ways, amply and 
beautifully, and the impression is cur 
rent that with us it is entirely a modern 
idea. Such is not the case. In an old 
house in Maryland, built long before the 
Revolution, the hall was of unusual size 
so large, in fact, that the owner 
boasted that he could (and on a wager, 
did) turn a four-in-hand in it. On one 
side was an enormous fireplace, with 
benches built out at the sides of the 
jambs, and large enough to seat quite a 
company. This fireplace was unique. 
It was built of stone, broad and deep, 
with a heavy lintel over it ; above this 
lintel was a niche with a separate flue 
from it, and here in the evening, knots 
of fat pine were heaped and burned, and 
the great hall was by this means brill 
iantly lighted. The old house has long 
since crumbled and rotted away, but the 
ruins of the old fireplace still mark the 
site. This house had at the time the 
title of being the finest one in western 
Maryland. Its claims to distinction rested 
upon the fact that the ends of the logs 
of which it was built were sawed off, 
and its roof was covered with shingles. 

Viewing American houses from a 
stand-point of style, there is as marked 
a character in the artistic handling as in 
the planning of them. 

The most distinctive national suburban 
house is undoubtedly the shingle house ; 
that is, the cottage, however great or 
small, built of frame and covered on 
sides and roof with shingles, plain or 
ornamented as the case may be. Next 
in importance is the stone or brick and 
shingle house combined ; that is, the 
house with the ground story of stone or 
brick and the upper structure of frame 
and shingles. 

The old colonial houses cannot be con 
sidered in connection with the shingle 
VOL. VIII. 2 



houses of to-day. The old colonial 
houses were in all the best examples 
built upon classic lines, with a classic 
base for all their details and a classic 
feeling in their outlines. 

The shingle house, while it has been 
recently taking a decided old colonial 
form, both in general and in detail, and 
is very distinctive in plan, began in a pic 
turesque desire to be novel and quaint, 
and aimed to impress the beholder 
with these qualities as well as its orig 
inality above everything. That it ran 
riot, and is still doing so, there can be 
no mistake. But out of it all there is 
a lot of splendid work. To enumerate 
it or classify it is not within the scope 
of this article, but I am impressed with 
the conviction and believe in the thought 
that in the planning, designing, and 
building of the moderate-cost suburban 
villa of to - day, the American architect 
has no equal. I believe his work is well 
above and beyond any period of the 
school anywhere. Of course, I mean his 
best work. There is much that is bad, 
very bad ; there have been many condi 
tions to make it so. Vulgar and ambi 
tious clients, uncultivated draughtsmen, 
who, gifted with clever manual dex 
terity (and our draughtsmen are getting 
to be very, very clever as such), set up 
as architects ; nouveaux riches, who 
gauge the beauty of their house by its 
cost ; these and many other conditions 
produce inevitably their results. But 
when the client and his architect are in 
accord, the one to the manner born and 
the other a part of it, the results are no 
ble and true. 

Out of the abundance I select one 
house in particular, as the forerunner, 
to my mind, of the type of shingle houses 
that have since become so distinctively 
an American class. It must be now ten 
or twelve years since Mr. Victor New- 
combe built his house at Elberon [p. 16]. 
It is certainly that long since I first saw 
it. I was driving from Sea Girt to Long 
Branch at the time, and, unaware of its 
existence, came suddenly upon it. The 
whole scheme, form, and treatment of the 
house were new to me, and I looked upon 
it with mingled feelings of surprise and 
pleasure. Mr. McKim has since done 
greater work, and others have done as 
good ; for " Facilis est inventus addere," 



18 



THE SUBURBAN HOUSE. 



and many have profited thereby. But 
when I saw it first it was new and 
stood alone, the first of its class ; and 
that it was true, the numbers that fol 
lowed it and went beyond it soon showed. 
I have passed this house many times 
since, and to me it is as good a piece of 
work to-day as when I first saw it. 

But Mr. McKim was not the only 
one. Mr. Bassett Jones, fresh from the 
studio and influence of Norman Shaw, 
had built one or two lovely cottages 
on Staten Island. Mr. William Ralph 
Emerson had done likewise about Bos 
ton and at Bar Harbor. Mr. Jones s 
work was inspired by the Queen Anne 
revival then starting up in England, but 
so modified and adapted under his skil 
ful treatment as to be distinctively his 
own. Mr. Emerson s work was more 
distinctive still, and went farther than 
either Mr. McKim s or Mr. Jones s in its 
individuality. While Mr. McKim, Mr. 
Jones, and others clothed their frame 
buildings with clap-boards to the height 
of the first story and shingled them the 
rest of the way up, Mr. Emerson started 
his shingles over the entire house at 
the water-table, and gained a step in 
repose that the other houses had not 
reached. 

But the Queen Anne revival in Eng 
land, from which all this work started, 
was so different in its motives, both in 
the use of materials and disposition 
of the plan, that the American cousin 
soon lost all family resemblance. One 
of the best examples of this English 
work, built from designs of Norman 
Shaw, is shown in the illustration of an 
English suburban house on p. 15. It is 
delightful in composition, is essentially 
a home, and meets exactly the English 
idea of one ; raise it from the ground, 
put a veranda around it, and transplant 
it to New York, and its congruity is 
destroyed. 

Under such conditions and aided in 
his work by the increasing knowledge 
and higher cultivation of our intelligent 
people in all matters pertaining to art, 
the American architect of to-day finds 
his great opportunity to found an Amer 
ican style. That the American country- 
house has become distinctive in becom 
ing suited to our economies and habits 
of life is clear. Our wants call for new 



forms in plan and masses; our mate 
rials for new lines and textures in eleva 
tions ; and with our national inven 
tiveness fostered by the problem, our 
work becomes more and more national. 
All these conditions demand original 
thought and hard study ; and bending 
the mind and talents to answering them 
must produce distinctive results. 

The feeling of the old may survive, 
but the style of the prototype has been 
bent to the homes we live in, and in 
bending yields to a new form. The 
new form, begun in a friendly school, 
will often borrow from a sympathetic 
type, and the result, while neither of the 
two, yet is true to both ; true to its 
new conditions and good withal. And 
so the American architect is passing 
into his incipient Renaissance, copying 
less from the masters he has studied 
and reveres, and dropping the word 
style from his practice. How that word 
rises up ; a frowning spectre to some, 
a safeguard to many ! How can the 
American practitioner be true to it ? 
Will his client have a replica from Italy, 
from France, or even from England ? 
Will he build and live in a Scotch fast 
ness, with high, draughty halls, ill lit 
from narrow windows, flood his moat, 
haul up his bridge, and lower his port 
cullis with the chiming of the vesper 
bells ? Will he plant his roof-tree upon 
the walls of a French manoir, give up 
his ground floor to carriage-drive and 
flunkies quarters and live above stairs ? 
Will he give up his shady porches, his 
wide verandas, his broad piazzas, and 
take the style he asks for in the lit 
eral truth of its examples ? There are 
none of these, as he knows and needs 
them, in the great schools from which 
he -would borrow a name for his cot 
tage. True there are verandas in Italy, 
and loggias, too, in both Italy and 
France that lend ideas and beauti 
fully they have been used. But Amer 
ican life could not thrive could not 
exist, indeed housed in any of the 
buildings upon which these are found. 
American country life has marked out 
its current broad, clear, well defined. 
It has its source in a thousand well- 
springs deep down in the national char 
acter. Hampered with no traditions, 
with a quick perception of his wants, 



TO THE FOUNT BANDUSIA. 19 

an innate love of the beautiful, indepen- giving to the life of the day one of its 
dent and practical, the American must most distinctive features. In all the 
inevitably show his national traits in rush, in the marvellous phases that have 
his home. Scattered apart or grouped marked the growth and progress of our 
together, upon the hills, in valleys, and wonderful epoch, there is nothing so 
along the streams that wander through impressive in the city s life as this daily 
them to the ocean, or perched upon the coming and going throng. It is a vivid 
bluffs and beaches that mark its boun- expression of that American trait which 
daries, for encircling miles about our inspires every man, no matter how sub- 
great cities, have sprung up, and are ordinate his position in the business 
still rising, the true homes of the Amer- world, to assert his individuality and 
ican of to-day. From them and to them independence by owning a home which 
a great tide ebbs and flows, and pours is the outgrowth of his special tastes 
over the ferries, by the cars, and along and needs. Amid the pretences and 
the great water-ways every day. Never shams of which American life is often 
ceasing, this torrent pours in and pours accused, this at least has the instinct of 
out, stronger and greater year by year, truth, and an honest purpose. 



HORACE, BOOK III., ODE XIII. 

TO THE FOUNT BANDUSIA. 

[O fons Bandusiae.] 

Austin Dobsori s Translation in Rondeau Form. Reprinted by permission with Mr. Weyueliii s 

drawing [frontispiece]. 

O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, 

Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, 
To-morrow shall a kid be thine 
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign, 

Sure si<m ! of loves and battles near. 



"O" 



Child of the race that butt and rear ! 
Not less, alas ! his life-blood dear 

Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, 
O babbling Spring ! 

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer 
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, 
The wandering flock. This verse of mine 
Will rank thee one with founts divine ; 
Men shall thy rock and tree revere, 

O babbling Spring ! 



JERRY. 



PART FIRST (CONTINUED). 



CHAPTEE VII. 

Tlie steadfast silence that holds peace for 

wrong 

Or love that keeps the smile on quivering lips ; 
That holds the tears back from the brave, sad 

eyes ; 

That with a steady hand doth sod the grave 
Of all its hopes, so none may know a grave 
Is there ! 

ALONG, low, frame house, unpaint- 
ed, and weather-beaten, standing 
a little back from the road that at 
this point turned, and became the one 
street of Durden s. A house without 
the very smallest attempt at beauty 
that fulfilled but one end a shelter. 

The main shed, extending straight 
down from the apex of the roof, takes 
under its protection a broad piazza, in 
whose shadowy depths the doors and 
windows of the house open. 

The windows are glazed, which is a 
luxury in the town of Durden s ; but the 
doors and blinds are simply battened, 
like the rest of the houses. 

Three chimneys come from the roof, 
one from either end and one from the 
middle ; wonderfully square and ugly, 
but softened to the view on this cool 
September day by slender plumes of 
smoke. A thin rail extends round the 
piazza save where a clear space is left for 
the steps, at the corner of which stands 
a hitching-post for horses. The reddish- 
brown soil of the yard is baked to the 
consistency of brick, rising and falling 
in mimic ravines and hills as the rain is 
pleased to wash it. No sign of a fence 
no sign of paint or whitewash any 
where no vestige of any attempt at 



flower, or shrub, or grass an ugly, bar 
ren, neglected place. 

In a high-backed, splint-bottomed 
rocking-chair, with his feet on the hand 
rail that goes about the piazza, a boy 
sits reading ; delicately made and fair, 
and with a finish in his dress and bear 
ing that shows familiarity with localities 
very different from Durden s, Indeed, 
he looks entirely out of place in this 
rough environment, and seems perfectly 
to realize the unfitness of things. 

Evidently he is very tired ; but only 
of himself and his book, for no work can 
ever have soiled his white hands nor 
hardened his delicate muscles ; yet he 
yawns and stretches very wearily, clasp 
ing his hands behind his head. 

"A beastly hole," he muttered. "I 
shall be cross-eyed if I read any more," 
but yet, for lack of other interest, he 
takes up his book again. The shapely 
head bends forward, the long lashes 
shade the girlish cheeks where a little 
flush has come from the exertion of the 
last yawn, and the boy is beautiful. No 
other word would describe him ; indeed 
one would not be tempted to fit any other 
adjective to him. 

And the doctor, riding up and tying 
his horse, thinks how different this face 
is from the other he left up on the 
mountain side. 

The boy rises. 

" At last ! " he says, coming forward, 
"I thought you might possibly spend 
the night." 

"Scarcely ; I waited only to watch the 
case." 

" And how is the case ? " yawning 
again. 



JERRY. 



21 



" Progressing favorably." 

"Unlike your humble servant," turn 
ing to follow the doctor indoors. 

The doctor paused to hang up his 
saddle-bags and hat, then turned to look 
at the boy. 

"You look in good case," he said. 

" My face is my fortune, " looking 
up with a smile that made this same face 
brilliant, " but really, I am nearly dead 
of loneliness ; and at noon a letter from 
mamma ; a letter a month old, but tell 
ing of the most enchanting things ; 
really, you know ! " with an earnest, re 
gretful look in his beautiful eyes. 

The doctor listened quietly, watching 
the boy s face, that seemed to charm him 
against his will. 

"It is very unfortunate," he said, 
gravely, then went into a fire-lighted 
room, where a table was laid for two, and 
a servant in waiting. 

"Dinner at once," he said, "and a 
fire in the study ; " then sitting down in 
the great arm-chair he turned to the 
boy, who stood near a window. "Is 
there any news, Paul ? " he asked. 

" Nothing, except no end of balls, and 
lunches, and lovely art exhibitions, and 
operas, and concerts, and everything 
that can make a fellow long to go home ; 
and I go everywhere with mamma, don t 
you know ; I wish you knew her," the 
boy added, slowly. 

" Yes," and the doctor leaned his 
head back as if this precocious child 
worried him. 

"Yes," Paul went on, drawing a letter 
from his pocket " and she sends you a 
message." 

The creamy paper rustled in the boy s 
hands ; a faint perfume floated on the 
air, and the words came softly " I miss 
you more than I can say, and long for 
you with a longing that I hope you may 
never realize. Would it not be possible 
to persuade your guardian to come home 
with you some time this winter, so that 
I can see you ? " pausing and looking 
steadfastly at the doctor ; but there was 
no movement, and he read on " Thank 
him for me for all his care of you ; I 
know he will do whatever is best for 
you, and, in the highest sense of the 
word, make a man of you, " the boy 
stopped, folding the letter slowly. 

" Thank you," came coldly from the 



doctor, and he passed his hands wearily 
over his eyes. 

" Did you ever know her?" the boy 
asked, hesitatingly, after a moment s 
silence. 

"Yes." 

Then the dinner and lights came in, 
and the conversation ceased. 

The meal was rather silent, and after 
ward the evening in the book-lined study 
seemed rather cold and still. The les 
sons went on without much heart, drag 
ging heavily ; with cold patience on the 
doctor s part ; with undisguised weari 
ness on the boy s part, until the tasks 
were done. 

" Now I will fly back with delight to 
my novel, of which I was so weary, "and 
the boy rose and stretched himself ; " to 
think I should be thankful to my lessons 
for anything," he went on ; " to think 
that I should fall so low that one dulness 
is a boon because it makes the next dul 
ness seem less dull." 

" I am reading," the doctor said, not 
looking up. 

"I beg pardon," hurriedly, and the 
boy, with the color burning in his cheeks, 
subsided with his book into an arm 
chair. 

But he did not read ; instead, he 
watched furtively the man before him, 
wondering what was the point of his life. 
Why did he live in this lonely fashion, 
away oft in these wilds ; why study so 
diligently ; why spend his time and his 
money on the poor creatures, the scum 
of the country, who gathered out in this 
region? Like to-day, spending hours 
over one little waif who was of no earthly 
use to anyone. Was he altogether right 
in his mind ? He must be, Paul con 
cluded, for he remembered quite dis 
tinctly his father s dying words about 
him " I give him Paul as uncondition 
ally as such a thing can be done, and 
charge him to be all to him that he would 
be to his own son." Paul remembered 
it all quite distinctly, and the last talk 
his father had given him. After that the 
long months when his mother pleaded 
not to give him up the lawyer s protest, 
and the letters from this guardian, that 
had made his mother so ill ; then his 
journey to this far Western region, his 
reception, and wonder at his surround 
ings. It was very strange ; and with all 



22 



JERRY. 



his precocious, shallow knowledge of the 
world, he could make nothing of these 
facts that met him on every hand. 

Now he found that there had been 
some acquaintance between his mother 
and his guardian ; a new piece of knowl 
edge that deserved much thought. Why 
not ask about this new puzzle ? Why 
not, indeed ! After that last snub, he 
would rather put his hand in the fire 
than say a word. No really harsh word 
had ever been said to him by this man, 
yet Paul would sooner have attempted to 
strike him, than positively to disregard 
one wish of his. He shirked his duty 
sometimes, when in a particularly rebel 
lious frame of mind, and when his guar 
dian was not at hand to look him over 
after a cool, calm way he had. Some 
times he longed to see him angry, to 
hear him curse and swear and storm as 
he had heard other men do ; he thought 
it would be almost refreshing. This 
intense calm ; this controlled stillness 
that nothing seemed to disturb, was 
frightfully monotonous, and the man 
must surely be devoid of feeling. And 
yet he helped all the poor and sick, and 
got no pay for it ; certainly a strange 
man. 

And this strange man sat in the brill 
iant circle of lamplight reading on and 
on ; turning page after page as if noth 
ing existed for him save that book. AH 
day long he had been resting with no 
eye to scan his features no keen curi 
osity to probe his self-control all day 
he had been resting with only the wild 
creatures about him. 

So they sat until the word came of a 
miner who had fallen and injured him 
self ; then the doctor closed his book 
and ordered his horse, and telling the 
boy not to wait for him, rode away in 
the darkness to spend the hours of the 
night among the lowest of mankind 
watching the death-struggles of the 
strong the misery and desolation of the 
weak. 

Aye, what did life seem to him ? what 
use in all its toil and striving? what 
comfort for all its sorrow and suffering ? 

As well as he could he eased the ago 
ny of body, and comforted the heart 
for he knelt and prayed for the passing 
soul this strange man whose life had 
no visible point. 



And riding homeward in the wild 
dawn he whispered once again : 
" If God will ever forgive me ! " 



CHAPTER VIH. 

And with no language but a cry. 

JERKY sat in the low doorway very 
much as he had done on the spring 
morning before he left his home, with 
the sun shining all about him, finding 
out all the hollows in his small face, and 
showing the grave eyes grown larger 
and more wistful. His hopes had all 
failed him ; the only object he had ever 
had was seemingly an illusion ; a blank- 
ness had come to him that was strange 
and unaccountable, and he realized thor 
oughly but one thing that he was sorry 
he had ever wakened from his sleep on 
the trail. He felt more lonely now 
that there was nothing to remind him 
of his past save his little bundle. His 
clothes were all new and warm ; Joe had 
brought them from Eureka, whatever or 
wherever that might be. Eed flannel 
shirts and thick trousers, and a thing 
Jerry had never known before in his 
short life a pair of boots ! In his rec 
ollection his father had possessed one 
pair ; but further than that he did not 
know boots. Now he sat in the sun 
shine, thinking, as far as his half-awak 
ened faculties could think. Heretofore 
his hie had been but a dull routine, 
never reaching beyond the old rail- 
fence, of helping his mother with the 
scant crop, or picking berries that his 
father took away to "peddle"- which 
meant to Jerry that his father would re 
turn with a small store of provisions, 
but always whiskey. So his life had 
passed in ignorance and silence, with 
pain and hunger for variety. With his 
mother s disappearance came the first 
change and excitement. She had talked 
to him of the " Golding Gates," and 
then for the first time he had heard that 
there were such things as peace and 
plenty. After that his journey the 
excitement the failure the long sleep 
and slow awakening to kindness and 
rest, and this strange blankness for 
which he could not account, for he 



JERRY. 



23 



knew his life was more full than ever 
before. 

He sat in the sunshine, slowly revolv 
ing the reasons of things as far as he 
knew them, and gradually coming to 
the conclusion that he had missed the 
" Gates," because he had not his mother 
with him, and added to this was the 
hopelessness of ever being able to re 
turn and undo the evil done to his 
mother. He leaned against the door 
post sorrowfully. "I can t never git 
back," he muttered, "Joe Hows as he 
dunno how I made out to git here ; 
cause he Hows I muster come from 
whar he come from, cause I talks like 
all his ns folks ; an ther big water I m 
fearder that, sure ! " He would not con 
tinue his wanderings, for he had no 
hope now, and one place was as good as 
another. Joe never beat him Joe gave 
him food and clothes. There was noth 
ing for it but to stay where he was ; 
mind the house by day while Joe was 
gone ; cut wood down among the pines, 
and have the supper cooked when Joe 
came home ; this was the routine. " If 
I only hed Mammy," he would whisper 
in the long, silent days, turning his 
bundle over in his hands. But when 
Joe came home at night the fire was al 
ways burning, the supper ready, and the 
little face watching for him. And Joe 
felt he had done a good thing in taking 
in the little waif. 

" He s sumpen ter say hardy to 
when I gits home of a evenin ," he said 
to the doctor as if to excuse his weak 
ness ; and long before there was any 
chance of seeing his house, Joe would 
look up the trail and try to catch a 

tlimpse of the open door and the little 
gure showing black against the fire 
light. 

And when supper was despatched, 
and the house closed for the night, it 
was pleasant to feel that if he put 
down his pipe and asked a question 
there was a voice to answer him. 

He often wondered over the child, 
and occasionally put a question to him ; 
but the doctor had said to wait until 
the child was quite strong before he 
took his mind back to the things that 
had caused his illness. So Joe waited 
until one night, when the crisis was 
reached unintentionally. 



Joe had sat silent for a long time, 
when, putting down his pipe and look 
ing solemnly into the fire, he said : 

" To-morrer pore Lije Milton is agoin 
to be buried, Jerry, an youuns kin go 
alonger me if youuns hes a mind thet 
way. Lije an hisn woman come from 
home, too." 

Jerry, squatting by the fire, was silent 
for several minutes, then looked up 
slowly. 

"Buried?" he said. 

Joe looked at the child in astonish 
ment. 

" Well, I reckon thet s what I said ; 
buried," he repeated. 

" What s thet ? " very simply. 

" My soul, boy ! " in absolute won 
der, " why, pore Lije is dead, dead as a 
cole stone, an weuns is agoin to bury 
him. Ain t youuns never been to a 
buryin ?" 

" I dunno," hesitatingly. 

"Ain t youuns never seen nothin 
die?" 

" I dunno," with a tone of humility 
added to the ignorance. 

" Ain t youuns never broke a chicken s 
neck ? " 

" No, but I hev sawn it done," some 
what of confidence coming again into 
his voice. 

" Well, when its neck s broke, an it s 
a-lyin thar rale still " 

"But it don t," Jerry interrupted, 
quickly, "it hops around powerful, it 
do, jest all over ever thing." 

" Thet s true," Joe acknowledged, see 
ing the weakness of his simile, but at a 
loss for a better, until after a little 
thought he looked up slowly, "but it 
do git rale quiet atterwards." 

" Thet s so," Jerry allowed in his turn. 

"An* cole, an stiff," Joe went on, 
with superiority growing in his voice. 

" It do," looking up. 

" Well, then it s dead ; it can t crow 
no mo , an if it s a hen it can t cluck no 
mo to its chickens ; it can t eat ner 
nothin , an it s dead, 7 solemnly. 

Jerry made no response, his little 
mind was far too busy, was groping too 
earnestly for him to make any sound ; 
and Joe went on : 

" An thet s what s come to pore Lije 
Milton ; he s dead, plum dead ; he can t 
eat, ner talk, ner do nothin ; he jest 



JERRY. 



lies thar stiff an cole, an youuns kin call 
him furever ! Pore Mis Milton were jest 
a-howlin , but Lije never knowed it." 

"An what s buryin ?" Jerry asked 
again, in the silence that followed Joe s 
words. 

Again Joe looked the child over from 
head to heels, as a naturalist would scan 
a totalty new and unexpected develop 
ment in some well-known species. This 
ignorance was something entirely be 
yond his experience any extreme being 
beyond him and he scarcely knew how 
to account for it ; but with exemplary 
patience he tried to make it clear to the 
child. 

"When folks is dead," he began 
slowly, " we digs a hole an puts em in, 
and kiwers em good." 

The child s eyes grew wider as he lis 
tened, and he fastened them on the 
speaker with an intensity that made Joe 
halt a little in his speech. 

"They re bleeged to do it," he ex 
plained hastily, as if the child had con 
demned the practice. 

" An puts rails round it, an bresh on 
top?" the little, anxious voice ques 
tioned. 

Joe was puzzled for a moment, but he 
answered bravely, nevertheless : 

" Sometimes they do when critters 
air roun ; they purtects em thet way." 

"An can t theyuns never git up no 
mo ? " with his pitiful eyes still on the 
man s face. 

Joe shook his head. 

" Not fur a long spell," he said ; " an 
I ain t rale sartain sure bout thet ; but 
some preachers b lieves it, an calls it 
the jedgment day, an says as all folks 
as is dead gits up then ; gits up a-singin 
an a-shoutin to march to the Promis - 
lan , whar thar ain t no mo sickness, ner 
nothin bad. My Nancy Ann s gone 
gone in at the Pearly Gates ! " 

" Golding Gates, " the child inter 
rupted eagerly, "the Golding Gates. 
Mammy llowed she were agoin thar, her 
did." 

Joe looked at the child earnestly. 

"Is youun s mammy dead ? " he asked, 
too curious to remember the doctor s 
injunctions. 

Jerry shook his head. 

"I dunno," he answered, and all the 
light died out of his eyes, " I dunno ; I 



dunno nothin ! " covering his face with 
his hands. " Mammy s goned away, an 
I piled bresh on her, I did, "the bur den of 
his remorse breaking out in a wail, " an 
some blossoms ; but I never knowed I 
never knowed ! " rocking back and forth 
with the pitiful refrain coming almost 
hysterically from his lips "I never 
knowed, I never knowed ! " 

Joe was startled, for he remembered 
the days when this cry never faltered 
until the voice was too weak to cry. 
Was the child becoming ill again ? And 
in his anxiety he remembered the doc 
tor s quieting words. 

"It s all right, Jerry," he said, gently, 
" youuns done all right : ax the doctor 
when youuns sees him, he knows." 

The pitiful cry died away and the 
rocking ceased as Joe went on : 

" If youuns Par buried her " 

" The woman in the valley named it 
plantin of her," the child put in wear- 

% 

" Well," Joe granted, " some folks do 
name it plantin , but I don t How as I 
like it ; it soun s like weuns wus taters or 
corn, so I says buried, I do ; an if youuns 
Par buried youuns Mar, her muster been 
dead, sure ; an if youuns piled rails an 
bresh roun her, youuns done jest right ; 
youuns purtected her, youuns did." 

Jerry leaned against the chimney, si 
lent ; his remorse was being stilled, but 
his hopelessness was increasing with 
every word Joe uttered. He would 
never see his mother again unless what 
Joe only half believed should turn out 
true; the "Jedgment day," when all 
the dead should rise ; and he looked up 
asking : 

" An when ll it come ? " 

"What?" in some anxiety lest his 
stock of learning should be exhausted. 

"The day when all the folks gits 
up?" 

" Thar ain t no man as knows," Joe an 
swered, with reassured solemnity ; " the 
doctor told my Nancy Ann as nobody 
knowed ; he said the horn ud blow an 
all ud rise ; but some folks don t b lieve 
it ; pore Lije Milton never b lieved it, 
cause he llowed he d ruther never git 
up no mo ; he llowed he d done lived in 
a mine as is a hole in the groun , and he d 
jest as lieve stay thar ;" then rousing as 
from a meditation, he turned to the 



JERRY. 



25 



child, "but youuns done right, Jerry, 
an youuns pore Mar is a-resting mighty 
easy, I reckon, an youuns kin rest easy 
too ; " with which grain of comfort the 
child went away to his bed in the cor 
ner ; and Joe, feeling troubled about 
him, determined to tell the doctor of 
his perplexity, and ask his advice. 
He had done his best, but he was dimly 
conscious that his knowledge had run 
short under the child s questioning, and 
any further probings from this quarter 
would put him where he would have 
nothing to say. Besides, he was in 
some doubt as to the soundness of the 
child s mind ; such dense ignorance 
puzzled sorely his own half-knowledge. 
He could not comprehend this extreme 
any more than he could realize the other, 
and he felt obliged to appeal to a 
higher power. 

He would ask the doctor the next day, 
for of course the doctor would be at 
Lije s funeral. 



CHAPTEE IX. 

Death endetli all ; 

And then ? 

The tears are dried The dim hope fled, 
Love lieth still, and cold, and dead 
Death endeth all ; 
And then ? 

A DIM, gray day, with the clouds drift 
ing so low that they hid the tops of the 
mountains, and hung far down the sides 
like ragged curtains. No rain was fall 
ing, and the wind was still save now and 
then it rose in sudden gusts that tore 
the clouds to pieces. 

Joe and Jerry set out on their way at 
an early hour, as the distance was not 
short, and the occasion one that de 
manded the respect of long and solemn 
waiting, especially from Joe, who had 
the honor of having come from the same 
county in Tennessee as Lije Milton. 
Man} 7 in the colony had come from 
neighboring States and counties, but 
Joe alone had come from the same 
place. 

They had beaten their clothes clear 
of dust, had greased their boots, and 
scrubbed their faces and heads until the 
skin shone and the hair lay as sleek as 
wax. But it was a great day in Durden s, 



and one that required these rites and cer 
emonies. Lije Milton was a miner of 
high degree, indeed, a mine owner ; and 
not only this, but one who had dared to 
go so far as to doubt the doctor s doc 
trine of a hereafter ; one who had ac 
tually argued this point with the doc 
tor, but who still loved the doctor, and 
had more than once declared his in 
tention of knocking down anyone who 
agreed with him in his opinions against 
the doctor. He could not second the 
doctor in his views, but no one else 
should dare to take such a stand while 
" Lije Milton hed a fist." 

And Lije was held in most profound 
respect ; he had killed a " grisly " with 
a jack-knife he had knocked down a 
mule with his fist he had discovered 
the new mine he had scalped more In 
dians than anyone else had ever seen 
he had been to more places, even to the 
end of the old mine, where everybody 
knew he would have to meet old Dur 
den s ghost that lived there in peace 
and plenty. 

All these things Lije had done ; and 
all these things Joe poured into Jerry s 
ears, adding a full description of the 
awful terror of the black depths in 
"Durden s mine," where Lije had met 
and conquered the wandering spirit of 
the ancient possessor. 

" Thar s water in thar thet never quits 
a-drappin ," Joe went on, " an Lije kep 
on a-hearin it, an a-hearin it, tell it jest 
wore him plum out, an he llowed he d 
go in thar an see bout it ; an he did," 
pausing solemnly, " you bet he did ; an 
he were gone two days, he were ; an I 
tells youuns, Jerry," drawing a long 
breath that seemed to catch a little, 
" Lije wornt never the same man sence ; 
never, sure s youuns is born," stopping 
to put a fresh piece of tobacco in his 
mouth ; " an he never tole nobody what 
it was he sawn in thar, ceppen thet he 
hearn things a-cryin an the water al- 
lers a-drappin ; but he llowed as old 
Durden d never pester him no mo ; an 
now Lije is gone, an ain t no better man 
an old Durden." 

"Were old Durden buried?" Jerry 
asked, his mind occupied with these rites 
he did not understand. 

Joe shook his head. 

" I ain t plum sure," he said, " fur ole 



26 



JERRY. 



Durden were dead an gone fore ever I 
come out to this place ; but I hearn as 
he never wuz ! He tumbled off some 
rale deep hole in the mine, an nobody 
never knowed rightly whar it were ; but 
nobody couldn t git no mo men to work 
in Durden s mine." Then more medi 
tatively, " I ain t never worked none in 
thar, but they do say as thar s mo gole 
in Durden s mine an any man kin dig, 
they do." 

"Gole? "the child asked. 

Joe turned back in the narrow path 
to look down on him. 

" My Lord ! boy, ain t youuns got nary 
idee?" he said ; " ain t youuns never seed 
no gole?" 

Jerry shook his head, leaning humbly 
against an adjacent rock. 

" I dunno nothin ," he answered, wea 
rily. 

" Ain t youuns never seed no money ? " 

And again Jerry shook his head. Joe 
was in despair almost ; the child surely 
must be wrong in his mind. 

"Well, Jerry," compassionately, "I 
mus How as youuns is a most onknow- 
in creetur ; well, jest listen ; money jest 
means ever blessed thing an creetur," 
taking his hands out of his pockets to 
emphasize his words ; " money means 
mules, an powder, an shot, an a house, 
an ever kinder truck ; money means 
wittles, an clothes, an boots, an hats ; 
money means youuns is too good to do 
nothin ; money means terbacky, an seg- 
yars, an whiskey " 

" Dad hed whiskey all the time," the 
boy interrupted, quickly. 

" Then youuns Par hed money," Joe 
finished, conclusively, " an money air 
made outer gole, an gole air yaller, an 
shines ; an gole just lays roun loose in 
Durden s mine ! " 

"An gole makes the Golding Gates ? " 
the child queried, deprecatingly, as Joe 
was about to proceed on his way. 

" You bet it do," he answered, " cause 
the preachers says thar s riches thar as 
never fails never ! " and again turning 
from the child, he walked on. 

Down, down, down to the funeral of 
this hero who had passed by the shining 
treasures of Durden s mine in order to 
do battle with Durden s ghost ; but who 
had, nevertheless, come back a changed 
man. 



Jerry listened and wondered, if the 
confusion of ideas in his mind could be 
called wonder. His pure and simple 
conception of the " Golding Gates " had 
become inextricably mixed with his 
father and the money that bought whis 
key ! Could it be the same gold ? 

His judgment wavered for a time ; 
but before he reached Lije Milton s, it 
had settled to the conviction that the 
gold that bought whiskey, and so repre 
sented his father and all his misery, 
could not be the same thing that made 
the entrance to the wonderful land of 
which his mother had told him the 
land where he must meet her. " Mam- 
my d never go no whars as thar wuz 
whiskey," he whispered to himself 
" never, as sure s I m alive." Still, this 
conclusion did not change the mystery ; 
did some people like beatings and hun 
ger, and so go to a place where all was 
gold, and so all was whiskey ? Lije Mil 
ton was right ; leave the gold, if gold 
meant whiskey. 

Yet there was something strange about 
it all ; Joe seemed to set great store by 
gold, but not by whiskey, for he never 
got drunk. 

And Jerry was at a loss. 

" I ll ax the doctor," he said softly to 
himself " Joe says as he kin jest tell 
about ever thing I ll ax him," and he 
followed silently down the steep way. 

The clouds came lower and lower 
over the rough land that was torn and 
rent in every direction by hands hun 
gry for gold the rough, red land, so 
dark and unlovely ; with no exquisite 
coloring ; no beautiful fresh greenness ; 
no gorgeous autumn staining poor, 
hard, rock-broken land. 

But humanity did not seem to miss 
the soft loveliness that had spread about 
their paths in the far East ; they did not 
ever think of the wind that sobbed 
among the black pines, and crept down 
the lonely gorges, as the same wind that 
swept across the green hills far away 
beyond the Mississippi. A little child 
listened to it because it sounded " like 
Mammy a-singin ; " but that was all. 

The people had come only for gold, 
and what use in listening to the wind, 
even if it did come from their old homes ? 
All was equal out here in the West, and 
money was made more easily. In the 



JERRY. 



27 



East it had been long toil and little pay ; 
riches and luxury were all about them, 
to be envied and longed for, but not to 
be won by them. What folly to listen 
to the wind what folly to think of their 
old homes where their fathers had been 
content ; the old men and women mak 
ing their living so hardly the old graves 
where so many had laid them down in 
weariness and hope. It had done very 
well for the old, who had been content 
to see others above them ; but in this 
new West things were very different. 

The wind was whispering very low to 
day and Jerry listened almost uncon 
sciously ; in his own home the clouds 
and wind came down just as they did 
here, and he felt less lonely when they 
closed about him, as he followed Joe in 
puzzled silence. 

At last Lije Milton s house was 
reached ; a frame house with an upper 
story, which, being the only one in Dur- 
den s, had caused much talk at the time 
of building. But Lije s wife, who had 
come out later than he, had made him 
build this addition, which his friends 
had criticised quietly. Criticised be 
cause they were friends, and quietly 
because Lije was not over-scrupulous 
about either words or blows. 

There were curtains at the glazed win 
dows, and a fence about the front yard, 
which last was more than even the doc 
tor s house could boast ; more than this, 
there was a horse-rack in front of the 
gate for the convenience of anyone stop 
ping either at Lije s, or at any other 
house in the settlement. 

Inside, all was in solemn order ; a 
large fire burned in the broad fireplace 
of the best room ; on the walls were 
frightful prints ; a gorgeously painted 
clock ticked on the mantel - piece, 
flanked by two brilliant china vases ; the 
bedstead in the corner boasted a feather 
bed, a rare and costly thing in Durden s, 
and was covered by a patchwork quilt 
that would have defied any rainbow to 
a contest of colors. A rug of fringed 
woollen rags was on the floor in front of 
the hearth, and on the backs of the 
three cane-seated rocking-chairs were 
tidies of wonderful workmanship. Hows 
of medicine bottles stood on a table in 
one corner, to show that no money had 
been spared in Tiije s illness ; and around 



this gorgeous apartment for it was 
gorgeous and luxurious for Durden s, 
and Mrs. Milton saw with much pride 
that all were awed by it were placed 
benches and chairs for the accommoda 
tion of friends. They were pretty well 
filled now, and had been so for hours, 
by rows of women and children, with 
their long bonnets either pushed back 
from their heads, or held in their hands. 

Near the fire, rocking slowly in the 
largest of the rocking-chairs, backed by 
the gaudiest tidy, sat the widow. Her 
straight, sandy hair was screwed into a 
tight knot at the back of her head ; her 
dress, made of curtain chintz, was gor 
geous in palm-leaves a foot long, but 
toned in front with large white china 
buttons, also a rare article in Durden s. 

" Lije never grudged her no thin , you 
bet ! " and all the women moved their 
heads mournfully. " Lije never grudged 
nothin , thet was sure," they said, then 
looked to where, on two rough carpen 
ters benches, rested the painted deal 
coffin, and in it all that remained of the 
hero of Durden s. 

A powerfully made giant, now lying 
in unwonted quiet and unnatural neat 
ness, arrayed in a suit of " sto clothes " 
that proved more than anything the 
great wealth and importance of the man, 
and the calm disregard his widow had 
for money. " Thar ain t nothin mean 
bout me," she had said, " an Lije shell 
be buried in the best clothes thar is 
in Durden s, an them is his own sto 
clothes," and all the settlement agreed 
with her, and looked with much just 
pride into the eyes of the people who 
had come over from Eureka to the fu 
neral. 

Outside a group of men stood about 
the door and lounged against the fence ; 
and inside, through an open door an 
other group of men could be seen in the 
kitchen, where refreshments were being 
served by two or three women. 

All had been in and out more than 
once, for it was not often that corn-bread 
and bacon, and whiskey and coffee were 
to be had without stint, and had with 
the choice either of " long " or " short 
sweetenin ! " But " there warn t nothin 
mean bout Mrs. Milton." 

No one went in as if they specially 
needed or desired the food and drink, 



JERRY. 



but with an air of accommodation, as if 
they took it only to please their hostess 
and their dead friend. 

So it all was when Joe and Jerry ar 
rived ; it took a little time to make their 
way through the group in the front yard, 
for everyone had some word to say to 
Joe about the boy. Gossip and news 
spread even in that wild country, and 
everybody knew that Joe Gilliam had 
found a boy and had taken him in ; but 
more than this Joe scarcely knew him 
self. That the boy s name was Jerry 
that his mother was dead that he had 
run away from home and would have 
died in the attempt but for Joe was 
all that Joe knew, except that the boy 
was hopelessly ignorant might be con 
sidered even a little off in his mind. But 
Joe let none of this appear in his talk. 
" Is thet your boy, Joe ? " they asked. 
"Thet s ther boy," looking down on 
Jerry, standing beside him with his 
hands in his pockets. 

" Where d ye find him ? " 
" A-comin down Blake s trail." 
" He looks mighty skimpy." 
" He do," Joe acknowledged ; then a 
silence fell, during which all the group 
was occupied in looking Jerry well over, 
and no sound could be heard save the 
chewing and spitting of tobacco. This 
was the way of their kind, and Jerry, 
seeming to understand it, was silent 
under the scrutiny. Then Joe turned 
away toward the house, and Jerry fol 
lowed him. 

"Tuck off youuns hat," Joe whispered 
as they entered, and the child obeyed. 

All around the room his eyes wan 
dered ; over the rows of ugly, work-worn, 
stolid-looking women wearing on their 
faces and in their eyes a sort of unques 
tioning stoicism. They knew all that 
life could possibly hold for them ; they 
had solved, as far as they could hope to 
solve, or as far as they had realized them, 
all the mysteries of their days ; they 
knew no higher desire than the bare 
necessities of food and clothing ; their 
hopes were bounded by their actual 
wants ; their sorrows, their joys, their 
pains, and pleasures were borne without 
any outcry ; nothing but their fatalistic 
stoicism possessed any intensity for 
them, and from that they were seldom 
shaken. 



A birth, a death, a beating came nat 
urally into the day s work, and passed 
by with little comment. 

Jerry looked about him now without 
any understanding of what this gather 
ing meant. Lije Milton was dead, Joe 
had told him, and they had come to see 
him buried, or planted, whichever name 
one preferred using ; and Jerry had 
come to see, and to judge and condemn, 
or exonerate his father ; to satisfy him 
self as to his own action in piling the 
brush on his mother s grave, and then 
in deserting her. It was a thing of mo 
mentous importance to him, for either 
it would settle forever on his life the 
burden of remorse and pain, or it would 
prove to him that the burying of his 
mother was an absolute necessity, so 
leaving him no hope but the day of 
Resurrection, which Joe seemed to hold 
as very questionable. 

It never occurred to him that the 
burying of his mother, right or wrong, 
would have deprived her of life, and so 
have exonerated him from all ill-doing ; 
he felt only that either his father had 
buried her to keep her from running 
away to the " Golding Gates," or that 
she was really dead, and there was noth 
ing in the future but the "Jedgrnent 
day." 

Next to the long white box which Joe 
was now approaching, Jerry was the cen 
tre of attraction, for all were curious to 
see Joe Gilliam s boy. 

Fortunately for Jerry, the curiosity 
of this class was not demonstrative ; a 
fact satisfied them, and Jerry standing 
among them proved all the story they 
had heard, and the passing whisper that 
"Joe ain t found much," ended the mat 
ter. 

But Jerry realized nothing after his 
first look around the room, save that 
Joe was standing, hat in hand, gazing 
into a long box that seemed strangely 
like one he had seen before. His pa 
tient eyes grew more wistful, and a look 
of pain and wonder came in them as he 
watched Joe. 

He was afraid to go nearer, afraid of 
the certainty that would be his if he 
looked in that box. Almost it seemed 
as if he would again see his mother as 
he had seen her last, before his father 
had nailed the box up to put it in the 



JERRY. 



29 



ground. He trembled from head to foot 
as he stood looking up with eyes fixed 
steadfastly on Joe s. 

" Yon s afraid," one woman said to 
another, and the all-important widow, 
hearing the words, looked at the child. 

" Youuns kin look in," she said. " Lije 
ain t a-goin to hurt youuns ; he never 
b lieved he d git up no mo, an I don t 
b lieve it nuther," obstinately. 

Jerry only half comprehended the 
words as he stood watching Joe, and 
had no thought that they were addressed 
to him ; but Joe fully realized, not only 
all that was being said, but all that was 
being thought ; and beyond this, the aw 
ful breach of funeral etiquette of which 
Jerry was now guilty. Not to stand and 
look mournfully at the poor lump of clay 
clothed in the mocking emblems of daily 
life not to stand and think how "he d 
failed away in his sickness," and how he 
looked " rale nateral " not to make a 
close inspection of the defenceless fellow- 
creature so as to be able to describe and 
criticise for the benefit of less fortunate 
friends, was to show a decided lack of 
breeding, and mortally to offend all sur 
viving relatives. 

And Joe, not in the least comprehend 
ing Jerry s trembling terror, drew the 
child forward ; drew him forward until 
the questioning eyes could not but look 
down to the dead for their answer. The 
gaunt, grayish - yellow face and the 
great toil-worn hands crossed in un 
earthly quiet. There was no sound, no 
movement from the child ; he stood and 
looked, while his heart seemed to sink 
within him, and the daylight seemed to 
fade from about him. His disconnected 
wonders were drawing together his 
weary questions were finding answers. 

He had done no wrong, had aided in 
no ill against his mother ; he had been 
right to lay the rails about her, and to 
pile the brush there ; and his running 
away was not leaving her. 

White and still he stood, losing his 
ignorance losing his fair hope of the 
" Golding Gates " and with a loneli 
ness sweeping about him even as the 
clouds swept down and clung about the 
mountain-side a loneliness that grew 
and grew as the ceremonies of the day 
went on. 

Every blow that drove the nails home 



in the coffin-lid seemed to echo back 
through all his useless journey, to his 
poor home among the far-off hills! 
Every dull thud of the clods as they fell 
from the busy spades, seemed to choke 
him, to fill him with a stifling, breath 
less horror, to separate him still more 
hopelessly from the only love his days 
had known. 

What it was the doctor read, what it 
was the hoarse voices sang, what it 
meant when all stood bareheaded while 
the doctor looked up to the dull gray 
sky, the child could not comprehend ; it 
was to him like a dream, and over and 
over he whispered : " I ain t got nobody, 
Mammy, I ain t got nobody." 

All the way home he plodded silently 
after Joe ; no words passed, only the 
whisper, soft as a breath : 

"I ain t got nobody, Mammy, I ain t 
got nobody." 

And when his scarcely-touched supper 
was over, he wrapped himself in his 
blanket, with his little bundle held close 
in his arms. Somehow he was less lone 
ly while he could hold it close, could 
know and remember that his mother had 
worn that very apron, and had hung it 
on the very peg from which he had 
taken it. This was a comfort to him, 
for amid all the changes and wonders 
of the life he had lived of late, he seemed 
to be losing hold of the stolid facts that 
hitherto had filled his days. Things 
seemed strange and unreal to him, and 
the poor faded apron was something 
tangible that proved to him that his 
past had been more than a dream. 



CHAPTER X. 

The fair pure soul of a little child, 
Opened wide to the light of day 

Looking away to the far Paradise, 
Forgetting its roots are in clay. 

"MORNIN , doctor." 

"Well, Joe." 

"I m done brunged him, doctor." 

* Verv well ; where do you go from 
here?" 

Joe turned his hat over in his hands 
once or twice, and threw his weight 
from one foot to the other before he an 
swered, with a jerk : 

"Eureky." 



30 



JERRY. 



" You work there steadily, do you ? " 
gravely. 

"Not percisely," giving his hat an 
other turn, " but I makes a livin fur me 
an Jerry." 

The doctor took his pipe from his 
mouth and blew out a wreath of smoke. 

" What is your work ? " he asked. 

There was a pause, then Joe answered, 
slowly : 

"It s hones work, doctor, I promise 
youuns thet." 

"The same work your wife used to 
cry about ? " the doctor went on. 

For one moment Joe stood irresolute, 
then he turned from the study-door, 
where he had been waiting. 

" Jerry s out har," he said, and walked 
away down the hall. 

"Very well," the doctor called after 
him, " send him in." 

Coming from the glare of the daylight 
into the comparative gloom of the study, 
where the windows looked like holes cut 
in walls of books, Jerry was blinded for 
a moment, but in a little while it seemed 
more natural to him, for the sombre 
books seemed to shade the sunshine 
down to the likeness of the light up un 
der the rocks where Joe s little house 
stood. 

A bright fire burned, for the season 
was late autumn, and in front of it, in a 
long, low -hung smoking -chair, rested 
the doctor. 

Hat in hand, Jerry paused just inside 
the door and looked about him. 

Books were unknown to him, and the 
walls might just as well have been lined 
with stones for aught he knew. He did 
not look at them with wonder, even, nor 
at anything except the doctor looming 
like a shadow in the clouds of tobacco- 
smoke. 

This man was a power to Jerry ; a 
hero, a magician who could cure every 
kind of sickness ; who knew everything ; 
who could " bury folks," which was to 
Jerry the most mysterious of all his at 
tributes. 

So Jerry paused and looked at him 
with a deep, wondering interest, and 
some awe. 

"Shut the door, Jerry," the doctor 
said, " and come here." 

Slowly the door swung on its hinges, 
closing with an uncertain grating of the 



lock that betokened much hesitation, 
then the clumsy boots tramped heavily 
across the floor. Close up he came and 
stood looking down with much gravity 
on the doctor, who returned his look 
with corresponding interest. 

"How are you? " he said. 

" I m well as common," Jerry answered. 

" And Joe is good to you ? " 

" I How he s rale good, I do," with a 
little more heartiness creeping into his 
voice ; "he gin me boots, he did," look 
ing down to where his trousers were 
carefully stuffed into the coarse, rough 
tops. 

" Well, sit there by the fire," the doc 
tor went on, pointing to a stool near the 
hearth, " and tell me all about it. I hear 
that you went to Lije Milton s funeral." 

" Buryin ," Jerry corrected, taking his 
seat quickly. " Joe he names it a buryin , 
he do." 

" Well, a burying if you like ; Joe said 
you had never been to one before," the 
doctor went on, encouragingly. Joe had 
implored him to talk to Jerry on these 
subjects, as from Joe s conversation 
with him Jerry did not seem quite right 
in his mind ; so the doctor, watching 
the child carefully, put his question. 

" I llowed I never hed been to nary 
a-one," looking steadfastly at the doctor, 
" cause I never knowed what it were tell 
I sawn it ; but when I sawn it I knowed 
it," shaking his head like an old man, 
and turning his eyes from the doctor to 
fix them sadly on the fire. 

" And did you hear the words I read, 
Jerry?" 

The child shook his head. 

"I reckon I hearn," he answered, slow 
ly, "but I never knowed em I ain t 
never hearn none like em." 

" Can you read ? " 

A blank look came over the child s 
face. 

" I dunno," he answered, without look 
ing up. 

"Could your father read? or your 
mother ? " 

" Mebbe," was answered, doubtfully, 
" but I never hearn no thin bout it ; an 
I dunno nothin nohow," putting his el 
bows on his knees, and his chin down 
in his hands. So much that was bewil 
dering had come to him, that he felt 
weary and despairing when made to re- 



JERRY. 



31 



alize, however kindly, his ignorance. "I 
gits rale tired a-steddyin bout things 
as I hears Joe a-talkin bout," he went 
on ; "I jest sets an sets, an keeps on 
a-steddyin tell I m plum wore out, I is." 

" Tell us some of the things you do 
not understand," the doctor suggested, 
becoming more interested in the boy, 
about whom there was an air of such 
unspeakable loneliness ; whose place in 
the world s general plan seemed to have 
been forgotten. No one owned him ; 
no one cared especially for him; and 
having been instrumental in restoring 
the boy to life, the doctor felt in some 
sort bound to try to help him ; and now 
the child looked at him gravely, asking : 

" Do gole makes money as buys whis 
key ? " 

"Yes." 

" An do gole make the Golding 
Gates ? " 

" The < Golden Gates ? " slowly. 

" Thet s what I said," earnestly, " the 
Golding Gates ; thet s whar Mammy 
lowed she were a-goin , her did," sol 
emnly, " an her pinted straight out the 
winder to whar the sun were a-setting, 
her did." 

" And they buried her ? " 

"They did, sure," then, with a little 
catch in his voice, " an I piled bresh on 
her, I did," looking up wistfully. 

"Wen?" 

"An I were feared as she couldn t 
never git up no mo , cause of the bresh/ 
speaking more rapidly as he touched 
the cause of his agony, " an I hearn a 
woman a-sayin as her were planted, an 
I llowed as Dad hed kiwered her in so 
her couldn t run away to the Golding 
Gates an I llowed I hed he pped him, 
I did, but I never knowed I never 
knowed ! " putting his hands over his 
face. 

" But you did right, Jerry," the doc 
tor said ; " the brush will protect the 
grave from washing." 

"An it kiwered the rails, it did," 
looking up anxiously, "I llowed as 
twornt a-tuckin nothin jist to lift a few 
rails from the fence ; Dad 11 never know ; 
but twornt a-tuckin nothin . Mammy 
tole me never to tuck nothin as wornt 
mine, her did." 

" And would not your father have giv 
en you the rails?" the doctor asked, more 



to draw the child out than to decide on 
the wickedness of stealing the rails. 

Jerry shook his head. 

" Dad never sot no store by Mammy, 
never, sure s youuns is born," turning 
his eyes once more to the fire. " Dad 
were a-goin to bust my head agin the 
chimbly, an Mammy ketched his n arm, 
her did," his face lighting up and his 
eyes flashing " an Dad knocked her 
agin the wall, he did, an chunked me 
a- topper her ! It was in the mornin , an 
the nex mornin thar were a-buryin ; 
an then Minervy Ann Salter corned to 
live, her did," breathlessly, "an her 
knocked me deef an bline," pausing, 
" an I runned away," with a fall in his 
voice and a change in his whole man 
ner ; the running away had been such 
an utter failure. 

The doctor sat silent while the wretch 
ed story dawned on him ; would it be 
merciful to open the child s eyes to all 
the story merciful to make him under 
stand all its bearings ? 

"But Mammy he pped to split them 
rails, her did," the child went on, slowly, 
" an I only tuck a few, only a few ; an 
I kiwered em good so Dad couldn t seen 
em ; cause if he tuck em away ole 
Molly thet s the sow," in an explana 
tory tone, " ole Molly d a-rooted it sure, 
jist sure," meditatively, " fur ole Molly 
were the meanes hog a-livin ; I How 
Minervy Ann Salter s done kilt her by 
now, I reckon her lies," drawing his shirt 
sleeve across his nose ; "pore ole Molly, 
her were pisen mean, sure, but her 
b longed to Mammy, an I d like power 
ful to see her onest more, I would I 
ain t got nobody," putting his face down 
on his arms that were crossed on his 
knees " I aint got nobody -" with a 
little cry that struck home to his com 
panion s heart. 

"And I too have nobody, Jerry," the 
doctor said. 

The child looked up slowly. 

" Not nary a soul ? " he asked. 

The doctor shook his head. 

" My mother died when I was a little 
baby," he said. 

" An youuns daddy ? " interestedly. 

" He married again." 

" An she beat youuns ? " 

" No, but she did not like me, and I 
lived with my uncle." 



32 



JERRY. 



" An youuns never runned away ? " 

" No, but after I was a man my uncle 
died, and I came out here." 

" What fur ? " gravely. 

" There are people here ; people who 
get sick, and lonely, and tired, and I can 
help them ; I can make them well, and 
help them to be good, so that they can 
go in at the Golden Gate when they 
die." 

" Does youuns b lieve thar s a Golding 
Gates ? " wonderingly ; for his own be 
lief in it had seemed to fade from him 
in the presence of death and the grave 
as he had lately realized them. 

"Yes." 

" An youuns mammy is thar ? " softly. 

" Yes." 

" An my mammy ? " 

" Yes." 

There was a moment s silence ; then 
the thin little face was raised again. 

" I corned a fur ways an I ain t never 
sawn it." 

" And I have never seen it, but I know 
it is there." 

"Whar?" 

" On the other side the grave." 

" The grave ? " 

" Yes, where we will be buried." 

" Like Lije Milton?" 

"Yes." 

The child turned away again to the 
fire that danced and nickered up the 
chimney, as if he saw some vision in 
the flames ; and the doctor, thinking 
his own thoughts, almost forgot the 
child. 

"But Lije Milton never b lieved as 
he d git up agin," came at last, rousing 
the doctor from his dream, "and Joe 
says as Lije d jest as lieve stay in thet 
thar hole furiver, an hisn woman tole 
me them same words, her did." 

"Maybe he would," the doctor an 
swered, " but that does not mean that he 
is going to stay there ; you may be will 
ing to sit by that fire forever, but that 
does not mean that you are going to do 

"Thet s true as mornin ," the child 
said, slowly ; " I d jest as lieve stay har, 
but I ain t agoin to ; an Lije will hev to 
git up?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

" I do not know." 



"Joe Hows as it s named the Jedg- 
ment day, " deprecatingly. 

"Some people call it so," the doctor 
answered. 

" An what does youuns call it ? " 

"I call it going home," watching a 
wreath of smoke as it floated away 
slowly. 

" To youuns mammy ? " the boy asked. 

" Yes," and the doctor drew his hand 
across his eyes. 

How persistently the child clung to 
the one love of his life ; and he pictured 
to himself what a poor, draggled crea 
ture this mother had been, yet how di 
vinely the child s love wrapped her in 
its beauty. Her life had been given for 
his ; and some day he would know this. 
Then, with a sigh, the doctor roused 
himself. 

" You must learn to read, Jerry," he 
said. 

"Bead?" 

"Yes, like this," taking a book from 
a table near him, and opening it, " you 
see these little marks ? " 

"I do." 

"Well, they are words, and a great 
many of these words put together make 
a book ; a book like one of these," point 
ing to the shelves. 

The child looked about him in won 
der ; on every side were rows and rows 
of these things called " books." What 
were they what did they mean ? 

" And you must learn so that you can 
take one of these and know what is in 
it." 

" What fur ? " gravely. 

" So that you will know everything 
without asking any questions," the doc 
tor answered; "and there is a book 
that will tell you about the Judgment 
day, and about the home where your 
mother has gone, and about what you 
must do to get to your mother." 

The solemn eyes opened wide, and 
the boy came close to this friend who 
would do so much for him. 

" Show me it?" almost breathlessly. 

The doctor took up a small Bible that 
lay near, and put it in the boy s hands. 

" That will tell you all about it, when 
you learn to read it." 

The child went back to the hearth, 
but not 10 the stool ; the crowding emo 
tions drove all unnaturalness from his 



JERRY. 



33 



mind, and he squatted down after his 
own fashion. He turned the book over 
and over tenderly, from time to time 
wiping his hands on his trousers ; over 
and over, then he opened it nothing 
but little black marks and dots noth 
ing he could know or understand ; it 
was disappointing, and he shut it up 
again. 

"Itll tell me the way to go?" he 
asked, wonderingly. 

"Yes." 

" To tuck me right straight to Mam 
my?" 

"Yes." 

" An when I gits thar kin I tell her 
bout thet bresh ? " 

"Yes." 

"An bout ther big water I were 
feared on ? " 

" You can tell her everything, Jerry, 
but it will not be any use, for she knows 
it all now ; she is always watching you, 
and is always near you ; you cannot see 
her, but she is always with you." 

" My Mammy ! " looking quickly over 
his shoulder, with a sort of terror gath 
ering in his eyes " tell me agin, doctor, 
I llow I don t rightly on erstan youuns," 
dropping on his knees and creeping to 
the doctor s side. 

" It will take a long time for you to 
understand, Jerry," looking pityingly 
down into the anxious eyes, " but you 
must believe what I say ; believe that 
3*our mother is near you, watching you ; 
and when you are good she is happy, 
and when you are bad she is sorry." 

The child looked all about him where 
he knelt with the book clasped in his 
hands, and a whisper crept through the 
silence 

" Mammy ! " 

A mystery more strange than all 
others had come to him, which there 
was no hope of solving ; this, however, 
made no difference, the doctor said he 
was to believe it, and his lonely heart 
had grasped it and was hugging it close. 
And the doctor watching him saw the 
little hand reach out with an uncertain, 
longing gesture if only he could touch 
his mother ! 

And all the way home the happy 

thought went with him that his mother 

walked beside him. Almost he heard 

her footsteps, and would pause to listen. 

VOL. VIII. 3 



CHAPTER XI. 

And with small, childish hands we are turn 
ing around 
The apple of life which another has found. 

" I CLEAN furgot," Jerry said, slowly. 
He was squatting on the hearth, look 
ing into the fire, with the book the doc 
tor had given him held close in his 
hands. " I clean furgot bout the gole, 
Joe." 

"Folks mostly members gole," Joe 
answered, packing his pipe carefully. 
"An I Ho wed as youuns never knowed 
nothin bout it, youuns d ax the doc 
tor." 

" Ain t youuns got no gole as youuns 
kin lemme see ? " the boy asked. " 

Joe stirred diligently in the fire until 
he found a coal to suit him, then pick 
ing it up deftly with his hard fingers, he 
dropped it on his pipe. 

" Mebbe I lies," he answered, slowly, 
running his hand deep into his trouser 
pockets. "Mebbe I hes one piece as 
youuns kin see," and he drew out a five- 
dollar piece, old and dingy. 

" Look at thet," he said, with some 
pride, "jest turn it over an feel of it." 

Jerry turned it over obediently, but 
no exclamation of admiration escaped 
him, no word of any kind, and a look of 
disappointment clouded his face. 

"It ain t much purty," he said at last, 
holding it at a little distance ; " it ain t 
much yaller, nor much shiny, it ain t." 

" It s ole," Joe granted, "an 5 heapser 
folks is hed thet." 

" What fur ? " looking up simply. 

" What fur ! Lord, boy, sure ernough, 
youuns dunno nothin ! What fur ? 
Great - day - in - the - momin ! " bringing 
his fist down heavily on the table, " why, 
fur ever thing, jest ever blessed thing." 

Again Jerry turned his eyes on the 
money that to him meant so little good 
for everything. 

" Good to git me to Mammy ? " he 
asked, at last. 

" You bet," Joe answered, hastily ; " fur 
if youuns hev ernough, youuns ain t 
agoin to cuss, ner sw ar, ner steal, ner 
hev a-hankerin atter other folks truck ; 
an if youuns don t do noner thet, youuns 
kin git anywhars." 

" Mammy never hed none," thought 
fully. 



34 



JERRY. 



" An her never went no whars," Joe 
struck in, conclusively. 

"Her went to the Golding Gates, " 
slowly, " cause the doctor says so," the 
doctor being overwhelming evidence. 

Joe rubbed his hand all over his 
ragged hair ; what could he say ; his 
own knowledge embraced only barren 
facts and unproved beliefs. 

" The doctor Hows as she hev gone 
to the Golding Gates, " the child re 
peated. 

" An I Hows it," Joe answered ; " an 
I Hows as my Nancy Ann leetle Nan, I 
calls her mostly hev gone thar too." 

" An her never hed no gole ? " simply. 

"Not rayly much," Joe answered, has 
tily ; " but jest youuns rub thet gole in 
the ashes," he went on, changing the 
subject, "an youuns 11 see jest how it 
shines an shines tell it gits right in a 
feller s eye, it does." Then, more medi 
tatively, "It seems like a eye don t rayly 
count, it gits holt of a feller all roun , it 
do." 

And Jerry stooping, rubbed diligently 
first one side of the coin, then the other, 
in the warm soft ashes until the gold 
shone and glittered. 

"It do shine," he said at last, turning 
it over in his palm, " folks oughter keep 
it a-shininV 

" Folks hes too much to tend to, they 
hes," Joe answered, blowing clouds of 
smoke out in his satisfaction over hav 
ing convinced Jerry of at least the 
beauty of gold ; " they ll tuck thet to 
the sto ," Joe went on, instructively, " an 
Dan Burk 11 give em a letter truck ; 
fur all he s pisen cheatin ! " again strik 
ing the table. " When I come har he 
never hed nary a thing, an his n woman 
tuck in what pore little washin she 
could git, her did ; an now God-er- 
mussy ! thar ain t nothin good ernough 
fur her nothin ; an my pore leetle 
Nan air dead ! " 

Jerry sat silent, turning the gold over 
in his hands ; he did not understand 
all of Joe s words, but being accustomed 
to this mistiness of comprehension, he 
said nothing. 

There was a long silence, then Joe 
knocked the ashes from his pipe. 

" An the doctor wants ter see me ? " 
he said. 

" He do," Jerry answered ; "he wants 



to see youuns bout sumpen, I dunno 
rightly what ; but he says, says he, 
Jerry, tell Joe I wanter see him right 
pertickler/ says ee, an I says, says I, 
Doctor, I will. " 

"Thet s cl ar," Joe said, slowly, "an 
I ll go to-morrer, I will ; " then to the 
boy, "gimme the gole, boy, it s to buy 
wittles, it is." 

And Jerry delivered up the money he 
had made to shine, the money he did not 
as yet know the meaning of, but that, 
nevertheless, had a mysterious fascina 
tion for him. 

He had turned it over many times, 
had looked at it with a longing desire to 
know its full value and meaning ; he 
should have asked the doctor about it, 
and must surely remember to do it the 
next time he saw him. He would go 
and see him again very shortly, for there 
was growing up in his heart an absorb 
ing adoration of this man this man 
who had first made him well, and had 
now made him happy. Had told him his 
mother was near him always had given 
him a book to tell him the sure way 
to reach her. 

" I loves him, I do," he said to himself, 
and Joe, hearing the indistinct whisper, 
roused from his revery. 

" What s thet youuns says ? " he asked. 

Jerry looked up 

" I says as I loves the doctor," he an 
swered, gravely. 

"I How I do too," and Joe rubbed 
his stubbly hair ; " he s a rale gentleman, 
he is, ceppen he s mos too hones ." 

" I wonder ! " Jerry said, slowly. 

"It s so," Joe went on, "the doctor 
jist helps all the mean pisenes mean 
trash thet comes to Durden s, an he 
never axes a center pay, he don t." 

" What s pay ? " and Jerry pushed the 
fire that had fallen a little apart. 

"Well," and Joe s tone was well-nigh 
hopeless, " if youuns ain t the all- 
beatenes boy I hev ever saw ! ain t 
youuns never done a job afore youuns 
leffhome?" 

"I hepped Mammy hoe the crap," 
Jerry answered, " an I hepped her split 
rails, I did, an I llowed I could tuck a 
few to lay roun her, I did." 

Joe was in despair almost ; only one 
thought the child seemed to have his 
mother, and the grave he had heaped 



JERRY 



35 



with brush how could anything be ex 
plained to him? And into Joe s half- 
developed mind crept the thought that 
whatever Jerry took hold of he would 
never let go never. While the child s 
strangely simple question found him al 
ways without an answer, and about things 
he had thought himself in full knowl 
edge of. 

" Pay means to gie a feller pay when 
he works fur youuns," Joe began ; " an 
the doctor works on all the trash as gits 
sick, an they never gie him a cent." 

" Did youuns pay him fur a-workin 
on me ? " the child asked. 

Joe shook his head. 

"He llowed as youuns didn t rightly 
b long to me nohow an he wouldn t 
tuck no pay ; an when Nancy Ann an 
my leetle baby died he never tuck no 
pay nuther, cause he llowed as I were too 
pore, he did ; but I ll pay him yit, you 
bet ! " slapping his pocket, that jingled as 
if there were more gold pieces there like 
the one he had shown Jerry, " I ll pay 
him cause I loves him, I do." 

" An what kin I do ? " the child asked, 
slowly ; " I dunno nothin ceppen to hoe, 
an chop wood, an to tote water." 

" Youuns kin larn," Joe answered, 
comfortingly ; " when I were a little chap 
I never knowed nothin nuther, but I 
larned ; jist keep youuns eyes open, an 
youuns yeers open, an youuns 11 larn a 
heap, you bet." 

" An I ll larn to read the book," Jerry 
added, taking his Bible from the floor 
where he had laid it while he rubbed 
the money, " an I ll read it to youuns, 
Joe, bout how youuns mus git to Nancy 
Ann," he went on, simply. 

" I m bleeged, Jerry," Joe answered, 
taking Jerry s offer as it was meant, 
" but I don t sot much store by larnin ," 
gravely ; " but I reckon it 11 take all 
youuns kin git to git youuns along : folks 
as ain t got much natteral sense needs a 
heaper larnin , they do." 

"An I ll try to git it," humbly ; " an I ll 
ax the doctor bout gole, I will." 

" An I ll go to see him in the mornin , 
I will," and Joe began to bar the door 
and the window, and Jerry crept away 
to his blankets in the corner, and Pete 
to his leaves ; and when all was still Joe 
made his usual rounds, and leaned his 
loaded rifle by the bedside. 



CHAPTER XH. 

"Nevertheless," continues lie, "I, too, ac 
knowledge the all but omnipotence of early 
culture and nurture ; whereby we have either 
a doddered dwarf -bush, or a high -towering, 
wide-shading tree ; either a sick yellow cab 
bage, or an edible, luxuriant green one." 

AFTER Joe had been to see the doctor, 
Jerry had been told that he was to go 
there every day, that he might learn to 
read and write. There was no school 
in Durden s, and Eureka was too far for 
Jerry to walk there every day ; so the 
doctor had agreed to teach Jerry, and 
the money Joe would have had to pay 
the school-master in Eureka, he was to 
give to some poor people in Durden s 
families the doctor knew to be worthy 
of help. 

" So I m a-payin fur youuns, Jerry, 
and youuns mus try to larn," Joe had 
said ; and Jerry, with a very humble 
and dejected mind, had promised to 
make every effort in his power. The 
feeling that he had to learn because 
he had not enough natural sense was 
dispiriting ; but it was some comfort 
to know that the doctor had learned 
all these things, and if he had begun 
life with a deficiency of mind, Jerry 
felt there was hope. And he said mild 
ly, in answer to Joe : 

" The doctor jest knows ever thing, 
Joe, an I llow he hed to larn em ; I 
reckon he hed mighty leetle sense when 
he started." 

Joe shook his head. 

" I dunno," he answered honestly, in 
spite of the point Jerry so unconsciously 
had made, "I dunno bout hisn sense; 
but if larnin kin do thet much fur any 
pusson, then I says larn, I do." 

"I will," Jerry had said, earnestly, 
and had trudged away down the moun 
tain-side with determination in every 
step. It was all a great mystery to 
Jerry, and somehow, since he had learned 
what books were, and that they knew 
everything, he felt somewhat afraid of 
them, and looked at the study as an ed 
ucated child would look on a haunted 
house. He dreaded the room, but over 
came his fears sufficiently to stay there 
alone for hours when the doctor would 
leave him to go on his round of visits. 
He would endure everything in order 



36 



JERRY. 



to learn ; his motives were simple, but, 
because of their simplicity, were strong ; 
first, the doctor had said he must learn ; 
and second, Joe was paying precious 
gold for his learning. But beyond all 
this, there was the longing to read the 
books that would tell him everything, 
and show him the way to his mother ; 
and with these motives behind him he 
plodded patiently along the road to 
knowledge close at his master s heels. 
And the doctor had asked himself if he 
were wise in the course he had begun 
with Jerry ; would not his own ignorant, 
narrow groove in life be happier for him ? 

Maybe ; but it was right to lift, be it 
ever so little, every immortal soul. He 
had made a vow once to help in some 
way every life that came in contact with 
his own more than this, to seek out 
lives and strive, to raise them ; a step 
might not be altogether clean, yet peo 
ple could mount by it. He would raise 
the boy as high as possible ; would give 
him as much education as he would take 
this would be doing only his duty. 
The life of this poor little waif was as 
lonely as his own, and what was marvel 
lous for his class feeling the loneliness. 
Usually, if the} 7 had enough to eat and 
clothes to cover them, this was suffi 
cient ; but this child, living in compara 
tive comfort, knew there was something 
he missed, and was hunting for it vague 
ly, blindly. Only a spark of soul, may 
be, but he would keep it alive, and per 
haps light a life that would be a beacon 
to many. 

And the possibilities that he was set 
ting up a "will-o -the-wisp" could he 
overlook them ? How many chances of 
inheritance were there against this boy 
what lay behind in his blood ? Still, 
he would try, for the child was surely 
above the average ; already he had shown 
thought and gratitude ; standing, look 
ing up in the doctor s face, with his 
hands in his pockets, he had asked, 
gravely : 

" Do gole keep a feller from cussin ? " 

The doctor took his pipe from between 
his lips the better to see the sharp little 
face. 

"Joe Hows as gole keeps a feller from 
cussin ," the child went on, " and from 
stealin , and a-hankerin atter other folk s 
truck; doit?" 



And the doctor answered, slowly : 

" Sometimes it does, Jerry," smooth 
ing his mustache over his lips that were 
smiling. 

"An gole gits a heaper truck ? " 

"Yes." 

"An pays youuns fur a-workin on 
pore folks, an sick folks, and pisen 
mean folks ? " eagerly. 

"Yes." 

" An I can t pay youuns," wistfully ; 
"but I kin chop wood, an hoe, an tote 
water, I kin." 

"It does not make any difference, 
Jerry," was answered, gravely. " I was 
glad to make you well." 

Then there was a silence while the 
boy, from where he stood, looked pity 
ingly on the man. 

"An nary a pusson he ps youuns," 
slowly, " cause youuns is big an strong, 
an knows ever thing," the child went on, 
as if to himself, " an I can t do nothin , 
nothin ceppen sot a heaper store by 
youuns ; an I do fore God, I do ; jest 
youuns say, an I ll do it sure, jest sure ! 
Farwell ! " and then the door was shut, 
and down the hall the heavy boots had 
tramped out of hearing ; and the lonely 
man had listened and known that into 
his life a true love and gratitude had 
come like a sweet, fresh rain falling 
wastefully on fire-hardened clay. True, 
still all that duty could do should be 
done for the child. 

And Paul, coming in and finding 
Jerry s slate full of poor little efforts at 
writing, propped up on tne table so that 
the fullest light fell on it, and knowing 
whose it must be, pondered on the mean 
ing of this man s strange life. What 
was the point of this new freak that 
made a man like his guardian spend 
hours on this wretched little creature. 
He had better be a clergyman at once. 
And was this what his mother meant by 
being a man? Was this the hope en 
tertained for him ? A feeling that was 
hatred almost, came over him ; and he 
swore a silent, angry oath that no such 
hope should be fulfilled. 

But he had a curiosity to see this boy, 
and one day he waited for him, one day 
when the doctor was out. It was a 
crisp, cold day, with a thin covering of 
snow rounding all the sharp outlines 
about the country, and making the pine 



JERRY. 



37 



woods look like fairy-land. Very cold 
in the early daylight, when Joe went 
away to his work ; and Jerry, as he put 
things to rights, whistled a straight sort 
of tune he had heard Joe whistle as he 
sat idle on Sundays whistled on and 
on in calm contentment, not knowing 
that the day would mark a turning-point 
in his life ; life was a good thing as it 
came to him now. 

His work was soon done, and shutting 
up the house securely, he tucked his 
trousers deeper into his boots, tied his 
hat down over his ears with a woollen 
scarf, and put on a coat of Joe s which, 
if rather large, was warm. 

A queer figure he made trudging 
across the white country, his long coat 
flapping against his heels, and occasion 
ally sweeping the snow, off some drift 
higher than the rest, and his sharply- 
cut yellow face looking out from the 
folds of his scarf. But the hollows in 
his face had filled out, the angles had 
rounded down, and the expression had 
changed in a way that was remarkable. 
His eyes were wistful still, but there 
had crept into them a keen, thoughtful 
look that asked a question at every 
glance. 

Still whistling the straight tune, he 
steadily overcame the obstacles of the 
steep, slippery path ; then out across 
the sweep of the valley, where the wind 
seemed to gather up its scattered forces 
and attack one on all sides, keen, bitter, 
merciless. 

But the boy did not pause ; steadily on 
against wind and snow until the road 
that formed the one street of Durden s 
was reached ; then he slackened his pace, 
and even with this pause was almost 
breathless when he reached the doctor s 
house. Still the end was accomplished, 
and up the steps and down the hall he 
went, and in at the study door in per 
fect peace with himself. 

Always reverent in his demeanor to 
ward the study, yet this time he paused 
longer in his closing of the study door ; 
a new presence was there, a person that 
in all his visits Jerry had never before 
seen. Fair and tall, but still a boy ; 
certainly a boy, for his trousers were 
stuffed into his boots but such boots ! 
A round fur cap was set on one side of 
his fair head a fur-lined cloak, held in 



place by a glittering clasp, was thrown 
back over his shoulders, and his hands, 
small and white, were stretched out to 
the roaring blaze. 

Jerry paused inside the door and 
looked at this new person without any 
hesitation or expression of embarrass 
ment ; the same honest observation that 
would have been called forth by any un 
known wonder, now came to the front 
in honor of Paul ; for it was he who oc 
cupied Jerry s eyes and thoughts. 

" Well," Paul said, slowly, giving the 
new-comer a stare quite as unmitigated 
as Jerry s own, " is your name Jerry ? " 

"It are," gravely, coming toward the 
fire. 

" It are, are it ? " Paul went on, with 
a mockery in his tone that was not lost 
on Jerry ; "you must love lessons to 
come on such a day as this." 

"I do," Jerry returned, beginning to 
divest himself of coat and hat, "an I 
loves the doctor too." 

"That is really wonderful, and your 
coat," slapping his legs with a riding- 
whip he held, " who made that ? " 

" I dunno," turning the clumsy gar 
ment over with recollection only of the 
great comfort he found therein, for what 
were cut and fit to Jerry ? " Joe he gin 
it to me, an its rale warm, it are." 

"Rayly?" and Paul threw his hat on 
a neighboring chair, and his cloak on 
top of it. " Well, the doctor are gone 
out, he are," he went on. 

" Doctor s mostly out when I gits har," 
Jerry answered calmly, but not without 
some appreciation of the sarcasm con 
tained in Paul s English ; for he was be 
ginning to realize the great gulf that 
separated his language from that of his 
master, " an I allers waits fur him, an 
I steddys my book tell he comes." 

" You don t say ! " Paul went on, 
showing himself master of the vernac 
ular ; " an when he comes do he say 
youuns is a good boy ? " 

Jerry shook his head quietly enough, 
but the color stole up slowly into his 
dark face. 

"He says, says he, Does youuns 
knows yer lessing, Jerry ? " steadily 
"an I says, says I, I m a-steddyin ," 
taking his place on the accustomed 
stool, " an then," with an expression of 
despair in his eyes that quite amuses 



38 



JERRY. 



Paul, " I tries to say it, an I m thet flus 
tered I can t do nothin ." 

Paul laughed with real amusement in 
his tones this time, and asked his next 
question with an honest desire for infor 
mation. 

"And the doctor looks like a meat- 
axe, don t he ? " 

"A meat-axe !" indignantly, "no, he 
don t nuther ; he says, says he, Jerry, 
try agin, ceppen the doctor he says 
agen, he do." 

" The mischief ! " and Paul poked the 
fire viciously ; " when I miss," he went 
on, " he s as mad as the devil, and does 
everything but fling the book at my head." 

Jerry looked his companion over from 
head to foot, a look of scorn almost. 

"I jest don t believe thet," he said, 
quietly ; "I jest don t b lieve it." 

The quick color sprang into Paul s 
girlish cheeks " The devil ! " he cried 
angrily, looking down on Jerry where 
he sat in his favorite position, with his 
elbows on his knees and his chin in his 
hands " I ll beat the life out of you." 

Jerry shook his head. 

"No, youuns won t, nuther ! " a new 
light of defiance shining in his eyes, 
" and youuns jest better not try it." 

Paul laughed lightly, already half 
ashamed of threatening such an enemy. 

" You need not be so uppish ! " he 
said, with great contempt ; " do you sup 
pose I would touch such a dirty little 
beggar as you are ? You are a fool ! " 

The color deepened in Jerry s face, 
and slowly he rose from his place as 
the full meaning of Paul s words reached 
his mind. 

" I ain t no beggar," and he drew his 
slim figure to its full height, " an I ain t 
dirty ; an youuns kin jest take thet for 
youuns lyin words ; " and before Paul 
could move to defend himself could in 
any way realize what was coming Jer 
ry s rough hand struck him fairly in the 
mouth. 

But that was all Jerry did, for in a 
second Paul s soft, plaited riding-whip 
was wrapping itself round Jerry s back 
and shoulders in quick, stinging blows, 
blinding, bitter blows that fell with be 
wildering rapidity ! 

It lasted only for a moment, then the 
smaller boy s arms, hardened by toil, 
were wrapped tightly about Paul s body, 



and Jerry, strong with rage and hatred, 
bore him relentlessly back, heedless of 
all obstacles, until Paul s spurs caught 
and he crashed down among the chairs 
and stools, and in an instant, before he 
could at all realize what was being done, 
Jerry was sitting on top of him. 

" Now jest dar to say ther doctor s a 
meat-axe ! " he cried, emphasizing his 
words by tapping his finger on the end 
of Paul s nose, "an jest dar to say thet 
I se a beggar an dirty jest youuns dar 
to say it, an I ll just gouge youuns eyes 
plum out," giving Paul s nose a little 
tweak. 

" I will kill you ! " Paul cried, in a 
fury, trying in vain to free his arms 
from where Jerry pinned them with his 
knees ; "damn you ! let me get up I ll 
tell the doctor I ll have you put in jail 
I ll kill you ! " 

" When youuns gits up," Jerry an 
swered, quietly, his success having re 
stored his temper ; " but I se agoin to 
set right har atopper youuns tell the 
doctor comes, I is ; ef youuns Hows 
thet I m agoin to let youuns git up an 
beat me agin, youuns is got the wrong 
pig by the leg, sure ; I ain t agoin to stir, 
I ain t." 

" Let me get up, I say," and Paul s 
voice sounded constrained, for a dread 
ful thought had come to him suppose 
the servants should find him in this hor 
rible position ! and his pride put its 
flag at half-mast : "I will not touch you, 
I promise," then one step lower "I 
will pay you, Jerry, just let me get up ? " 
pleadingly " and I will never say a 
word about it." 

" An youuns ll take back what youuns 
cussed me ?" gravely. 

"Yes." 

"An"bout the doctor?" 

" Yes." 

" Well, I don t much keer," patroniz 
ingly. " Git up," and Jerry sprang nim 
bly from off his fallen enemy, "but don t 
youuns never furgit this dirty beggar," 
with stinging sarcasm ; "an "thet trick 
of ketchin a feller roun the legs is a 
rale good un , you bet ; a boy cross the 
mounting tole me thet ; it s been a long 
time, but I ain t never furgitted it, an 
to-day it come in rale handy ; " but Paul 
had gone, in silent, unspeakable rage, 
slamming the door after him. 



JERRY. 



What a black disgrace ! How could 
he ever revenge it how could a gentle 
man retaliate on this little vagabond 
this vagabond he had waited to see? 
" But I U pay him off if it takes my whole 
life," and locking the door of his room, 
he cast himself down on his bed and 
cried like a girl. 

And in the study Jerry was putting 
the chairs straight, and shaking his head 
in a threatening way as he swept the 
hearth. He was too much excited to 
study, and at the same time very much 
pleased by the realization of his newly 
discovered strength. 

"I gits it a-cuttin wood," he said, 
feeling his arms, " an I ll git some mo , 
cause it come in rale handy ; " then he 
sat down with his elbows on his knees 
and his chin in his hands, gazing into 
the fire. 

What kind of person was this boy he 
had whipped ? who was he ? and where 
did he come from ? and what made him 
so fine ? He talked like the doctor, and 
his hands and his voice were like a child s 
what was it that made them so differ 
ent ? they were both boys. 

" An he looked at me like I was a 
dorg, he did," the color coming into his 
face again, " but I punched hisn s nose 
good, I did ; but he s rale purty rayly 
purty," thoughtfully, as Paul s fair face 
came up before him. Still, he shook his 
head as he said " It s rale purty, but 
thar s a leak sommers," and he could not 
like it. 

CHAPTER XDI. 

The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain 
For the reed that grows never more again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 

AND the doctor, coming in with an 
open letter in his hand, sat down as if 
worn with a weariness deeper than that 
of body, and closed his eyes with but one 
glance in the direction of the boy. Jerry 
sat quite still. What ailed the doctor? 
and anxiously watching him, all thought 
of Paul and the recent fray passed from 
his mind. Was the doctor sick ? was he 
going to die like Lije Milton? and a 
great terror came over the child. To 
die like Lije Milton ! The doctor die 
then the wider question, must every 
body die ? It had never occurred to him 



before, this idea, and who would bury 
the last one ? But the doctor, who saved 
everyone ; what would become of all the 
people if he should die? Maybe he was 
dead now ! And the boy was afraid to 
move, while his heart was rising up with 
in him, swelling with this great imagin 
ary pain. 

"I ll jest die too," and in his preoccu 
pation he said the words aloud, rousing 
the doctor, who opened his eyes with a 
sigh. 

" What is it, Jerry ? " he asked. 

"I were feared youuns were dead," 
was answered, hesitatingly, "an I llowed 
I d die too." 

" Not just yet for either of us," and 
the doctor held out his hand for the 
book. Then suddenly it came to Jerry s 
mind that he did not know his lesson, and 
he began to feel anxious about the affair 
with Paul what would the doctor say? 

" I don t reckon I knows it," he began, 
not for one moment doubting that con 
fession was a necessity. 

"Well." 

"Well," slowly, "thar were a feller 
in here when I come a rale purty fel 
ler," gravely, "an he says, says ee, 
Does youuns love lessings ? Says I, I 
do. Says ee, What do the doctor do 
when youuns don t knows em ? Says I, 
He says, Jerry, try agin. Says ee, The 
doctor looks at me liker meat-axe, says 
ee, an mos chucks the book at my 
head. Says I, I don t b lieve it, " his 
face beginning to color with the recent 
excitement ; " then I furgits rightly 
what corned next, cause I were so mad ; 
but he cussed me a dirty beggar, he did," 
his fists involuntarily doubling them 
selves, " an I ups an knocks him in the 
mouth, I did, an he licked me liker 
dorg ! " 

"What?" and the doctor sat up 
straight in his chair as the long story 
climaxed so astonishingly. 

"Don t git skeered," and Jerry put 
his hand reassuringly on the doctor s 
shoulder, " I never hurted him much ; I 
jest tripped him up an sot on him, I did, 
an I punched hisn s nose till he asked 
me please to git up, he did ; but I never 
hurted him much." 

The doctor was smiling now, a smile 
that broke over his face as the sunlight 
breaks through a cloud, and lighted up 



JERRY. 



and transfigured every line of it, making 
it look as it must have done in his youth 
when all the untried, beautiful years and 
days lay before him where to choose ; 
then his face became grave once more, 
and the lines about his lips hardened as 
the thought came to him, " Would Paul 
tell him of this difficulty ? " He thought 
not, Paul told him nothing. 

" I do not suppose that you did hurt 
him," he began, coldly, " but I do not 
like it, and you must not fight in my 
house ; as long as you are here, Jerry, 
you must behave like a gentleman." 

" What s thet?" quietly. 

Again a smile flitted across the doc 
tor s lips ; the boy was so unconscious, 
and he answered : " I am a gentleman." 

Jerry stood and looked at him with a 
curious wonder growing in his eyes. 

"An youuns How as I kin be like 
youuns ? " drawing a long breath ; " nary 
time, an it s no use a-tryin it ; youuns 
kin jest as easy make a hick ry stick outer 
sourwood, jest as easy ; " then more slow 
ly, " but I d like to," and his patient 
eyes looked wistfully at his friend. 

" We must try, Jerry," and the doctor 
laid his hand kindly on the boy. 

"I will," the narrow face lighting up 
in its earnestness. "I ll jest do ever 
blessed thing youuns says, I will," and a 
new future, a grand, overwhelming pos 
sibility, opened before the child. 

To be like the doctor : a thought that 
had only dimly dawned on him when the 
question came up of his learning to read ; 
that had never been a defined thought, 
but only a glimmer of light that for one 
instant had shone and faded. And now it 
had been put before him not only as a 
possibility, but as an expectation, and an 
end set for him by the exemplar himself. 
Jerry drew a long breath as he stood 
there trying to realize this great thing ; 
stood there rough and untrained, ig 
norant and a pauper, and set this end 
before himself. Heretofore he had been 
one of many who only lived from day to 
day ; to whom life is an accident that for 
some is smooth, and for some rough ; 
now he had begun another journey with 
an end that seemed far more impossible 
to him than the "Golden Gates" had 
seemed. To try to be something, to try 
to rise, presented a far more vague and 



intangible outline to him than the effort 
to reach some place had done. A reali 
zation of this future was impossible, and 
he came back to the original suggestion 
as to something he could take hold of. 
He knew the doctor ; every day he saw 
him, touched him, spoke to him ; and 
he could grasp this first proposition of 
trying to be like him. 

" An I will," he said, speaking aloud 
as if he were alone, "I will if it kills me. * 

And that night, when the bitter wind 
howled up and down the mountains, 
driving the snow until it banked high 
against Joe s little house ; and Joe in 
front of the roaring fire smoked, and 
told of dark danger in the heavy snows 
Jerry sitting there scarcely heard, for 
he was looking at his future in the 
flames, and wondering. And in the 
midst of the most thrilling of the stories 
he got up from where he squatted on 
the hearth, and drew a chair forward. 

Joe paused. 

" I llows as youuns ain t a-listenin ," 
he said, in a rather injured tone. 

" Yes, I is," and Jerry seated himself 
in the chair gravely, " but I llows as I d 
ruther hev a cheer ; the doctor don t 
never sit on the flo ; leastways. I ain t 
never sawn him a-doin it." 

" The Lord hev mussy ! " and for 
many minutes Joe sat silent, regarding 
his small companion with doubtful looks. 
"Air youuns crazy, Jeremiah P. Wilker- 
son?" he said at last, "jest plum crazy? " 

Jerry shook his head. 

" The doctor llows I mus be a gen 
tleman," he answered, "jest like him 
ezackly ; an I will," nodding his head 
complacently, " I will if it kills me ! " 

" An the doctor llows to give youuns 
a good buryin ? " Joe asked, with sol 
emn sarcasm. 

" I never axed him," Jerry answered, 
literally ; and as he hitched his heavy 
boot-heels on the rung of the chair, a 
mild sense of self-approval swept over 
him that was like a breath of summer 
air ; and he did not know that Joe s 
story remained unfinished, the narrator 
smoking slowly and in silence, only now 
and then glancing at his preoccupied 
companion. 

"Thet boy air a cur us one, sure," 
Joe s thoughts ran, "a reg lar nubbin." 



(To be continued.) 



3 




Hamilton Gibson. 

THAT is but a superficial student 
of ornithology who is content to know 
his birds by the mere specific charac 
ters of anatomy, plumage, and egg ; 
who shoots his bird and names the 
dead body afterward, by the analytical 

key a songless ornithology. Even though he shall name his speci 
men at a glance Latin tag and all he may yet have less ornithology in his soul 
than his unlettered country cousin the old miller, perhaps, who will tell us that 
" the hang-bird has been there on such a morning, unravelling his bagging or 
stealing his tie string ;" who will point out to us " the teeter-bird that picks the 
water-bugs from the wet stones for his long-legged fuzzy young uns ; " or the 
" little brown chap with speckled breast that builds a nest jest like an oven, year 
after year, down yonder among the weeds below the mill, and calls queeche, 
queeche every time I look out of the window." Does he not know his birds, 
even though he might fail to identify their skins ? 

Even the amusing testimony of the savants of the French Academy who pre 
sented to Cuvier for identification a description of a certain " red fish that walked 
backward " is not without its distinct value. " Of course," replied the naturalist 
instantly, "you mean a crab, though it is not a fish, neither is it red, nor does it 
walk backward." The learned tyro would at least show his "fish" where he 
VOL. VIII. 4 



42 



BIRD CRADLES. 



found it in its native element, and 
though his vision appears to have been 
.somewhat askew, his was a worthier aim 
and attitude than the 
other extreme of exact 
science which has to do 
merely with museum 
specimens, with a ready 
list of synonyms in place ^^Sji 

of an inspiring rem 
iniscence, 
with wire 
and tow as 
a substi 
tute for 
animat ion 
and song. 
" A bird 



its mind, an epitome of its loves, its 
hope, solicitude, providence, its individ 
uality, its energy, caution, intelligence, 







in the hand is worth two in the bush " 
is a pagan motto for the ornitholo 
gist. "The bird is not in its ounces 
and inches," says Emerson, " but in its 
relations to nature ; and the skin or 
skeleton you show me is no more a 
heron than a heap of ashes into which 
his body has been reduced is Dante or 
Washington." The true ornithologist 
knows his bird in the bush before he 
converts it into a specimen ; and to truly 
know his bird in its bush he must have 
been admitted to its home. Neither the 
color of the plumage nor the shape and 
decoration of its egg, while so essential 
in the scientific classification of the bird, 
are any index to its conscious being 
the true bird. Bobolink doffs his white 
cap, not from desire or volition, but be 
cause he can t help it. These functions 
are fulfilled in spite of the bird and are 
beyond his control, while even the finer 
attributes of habits and song may be 
said to be scarcely less spontaneous and 
automatic. 

Not so the nest the home, the cradle. 
In these exquisite fabrics, materializa 
tions of the supreme aspirations in the 
life of the bird, we have at once a key to 




Nest of the Redstart. 

reason and economy, discrimination, 
taste, fancy, even its caprice and whim, 
almost of its humor. 

In their arts we may learn something 
of their mental resources, even as the 
antiquary will find in the remnant dec 
orated relics of an extinct people testi 
monies not disclosed by the mummy. 
To know the nidification and nest-life of 
a bird is to get the cream of its history. 
We may snap our fingers at vocabularies 
and synonyms. 

Even an empty nest is still eloquent 
with interest. A few of them have 
been gathered about me as I write ; and 
how beautiful they are ! Here is one 
picked up at random. Not a rare speci 
men from the tropics, but an every-day 
affair of our country walks. What an 
interesting study of ways and means and 
confident skill ! Hung by its edge from 
a horizontal fork of a maple twig, with a 
third of its circumference unsupported, 
it is yet so boldly wrought that this very 
span shall serve as the perch of the 
parent bird. Its edge is plainly com 
pressed, though barely depressed, by 
evident continual use, and considering 
the nature of the materials at this por 
tion its stability was perfectly insured. 
What nice discrimination in the choice 
of strands by which the nest is anchored 
to the swinging bough, its support being 
almost entirely dependent upon a cer- 



BIRD CRADLES. 



43 



tain brown silk from the cocoon spider 
(Argiope Riparia). 

Often in my rambles have I pulled 
this floss from its round tough cocoon 
suspended among the weeds, and won 
dered whether the loom might not yet 
prove its utility ! And here it is, adjusted 
with artful design just where its need is 
most apparent, and its strength recom 
mends it, lapping and overlapping the 
forks and extending across the span 
from twig to twig where it is interwoven 
and twisted with strong strips of bark 
and long wisps from the stalk of the 
milkweed, or similar hempen substance. 
The economy of this spider silk is mani 
fest in all the five nests of this kind 
which are before me, and while it ap 
pears occasionally lower down in the 
structure, these outcroppings prove to 
be only the ends of the loops which en 
compass the twig and are securely an 
chored among the interwoven meshes of 
the fabric. The reliance of the bird on 
the strength of this material would seem 
perfectly plain, for 
in the nests where 
in it is largely 
employed, much 
fewer strands of 
bark are passed 
about the twigs 
than when the in 
ferior white cob 
web is used at this 
point of support 
a fact which I have 
often noticed. 

The cobweb ele 
ment forms an im 
portant amalgam 
in the nests of all 
the vireos, of which 
the above wih 1 be 
recognized as a 
specimen. Laid 
on in snowy tufts, 
or artfully twisted 
into fine threads 
I cannot believe 
this twisting to be 
accidental mesh 
ed about the bas 
ket framework or 
drawn across some 
precious bit of hor 
net nest or glisten- 



ing yellow birch-bark or newspaper clip 
ping, or hung below in fluffy tassels, it is a 
recognized badge of this particular tribe 
of feathered architects, whose pendent 
nests are among the most picturesque of 
all our birds. The hereditary art of 
nidification of the vireos has probably 
suffered little change through the ages. 
As a rule their nests, unlike those of 
other pensile builders, are wrought from 
nature s own raw materials, and, even as 
we generally find them, might have been 
constructed a thousand miles from the 
haunts of man or a thousand years ago. 
And yet, in one particular respect, it 
must be admitted the nest often betrays 
the degenerating human contact. It is 
an admitted fact that many of the vireos 
manifest a strange fascination for the 
newspaper, fragments of which are often 
a conspicuous contamination in their 
motley fabrics, composed most com 
monly of generous strips of white and 
yellow birch, hornet s nest, dried leaves, 
grape-vine bark, asclepias hemp, bits of 




Allen s Humming Bird at Home. 



44 



BIRD CRADLES. 




The Politician (the White-eyed Vireo). 



wood and pith, and vari 
ous other ingredients. 

It was this well-known 
propensity of the bird that 
won it the name of " the 
Politician" from an orni 
thological friend of Wil 
son ; an appellation espe- 
ially given to the white- 
eyed vireo, although from 
my experience the others 
are equalry deserving of 
the soft impeachment. 

How often have I paused 
in the woods to study the 
strange ingredients of 
these vireos nests, of 
which I have dissected at 
least a hundred, in many 
of which the newspaper 
had formed an element. 
And why is it that I am 
always led with such eager 
quest yes, even at the 
risk of life and limb on one 
occasion to scan these 
ragged, weather-beaten 
fragments of print, as 
though consulting the ora 
cle ! Tis true they usually 
disclose but little intrinsic 
reason for their conspicu 
ous preferment, though I 
do remember one or two 
exceptional instances; 
once in my boyhood, when 
I enjoyed a great laugh 
at the disclosures of one 
such literary fragment, the 
precise nature of which has 
escaped me, save that it 
was an advertisement hav 
ing a comical relation to 
the bird world. But my 
memory is distinct of hav 
ing brought the editorial 
selection home in my poc 
ket, where it was subse 
quently forgotten and re 
duced to pi among the 
jack-knives, buttons, jack- 
stones, and other usual 
concomitants of the small 
boy s outfit. The nest I 
well remember. It was 
suspended in a small 
thicket and variously sup- 



BIRD CRADLES. 



ported by the bend of a bramble and 
stalks of hard-hack and meadow rue. 
I did not see the birds, as the nest was 
abandoned, and though not a typical 
vireo s nest, it was so conspicuously 
decked out with edi 
torials and advertise 
ments that, out of re 
spect to Wilson, I 
was constrained to 
accept it as a bad 
case of " the Politi 
cian." 

It has remained for 
the red - eyed vireo, 
however, to reward 
my curious pains for 
enlightenment as to 
the edito 
rial dis 
crimina 
tion of 
these 



a matter in which the volition of the bird 
had no part whatever ! 

It has always been a favorite pastime 
with me, in my autumn walks, this dis 
secting of abandoned nests of all kinds, 




A Bit of Lace. 



nests, and considering the popular name 
which Wilson has bestowed upon the 
bird, " the Preacher," from its well- 
known habit of launching precepts by 
the hour from its tree-top pulpit the 
text from my nest would certainly seem 
to reinforce his happy title. In this 
nest are about six pieces of newspaper, 
of various jagged shapes and sizes ; but 
among them all the only complete sen 
tence anywhere to be discovered in the 
print and this appearing 1 as though ob 
viously treasured is the following : 
" Have in view the will of God." 

And yet I suppose there are those 
who would affirm that this selection was 



then disclosed to view in the denuded 
woods this unravelling of the warp and 
woof of these nature-woven fabrics, ex 
tracting the secrets of the downy bed of 
warblers, analyzing the queer compo 
nents in the hollow of a stump, picking 
apart the felted masses in deserted wood 
peckers dens, since plainly occupied by 
chickadee, creeper, blue-bird, nuthatch, 
or crested flycatcher, and disclosing by 
the aid of a magnifier a wide variety of 
curious textile elements. How endless 
and whimsical the choice of building 
materials for which nature has been laid 
in tribute by the bird, from the tree-top 
cradles of the orioles to the soft feather- 



BIRD CRADLES. 



beds of the wrens, the curled-hair mat 
tress of the chipping sparrow, the bas 
ket cribs of the starlings among the 
rushes, the mossy snuggeries of the 
oven bird, and the adobe of swallow, 
phcebe, and robin, with their various 




In the Track of the Coon. 
(A Vireo searching for hairs for nest-lining.) 



preferences of pine-roots, bark, strings, 
feathers, hornet s nest, caterpillar hairs, 
wool, skeletonized leaves, cobwebs, spi 
der-egg tufts, fur of various animals, 
pappus of seeds of all sorts dandelion, 
thistle, cat-tail willow gleaned from the 
thickets, the trees, the air, the 
barnyard, the stable, the poul 
try-yard, even from your ves 
tibule door-mat or window- 
sill. 

The individual preferences 
of a few of our more common 
birds afford a number of inter 
esting facts. " When I want a 
horse -hair for my compass- 
sight," says Thoreau, "I must 
go to the stable ; but the hair- 
bird, with her sharp eyes, goes 
to the road." The nest of the 
chipping sparrow is common 
ly lined with horse-hair, a 
fact which has won the 
name of hair-bird to the 
species ; although sev 
eral others of the spar 
rows, notably the field 
sparrow and song 
sparrow, are equall} T 
partial to this particu 
lar carpet for their 
nursery. Burroughs 
recounts the bold in 
cident of a sparrow 
picking a hair from 
the body of a 
horse. Who 
ever sees a 
coon-hair in 
the woods ? 
\ And yet here 
is the soli- 
/ tary v i r e o 
that gleans 
in the craf 
ty trail of 
that animal, 
through fern 
and brier 
and hollow 
logs, and 
rarely fails to 
feather her 
nest with the 
soft fur. 
What is the 
secret of this 



BIRD CRADLES. 




peculiar pref 
er enc e ? In 
the wilder re- 



whim or humor of the build- 
Twigs, strips of tough 
bark, string, wiry roots, grass, 
spider silk, cocoons, vege 
table strands of one kind and 
another, all appeal to our sense of the fit 
ness of things, but what special advan 
tage is indicated in the following instance 
of caprice ? Here is the worm-eating war 
bler, for instance, whose nest is seldom 



gions of the 

country the hair of the deer is also said 

to be a common substitute or accompani- free from dried hickory and chestnut cat- 
ment. Certain observers claim that the kins. The oven bird s hut is generally in- 
red-eyed vireo has an occasional fancy termeshed with fruiting stems of urn 
for squirrel-hair, which is sometimes moss, with their dried spore-caps. The 
found in considerable quantities in its Nashville warbler is partial to a mesh of 
nest. I have found what I have assumed pine needles and horse-hair ; while the 
to be the abandoned nest of the solitary purple finch considers hog-bristles and 
vireo, distinguished mainly from the horse-hair a more suitable compound, 
others by the hairy lining and the em- The Kentucky warbler, and various 
ployment of moss and lichen within the other warblers, show a preference for 
interior ; one nest being plentifully the pith of weeds. Perhaps the prairie 
lined with sheep wool from a neighbor- warbler has discovered some rare virtue 



ing pasture. The snow-bunting would 
be at a loss in its boreal nest without the 
fur of the arctic fox. Various of these 



in cast-off caterpillar skins that ordi 
nary humanity cannot guess. Its nest, 
I am told, usually showing a penchant 



cradle-building ingredients readily rec- toward this singular ingredient. 



ommend their utility in the qualities of 
strength, pliability, warmth, etc., while 
others again are only to be accounted 
for on the hypothesis of the passing 



But this bird is not alone in this odd 
choice, of which others of the warblers 
and the vireos occasionally avail them 
selves. In addition to spider silk, and 



48 



BIRD CRADLES. 




cocoon silk, I have occasionally discov 
ered evidences that the web-tent of the ap 
ple-tree caterpillar is occasionally raid 
ed for material, having identified num 
bers of the caterpillar skins among 
the web meshes of the vireos and 
redstart. The oriole visits the web- 
nest too, but on a different errand 
for her cradle. I once observed one of 
these birds mysteriously prying about 
one of these tents. It left me hardly 
time to guess its object, but quickly 
thrust its head through the silken 
walls and took its pick of the 
fattest caterpillars in the squirm- 
interior, carrying them to 
what it evi 
dently consid 
ered as more 
appropriate 
surroundings 
in the hang- 
nest above. I 
once found a 
nest of the 
red-eye which 
exhibited a 
marked ento 
mological pref 
erence, being 
composed 
largely of the 
hairy cocoons 
of the small 

tussock moth, and conspicuously deco 
rated with a hundred or more of the 
black skins of the antiopa caterpillar, of 
all ages. What a singular waste of en 
ergy one would naturally think was 
here revealed in the search for a material 
which at best must be a rare ingredient 
in the wild gleaning. But the inference 
does injustice to the bird s intelligence. 
Assuming that there is an advantage in 
the material, and granting the bird even 
a school-boy s knowledge of the habits 
of a conspicuous insect, few substances 
could be acquired at a less expense of time 
than these withered skins ; for the cater 
pillars of the antiopa live in swarms of hun 
dreds, sometimes of thousands, in the elms 
and swamp willows, and leave their black, spiny, 
cast-off skins of all their five periodic moults 
attached to the denuded branches upon which the 
larvae have fed. 

In another amusing specimen I found a large 
piece of hornet s nest, four inches broad, arranged 




BIRD CRADLES. 



as a pendant, and dangling from this a 
string of brilliants that glittered like 
emeralds, and which proved to be three 
dead bluebottle flies entangled in spi 
der silk. Whether or not the bird had 
appreciated the especial attractions 
of some particular remnant of 
cob-web thus enriched, or had 
deliberately adjusted the flies by 
way of ornament, I could not 




A Specialist in Snake-skins (the Crested Flycatcher) 



determine. But it is undeniable that 



In the same bush I 
discovered, later, a small, 
narrow wisp of lace, 
abandoned to the antagonism 
of the thorns, though not without 
obvious evidences of struggle and 
disappointment fresh commentary 
on a well-known text in proverbial 
philosophy. 

There is obvious wisdom in the use 
of cocoons and hornets nests, so much 



a similar decorative sense is frequently sought after by pensile builders corn- 
displayed in their nests, certain rare pact, tough fabrics in themselves, they 
treasures being held in reserve for fin- are naturally chosen for their strength. 

But it is not easy to explain, on any 
grounds of utilitv, the uncanny discrim- 



ishing touches of adornment, even as I 
once actually witnessed the careful ad 



justment of a bright green iridescent ination of the great crested flycatcher 
feather of a peacock beneath a pendent whose nest in the hollow tree would 

* X _ - i i 1 J ^J. K,, 



nest in a rose-bush just 
closed blinds of my room. 



outside the seem to demand no thought for other 
What twit- qualities than softness and warmth. 



terings of congratulation, mutual sug- Once, in my boyhood, while investigat- 
gestion, and experimental touches ere ing the fascinating hollow in an old wil- 
the dainty prize found its final setting ! low-tree, where I had once surprised a 



50 



BIRD CRADLES. 



day-dozing owl, I found the familiar matted felt at the bottom largely inter 
mixed with fragments of snake-skin. Knowing the habits of snakes" in the 
casting of their skins, having once or twice found them in the grass, I fell to 
wondering whether it could be a common practice of the black snake or "racer," 
to climb a tree for the purpose of exuviation. Later on the mystery was solved, 
having learned in my ornithology that the great crested flycatcher considered the 
snake-skin the ne plus ultra of nest-linings. The nidification of this bird usually 
takes place in the deserted retreat of the woodpecker, and is seldom without its 
complement of one or more snake-skins, which are frequently interwoven in a bed 
of hog-bristles and feathers, rather indicating a peculiar fancy for exuviae. 

But here, again, who knows but what some stray vireo s nest those catch-alls, 
samplers of nature s nest-textiles may not have given the flycatcher the hint. 

I have a vireo s nest in my possession which is 
largely composed of snake-skins, and they are fre 
quently thus found. 

I The purple finch, according to some authorities, 

is addicted to a similar whim occasionally. Of 
course, either of these exceptional cases may rep 
resent nothing more than a successful raid on some 
abandoned nest of the flycatcher. 

The toad is said to habitually swallow its cast-off 
skin, in which case the red-eye must have once 
surprised him in the gastronomic act, for in one 
of my analyses of these nests, I discovered an un 
mistakable fragment of one of these skins, tipped 
with its tiny pellucid glove. 

The winged seeds of plants are a staple article 
in the harvest for the nests. The great order of 




Composites feathers the cra 
dles of thousands of our birds, 
enveloping their egg -treas 
ures or fledglings in a bed 
as soft as swan s down ; the 
plumy seeds of thistle, milk 
weed, dandelion, and lettuce 
being probably the most fav 
ored. 

Nuttall gives us a pretty 
picture of the home-building 
whims of the yellow warbler 
a prize for the cabinet 
truly ! 

" The nest is extremely neat 



& 



The Dandelion Mystery Solved. 
(A Redstart nest-building.) 



BIRD CRADLES. 



51 



and durable ; the exterior is formed 
of layers of silk weed lint, glutinously 
though slightly attached to the support 
ing twig, mixed with some slender strips 
of fine bark and pine leaves and thickly 
bedded with the down of willows, the 
Nankeen wool of 
the Virginia cot 
ton grass (Erio- 
phorum Virgini- 
cum), the down of 
fine stalks, the hair 
of the downy seeds 
of the buttonwood 
(Platanus), or the 
pappus of com 
pound flowers, and 
then lined either 
with fine bent ,, 
grass (Agrostis) or 
down and horse 
hair, and, rarely, 
with a few acci 
dental feathers," 
presenting a fanci 
ful bit of bird ar 
chitecture as well 
as a keen piece of 
analysis, in which 
the erudite botan 
ist is as conspicu 
ous as the orni 
thologist. 

One other "yel 
low bird," the gold 
finch, builds a sim 
ilarly exquisite 

home, but reserves its nesting till a much 
later season than most of our birds, a 
fact which has caused no little discussion 
among naturalists ; the commonly ac 
cepted, though hardly satisfactory, the 
ory having reference to a scarcity of the 
required seed-food for the young during 
the vernal months. In a similar vein of 
reasoning it might be claimed that the 
nesting was deferred to await the ripen 
ing of certain favorite plumy seeds of 
which the structure is usually composed. 
One theory is as good as the other, for 
both are somewhat shattered by numer 
ous instances of nidification as early as 
the middle of May, in which the nest is 
of course composed of seasonable downy 
elements ; for the willows and poplars 
then offer their silken tribute, and the 
dandelion balls cloud the meadows. 



For some years I was puzzled to ac 
count for a certain mutilation which I 
had often observed on the dandelion. 
As is well known to some of my readers, 
the dandelion usually blooms three con 
secutive days ; after which the calyx 




A Good Place for a Wren s Nest. 

finally closes about the withered flow T er, 
and withdraws beneath the leaves. Here 
it remains for a week or more, its stem 
gradually lengthening while the seeds 
are maturing, until, on the fourteenth 
day from the date of first flowering, the 
smoky ball expands. For some days 
prior to this fulfilment the seeds are 
practically full feathered, the growing 
pappus having forced the withered petals 
from the tip of the calyx. On several 
occasions I have observed the side of 
their calyxes torn asunder and the in 
terior completely emptied of its con 
tents of a hundred or more winged 
seeds. I had attributed the theft to 
some whimsical caterpillar appetite, un 
til one day I surprised the true burglar in 
the act. I observed a small blackbird 
suspiciously in the grass, 



52 



BIRD CRADLES. 



and suddenly saw him fly to a branch 
near by with a tiny puff in his bill a 
downy tuft on one side and a bundle of 
seeds on the other the spot from which 
he flew disclosing one of the tell-tale 
rifled calyxes of the dandelion. The 
bird, not immediately identified, soon 




\a 



Ruby Throat Humming Bird, Blue-gray 
Gnatcatcher, and Black-and-white 
Warbler. 



spread its name abroad in the rosy 
gleam from its fan-shaped tail the red 



start. I subsequently discovered the 
nest in a low-hanging fork of an apple- 
tree, and a dainty structure it was, ex 
quisitely adorned with gray moss and 
skeleton leaves and in this case showing 
an unusual preference for dandelion 
seeds, with which its soft bulk was well 
felted. Inas 
much as there 
were thousands 
of the dande 
lion bulbs open 
ing every sunny 
day this feat of 
forage was not 
one of anticipa 
tion of a natu 
ral harvest; 
rather a ques 
tion of econo 
my of labor a 
whole dande 
lion ball at one 
compact pinch. 
Wilson gives 
the nest mate 
rial of the yel 
low warbler as 

silk-weed floss and willow cotton, "which 
present a singular incongruity as to 
chronology, the willow cotton being a 
buoyant feature of the May breeze, 
while the asclepias does not take wing 
until late August and September, the 
silky seeds of the previous year being 
then of course obliterated. Is it possible 
that the warbler, like the redstart, may 
anticipate the bursting pod by an occa 
sional burglary, assisted perhaps by 
those hairy caterpillars which so often 
lay bare the interior ? How else the bird 
could procure the material is a mystery. 
The " cat-tail " is an inexhaustible 
store of down for the later nest-builders. 
Packed with incredible compactness in 
its cylindrical equilibrium, when once 
ruptured the keystone among the feath 
ered seeds once removed as it were 
what a revelation ! The magician s in 
exhaustible hat is not a circumstance to 
it. Rolling out in fluffy masses, a very 
effervescence of down, which seems to 
multiply to infinity even after launching 
in the air. Unless my estimate of bird- 
wisdom is much overwrought, it finds 
its way into many a warm nest. 

But it is not alone to the soft seeds 



BIRD CRADLES. 



53 



of plants that the nests are indebted for 
their downy lining. Here is another 
picture of a dainty home, and one that 
may be verified in the woods if our eyes 
are only sharp enough. If the nest of 
the yellow warbler is a chef d ceuvre what 
shall be said of this, the work of the 
small blue-gray gnatcatcher, one of the 
most refined art-treasures among our 
native nests ? It is usually hung among 
the twigs of a tree, somewhat like that 
of a vireo, though sometimes placed on a 
branch. The body of the nest is closely 
felted together with the softest materi 
als of the forest bird scales, dried blos 
soms, vegetable downs, and the delicate 
cottony substance which envelopes the 
unfolding fronds of fern, with flexible 
skeletons of leaves as an external frame 
work. The rim of the nest is generally 
contracted. But the most marked feat 
ure of the structure is its ornamenta 
tion ; the whole exterior being closely 
thatched with small, brightly-colored, 
greenish- gray lichen. 

The woolly, unrolling fronds of many 
of our ferns are a familiar feature of the 
spring woods, and offer at this season, 
and later, from the mature stems, a 
tempting crop to a number of our more 
diminutive birds, including the various 
warblers, the black and white creeper, 
and humming-bird, etc. 

This exquisitely soft, buff-colored ma 
terial, for convenience called "fern-cot 
ton," however, is not all from the ferns. 
A close analysis with the magnifier dis 
closes a diversity of elements. Some of 
it has been sheared from the mullein. 
The woolly bloom from young linden 
leaves and buds of white and red oak 
have already been identified in the sub 
stance, the stems of everlasting have fur 
nished a generous share, and there are 
doubtless elements from a hundred other 
sources best known to the birds. Some 
of it, too, has already served in the winter 
snuggery of the horse-chestnut bud be 
neath the varnished scales. 

I once observed a tiny bird, presum 
ably a kinglet, gleaning among the open 
ing leaves, now webbed and festooned 
with the liberated soft yellow down, 
that most beautiful of all the spring s 
revelations of bursting buds, so aptly 
figured by Lowell in the provincial 
tongue of Hosea Biglow : 
VOL. VIII. 5 



" The gray hoss-chestnut s leetle hands unfold 
Softer n a baby s be at three days old." 

How irresistibly does this recall that 
companion couplet in the "Pastoral 
line " from the same memorable para 
graph, so true to the spirit of the vernal 
season : 

"In ellum shrouds the flashin hang-bird 

clings 

An for the summer vy ge his hammock 
slings. ?> 

For the skilful nests of the vireos have 
yet their matchless pattern in the work 
of that prince of weavers, the "hang- 
bird," or Baltimore oriole, whose swing 
ing, pendulous nest is a masterpiece, 
not only of textile art, but equally of 
constructive skill, whether from an en 
gineering or architectural point of view. 
What sagacious perception of means and 
intelligent discrimination in their em 
ployment are here disclosed ! The trite 
maxim that " the strength of a chain is 
only that of its weakest link " would seem, 
on a superficial glance at the nest, to be 
entirely ignored by the oriole, the at 
tachment of the nest often seeming to 
exhibit a daring dearth of material and 
in singular contrast to the elaborate 
density of the weaving below. A closer 
examination, however, shows a most sa 
gacious compensation in the economy 
of this apparently weak portion, for here 
it will be found in almost every instance 
the toughest fibre in the entire nest has 
been concentrated, in most cases that 
have come under my observation ; and 
in three specimens now before me, con 
sisting of remnants of strings, fish - line, 
strips of cloth securely twisted and 
looped around the forked or drooping 
twigs, the loose ends below being intri 
cately interwoven among the gray hem 
pen fibres of which the body of the nest 
is composed, the whole structure being 
literally sewed through and through 
with long horse-hairs. 

Remembering Wilson s investigations 
into the similarly compact nest-fabric 
of the orchard oriole, from which he dis 
entangled a strand of grass only thirteen 
inches long, but which in that distance 
was thirty-four times hooked through 
and returned in the meshes, the relation 
of which fact led an old lady acquaint- 



54 



BIRD CRADLES. 



ance of his to ask whether " it would not 
be possible to teach the birds to darn 
stockings," I was led to test the darn 
ing skill of the hang-bird which uses 
the horse-hair in true regulation style. 
With much labor I succeeded in follow 
ing a single hair through fourteen 
passes from outside to interior in the 
length of about ten inches, which I was 
then quite willing to assume as an aver 
age as to the total, which would doubt 
less have reached at least thirty stitches. 
When this is multiplied by the hundreds 
of similar sinews with which the body 
of the nest is compacted some idea may 
be formed of its strength. 

Two types of the nest, both beautiful 
specimens, are now before me. One, a 
true example of the " hang-nest," being 
suspended from the tips of the long, 
drooping branches of an elm, while the 
other, more ample, is hung from a hori 
zontal fork of a maple. It is larger at 
the mouth than the first, but like it is 
suspended from stout strings, twisted 
round and round the twigs and spanning 
the fork. For a long period the nature 
of this peculiar gray hempen fibre which 
forms the bulk of the oriole s nest was a 
puzzle. And even now that the tough 
material has been identified principally 
as the dried strips of the stalks of com 
mon milkweed, which Nuttall observed 
the bird to tear from the plants " and 
hackle into flax," I am not aware that 
the hint of the oriole, as to its evident 
utility as a textile for the spinning-wheel 
or loom, has ever been respected. A 
strip of this tough dried bark, even when 
drawn firmly across the finger-nail, 
separates into the finest of flax, almost 
reminiscent of the milkweed seed-floss 
in its white glossy sheen. 

The oriole s nests are not all made in 
the same mould nor of the same mate 
rial, but generally reflect the resources 
of the locality in which they are built. 
There are numerous instances of anom 
alous nests, in which the eager quest 
of the bird has been artfully humored 
by the housewife, or the ornithological 
curio hunter, resulting in works of ques 
tionable art sophisticated with all man 
ner of contaminations rags and rib 
bons, tape and lampwick, or perhaps pa 
triotic pendants flying the national colors 
of red, white, and blue, in particolored 



zones and strips of red flannel. In con 
trast to these I cannot but revert with 
relief to that beautiful fancy which Chad- 
wick has woven into one of these beau 
tiful nests, and in which the intertwined 
golden and silvery locks of childhood 
and old age tell a pathetic story. 

In one case at least the hint of the 
oriole would appear to have been appre 
ciated, his nest having first introduced 
to the public the utility of the black 
flexible compound which is so common 
an ingredient toward the centre of our 
costly " curled-hair " mattresses. 

During a recent Southern trip I noted 
one or two of these pendulous mat 
tresses of the oriole, their black color 
giving little hint to the observer of the 
gray Southern moss of which they are 
really constructed. In the Long Island 
Historical Booms there is a specimen 
of one of these Southern nests, fully 
eighteen inches long, composed entirely 
of this glossy black fibre a veritable 
piece of hair -cloth to all appearances, 
no single thread, I believe, showing its 
familiar gray complexion, the entire ma 
terial having been presumably abstracted 
from the drying-poles of the "moss gath 
erers," beneath whose arts the Southern 
moss is converted into " genuine curled 
hair" by the rotting and subsequent 
removal of the gray covering, leaving 
only the black shiny core, which is duly 
shipped and subsequently sold and 
" warranted " at fifty cents a pound. 

In strong contrast to the foregoing 
products of warp and woof is the hum 
bler art of the plastic builders the 
adobe-dwellers among our birds. Of 
such are the robin true child of the 
sod, with its domicile of mud and coarse 
grass and the thrushes generally, the 
phcebe, pewee, and the swallows. Solid 
and substantial fair-weather structures, 
they are yet far inferior in the scale of 
architectural intelligence ; for while in 
the textile nests even a drenching rain 
serves but to amalgamate the mass, the 
mud-builders are often at the mercy of 
the storm ; a possible fate which is not 
always anticipated in the selection of a 
building site. In the case of the swal 
low beneath the eaves, and the phcebe 
under the bridge, the home is safe, but 
the robin occasionally pays a heavy 
penalty for the daring exposure of its 



BIRD CRADLES. 



55 



nest, the fair structure of the sunshine 
literally melting away in the rain. Dur 
ing the past wet season two such mishaps 
occurred upon my lawn, the nests having 
disentangled and fallen in a shapeless 
mass, scattering the egg contents upon 
the ground. 

Recently I chanced upon another 
reckless nest, that of the yellow-billed 
cuckoo, or rain-crow, in the top of an 
apple-tree, if, indeed, the loose pile of 
sticks could be dignified by the name of 
nest at all, being more suggestive of a 
gridiron, through which the outlines of 
the head and the long projecting tail 
of the bird were distinctly perceptible 
against the sky. As I climbed the tree 
the bird new to the neighboring branches, 
uttering an occasional hoarse croak in 
its familiar tone, obedient as it were, to 
a periodic pumping stroke of the long 
tail. I- found the nest occupied by a sin 
gle fledgling, and was moved to congrat 
ulate the remnant for having managed 
to reach his pin-feather days without 
tumbling out of bed, which I fancied 
must have been the fate of his presum 
ably former bed-fellows, for the edge of 
the open pile of sticks was lower than 
the centre whereon he rested. 

Examples of this sort of nest-building 
are happily not common, and in the case 
of this bird, a near congener to the Eu 
ropean cuckoo, though entirely without 
its parasitic habits, it would seem to have 
a somewhat parallel sin of shiftlessness. 
In all the four nests of this bird which 
I have found, this contributory negli 
gence toward the destruction of its off 
spring has been manifest. My fancy 
has sometimes suggested the query 
whether this may not be an example of 
the process of evolution from a lower 
parasitical to a higher state, the dawn 
ing intelligence in the art of nest-build 
ing. 

The turtle-dove is accused of a like 
carelessness in the construction of its 
nest. The night-hawk and the whip- 
poor-will, though building no nest at 
all, are more considerate of their babes, 
at least assuring them against the fate 
of the* cuckoo s brood by nesting on the 
ground. 

Last summer I was favored with a 
rare neighbor in the shape of a red 
headed woodpecker, not a common 



visitant in Connecticut, at least in the 
section familiar to me. Eemembering 
that this was the bird whose flashing 
plumage and flaming scarlet head kin 
dled the ornithological fervor of Wilson, 
which led to his subsequent fame, my 
visitor came doubly recommended. The 
nest was excavated on the under side of 
a large branch of an apple-tree near the 
house ; and even though naturally safe 
from observation, the bird seemed little 
desirous of concealment, pirouetting 
about the elm trunk close by the win 
dow and speeding like a rocket directly 
to its nest. 

At first thought the peculiar condi 
tions of the woodpecker s nest would ap 
pear to offer advantages of safety above 
those of other birds, as in truth it does, 
being at least secure against the hawks 
and owls and foxes. Yet it is by no means 
invulnerable. The black snake has a 
well-known fancy for young woodpeckers, 
and has often been surprised within the 
burrow, to the horror of the small boy 
oologist, perhaps, who is thinking only 
of the rare white eggs as he feels the 
depths of the hollow. The birds are 
also an easy prey to the murderous red 
squirrel, one of the arch enemies of our 
nesting birds. Last year two of my 
woodpecker fledglings fell his victims, 
and only a few weeks since a whole fam 
ily of flickers, which built in a large 
neighboring maple, were well-nigh ex 
terminated by the same brigand. Two 
fully pinioned fledglings were found 
dead on the ground beneath the hole, 
each with an ugly gash at the throat, and 
one of which the squirrel was observed 
dragging by the head, while endeavor 
ing to ascend the trunk treating birds 
like pine-cones dropping his cone first 
to enjoy it at his leisure. But one 
survivor of the brood was seen later, and 
this doubtless followed the fate of the 
others. The woodpeckers, in addition 
to serving their own ends, are also pio 
neers for a number of smaller fry among 
the birds, the deserted tunnels being in 
great demand for apartments, and of 
ten a prize won only by supreme strat 
egy or victory among the bluebirds, 
nut hatches, creepers, wrens, and chicka 
dees, though the last has been known to 
excavate its own domicile. Indeed, to the 
wren a hole of any kind possesses great 



56 



BIRD CRADLES. 



attraction, it "will build in anything 
that has an accessible cavity, from an old 
boot to a bombshell," says Burroughs. 
But whether a palatial tin box, a post- 
hole, a tin oil-can, auger-hole, pump- 
spout, pocket of an old coat, wheel-hub, 
or tomato-can, the interior is always 
brought to the same level of luxury in 
its copious feather-bed. 

I remember once, in the days of my 
early ornithological fervor, discovering 
a wren s nest in a shallow knot-hole of 
an old apple-tree. The bird scolded and 
sputtered at the entrance like a typical 
setting hen, and even suffered herself to 
be poked from the hole ; and if there be 
those who think that birds cannot swear, 
they should have witnessed the subse 
quent vocal exercises. The feather-bed 
disclosed twelve pinkish eggs by actual 
count, for I remember in humiliation my 
scandalous pride at having "eleven du 
plicates for trade." 

There are a number of especially well- 
known favorites among the nests which 
should be mentioned, either one of which 
is a sufficient quest for a summer s 
walk. 

There is the grass hammock of the in 
digo bird, so artfully swung between two 
or three upright branches of weed ; the 
skilfully woven basket of the red-wing 
blackbird in the bog, either meshed 
within its tussock, twisted into the but 
ton-bush, or suspended among the reeds. 
Then there are the quaint covered nests 
of the oven bird at the edge of the 
brook, the bee-hive of the marsh-wren 
among the sedges, or the Maryland yel 
low-throat in the swamp, and the rare 
snuggeries of the golden - crested wren 
and blue, yellow - backed warbler the 
former a tiny hermitage, built on the 
branch of an evergreen, composed of 
moss and lichen, with only a small hole 
left for entrance, and the interior lined 
with down ; the latter a dainty den, con 
structed, according to Samuels, of the 
"long gray Spanish moss (lichen?) so 
plentiful in the States of Maine, New 
Hampshire, and Vermont. The long hairs 
of the moss are woven and twined together 
in a large mass, on one side of which is 
the entrance to the nest a mere hole in 
the moss. The lining is nothing but 
the same material, only of finer quality." 
I have seen but two specimens of this 



nest one composed entirely of the long 
gray lichen which beards the patriar 
chal trees of our Northern forests and 
the other of a shorter species found on 
fences and rocks. 

The nest of the blue-winged yellow 
warbler is really worth a search. Few 
of our ornithologists have found it. 
According to Wilson, it is usually placed 
in a bunch or tussock of long grass, and 
is in the form of an inverted cone or 
funnel, the bottom thickly bedded with 
dry beech-leaves, the sides formed of the 
dry bark of strong weeds, lined with 
fine dry 7 grass. These materials are not 
placed in the usual manner, circularly, 
but shelving downward on all sides from 
the top, the mouth being wide, the bot 
tom very narrow and filled with leaves. 

Nor must I forget to mention that curi 
ous and anomalous three-, four-, and once 
I believe five-storied nest which occasion 
ally rewards the search of the persevering 
oologist a true piece of architectural 
art, each compartment perhaps with its 
single repudiated speckled egg a mon 
ument as it were to the intelligence and 
indefatigable pluck of the yellow warbler 
in overtopping the wit of the parasitic 
cow-bird, each story of the curious domi 
cile being erected over the insinuated 
portentous egg, and sufficiently separ 
ated therefrom to insure against its 
incubation, when the bird shall at last 
have exhausted her adversary s re 
sources and nestled in peace on the sum 
mit of her lofty pile, an apt, if facetious 
embodiment of "Patience on a monu 
ment." 

We have already alluded in superla 
tive terms to the nest of the blue-gray 
gnatcatcher, but even that artistic pro 
duction must yield to its easy rival and 
model of the humming-bird, in truth 
the prize among all our nests. Well 
does the ruby-throat deserve the golden 
medal which he wears upon his breast. 
From picture or cabinet specimens this 
beautiful mimetic structure saddled on 
its branch is familiar to most of my 
readers, few of whom, I am sure, will ever 
have disclosed it in its haunts, even 
though the eye may have rested on it 
a dozen times. The construction of this 
nest, barely an inch and a half in di 
ameter, is well described by Wilson : 
" The outward coat is formed of small 



BIRD CRADLES. 



57 



pieces of bluish-gray lichen, that vege 
tates on old trees and fences, thickly 
glued on with the saliva of the bird, giv 
ing firmness and consistency to the whole 
as well as keeping out moisture. Within 
this are thick matted layers of the fine 
wings of certain flying seeds, closely 
laid together ; and lastly the downy sub 
stance from the great mullein and from 
the stalks of fern lines the whole. The 
base of the nest is continued around the 
branch, to which it closely adheres ; and 
when viewed from below appears a mere 
mossy knot or accidental protuber 
ance." 

I have found but two in my lifetime, 
but am confident that a systematic search 
among the orchards in the glittering 
trail of the bird as he leaves the trum 
pet blossoms, would reveal one or two 
more. For there is a strange inconsist 
ency in the bird, which, in spite of its 
secretive art work, does not hesitate to 
reveal it by her tell-tale actions, hover 
ing about an intruder s head like a 
sphinx moth in the twilight, and, far from 
decoying one s attention away from her 
treasure, like other birds, deliberately 
settling herself thereon in preference to 
alighting elsewhere a conscious jewel 
that would seem to know its most ap 
propriate setting. 

The United States is favored with but 
a dozen species of the humming-bird, 
only one of which is found east of the 
plains. But what glints and gleams and 
scintillations and spangles among the 
flowery tropics ! where the hundreds of 
species of these sun-gems sport among 
their suggestive legion of companion 
orchids, each feathery atom with its 



especial whim of nest, here suspended 
among waving grasses, there hung upon 
a tendril or poised upon a leaf, or per 
haps glued flat upon its swinging, droop 
ing tip. But there is a choice even 
among diamonds, and it may be doubted 
whether even the famed tropics afford 
a more unique example of artistic refine 
ment than this of our native Western 
humming-bird, described by Dr. Brewer, 
a species only recently discovered by Mr. 
Allen, whose name it bears. 

"This nest is of a delicate cup-shape, 
and is made of the most slender branches 
of the hypnum mosses, each stem bound 
to the other and all firmly tied into one 
compact and perfect whole, by inter- 
weavings of silky webs of spiders. 
Within it is finely and softly lined with 
silky vegetable down. Even in the 
drawer of a cabinet, without its long 
natural framework, it is a perfect little 
gem in beauty. What, then, must it 
have been in its original position, with 
the graceful, waving leaf of the maiden 
hair fern for its appropriate and natural 
setting. It was fastened to the fern not 
two feet above the ground, and to this 
frail support it was secured by threads 
of spider-webs so slender as to be hardly 
visible." 

We know not what other nest-treas 
ures yet await us in the woods. There 
are many rare finds yet in store for the 
ornithologist in the long list of bird- 
species, well known by their skins, and 
even by their songs, but whose nidifica- 
tion is wrapped in mystery dozens of 
the warblers, sparrows, flycatchers, and 
vireos, and others yet awaiting their true 
historian. 




THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 

IV. TO HIS OWN EEPUTATION. 
By E. L. Godkin. 




HE first condition of 
all permanent associa 
tions of men, however 
primitive, is that each 
member should, in a 
greater or less degree, 
enjoy the confidence 
and good opinion of 
his fellows. No social organization, 
however rudimentary, could hold to 
gether for any great length of time 
unless the majority of those compos 
ing it were satisfied that they had in 
common certain ideas about the things 
which most concerned the safety and 
welfare of the community. This com 
mon stock of ideas need not be, and, 
as a general rule, has not been, what 
civilized men call morality. Civilized 
notions of right and wrong may have 
but little, if any, place in it. But it 
always imposes certain obligations in 
the matter of fidelity to custom, and of 
mutual help and succor in times of dan 
ger, necessity, and tribulation, the non- 
fulfilment of which calls forth some 
sort of social penalty. In all pursuits 
of tribal life, whether the particular 
undertaking be war, or hunting, or ma 
rauding, or merrymaking, or marrying, 
the savage is expected to behave in the 
manner prescribed by the customs and 
traditions of the community, so that his 
fellows may depend on him. No man 
in the tribe can keep his social place 
unless the other members are able to 
foresee how he will act under any given 
set of circumstances. This is the neces 
sary basis of all gregarious existence, 
even that of animals. Buffaloes or wild 
horses could not live in herds, or wolves 
hunt in packs, or wild geese fly in flocks, 
without some sort of general under 
standing or agreement as to gregarious 
conduct, violation of which would en 
tail death, or expulsion, or desertion. 

Darwin and Spencer think that out of 
this gregarious sympathy and co-opera 
tion grew civilized morality, as a neces 



sary result of the working of the social 
instinct. Whether this view, or the op 
posing one that morals are the creation 
of the Divine will, be the correct one, 
makes little difference for my present 
purpose. What is certain is that the 
need of mutual help, on which gregarious 
existence depends, created the very first 
form of individual property, the earliest 
of individual belongings, in the shape 
of social repute. No matter how far we 
go back in the earlier forms of society, 
even in those in which individual own 
ership of material things can hardly 
be said to exist, in which lands are held 
for the common tribal benefit, and even 
game is turned into the common tribal 
stock, we find that there is always one 
thing which is each man s peculium, 
which, though of no use to anyone else, 
is to him the most valuable thing on 
earth, namely, the estimation in which 
he is held by the other men of the tribe 
with regard to the principal social vir 
tue. 

I say "the principal social virtue," 
because every community, civilized or 
uncivilized, arranges social virtues on a 
scale of its own. At the top of the list 
it places the virtue which it considers 
most important to its own existence 
and prosperity. In barbarous or mili 
tary communities physical courage nat 
urally occupies this place. The highest 
honors are reserved for the successful 
fighting man, and the deepest scorn 
heaped on the man who shrinks from 
fighting. Courage was, in truth, the 
only foundation for respectability all 
over Europe in the Middle Ages, except 
in the commercial Republics, where it 
was supplemented, if not supplanted, by 
financial probity. To-day it has sunk 
into a very secondary position in all 
commercial communities, and has been 
almost lost sight of in others, as is 
shown by the disappearance of the duel. 
In the former, in order to be respected 
by his neighbors, a man must, as a gen- 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



59 



eral rule, be peaceable, or what is called 
" law-abiding ; : that is, not only slow 
to quarrel, but ready when he does 
quarrel to have his dispute settled by 
the courts. He must be truthful, that 
is, must be a man whose account of what 
he professes to know or have seen, and 
whose promises with regard to what he 
will do in future, may be relied upon. 
His domestic life must be pure, that is, 
he must be the husband of one wife and 
live with her in amity. If he has chil 
dren, he must make such provision for 
their wants as his means will permit, 
and give them a decent education. If 
he is engaged in a trade or profession, 
he must carry out his contracts faith 
fully, and answer all expectations for 
which he has given reasonable cause. 
If he is an employer, he must treat his 
workmen with consideration and pay 
them their wages duly. He must, too, 
be ready to bear cheerfully his share of 
such burdens, whether in money or la 
bor, as sudden or unforeseen occasions, 
whether of good or evil fortune, may 
impose on the community to which he 
belongs. He must, furthermore, be 
what is called " a good neighbor," that 
is, be ready to interchange with those 
who live near him not only the small 
courtesies called for by mere propin 
quity, but the larger offices of charity 
created by sickness or misfortune. 

It will thus be seen that as civilization 
has advanced the conditions of respec 
tability have multiplied. At the begin 
ning valor constituted a sufficient claim 
to social consideration. As the arts 
spread and the social organization grew 
more complex, and opinion became more 
powerful, a man had to increase the 
number of his titles to the esteem of his 
neighbors. But there never has been 
any period when these titles were not 
among his most valuable possessions, 
or in other words, when what people 
thought of him was not, almost as much 
as tangible property, or even more than 
tangible property, necessary to the com 
fort and happiness of his life. Shakes 
peare s 

" Who steals iny purse steals trasli ; tis some 
thing, nothing ; 

Twas mine, tis his, and has been slave to 
thousands ; 

But he that filches from me my good name 



Robs me of that which not enriches him, 
And makes me poor indeed " 

is but the poetic expression of the idea 
of all societies, savage or civilized, that 
have ever existed, that a man s social 
standing was the particular kind of 
property most necessary to his enjoy 
ment of life, the loss of which would 
greatly impair, if not destroy, the satis 
faction derivable from all other kinds. 

Now, where does the value of this 
social consideration to the community 
lie, apart from the satisfaction which 
it gives to each man s own self-esteem ? 
In other words, why had he at one time 
to defend it himself with the sword, and 
why does the community now under 
take to defend it for him through the 
courts? The first reason is, that the 
love of reputation is the most powerful 
motive to good conduct perhaps the 
very strongest guarantee the community 
has for the good conduct of the citizen. 
The approval of a man s own conscience 
is, of course, also a powerful one, but 
that it acts with anything like the same 
force on the great bulk of any commun 
ity, we have not and cannot have any 
proof. What the power of conscience 
is in any individual case, nobody knows 
but the man himself. For the state of 
his moral nature, we have to trust en 
tirely to his own story, and experience 
justifies us in refusing to pay much at 
tention to this story until it is sup 
ported by a long course of visible good 
works. "By their fruits ye shall know 
them "is as sound a rule of jurispru 
dence as of moral philosophy. 

Practically, it is to the desire of social 
approval, and the corresponding fear of 
social reprobation, that every commun 
ity owes most of its protection from 
disorder and fraud, and most of its 
improvement on the moral side. No 
legislator depends on the courts and po 
lice for more than a very small part of 
the public peace and progress. Nearly 
the whole of that portion of every pop 
ulation to which the State looks for its 
general welfare and security that is, 
the intelligent and industrious portion 
are acted on strongly by the desire 
for the applause and good will of their 
neighbors, comparatively very little by 
the fear of the penal code. Outside 



GO 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



the class in which crimes of violence 
are commonest, the ignorant, the vi 
cious, and disorderly, the largest part 
of the penalty, even for violations of the 
law of the land, is the keen suffering 
which comes from the social disgrace 
which they entail on the offender and 
his family. For offences which do not 
entail such social disgrace, like those 
committed, as it is said, for conscience 
sake, such as succoring fugitive slaves 
in this country, or the refusal of Angli 
can clergymen in England to obey the 
civil courts in matters of ritual to-day 
in England, the jail has no terrors what 
ever. A very large part of our immense 
structure of commercial and financial 
credit is maintained by the same sanc 
tion. Of course, the fear of business 
ruin, which would follow failure to keep 
positive engagements, is the greatest 
support of financial fidelity and exact 
ness; but for protection against that 
great mass of trickery and sharpness 
which is possible without absolutely 
putting credit, in the strict technical 
sense of the term, in peril, society has 
to rely in the main on the general love 
of approbation. 

The purity of the sexual relation is 
largely preserved in the same way. The 
law in some countries punishes adul 
tery ; it punishes bigamy in all ; but it 
punishes unchastity in none. It is the 
testimony of all competent observers 
that the penalties directed against adul 
tery, where they exist and are enforced, 
have little or no deterrent effect, owing 
to the difficulty of proof, and the un 
willingness of the injured party to ap 
pear as a prosecutor. In practice, the 
only legal defence of the marriage rela 
tion is divorce, which is, in nine cases 
out of ten, something which the guilty 
party desires or, at all events, does not 
fear. The most effective deterrent from 
matrimonial infidelity, next after con 
sideration for the children, is fear of so 
cial reprobation. This is the one terror 
of the dissolute, or depraved, or light- 
minded, and thus does most for the 
maintenance of the family bond. 

Many, however, who acknowledge that 
legislation in defence of domestic purity 
is useless unless supported by a strong 
public sense of its value, forget that this 
public sense of its value must, in order 



to act as a sanction, pass out of the 
stage of simple appreciation, or admira 
tion, and take the form of judgment on 
conduct ; that is, it must take the form 
both of praise and blame of individuals. 
It must be converted into positive ap 
probation of the good husband or wife, 
and positive and expressed condemna 
tion of the unfaithful husband or wife. 
It is this sentiment in this form which, 
more than any marriage vows, or any 
form of legal penalty, keeps down mat 
rimonial irregularities, and compels 
large numbers of persons to support 
matrimonial infelicity with patience and 
resignation. It will thus be seen that 
the interest of the State in keeping- 
alive the love of social approbation is 
immense. The dangerous men, whether 
high or low in every community, are the 
men who do not feel it, or feel it only in 
a very slight degree. 

Next we may ask, what does social 
consideration or reputation do for the 
individual ? What rights, privileges, or 
immunities does it procure him, apart 
from the satisfaction it may give his 
vanity or self-esteem ? It gives him in 
the first place the comfort which comes 
to every man and to his family from the 
knowledge that his neighbors think well 
of him. The extent to which this en 
ters into a man s happiness, of course, 
varies in individuals, but next after as 
sured subsistence, it forms, to nine men 
out of ten, the chief reason for loving 
life, for clinging to one s own birthplace 
and country, and for reluctance to emi 
grate or fix one s abode among stran 
gers, whose opinion of one has still to 
be formed. A disgraced man is, to all 
intents and purposes, a man beginning 
a life of exile, and one of the sorrows 
of early struggling youth lies in the 
fact that people have not yet formed 
any estimate of the young man s char 
acter or capacity. Keputation, in fact, 
surrounds a man with an atmosphere of 
peace and hopefulness which he enjoys 
unconsciously, very much as he enjoys 
health in bright, clear weather ; and his 
family live in it and benefit by it hardly 
less than he does himself. 

In the next place, it gives weight to 
his opinions in all matters in which he 
shares his interest with other people. 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



61 



A man of good reputation is listened to 
with a deference which nothing but act 
ual power can procure for a man of poor 
reputation. His advice, too, is taken 
with a readiness which his ability or ex 
perience may not always warrant, be 
cause there is a strong disposition in hu 
man nature to infer wisdom from good 
ness a conclusion which is generally 
true in spite of the contempt often felt 
and expressed by "practical men" for 
the opinions of moralists, like clergymen 
and philosophers, and in spite of the 
frequent exhibitions of incapacity in 
ordinary affairs of life made by men 
of undoubted purity and simplicity of 
character. Influence, of course, follows 
power, whether it be the power of wealth 
or of office, without much reference to 
the character of the holder ; but it is 
enormously increased and strengthened 
by popular belief in a man s sincerity, 
kindliness, and honesty, and may, by 
the same help, survive the loss of both 
fortune and place. 

Though last, not least, reputation in 
trade and business takes the place to 
a large extent of capital. Every man 
whose character is held in high estima 
tion by his neighbors, can always com 
mand more credit than his visible means 
will warrant ; that is to say, he can bor 
row to an extent which a mere examina 
tion of his assets would not justify. His 
promises are treated as if they were 
cash, although the manner in which they 
can be converted into cash may be un 
known to those who trust him. In fact, 
if reputation were taken from under the 
fabric of modern commercial credit, the 
result would be an immense financial 
collapse. The larger part of it is built 
up on the assumption that the word of 
certain men is literally "as good as 
their bond," or, in other words, that they 
feel moral obligations more strongly 
than legal ones. Illustrations of this 
proposition can be found in nearly every 
pursuit and calling. A lawyer s profes 
sional value is greatly increased by pub 
lic confidence in his character ; so is a 
doctor s, or architect s, or engineer s. 
The value of this confidence from a 
purely commercial point of view can 
hardly be estimated until a man loses it ; 
then, and then only, can it be seen how 
much it had done for him. That particu 



lar men have been and are able to achieve 
worldly success in certain occupations 
without it, is doubtless true, and a mat 
ter of common observation ; but it will 
be found in nearly every such case that 
the absence of reputation has been com 
pensated for by some rare peculiarity of 
mind or temperament. To illustrate or 
enforce this theory by examples would 
be easy, but it would carry me into per 
sonalities which would hardly be war 
rantable in a paper of this sort. 

The value of reputation to the indi 
vidual, and the importance to the state 
of having him estimate it highly, being 
made clear, it remains to consider what 
does, can, or might the state do to pro 
tect him in the enjoyment of it. The 
reluctance of the state to do anything 
whatever, has been one of the most cu 
rious facts of modern history. It is only 
since the invention of printing that libel 
has become an important subject to the 
legislator or jurist. Spoken slander, in 
the days before pamphlets and news 
papers, was of trifling importance, and 
the punishment or repression of it was 
left, as attacks on property were at a 
still earlier period, to the victim himself 
by means of the duel or single combat, 
or some sort of corporal chastisement. 
The idea that this class of injury is most 
appropriately punished by personal vio 
lence has in fact survived down to our 
own day. There still lingers in the 
minds of the public, even in this country 
and in England, where the duel has died 
out, the notion that, though one ought 
to rely exclusively on the police and the 
courts for the protection of one s goods 
and chattels, yet there is certain peculiar 
fitness in protecting reputation or pri 
vacy against libel or intrusion by the 
cudgel or the horsewhip. That there is 
a certain pusillanimity in seeking redress 
for such wrongs in the courts only, has 
only very recently wholly disappeared 
from among us, and the public " thrash 
ing " of libellous editors has been wit 
nessed in New York within the present 
generation. 

There is, too, a very remarkable sur 
vival of this idea in the theory on which 
the common law first based its proced 
ure in the criminal prosecution of libel. 
That theory was that the state was only 
called in to concern itself with libel 



62 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



or slander as a criminal offence, because 
it was likely to lead to a breach of the 
peace. Out of this grew the apparently 
absurd, but really perfectly logical, dic 
tum, "the greater the truth the greater 
the libel," because the tinier it was, the 
more likely it was to lead to what South 
erners call "a difficulty." It was, in 
short, only when the person libelled 
seemed likely to seek redress vi et armis, 
that the law felt called upon to interfere ; 
but this was a distinct advance on the 
earlier view that the law need not con 
cern itself at all with such quarrels. It 
fell a long way short, however, of the 
more modern and more civilized view 
that it is as much the duty of the state 
to provide security for reputation as for 
property, and that it is, moreover, the 
interest of the state to do so, a man s 
regard for his reputation being one of 
the chief guarantees of social order and 
progress. 

This duty of punishing slander as a 
crime exists apart from, and is inde 
pendent of, the duty of furnishing the 
citizen with means of recovering from 
the libeller pecuniary compensation for 
the injury done, when the extent of 
such injury is ascertainable in terms 
of money. There are certain cases in 
which damage computable in money is 
presumed by the law to have resulted 
from the slander, as when a clergyman 
is accused of intemperance or profliga 
cy ; a lawyer of dishonesty ; a merchant 
of insolvency ; or a doctor of ignorance. 
In all such cases it is not necessary for 
the plaintiff to prove any loss resulting 
from the slander. The law says loss 
must have resulted from it, and the only 
question the jury have to pass upon, 
the utterance of the slander having been 
proved, is the question of amount. In 
other cases, where damage is not pre 
sumed, the plaintiff has to prove his 
damage, but the jury are allowed a 
large discretion in the matter of estimat 
ing it. They can take into account his 
mental suffering, or the frequent repeti 
tion, as an aggravation ; or they may, on 
the other hand, treat an apology, or the 
absence of malice, a good intention, as a 
mitigation of the damage. In fact, the 
whole matter of libel and slander is in 
the hands of the jury. The law, as laid 
down by the judge, has now very little 



control over it. The juries are to-day 
the true and untrammelled protectors 
of private reputation and, it may be said 
also, the true censors of the press. It is 
they who really decide what may and 
may not be written or said about a 
man s reputation. 

Cases of real slander, however, now 
very seldom come before them. Ac 
tions for words spoken are now al 
most unknown in the United States, 
although in the earlier history of the 
country they occupied a good deal of 
the time of the courts, even in the re 
moter districts. There are two prob 
able reasons for this. One is that lo 
cal life is now much less isolated than 
it used to be. Even the inhabitants of 
farms and country villages are in much 
closer communication with outer world 
and much more occupied with large ex 
ternal events than formerly. They are, 
therefore, much less concerned about 
each other, and pay less attention to 
each other s sayings and doings, and are 
less sensitive to unkind or malicious 
speeches. The other reason is that, 
when anyone wishes seriously to dam 
age reputation nowadays, he inevitably 
seeks to put it in a newspaper, as the 
channel through which he can obtain 
most publicity, and make his attack 
most seriously felt. Consequently, it is 
newspaper libel which furnishes nearly 
all the cases on which juries are required 
to pass. In one way this makes their 
task easier ; in another harder. In ac 
tions for oral slander there was always 
a good deal of trouble in getting at the 
words actually spoken, owing to the de 
fective memory or bad faith of wit 
nesses. In cases of printed libel there 
can be no dispute about the language 
constituting the libel. 

But the question of libel in news 
papers is attended with a difficulty of 
another sort, and a much more serious 
one. Newspapers are not only collec 
tors of news in the ordinary sense of 
the term, they are also the channels 
through which the citizen gets nearly 
all his knowledge of the working of his 
government, and of the character, aims, 
and deeds of the men who carry it on, 
or seek to influence it. This fact gen 
erally increases the responsibility of 
juries, by the importance it gives to the 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



63 



question of " privilege." As an English 
writer on jurisprudence * has well said : 
" A notoriously bad man has not a legal 
right to be respectfully described in 
speech or writing as a good man has. 
A man doing an important public act, 
or addressing a literary treatise to his 
fellow-countrymen, has no right entitling 
him to shut the mouths even of harsh 
and severe critics, even though their 
general intention be unkindly, but not 
accompanied by that vehement desire, 
or distinct consciousness of doing evil, 
which alone the law denounces. For 
general public reasons it may be, that 
no man has a right entitling him to 
close the mouths even of the severest 
critics of his conduct in the course of 
his administration of public justice ; in 
that of the deliberations of the Legisla 
tive Assembly, or in certain other more 
private circumstances, as in the course 
of tendering confidential advice with re 
spect to trustworthiness for important 
employments." 

"When we add to these considerations 
another and most important one the 
extent to which the government, as well 
as those large quasi-public enterprises, 
the railroads, is carried on or regulated 
by discussion, mainly through the news 
papers, it is easy to see how difficult is 
the task imposed on jurors in our day 
of defining the exact limits of individual 
right in the matter of security for rep 
utation. And it is also, for the same 
reason, easy to understand the confu 
sion and uncertainty which exist in the 
public mind as to what is libellous and 
what is not. No two juries are likely 
to take the same view of any case of 
libel. This is notoriously true, when 
the libel has any relation to politics, or 
when the decision in it is likely to have 
any political influence or effect. It is 
then of the most importance, to either 
plaintiff or defendant, to have the jury 
composed, wholly or in the main, of 
persons of his own way of thinking on 
public questions. Nothing is more 
striking in the way in which men judge 
newspaper criticism, than the difference 
it makes, whose ox is gored. "Whether 
condemnation is too severe, or whether 
the limits between public and private 

* Amos s Systematic View of the Science of Jiirispru- 
dence, p. 293. 



character have been overstepped in any 
particular comment on a man in pub 
lic life, is apt to be decided bv most 
men under the influence of party pre 
dilection. A low view of one s oppo 
nents, personally as well as politically, 
seems an almost inevitable result of 
active participation in, or strong inter 
est in, party politics. It grows up im 
perceptibly, and often becomes incap 
able of eradication, and is a strong 
stimulus, and sometimes a powerful 
protection, for newspaper attacks on 
reputation. 

But perhaps the most powerful agent 
in instigating such attacks, and securing 
for them a certain indulgence or impun 
ity, is the increasing importance of elec 
tions in those States which have adopted 
universal suffrage. Not only is the mass 
to be moved much increased and in 
creasing in bulk at parliamentary or 
presidential elections ; but the interests 
dependent on the result of the election 
are increasing in the same ratio. The 
effect of this is to give to electioneer 
ing, as has been often remarked, the un- 
scrupulousness of actual warfare, and to 
create among partisans on both sides a 
strong disposition to connive at, or at 
all events to condone, any excesses how 
ever great which seem likely to influence 
the issue, for this result is now tremen 
dous. A general election in France, 
England, or the United States to-day, 
may transfer to fresh hands the control 
of some hundreds of thousands of office 
holders, the command of great fleets and 
armies, and the spending of revenues 
which would, even a century ago, have 
seemed fabulous in amount. The chief 
engine in effecting this transfer is the 
press, for even orators now reach the 
public through the press, and of course, 
the pressure to resort to any assertion 
or insinuation which can by any chance 
influence even a hundred votes, is very 
strong, in many cases overwhelming. 
The defences which in ordinary times 
surround private character, or separate 
public from private life, are apt in the 
midst of a political canvass to be treated 
as of no more account, by the directors 
or managers on either side, than the pal 
ing round a private garden by the com 
mander of a battery going in to action in 
a real welfare. 



64 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



The countenance given to forgery of 
documents, or if this be too strong a 
phrase the easy acceptance accorded 
to suspicious documents for the pur 
pose of blackening the character of po 
litical opponents, within recent years, 
both in England and this country, is 
a striking illustration of the fierceness 
of political contests, and of the readi 
ness with which any means of influenc 
ing public opinion may be resorted 
to at critical periods. Legal preven 
tion of this is difficult to furnish as 
long as, under our jury system, the 
jurymen have to be partisans who have 
themselves been taking part in the fray. 
At present there is no punishment for 
forgery which does not aim at the trans 
fer of property, or at the escape from 
pecuniary liability. But forgery which 
has for its direct or indirect object the 
deception of voters at an election touch 
ing the character and aims of a candi 
date, is fully as great an offence against 
the community at large as fraud com 
mitted for the purpose of pecuniary gain. 
It can only be repressed, however, by 
making those who use a forgery with 
out reasonable exertions to ascertain its 
real character, share to some extent in 
the responsibility of the actual concoc- 
tors of it. This latter is apt, in most 
cases, to be a paltry person, who has lit 
tle or nothing to lose in money or repu 
tation in case of discovery, and yet it is 
he only who now has, in case of discov 
ery, any legal penalty to fear. Every 
body who turns his labor to account in 
the press or in the platform ought to be 
exposed also to criminal pursuit. There 
is nothing more important to the state 
than that the voter should have accurate 
knowledge as to the character and his 
tory of the men whom he puts into im 
portant official places ; and attempts of 
any kind to prevent his getting it, or to 
furnish it to him in a spurious condition, 
are quite as fit objects of punishment as 
attempts to prevent his voting accord 
ing to his conscience through corruption 
or intimidation. 

Finally, there ought to be provision 
made for the more speedy trial of libel 
cases, because slander is the one form 
of personal injury the consequences of 
which gain in severity by mere lapse of 
time. After a robbery or a physical as 



sault, the victim, if the injury be not 
fatal or he is not stripped of everything 
he possesses, begins to recover more or 
less rapidly. But a wound to the repu 
tation not only does not heal, but grows 
deeper every day which goes by before 
the appearance of some formal and pub 
lic refutation of the slander. Each day 
adds to the number of those who hear it 
and believe it, and for the same reason, 
to the number of those whom the refu 
tation of it cannot reach. It is, there 
fore, of the last importance to the in 
jured person that the means of redress 
should be easily attainable in point of 
time ; but it is also of importance to 
newspapers that these means of redress 
should not be so easily attainable pe 
cuniarily that they should offer tempta 
tions to blackmailers, or to excitable or 
morbid persons, to begin proceedings 
which the courts are sure to treat as 
frivolous. 

One of the facts of human nature 
which all legislators dealing with the 
question of libel have to take into con 
sideration, is its greater readiness to re 
ceive and circulate stories detrimental 
than stories creditable to reputation. 
The saying that "a lie makes its way 
across lots, while truth has to go round 
by the dirt road," is more applicable 
to calumnious attacks on character than 
to any other form of falsehood. A 
piece of news which throws some kind 
of disrepute on a person, particularly if 
he is well known, or occupies a place of 
any prominence, although it may not 
be generally believed, is diffused much 
more rapidly than one which would 
raise him in popular esteem. Kochefou- 
cauld s well-known saying that, "we 
take a secret pleasure in the misfortunes 
of our best friends," has been explained, 
by those who acknowledge its truth, by 
the general desire for superiority, no mat 
ter how acquired, with which we are all 
consciously or unconsciously animated. 
The love of scandal has possibly the 
same source. It for the moment raises 
the narrator above his victim, or at all 
events pulls the victim down to his level, 
by revealing some great or small imper 
fection. The old scandalum magnatum, 
or libel on peers and other great person 
ages, of the English law, although an 
absurdity in modern democratic eyes, 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



65 



did recognize the fact that the highly 
placed furnish calumny with a shining 
mark, and that the dragging down of 
the mighty has been not unpleasing 
sport to the natural man in all ages. 
Consequently, a disposition to attack 
reputation is the form of lawlessness 
which survives longest in all civilized 
communities, and is most difficult to 
deal with by legislation. 

Closely allied to it, and in fact grow 
ing out of it, is the disposition to in 
trude on privacy. Privacy is a distinctly 
modern product, one of the luxuries of 
civilization, which is not only unsought 
for but unknown in primitive or barba 
rous societies. The savage cannot have 
privacy, and does not desire or dream of 
it. To dwellers in tents and wigwams 
it must always have been unknown. 
The earliest houses of our Anglo-Saxon 
ancestors in England, even among the 
Thanes, consisted of only one large room 
in which both master and mistress, and 
retainers, cooked, ate, and slept. The 
first sign of material progress was the 
addition of sleeping-rooms, and after 
ward of " withdrawing - rooms " into 
which it was possible for the heads of 
the household to escape from the noise 
and publicity of the outer hall. One of 
the greatest attractions of the dwellings 
of the rich is the provision they make 
for the segregation of the occupants. 
All of the improvements, too, of recent 
years in the dwellings of the poor, have 
been in the direction, not simply of 
more space, but of more separate rooms. 
The old proverb which says that "Pov 
erty makes us acquainted with strange 
bed-fellows," is but the expression of 
the universal desire of civilized man to 
have within reach a place in which he 
can, when the fancy seizes him, be alone, 
and out of the reach of society. In no way 
does poverty make itself more painfully 
felt by people of refinement or cultiva 
tion, than in the loss of seclusion and 
the social promiscuousness which it en 
tails. To have a house of one s own is 
the ambition of nearly all civilized men 
and women, and the reason which most 
makes them enjoy it is the opportunity 
it affords of deciding for themselves how 
much or how little publicity should sur 
round their daily lives. 

The famous dictum of Coke, "A 



man s house is his castle, et domus sua 
cuique tutissimum refugium," "his cas 
tle and fortress as well for his defence 
against injury and violence as for his 
repose," is but the expression in terms 
of politics of the value attached by the 
race to the power of drawing, each 
man for himself, the line between his 
life as an individual and his life as a 
citizen, or in other words, the power 
of deciding how much or how little the 
community shall see of him, or know 
of him, beyond what is necessary for 
the proper discharge of all his duties to 
his neighbors and to the state. And 
this recognition by law and custom of a 
man s house as his tutissimum refugium, 
his place of repose, is but the outward 
and visible sign of the law s respect for 
his personality as an individual, for that 
kingdom of the mind, that inner world 
of personal thought and feeling in which 
every man passes some time, and in 
which every man who is worth much to 
himself or others, passes a great deal of 
time. The right to decide how much 
knowledge of this personal thought and 
feeling, and how much knowledge, there 
fore, of his tastes, and habits, of his own 
private doings and affairs, and those of 
his family living under his roof, the pub 
lic at large shall have, is as much one of 
his natural rights as his right to decide 
how he shall eat and drink, what he 
shall wear, and in what manner he shall 
pass his leisure hours. 

Of course, the importance attached to 
this privacy varies in individuals. In 
trusion on it afflicts or annoys different 
persons in different degrees. It annoys 
women more than men, and some men 
very much more than others. To some 
persons it causes exquisite pain to have 
their private life laid bare to the world, 
others rather like it ; but it may be laid 
down as a general rule that the former 
are the element in society which most 
contributes to its moral and intellectual 
growth, and that which the state is 
most interested in cherishing and pro 
tecting. Personal dignit} r is the fine 
flower of civilization, and the more of it 
there is in a community, the better off 
the community is. It is the only form 
of self-respect which does not "take on 
airs," and which is constantly compelled 
to justify itself by suitable living. But 



66 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



without privacy its cultivation or pre 
servation is hardly possible. It is not 
one of the incidents of life in a camp, or 
a barrack, or in a man-of-war, or in a 
tenement-house, or a caravan. It can 
never become a social force without put 
ting within the reach of those who seek 
it or care for it, the means of defend 
ing it. 

The chief enemy of privacy in modern 
life is that interest in other people and 
their affairs known as curiosity, which in 
the days before newspapers created per 
sonal gossip. As soon in the progress 
of civilization as men left the tent, or 
wigwam, or tribal dwelling, and retreated 
into private houses, a desire on the part 
of their neighbors to know what was go 
ing on in the private houses sprang up 
rapidly, and has nourished ever since 
the world over. There is a story of the 
traveller in the hotel in the Western 
mining town, who pinned a shirt across 
his open window to screen himself from 
the loafers on the piazza while perform 
ing his toilet ; after a few minutes he saw 
it drawn aside roughly by a hand from 
without, and on asking what it meant, a 
voice answered, " We want to know what 
there is so darned private going on in 
there ? " The loafers resented his at 
tempts at seclusion in their own rude 
way, but they did it under the influence 
of a feeling which runs through all so 
cial life in our world. Curiosity, in its 
larger and nobler aspect, lies at the root 
of Western, as distinguished from Ori 
ental, civilization. In its smaller, pet 
tier, and more ignoble shape, it became 
the passion of the Paul Pry and the 
scandal-monger. Everybody who feels 
this latter, or social curiosity, as we may 
call it, is more or less ashamed of it. 
Nobody quite likes to confess that he is 
eager to know all he can about his 
neighbor s private life, and yet the pri 
vate lives of our neighbors form the 
staple topic of conversation in most cir 
cles in the absence of strong intellectual, 
political, or commercial interests. This 
eagerness may be defended on the 
ground that the love of gossip is after 
all human, and that everything that is 
human concerns us deeply. The most 
absorbing topic for the bulk of mankind 
must always be other men s doings and 
sayings, and it can hardly be denied 



that there is some substance in this 
apology. But as long as gossip was 
oral, it spread, as regarded any one in 
dividual, over a very small area, and was 
confined to the immediate circle of his 
acquaintances. It did not reach, or but 
rarely reached, those who knew nothing 
of him. It did not make his name, or 
his walk, or his conversation familiar to 
strangers. And what is more to the 
purpose, it spared him the pain or 
mortification of knowing that he was 
gossiped about. A man seldom heard 
of oral gossip about him which simply 
made him ridiculous, or trespassed on 
his lawful privacy, but made no positive 
attack on his reputation. His peace and 
comfort were, therefore, but slightly af 
fected by it. 

In all this the advent of the news 
papers, or rather of a particular class of 
newspapers, has made a great change. 
It has converted curiosity into what 
economists call an effectual demand, 
and gossip into a marketable commod 
ity. The old Paul Pry whom our fathers 
despised and caricatured, and who was 
roundly kicked and cuffed on the stage 
for his indiscretions, has become a great 
wholesale dealer in an article of mer 
chandise for which he finds a ready 
sale, and by which he frequently makes 
a fortune. In other words, gossip about 
private individuals is now printed, and 
makes its victim, with all his imperfec 
tions on his head, known hundreds or 
thousands of miles away from his place 
of abode ; and, what is worst of all, brings 
to his knowledge exactly what is said 
about him, with all its details. It thus 
inflicts what is, to many men, the great 
pain of believing that everybody he 
meets in the street is perfectly familiar 
with some folly, or misfortune, or indis 
cretion, or weakness, which he had pre 
viously supposed had never got beyond 
his domestic circle. 

It is no defence for this state of things 
to say that the passion for notoriety of 
any kind has been fostered to such an 
extent by this wide diffusion of printed 
gossip, that there is a large number of 
people who do not dislike it, but on the 
contrary put themselves in the way of 
having their private life explored by the 
press. They are a small minority at 
best, and their taste must be recognized 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



67 



as a depraved one, which even if the 
legislator does not discourage, he is not 
bound to take notice of at all, or to make 
its gratification easy. But it is not 
easy to say in what way a legislator 
could protect privacy, or prevent any 
intrusions into it, which do not plainly 
tend to bring a person into contempt or 
ridicule, or in other words, which do 
not amount to what the law defines as 
libel. Press laws, more than any others, 
have to be supported not simply by the 
opinions but by the manners of the 
community. One of the effects on man 
ners of a free and unbridled press, and 
of a great multiplicity of newspapers, is 
undoubtedly to lessen public sensitive 
ness to spoken or printed ridicule, or 
abuse, or depreciation, and consequently 
to lessen popular sympathy with the 
victim of it. In France a man can le 
gally prevent or punish the mere men 
tion of his name in any disagreeable 
connection, if he be not in political, 
literary, or artistic life. He can at once 
stop newspaper gossip about him, even 
though it be harmless gossip ; that is, 
he can forbid the publication of infor 
mation of any sort about himself or his 
affairs. But in France the law on this 
subject is supported by a sensitive 
ness to ridicule or insult which has 
probably never existed in any Anglo- 
Saxon country, and if it ever existed 
here in any degree, has been destroyed 
by the number and enterprise of the 
newspapers and the extremely demo 
cratic condition of American society. 
To provide legal protection for those 
who still retain it would, therefore, in 
the absence of popular sympathy, be very 
difficult. Juries, as I have said, are the 
real censors of the press, and juries are 
apt to be made up of men who, though 
they will punish actual damage to a 
man s reputation, are not disposed to 
make much account of mere wounds to 
his feelings or his taste. The influence 
on manners, too, of the eagerness of no 
toriety is inevitably great in a society in 
which there are no distinctions of rank 
and no recognized social grades. To be 



widely known for some reason or other, 
or for any reason, is the one distinction 
which seems within every man s reach, 
and the desire for it is sufficiently wide 
ly diffused not only to diminish popular 
sympathy with people who love the 
shade of private life, but to some extent 
to make this particular state of mind 
somewhat incomprehensible. 

In truth, there is only one remedy for 
the violations of the right to privacy 
within the reach of the American pub 
lic, and that is but an imperfect one. 
It is to be found in attaching social dis 
credit to invasions of it on the part of 
conductors of the press. At present this 
check can hardly be said to exist. It is 
to a large extent nullified by the fact 
that the offence is often pecuniarily* 
profitable. It is frowned on severely 
by society at the outset, before it has 
fairly begun to pay, but as soon as the 
offender is able to show that it is bring 
ing him in a large revenue, it is rapidly 
condoned or overlooked, and he takes 
rank among the successful business men 
of the community, and finds his claim 
to whatever honors wealth brings with 
it ; if not universally acknowledged, ac 
knowledged sufficiently to more than 
compensate him for any previous dis 
comfort. This amounts to saying that 
the responsibility for the excesses of the 
press in this direction, must fall in the 
last resort upon the general use of the 
money as the sign of success in life, and 
the possession of it as, to some degree, 
a justification of the means employed in 
acquiring it. As long as the money- 
getting talent holds the field against all 
other competing talents, in the race for 
distinction of every kind, we shall prob 
ably not see any great change in the 
attitude of the press on this subject. 
This supremacy of the pecuniary reward 
over all other rewards, as an incentive 
to exertion, can hardly be permanent, 
but it is one of the phenomena of the 
present day, which cannot be overlooked 
in any discussion of the defences thrown 
by law or opinion around the reputation 
or privacy of individuals. 




UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 

By Octave Thanet. 



SIR CHRISTOPHER PULLEN, the 
new lord of Audely, and the Lady 
Agatha, his wife, had nearly ridden 
down Goody Bassely Crawme, as they 
crossed the common on a gallop. 

Lady Agatha reined in her palfrey, 
frowning and silent ; but Sir Kit (so 
they called him in the village) apolo 
gized, using more courtesy than was 
common in the days of King Edward 
VI. between his degree and hers. 

" Tis naught," muttered a deep, stern 
voice, while the old crone pursued her 
way, omitting the decent reverence to a 
superior. 

" Saw ye the uncivil body ? " ex 
claimed Lady Agatha, with a curl of her 
handsome lip. 

"Ah, well, sweetheart," the pacific Sir 
Kit answered, " tis an aged soul and 
faithful, and the world hath gone ill 
with her masters." 

The knight s wife looked at him 
fondly. He was no hero ; she knew that 
better than anyone ; but Sir Kit had a 
lovable side to his character which she 
appreciated keenly, although she could 
jest at it as she did this moment. 

"I have no such evil-wilier in the 
world as that old age," said she, " but I 
perceive tis easy for you to forgive 
her." 

Sir Kit was smiling. " Nay, wife," he 
answered ; " but I consider her hard 
conditions. And, in good sooth, I be 
so well content, nowadays, that I can 
find it in my heart to be noisome, wit 
tingly, to no man." 



The face which was turned on Lady 
Agatha, while he spoke, beamed with a 
deep and strong emotion. It was a face 
to please a woman s eye refined in 
mould and coloring, with a humorous 
shrewdness invigorating the sweetness 
of the mouth and twinkling in the gen 
tle, large, blue eyes. His mouster-dev- 
iler-colored silk hose and velvet doublet 
revealed a graceful, well-knit frame, and 
he managed his spirited beast with the 
ease of long practice. 

Nevertheless Sir Kit looked the 
scholar rather than the soldier, and 
scholar rather than soldier or man of 
action he was, in spite of some bold 
service in the wars ; a gentle-natured 
observer, a not unkindly critic of the 
bitter passions and frantic follies of his 
time, incapable of fanaticisms or arro 
gant enthusiasms ; it may be, equally in 
capable of a noble resistance ; yet, all in 
all, a good man, of pure life, and a large 
humanity. Sir Kit was not noble by 
birth. He was the second son of a great 
London goldsmith, Sir Gyles Pullen, 
alderman and knight. Kit as a lad was 
destined for the cloister, the natural 
place, people thought, for a delicate 
boy with a turn for letters. 

At that time, you may be sure, there 
was no talk of Sir Gyles, knight, and 
there was a healthy, high-spirited elder 
brother in the world, to the bargain. 
But Master Pullen was knighted, and 
the elder brother died unmarried ; 
therefore it came to pass that the name 
of Christopher Pullen appears among 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



69 



those young monks who were permitted 
(before the general dissolution of the 
monasteries) to resume their secular 
habits and return to the world. 

Certain scandalous chroniclers of the 
time will have it that the real motive for 
the young monk s acceptance of the 
king s grace was neither his sense of 
filial duty nor a change in religion. They 
tell that he had fallen in love with his 
fair penitent, Lady Agatha Neville. It 
was a derogation on the part of an earl s 
daughter to marry a commoner of mean 
birth, apart from the stain on such 
"monkish marriages" in good Catho 
lics notions ; but the earl was poor and 
Sir Gyles was rich, and young Kit dis 
tinguished himself in the Pilgrimage of 
Grace, at the head of a troop raised and 
paid by his father. In consequence not 
only was he knighted by the king, but 
he received a handsome estate from the 
delighted Sir Gyles, and " at the end," 
says one old gossip of the day, " the 
Lady Agatha had her will." 

The marriage was an exceptionally 
happy one, although there had been one 
sore disappointment no children were 
born to the house of Pullen. Hence a 
cruel whisper among their tenants of 
the old faith : Behold a righteous pun 
ishment for the married monk ! 

No tongue wagged more glibly or scat 
tered more venom than old Bassely s ; 
and if a great lady may stoop to hate a 
poor body, the Lady Agatha hated Goody 
Crawme. 

I daresay now she threw a smoulder 
ing backward thought on the enemy too 
low to strike. Such stir of the mind 
would be of a cast to heighten the brill 
iancy of a beauty which surviving por 
traits image stately and calm. 

Doubtless it painted her fair, fresh- 
colored face with a brighter cheek, 
lighted a liquid sparkle in her deep, 
dark eyes, and curved the swan-like neck 
more majestically. Perhaps there was 
a little hardness about the features (they 
were large, of the type that we call Ro 
man), but no man on whom Lady Agatha 
smiled ever thought her face hard. 

She smiled, now, at the admiration in 
her husband s eyes. 

" I would I could content Sir Gyles so 
easily as I can thee," she said. 

" Nay, thou dost ; tis I miscontents 
VOL. VIII. 6 



my father," replied Sir Kit, quickly, "he 
deemeth that I bear me too gentle to 
ward evil-doers. He hath it in hand to 
settle himself at the Abbey, but he fear- 
eth to leave me lord of the manor. Yet, 
methinks, he will go. Then shall we be 
alonely, dear heart." 

Their eyes met, and Lady Agatha 
forgot Goody Crawme. 

The old woman s figure, by this time, 
was only a black silhouette in the dis 
tance, backed by the green fields and 
the rich August sky. 

She was an erect and sturdy old 
woman, whose gray hair was thick above 
her wrinkled forehead, and who carried 
a stick for no need of her limbs, but, I 
fear, solely to menace divers "wacca- 
bones and lotherers," who were used to 
assail her for the sound and plausible 
reason that they were zealous Protest 
ants, and she had been wife to the Cath 
olic lord s cook. 

The cook and all his children, three 
stout boys, had followed the old lord, 
Marmadace Audely, into the insurrection 
of 1547. Master Crawme was so happy 
as to be killed in battle ; and so were* 
Lord Audely and his elder son ; but the 
younger Audely and Dame Crawme s 
boys perished miserably in the legal car 
nage that followed. 

Of the children of Audely there re 
mained only a little blind lass, too young 
to realize her desolation. Old Bassely 
gave her master s darling a home. They 
lived, on sufferance, in a poor hut of 
mud and sticks, on the edge of the vil 
lage. Goody Crawme kept a cow, and 
geese, and chickens ; and having a good 
skill in her husband s craft she contrived 
to earn a humble livelihood as helper at 
feasts and weddings among the richer 
sort. Privately she was considered a 
good deal by the old tenants. But there 
were many stings. It was a fall in 
the world. Goody Crawme had been 
Dame Crawme, a personage in the house 
hold, who had her own comfortable tim 
ber and plaster house, and rode her own 
palfrey. Now she lived in a hovel and 
must go afoot. 

But far, far more pain to the loyal old 
soul was it to watch the bright creature 
that she loved growing up in poverty. 
And there was a fear, beside, which stung 
her anew at every sight of the Lady 



70 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



Agatha. To-day she cursed the married 
monk and his wife. " Never to thee will 
I give my lamb," shrieked she. " Tis 
not for long to bide quiet. God s hand 
is on the king ; the Lady Mary s day 
will come, ye murdering thieves ! " 

She choked down the climbing passion 
in her throat, there was no time for 
grief or fury, she had business in hand, 
and here was the village. 

The Signe of the Egle (thus is the inn 
of Audely written in the county history) 
stood cornerwise on the curving village 
street, pushing its gabled shoulders out 
of a ragged line of thatched roofs. Al 
ready lights and fires made a ruddy 
glow behind round arched windows ; 
and the shadows were beginning to 
huddle under the copse sides and in the 
corners of the court. 

If by no other token, you might be 
aware of approaching nightfall by the 
ever-deepening clamor of voices in the 
porch. 

Goody Crawme grunted in huge scorn, 
recognizing a familiar note. " Tom Ha- 
warth prating o Joan Boacher s burn 
ing, still ! Oh, ye weary swell-pate ! 
And me which seen a man boiled alive 
ne er did brag twice on t. By God s 
wounds, did ye get your desarvings, for 
the pestilent heretic knave ye be, we 
could see a burning i our own market- 
set, nor need to gape furder ! " 

Grinning malignantly at her vision of 
the good Protestant s fate, she went into 
the inn. She had seen the person whom 
she was seeking. He stood in the cen 
tre of the tap-room listening to the talk 
with a satirical smile. He was a middle- 
aged man, of a fine shape, a swarthy 
countenance, and a quick, bright black 
eye. His dress was grave but hand 
some ; a short gown of " chanabulle " or 
changeable silk, the main hue being a 
shade of cinnamon, " purfled " (that is, 
edged) with minever fur, and lined with 
blue taffety, with blue silk hose and a 
jewelled velvet cap. On the strength of 
his costume he might have passed for a 
man of rank ; he was really a London 
physician. Perceiving Dame Crawme 
he disengaged himself from the crowd. 
The two left the house and drew apart 
a little, out of ear-shot. She had been 
fumbling all the while in her leathern 
bag. 



Finally she pulled out some pieces of 
silver, saying : " Here be the sum, four 
and twenty testons.* Pleaseth you, 
worshipful sir, come quickly to my 
lady!" 

The man raised his eyebrows as with 
a long forefinger he pushed the coins 
about on her palm. " Nay, Goody," said 
he, "here are bare sixteen shillings; I 
said twenty-four." 

" The shilling equals ninepence," cried 
the old woman, all the swift suspicion 
of the poor in arms ; " a murrain on the 
base money ! But here be thirty-two 
shilling. I had the last, yestreen, of the 
king s purveyors. They drave a hard 
bargain wi me, too. They telled me the 
king hath called down the shilling to 
ninepence, and ye call it sixpence." 

" Even so, dame," said the doctor, 
dryly, "by the king s own proclamation, 
which I did hear read this day at the 
cross in the market-set." 

The old woman hardly seemed to hear 
him ; she was too busy with her own 
anxiety. " Master Langdon," said she, 
" when ben ye here last ? " 

" It may be six months agone." 

"Yea, sir. And ye did say ye cold 
cure my lady s eyes. I ha worked and 
starved to gather the fee since that day. 
How be I to win eight shilling mo ? 
And ye go to-morrow ! How long or ye 
come again ? " 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders ; 
he had no idea ; belike never. 

The shillings jangled in the old wom 
an s hand. " God s curse on them that 
strip the poor ! " cried Goody Crawme. 

Even as she spoke she was pushed 
aside by a vehement new-comer in livery, 
who bade the doctor follow him ; Sir 
Gyles willed his attendance. 

" But my lady " pleaded old Bassely. 

" For God s pity ye did promise ! " 

" Tush," answered Dr. Langdon, but 
not unkindly. " I like not to fish 
and catch a frog ! Fet me twenty shil 
lings to-morrow, and we will see. Have 
with you, good fellow ! " 

Sir Gyles s retainer hurried the phy 
sician away. 

Was he a physician, or was he a quack ? 
There were insensible gradations be 
tween the legitimate school and the pre 
tenders, those days ; but Dr. Langdon s 

* A teston equalled a shilling. 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



71 



cures were considered wonderful ; at 
any rate, poor Bassely believed in him. 
Her heart swelled with an intolerable 
pain. She could see behind the round 
oak tops the ancient Norman towers of 
Audely. There lay her nursling s right 
ful heritage, and the king had wrenched 
it from her to bestow on a " clerking 
knight," a " forestaller " and " regrator," 
a goldsmith who lent out money at usury. 

There was a savor of hardness of 
heart and unchristian-like dealing about 
all interest to Bassely s generation. 
Dame Crawme was sure that Sir Gyles 
was the wickedest and cruellest man 
in England, which he was not by any 
means. 

And he and the minion, his son, could 
order the great doctor about like a serv 
ing-man ; while the rightful lady of 
Audely must lose her chance to know 
the sun for the lack of a few shillings ! 

Four shillings four shillings before 
to-morrow morning why, they were as 
much beyond her reach as four hundred ! 

A merciless thought kept goading her. 
"No, no," she moaned, answering it, 
" better blind than bred by her father s 
foes ! " 

She could see the child s little face, 
such a patient, merry, loving face it was. 
Bassely had prepared a humble feast, 
which was luxury in their bare living, to 
do honor to the doctor. Mildred did 
not know the object of the doctor s com 
ing ; but, child-like, she was delighted 
with the supper ; and Bassely was listen 
ing to her laughter now. 

She wrung her hands and groaned 
aloud. Just at this moment it was the 
lamentable fortune of Bassely Crawme 
to perceive something glittering at her 
feet. 

She had gone some considerable way 
on her road and was traversing a field of 
the manor. 

A foot-path and stile belonging to 
this field had been free to all, in Lord 
Audely s time ; it was one of the village 
grievances that Sir Gyles should fusstty 
interdict such passing. For that very 
reason the spiteful old woman always 
went by the path. 

She regarded the object before her. 
It was a scarlet hood of fine Flemish 
cloth, embroidered in seed pearls and 
gold. Bassely knew it well. Once the 



property of Lady Audely, it had passed 
with the rest of the wardrobes and 
household goods to Sir Gyles, and Sir 
Gyles, a widower of rigid life, had given 
it to his daughter-in-law. Many a time 
had she seen the scarlet folds fluttering 
against Lady Agatha s black hair. She 
glowered at the radiant spot of finery. 
All at once her eyes flashed. " Why 
not ? " she was thinking, exultantly, " the 
man will make more o the gaud than 
four shillings ! " She knew something 
of Dr. Langdon s morals, which were 
not cut on Sir Gyles s pattern ; and she 
smiled grimly. " The Lady Agatha 
hath spoiled it for an honest woman s 
wearing, I trow," was her cruel word. 
" And he will go away and say naught. 
By Saint Stephen, tis safe enow ! " 

No scruple of honesty assailed her 
conscience ; why should it ? She did 
but take back her mistress s own. 

Casting one swift glance about her, 
she snatched up the hood and rolled it 
under her long cloak. 

" One good thing done this day," 
quoth she, piously crossing herself ; 
"now, blessed St. Stephen, help me 
bear this matter to the end." 

To St. Stephen she prayed because he 
was the Audelys patron saint to whom 
they had erected a fair abbey. This, 
also, had fallen into Sir Gyles s hands, 
being converted by him into a dwelling- 
house. He had spent great sums 
thereon, and it was rumored that Sir 
Gyles proposed to retire to the abbey, 
leaving Audely to the young people. 

St. Stephen, anyone can see, had 
plenty of reason to assert himself. 

" Now, worthy Master Stephen, be my 
good lord," prayed Dame Crawme. " 111 
e en fare me home to my mess o sodden 
chickens and bacon and a pottel o ale." 

Meanwhile Sir Kit and his wife had 
ridden to their journey s object. They 
had discoursed of many things their 
own plans, the " troublesome unquiet- 
ness " of the realm somewhat, a little 
sadly of their childless state, a good 
deal of some thefts in the village that 
had sorely vexed Sir Gyles, and then, 
by a natural transition, of the dead lord 
of the manor and his daughter. There 
was a long-standing desire of Lady 
Agatha concerning this child, to which 
she always returned, as she did now. 



72 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



" Dear heart," said her husband, gent 
ly, " were there no other impediment, 
Sir Gyles " 

" He hath consented this very morn," 
replied Lady Agatha and there was a 
show of triumph in her eye and cheek, 
if not in her voice "so the damsel 
will take the name of Pullen. Then 
will he crave the king to grant her back 
her demesne of Gatherock, which," she 
added dryly, " he hath long coveted." 

" Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart," Sir Kit 
laughed, " thou canst play on the strings 
of the heart like a lute. Even Sir Gyles 
cannot withstand ye." 

" Ye make sport of me, Kit. Nay, 
husband, I do long to make the poor, 
fond maid mine own. Thou wilt come 
to love her too." 

" The mother been dead, methinks," 
said Sir Kit, studying his horse s mane, 
" when my lord went to the wars. He 
did give the wench, being then six years 
of age, to this same Dame Crawme, and 
signed a paper to make her guardian 
because of her approved trustiness." 

" Fy ! " interrupted the lady, testily, 
" be we not large enow to overcome one 
hard-necked, railing old woman ? " 

" Ay, wife," Sir Kit answered, very 
gravely ; " we be strong, but I mind me 
of the tale Nathan storied unto David, 
and the one ewe lamb." 

The lady s eyes widened and spar 
kled, but she checked the retort on her 
lips. Sir Kit, like most gentle people, 
could be " marvellous obstinate ; " all 
she said was, " Well, tis an old woman. 
An Goody Crawme did die, thou wouldst 
not withstand my suit, Kit ? " 

" By my faith, no, sweetheart," said 
Sir Kit, .heartily. 

To this Agatha made no reply. They 
rode on in silence until the lady pointed 
ahead, saying : " I did want to show ye 
the cottage lo, yonder it stands." 

The house was a wattled hut of two 
rooms, its thatched roof dipping over 
the crooked doorway like a shaggy eye 
brow. The forest curtained off the 
horizon to the right, on the left was the 
village common. Sheep grazed over the 
sleek pastures, their white backs rimmed 
with the sunlight, for the sky was kind 
ling above the tree-tops ; and in the 
little garden the herbs and " salats " and 
waving cloud of asparagus, bathed in 



that soft effulgence, glowed with the 
most vivid tints of green. 

A slim girl, in a blue Peneston frock, 
came to the doorway. Her yellow curls 
were blown about her sweet little face. 
Anyone ignorant of her affliction would 
have said that she looked down the road, 
with so much seeming intelligence and 
vivacity did she turn her head in the 
travellers direction. 

Neither would the ignorant observer 
have detected any blur or sign of infirm 
ity in her mild violet eyes. Her light, 
strong, young figure, her eager young 
face, showed as little trace of the mel 
ancholy which is expected to accompany 
her condition ; on the contrary, her en 
tire person excepting only those soft 
eyes seemed to diffuse energy and 
child-like grace and a sparkling cheer 
fulness. The truth is, Mildred, poor, 
orphaned, blind, was as happy as any 
ten-year-old little girl in England. She 
had been too young to realize the tre 
mendous catastrophe that had blotted 
out home and kindred and place in the 
world for her, and, never having seen, 
she felt no hardship in her blindness. 
She could be cheered by the sun which 
she could not see ; she sang like a bird, 
and no doubt had a bird s poignant joy 
in singing. Every day her quick mind 
mastered some novel charm or thrilling 
secret of nature. There was old Basse- 
ly to love her, and the ploughman s ba 
bies, and the lambs, and Fangs the 
dog ("the towardness o that doggy sure 
you did never seen ! " ), and an ugly cat, 
quite as dear to the affectionate little 
soul as could have been her beautiful 
catship that favored the Marquis of 
Carabas. Mildred would have demanded 
what should a little girl need more ! 

The riders drew rein before the pret 
ty picture in the doorway. 

Lady Mildred did not seem puzzled 
by their greetings, but called them by 
name, courtesying properly to each, as 
became a child, and always bending her 
small body in the right direction. 

Her demeanor and her smiling face 
were a marked contrast with Dame 
Crawme s churlishness. Either the 
elder had not tried to infect the child 
with her venomous prejudices, or she 
had failed. Lady Agatha used to won 
der how it was. 



UNDER. FIVE SHILLINGS. 



73 



She could not resist calling Mildred 
nearer, in order that she might stroke 
her soft cheek. 

" I did fet thee a gift, child," said she ; 
"in good sooth not quite a gift, since 
twas once thy lady mother s. I am 
rue that it slipped from my saddle-bow 
and is clean lost ! " 

"My mother, she is dead," said Mil 
dred s tender voice. "Bassely telled 
me. Had you ever sight of her, madam ? 
I often wonder was she like you ? " 

Lady Agatha winced. Sir Kit came 
to his wife s rescue, with a twinkle in 
his eye. The late Lady Audely, a most 
virtuous and high-born dame, had not 
been a beauty. Sir Kit, however, an 
swered decorously that there was a like 
ness, and then, diverting the subject, 
promised another hood. 

" Tis rare kind o your ladyship to 
remember me," Mildred said, gratefully. 

"I cannot forget you, child," said 
Lady Agatha, with an impatient sigh. 
" Tell me, be ye not wearied, alonely 
here so much ? " 

Mildred looked amused. 

" Nay, madam," she said, " I have a 
sight to do ; and there be Fangs, and 
Grimsey, the cat, and Dace, and little 
Anne, and plenty mo . And granny 
ever cometh at night." 

"What canst thou do, little one?" 
Sir Kit asked, playfully, interested in 
this artless prattle. 

She began, with an important air, to 
number her accomplishments on her 
fingers. " There be the sewing, I ha 
made me a shift, mainly, and the sleeves 
o two night rails " 

" God-a-mercy, maiden, how!" cried 
the knight. 

In spite of the reverence due the high 
company, a little ripple of mirth escaped 
Mildred s pretty lips ; it always affected 
her as a rare jest that people should be 
so confounded by the easy things which 
she did ; to her mind they placed a 
ridiculous value on their eyes. " Tis 
simple enow," said she ; " Bassely doth 
crease the line, and I sew therein. I 
can cook, likewise, and I holp Bassely 
make rare fine cates and simnels and 
fritters ; and all alonely I can make jus- 
sel.* 

" Sure ye be the best housekeeper of 

* From juscellum broth or pottage. 



a little maid in the county," laughed 
Sir Kit. 

Lady Agatha looked on well pleased 
(sure that the marvellous quickness of 
apprehension which had won rugged 
Sir G-yles could not fail to affect his 
son s hospitable and inquisitive mind), 
while the flattered child picked out, un 
erringly, every utensil or piece of furni 
ture that Sir Kit named, to display her 
knowledge of the room. 

All at once she ran to the door. Her 
little figure grew rigid, her merry face 
stiffened with an expression of intensest 
attention. " Tis granny," cried she, 
"but who else? There is a rowte of 
others." 

Husband and wife exchanged glances 
of amazement ; Goody Crawme did in 
deed approach, and at such a distance 
that it seemed impossible for any ear 
to detect a footfall. Behind her (in bare 
time to save the people with eyes who 
would have denied their presence) three 
men came over the crest of the hill. 
They were running. 

They got abreast of Goody Crawme 
just as she reached the hut. She turned 
on them with a scowl. The men doffed 
their caps to the dignitaries. They 
were all of the village : Jock Miller, who 
kept the mill ; Tom Hawarth, the con 
stable ; and poor "Will Lack-Wit, who 
was esteemed little better than an idiot. 
All three breathed heavily, like men that 
had strained their lungs. "Pleaseth 
your worship," cried Haw r arth, with his 
first clear breath, " we rest this woman 
for theft ! " 

There with he plucked Goody Crawme s 
cloak violently aside, and snatched the 
scarlet roll. 

By now it was too dark to distinguish 
more than the color and shape ; but 
Lady Agatha claimed it as her hood. 
She would have taken it had not the 
constable refused to yield it, saying that 
it was now evidence in the possession of 
the law and must be guarded. So he 
wrapped it up and tied it impressively, 
under the admiring eyes of Jock and 
Will. 

"Ye wicked old age " he addressed 
Goody Crawme as he worked " I war 
rant ye done the thieving i the village, 
too. We ll look i your den, ye she- 
wolf!" 



74 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



Like a she-wolf Goody Crawme glared 
at him. Not a sound did she make ; 
but her lips twitched when the miller 
joined the cry: "Jesu, mercy, dame. 
A would ne credit it o my old godsib. 
I gi en Will the lie i his teeth. A onely 
come t make sure ye beant haired out 
o your patience and led to railing, and 
had to prison for abusing o authorities. 
But ye done it ! Lord ! Lord ! " 

Mildred had flown to her nurse. In 
stead of crying, as an ordinary child 
might do, her eyes flashed and she 
stamped her tiny foot. " You be false 
scurril knaves and very wicked men," 
she shouted, " to so entreat my gran- 
dam ! She is good. She is no thief ! " 

The knight interfered. He demanded 
what was all this coil ? Let the woman 
speak, mayhap she had but picked up 
the toy in the road and purposed to re 
turn it. 

"Holy St. Stephen! Why not?" 
bawled the miller, his honest brow 
clearing. " A like hap mote come to 
any man." 

" Not to her," the constable retorted. 
Did not the miller remember how Will 
Lack- Wit, asleep and out of sight under 
the hedge-rows, had been awakened by 
her passing, and seen her run and pick 
up the hood and conceal it under her 
cloak? Yea, and did she not vehe 
mently deny having aught, when the 
said Will made inquisition of her ? 
wherefore he had run back and found 
them to pursue her. " And your wor 
ship knows," concluded Hawarth, stol 
idly (with a glance of contempt at his 
weak volunteer deputy), " there did been 
a power o picking and polling i the 
parish alate, a vamous deal o stuff lost, 
and great shame ! " 

" Ay, a parlous shame ! " repeated the 
idiot, chuckling. 

Now, in fact, this same imbecile, Will 
Lack- Wit, had done all the stealing 
himself, but he was not discovered until 
long afterward ; while Goody Crawme, 
old, sour-tempered, an assured papist 
and suspect witch, was the most natural 
person in the world to accuse. She did 
speak at last. As to the thefts in the 
village, she solemnly avowed her inno 
cence ; as to the hood, she but took 
back her lady s own. Then, with mount 
ing indignation, she poured out the 



story of her failure to move the doctor, 
inveighing against the base money ; and 
she admitted candidly that in her des 
peration she had taken the hood, es 
teeming it rightfully her lady s own. 

The miller s face worked nervously ; 
he could feel the bite of part of her argu 
ment, having lost by the money and the 
forced prices. No doubt he wished him 
self well out of the affair, especially 
when Mildred broke in, piteously : " Oh, 
granny, tis so easy to be blind. I be 
not rue at all. Oh, kind sirs, she doth 
not know how easy tis, and ever maketh 
moan for me ; and twas all for me she 
did it. Do not hurt her ! And no harm 
be done, ye have the hood again." 

"Why, so indeed we have, Tom," 
urged the miller, in a perspiration. 
" God s name, let s make no more ado 
bout it." 

" Ay," said Sir Kit, mildly, " no mis 
chief be done, and ye wot, Hawarth, tis 
robbery of a dwelling-house ye would 
make it ; a felony, no less, punishable, 
if above five shillings, with death." 

The old woman s ruddy color slipped 
out of her cheeks, and Mildred turned 
her blind face with a pathetic bewilder 
ment from one voice to another. The 
constable s dogged face gave no clue to 
his thoughts. 

" Tis on my conscience," said he, sul 
lenly, " to bring this fact afore Sir 
Gyles, that is a just and painful magis 
trate. Sure am I he will use his cus 
tomable gentleness." 

It was not for Sir Gyles s son to con 
trovert this, whatever his private qualms. 
He had nothing more to offer. But old 
Bassely was not cowed, she burst out, 
shrilly : " Hark to him crack ! His con 
science ! Zounds, I mind me how I got 
him whipt in the time of the lord that 
dead is, for deceiving of Luke Bennet s 
wife. The first strake he did curse, but 
after he did howl and skip till I was fain 
to laugh. Lord, miller, ye mind that 
sport ! " 

"Nay, dame, leave off railing," the 
knight interposed ; " tis now too late to 
call yesterday again." 

The constable, scorning retort, bade 
her make ready. Dame Crawme loos 
ened the slender arms about her neck. 
She addressed Lady Agatha. " Will ye 
take her ? " she said, in a steady voice. 



UNDER FlYE SHILLINGS. 



75 



" Yes," said Lady Agatha, as calmly, 
but she flushed red over cheek and 
brow. 

" Hath she practised with these 
against thee, gran dam ? " said the child ; 
" is she cruel to thee ? " 

The old woman struggled against 
some powerful emotion, while Lady Ag 
atha watched her coldly. 

The words, when they did come, sur 
prised the lady : " Nay, my lamb," Dame 
Crawme answered, "that she did not. 
Tis a great noble lady, and thou must 
be guided by her and obedient unto her. 
Promise me that. And do ye not fret 
nor lour, for that will hurt me sharpest 
o all." 

" But will ye not come with me, gran 
ny ? " cried the child ; " will not the lady 
free thee from the cruel bad man ? " 

" I shall be clean free i a few days, 
dearling lamb," said Bassely, steadily. 
There was something in the tone and her 
calm face that made the worthy miller 
more uncomfortable than ever. He was 
glad to be told off to search the house 
(where of course he found nothing), and 
he relieved his feelings a little by giv 
ing Mildred, who helped the searchers, a 
bright new sixpence, some very service 
able nails, and a saffron cake stuffed with 
raisins. 

Bassely had a motive in sending Mil 
dred into the house ; she thus could 
speak more freely to Lady Agatha. The 
constable frowned and gnawed his lip 
when she stepped to the lady s rein, 
praying a word aside ; nevertheless he 
did not venture to interfere. Sir Kit 
maliciously took care that he should not 
overhear the conversation, by question 
ing him briskly about the late thefts. 

It was brief enough, this conversation. 

Dame Crawme said : " Ye have con 
quered, my lady. I ax ye not to spare 
me, that ben a vain quest." 

"And out of my power," added Lady 
Agatha, quietly. 

" Cake bread and loaf bread be all one 
wi me, now," Bassely said ; " cannot or 
will not, tis no differ. Tis not o me I 
wold speak. Look you, I ha made the 
path straight for ye wi the child. I ha 
never telled her evil o ye, for I ben en 
forced with heaviness of heart for a 
great while, lest peradventure ye get 
her away, and if she be turned against 



thee, lo ! how much the worser for her ! 
Well, ye ha gotten your will ; and me " 
she gave one passing glance of inex 
pressible bitterness at the cottage" but 
for that, I ben so tossed and turrnoiled, 
I be not loath to quit this world. But, 
because that I defamed ye not, grant me 
this suit ; deal ever gently with the 
wench ! Tis a good wench, and loving 
and obedient, but there be sparkles o 
the Audely fire. Ye shall better lead 
than drive. But I fear me not i that 
point." 

" God, he knows ye have no need," 
said Lady Agatha. 

" I think mo on a nodur matter. 
Rive not all the child s kindness for her 
own away. Let her remember some 
what her own house. Regarding of re 
ligion, the holy saints must e en bog 
gle for themselves the best they can," 
said the practical old cynic, " ne er a one 
lifted a finger for me this day, and I be 
not going to make a blowe for them ! 
Well, that be nigh all. She hath an ill 
throat some days i the wind, ye will 
needs wrop her straightly. Ye will find 
all her cloathes in the big chest ; they be 
not fitten for her quality, but I done my 
best. I ax ye not to see Master Lang- 
don, for your own sake ye will do that." 

" I shall not stick at anything ye would 
have," said Lady Agatha. " God so deal 
with me as I deal with this, my daugh 
ter." 

Dame Crawme set her teeth, half 
with hatred, half with anguish, at that 
last word. " Yet why not ? " muttered 
she; "better that than to beg. Better 
the big wolves than the little." She 
spoke aloud : "I hate ye right well, but 
I trust ye. Look ye, but one suit mo . 
Ye will not let her mistrust what falleth 
on me till till it be clean done and 
ended?" 

Lady Agatha promised. I think that 
she was moved to add a kinder word, to 
express a cheering doubt as to the peril 
of the case, but pride and embarrassment 
bound her tongue ; in the event, she did 
not speak at all. 

Often, in subsequent times, the miller 
used to describe the parting ; how the 
brave little creature dashed the tears 
from her eyes, and smiled and pressed 
her flower-like face lovingly to the wrin 
kled brown cheek, and promised to be 



76 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



good till her granny could come to her 
again. 

" God help us," said the honest fellow, 
"Tom himself had not t heart t tell un 
t trowte. So she fared to the castle, 
mistrusting naught, wi our lady ; and 
Tom and me fet the old dame ; Will 
Lack- Wit, he ben no good." 

Sir Gyles s malady admitted of no in 
trusion of business that night. Conse 
quently old Bassely was locked up in 
" a strong chamber " to await her trial 
in the morning. Sir Kit could think of 
no more effectual comfort than a gener 
ous supply of food and wine. 

Lady Agatha sat in her chamber. 
The tapers in their silver candlesticks 
shed a pleasant, dim light. A bright 
fire burned in the fireplace, striking out 
splendid gleams from the gold-embroid 
ered flowers on the great canopy of the 
bed. A richly carven arch was the en 
trance to an alcove in which had been 
placed a smaller bed. Lady Agatha, in 
her rocheted chair, with her needlework 
in hand and the candle-light on a paler 
cheek than common, looked strangely 
gentle. When she glanced toward the 
alcove her eyes would soften and 
brighten. Sir Kit had his book, but 
his own eyes strayed from the clumsy 
pages to search the dimness of the al 
cove, or to rest, half sadly, half humor 
ously, on his wife s face. He was pained 
for many reasons ; but, as always with 
many-sided temperaments like his, there 
was a little thread of amusement run 
ning through his pain. 

It was he that spoke first, after a long 
silence. " The little maid was not trou 
blesome; but did you note, when we 
left her alonely, she fair wept herself to 
sleep?" 

" Yet with ne er a sound," said Lady 
Agatha ; " tis a courageous wench, Kit." 

"I mistrust me she will take the old 
dame s death hard " Sir Kit flung his 
book aside to jump up and pace the 
floor " an they send her to the assizes, 
the quest will sure cast her of felony, to 
be hanged. Tis robbery from a dwell 
ing-house, and over five shillings. Wife, 
can st thou not be her right friend with 
Sir Gyles? He hath been monstrous 
out of frame, alate, because of his sick 
ness and the thefts. He wold onely 



flout me! But thou canst spin a fair 
thread, as the saying is, and he loveth 
thee right well. Ye may bring him to 
a good trade." 

Lady Agatha shook her head dubi 
ously. 

She was not afraid of Sir Gyles like 
Kit, but she knew just how stubborn 
and tempestuous were his humors. At 
this time, too, when he was meditating 
such a splendid gift to them, it seemed 
both ungrateful and foolish to risk an 
gering the choleric old man. And for 
what ? for the most malignant and bit 
ter scold in the parish. 

Like enough the interferers would 
have a wind of hard words for their 
pains, and do no good on earth to their 
client. Sir Gyles prided himself on his 
administration of justice, his mainten 
ance of order, his wholesome severity 
with evil-doers. 

"Kit, tis a hard saying," said Lady 
Agatha, " but I perceive no remede. 
Sir Gyles is ireous when he be ill, and 
he be singular wroth about these thefts. 
An I entreated him, I mote be irk of 
mine own importunity. Nay, husband, 
tis best we meddle not withal." 

I am not Lady Agatha Pullen s judge, 
nor will I pretend to weigh her motives. 
She had hated Bassely, she coveted the 
child. The age was not one of squeam 
ish mercy ; and there are traditions of 
the Pullen family wherein Lady Agatha 
makes very short work with obstacles 
and opposers. 

Still I fancy that she did not abandon 
Bassely without compunction. Some 
how the snarling, curdled-natured old 
woman whose gossip was always snap 
ping at her heels and could hurt, low 
as it was had touched the great lady. 

Bassely s stoical courage, her heroic 
loyalty, awoke a kind of reluctant admi 
ration in her mind. Agatha was brave 
and loyal herself. She thought : " Had 
you been my servant I cold have loved 
you, and you wold have gone to the 
death for me." 

She could appreciate Bassely s trust 
in herself, but it did not move her ; 
what did move her, to an extraordinary 
degree, was the old woman s devotion to 
the child. I do not believe that she had 
ever before considered Bassely s affec 
tion for little Mildred, except as a hin- 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



77 



drance to be swept aside ; now it was 
revealed to her in a new aspect. Bassely 
loved the child even as she herself loved 
her. Bassely could sacrifice hatred and 
prejudices which were throbbing through 
her strong as her heart s blood, because 
so she would make Mildred s happiness 
safer. What better could Agatha Pul- 
len do ? 

No, I am convinced that Lady Agatha 
felt compassion for her defeated enemy ; 
and that the reason why she had shown 
no more sympathy was that she foresaw 
her helplessness and her decision of 
to-night. Besides, there remained the 
child. Sir Kit never would allow her to 
keep the child from Bassely, did Basse 
ly live. Yet every mother instinct in 
Agatha Pullen clung to the little, soft, 
brave, helpless, female thing. " My little 
daughter," she repeated, "ah, I cold 
make thee so happy ! Why, tis clean 
against nature to suffer thee go back to 
poverty ! " 

She rose and paced with her stately 
deliberate step into the alcove, her pur 
ple damask gown trailing on the oaken 
floor and richly painted by the fire-light. 
She stood a long time, sombrely watch 
ing the sleeping child. 

What her decision cost her, who, with 
modern lights and ideals, shall com 
pute ? Some harsh pang she certainly 
felt, to grow so pale, as she said, firmly, 
" Nay, right or wrong, I cannot do it." 

Sir Gyles awoke in a bad humor. The 
pain was abated ; but Dr. Langdon s 
mediaeval anodynes were like our pres 
ent pain-dullers in the discomfort which 
they bequeath to the next morning. 
Vainly, however, did Sir Kit, hoping for 
a more propitious mood, beg his father 
to defer Goody Crawme s examination. 

"Do thou learn, sirrah, that a right 
man can put his dolour and heaviness 
aside more easier than his duty ! " This 
was all that Sir Kit got for his good-will, 
except a few pungent criticisms of the 
rising generation, such as the departing 
generation always has had in store. 

"I trow ye be like all the rest 
slothful, lazy lubbers, wastethrifts and 
squanderers, swimming in soft living " 
poor Sir Kit liked a good dinner 
"caring for naught but to go gay in 
new-fangled, fantastical coats, and be 



trimmed up with all manner of fine rai 
ment ! Mincing and pranking more like 
puppets than men ! " 

So Sir Gyles grumbled on. Of course 
he demanded what merry England was 
coming to, and he drew a lively picture 
of the simple and virtuous youth of his 
own day ; to all of which Sir Kit lis 
tened respectfully. He helped his father 
down-stairs and settled him in his chair 
of state in the great hall. 

A noble old hall it was, and is since 
to this day the visitor admires the grand 
timber ceiling with its thwarted arches 
and pendants, its vast, traceried Tudor 
windows, and the lawless splendor of its 
carved wainscoting. During Sir Gyles s 
occupancy the walls bristled with armor, 
which he never wore, and weapons of 
the chase as foreign to him as to any 
man on earth. But then he was accus 
tomed to say Kit was the fighting man 
of the family ; and he liked to recount 
(being secretly mighty proud of the son 
whom he was always abusing) Kit s ex 
ploits in the two rebellions, and his vig 
orous pursuit of certain malapert out 
laws who had harried the king s lieges 
of Audely for a space, but had been capt 
ured by the son and promptly de 
spatched by the father, to the joyful 
contentment of all honest men. 

It was quite in the manner of the 
time to commemorate Sir Kit s valor 
on the arras which decked the north 
wall. There was a portrait of him, in 
armor, as well as a portrait (by no less 
a painter than the great Hans himself) 
representing Sir Gyles in his corpora 
tion robes, and a family group of Sir 
Gyles, the late Lady Gyles, and the two 
boys. These glowing figures had dis 
placed the dusky canvases of the Audelys. 

Between Sir Gyles and the fire was a 
"travers," a movable screen, covered 
with " cloth of gold baudekyn," the weft 
of which was gold and the woof silk 
with embroidery. Carved benches of 
oak, not so dark by many degrees then 
as now, were ranged about the hall. 

The principal other article of furni 
ture was a long rectangular table, such 
as appears in all the prints of the time. 
Sir Gyles was enthroned, so to speak, 
behind the table. Sir Kit acted as clerk, 
having a pile of law books, and another 
pile of quills, almost as high, near the 



78 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



huge " ink-horn." To further aid the 
smooth working of the scales of Justice, 
divers silver cups of sack glittered on 
the board. 

Doctor Langdon was in attendance, 
on the general ground that he was a 
learned personage. He viewed the spec 
tacle with the same ironic smile which 
he had given to Hawarth s horrors the 
day before. 

Sir Gyles s rubicund and clumsy feat 
ures were drawn awry by a peevish 
scowl. His gray beard was sunk in the 
collar of his furred robe. 

"I pity the poor miser you will 
judge," thought Dr. Langdon. 

Blacker and blacker grew the justice s 
frown over the constable s charge. 

In truth, it was a lame recital. The 
zealous guardians of the law had been 
warmly greeted by the steward, and de 
tained over night by the blandishments 
of good fellowship and prime ale. The 
mirth, in fine, waxed so loud that it had 
summoned my lady herself. She re 
proved them sternly for riot which might 
disturb Sir Gyles, and bade them lay 
the constable by this hour quite past 
speech on some sheep-skins in the 
dye-house, where he might sleep himself 
sober. By morning neither the miller 
nor the steward was the worse for ex 
cesses so common at the time ; but poor 
Tom s head was spinning as if from raps 
of the quarter-staff. 

"More shame to thee, guzzling and 
swilling!" his unsympathetic comrade 
of the mill told him, " and my lady send 
ing thee a fair silver cup o canarie from 
her own table, for grace ! " 

"Well she mote," retorted Tom, "I 
ha rid her slick o a thorn i her side. 
But I wold she ha filled it wi honest ale. 
A plague o them foreign possets, say I, 
my head and stomach be all hurly-burly ! " 

He cursed them the more heartily 
when Lady Agatha herself entered the 
hall, serene and haughty, and returned 
an icy greeting to his obeisance. 

Well, it was some amends to handle 
old Bassely roughly. He hustled her 
into the presence. Once she stumbled, 
whereupon he jerked her furiously back 
ward by her cloak-strings, choking her. 

To the miller s remonstrance he an 
swered : " I warrant the hangman will 
hurt her mo ! 5 



But Jock Miller swore a good round 
oath, in a whisper ; and, at the same 
time, said a rough word of comfort in 
her ear. Until this the staunch old 
hater had not changed countenance, but 
now her eyes grew wet. 

Some of the old servants of Audely 
who were in the hall could not dissemble 
their pity ; indeed, the women s sniffs 
were loud enough to reach Sir Gyles. 

"Why do the wenches blubber so?" 
growled he. 

Sir Kit explained that they pitied 
Goody Crawme, the accused, who had 
been kind to them in her good days. 

Thereupon he handed Bassely a chair. 
" She is debile and weak," he apolo 
gized, " pray you let her sit ! " 

" Umph ! " snorted Sir Gyles, " ye be 
soft like milk." But he motioned her 
to take the chair. 

Kit stole a glance in the only quarter 
where he hoped for understanding. 
Lady Agatha did not return his look. 
She wore an inscrutable air, observing 
Bassely with a kind of cold interest. 
Even so, thought Kit, who was learned 
in the classics, must the cruel Roman 
dames have studied the gladiators in 
the combats. Sir Kit s heart felt sore. 
"I* faith, women, for all their soft eyes, 
be harder than we," he said to himself. 

Sir Gyles called on him to read the 
accusation. 

Dame Crawme pleaded " Not guilty." 
Following the miller s whispered advice, 
she added: " T ben a worthless gaud. 
Pleaseth your noble worship, so the value 
be under five shillings tis no felony." 

" Will ye teach me the law, woman ? " 
said Sir Gyles, sourly. "Constable, 
where be the said hood ? " 

Hawarth pulled off the wrappings 
from his bundle, and swung out the 
hood with a flourish. The result was 
astounding. 

Hawarth could not restrain a furious 
exclamation. Old Bassely turned white 
as ashes. Sir Gyles swelled with be 
wilderment and anger ; while his son 
flued his eyes to his book, twirling his 
dr mustache the miller swore after 
ward that he thus smuggled away a 
smile. Dr. Langdon also smiled. He 
had guessed the motive of the theft, 
and was rather pleased to have the 
woman acquitted. 



UNDER FIVE SHILLINGS. 



79 



Only Lady Agatha guarded her indif 
ference. On all the other spectators 
faces were painted the varying emotions 
which attended their sympathies. 

For, plain to see, the gorgeous scarlet 
and gold, the delicate embroidery of 
pearls were blotched with great black 
burns, as if the cloth had been rolled in 
the coals. It had been a gentlewoman s 
hood ; it was an unsightly rag. 

" What mean ye by this jest, consta 
ble ?" Sir Gyles rapped out. "Ye said 
a fair hood ; here be no fitten garment 
for wearing ! " 

Hawarth stammered that there had 
been some foul trick played on him. He 
could show by witnesses that it was a 
costly hood yesterday. 

His witnesses, however, failed him 
flatly. Sir Kit could not see the gaud, 
"it been too dark." 

The miller followed in his lord s wake. 
Twas main dark and he had noted 
nothing. Will Lack- Wit, scared by Sir 
Kit s sharp questions, made a sad mess 
of his evidence, which Sir Gyles cut 
short in an access of disgust. The 
Lady Agatha was the constable s last 
hope, but she did no better for him. 
Questioned, on oath, she deposed that 
the hood was hers and that she had lost 
it yesterday. Yes, it was in mean good 
reparacion when she did see it last. 
She could not on her oath say where she 
did lose it. She assuredly should call 
the hood worthless now. 

At this point Sir Kit ventured to 
whisper his father that the constable 
had an ancient grudge against Goody 
Crawme ; belike he did take this chance 
to feed it fat. His charge that she was 
the author of the thefts in the village 
was clean out of reason. The house had 
been searched and naught found. She 
bore a right good name i the village of 
all who knew her. 

Sir Gyles pondered. He was a be 
liever in "the terribleness of punish 
ments " it was the belief of his age ; 
but he had a robust sense of j tistice, and 
was not unmerciful by nature. He con 
cluded to call witnesses respecting Dame 
Crawme s character. Thanks to the mil 
ler, they were at hand, and emboldened 
by Sir Kit s "aimiable and comfortable 
countenance," they spoke frankly in 
her favor. 



The clerking knight summed up the 
case to himself, during a painful silence. 
He took a deep draught of wine. 

"Prisoner," said he, then, "ye be 
quit. But I warn ye, trespass no more 
on others lands ! Had ye been walk 
ing i the highway, as behooved ye, this 
mischief had not befallen ye. I pass 
that, this once. And leave ye your 
neighbors goods alone ; though they 
look worthless they may chance cost 
ye dear. As for you, constable, know 
that the law be to shield the innocent 
effectuously, as to punish evil-doers. 
Therefore be not cock-sure and over- 
hasty." 

On the whole Sir Gyles acquitted him 
self very well with the scales and sword. 
And there was a real enthusiasm in Sir 
Kit s compliments. 

Now, rough-tempered, domineering, 
blustering Sir Gyles secretly valued the 
opinion of his calm son. He thawed 
into a wintry good humor ; that very 
day is the date of his deed of gift of 
Audely to his beloved son, Christopher 
PuUen. 

He sent a purse after Bassely. By 
good luck the miller was near, whence it 
happened that, in place of flinging it in 
the messenger s face, she kept it and re 
turned (in the miller s person) a most 
fitting, humble acknowledgment. 

Previously Dr. Langdon had been 
consulted by Lady Agatha concerning 
Mildred s eyes. He pronounced them 
capable of cure ; and, indeed, he proved 
himself as strong as his boast. During 
the whole interview he was thinking, 
" Twas sure this lady bore the matter 
in hand but why ? " 

Another man wondered in the same 
strain, but his answer was ready. 

No sooner were Sir Kit and his wife 
by themselves than he embraced her, 
lovingly. " Sweetheart," he whispered, 
" I cold kneel down and kiss your foot 
because that I wronged you so. I am 
assured twas thee contrived this end 
ing." 

"Jock Miller and I," said Agatha, 
happily ; " tis a faithful knave was in 
my father s train. A word was enow to 
him." 

"And the silver cup ? I marvelled ye 
shold do the bandog such grace." 

" I crave thy pardon, Kit, for my se- 



80 



TO THE CRICKET. 



crecy. But I wold not tangle thee in 
my naughty facts. Twas a posset o Dr. 
Langdon s for sleepless night. Twold 
do no harm, he saith." 

" And after, when I did miss ye for a 
little space " 

" I fear me, Kit, I been a robber my 
self, albeit I did give back the property 
and twas mine own." 

" And yet," said Sir Kit, slowly, "you 
coveted the child ! " 

" That property, too, must be restored," 
she said, sorrowfully ; "but but thou 
wilt not liken me to David, or the wicked 
rich man " 

" I will liken thee to nothing on earth, 
for there is no woman so noble ! " cried 
her husband, ardently. 

How it happened I am not able to say, 
but the story of the lady s action must 
have reached old Bassely through some 
channel (perhaps the miller), because 
when the young Lady Mildred, laden 
with gifts, was returned that same day 
to her, it is on record that she forthwith 
trudged her back to the castle. 

" Tis my lady s fitten place," said 
she. 

" But how can ye bear to part from 
her? "said Sir Kit. 

" I mean not so to do," replied the old 
woman, composedly ; " how chance I may 
not stay here to serve ye withal ? I be 



a main better cook than your Master 
Jack, the French fellow." 

So the matter arranged itself ; Dame 
Crawme rose to a high position in the 
household, and served Lady Agatha and 
Mildred Pullen, Countess of Audely and 
Gatherock, until the day of her death. 

It may be supposed that so stanch a 
partisan and so stanch a Catholic as 
Bassely had some wrestling of soul re 
garding her new masters, Sir Gyles, the 
usurer, and Sir Kit, the monk. Not she ; 
discovering Sir Gyles s munificent inten 
tions toward Lady Mildred, she prompt 
ly dismissed all the scandal as " cursed 
lies ; " she declared, truly enough, that 
the Pullens had been no party to her 
dear lord s destruction ; and was not 
Lady Mildred (through them) coming 
to her own again ? Sir Kit s marriage 
she viewed with the same philosophy. 

"Mayhap his saints bewrayed him, 
like St. Stephen done me," Bassely would 
say ; " sure I wunnot blame him. And 
at leastways twas on his bishop s head, 
not his, poor seely lad. I warrant me 
that wicked bishop will burn for unfrock 
ing a monk ; but Sir Kit, it ben his 
bounden duty to obey. Nay, he be no 
mo a monk nor you, Miller. The scur- 
ril knaves put me out o my patience wi 
their clatter ; an I ben my lord, I wold 
hang them up by the heels i the pillory ! " 



TO THE CRICKET. 

By A. Lampman. 



DIDST thou not tease and fret me to and fro, 
Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field, 
With that quiet voice of thine, that would not yield 

Its meaning, though I mused and sought it so? 

But now I am content to let it go, 

To lie at length and watch the swallows pass, 
As blithe and restful as this quiet grass, 

Content only to listen, and to know 

That years shall turn and summers yet shall shine, 
And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees, 
Still listening thus ; haply at last to seize 

And render in some happier verse divine 

That friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine, 
That perfect utterance of content and ease. 



IN THE VALLEY. 

By Harold Frederic. 




CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE STRANGE USES TO WHICH REVENGE MAY 
BE PUT. 

^~ N after times, when it 
could do no harm to 
tell this story, people 
were wont to regard 
as its most remarka 
ble feature the fact 
that we made the trip 
from the Oriskany 
battle-field to Cairncross in five days. 
There was never exhibited any special 
interest in the curious workings of 
mind, and conscience too, if you like, 
which led me to bring my enemy 
home ; some few, indeed, like General 
Arnold, to whom I recounted the affair 
a fortnight later when he marched up 
the Valley, frankly said that I was a fool 
for my pains and doubtless many 
others dissembled the same opinion. 
But they all with one accord expressed 
surprise, admiration, even incredulity, 
at the despatch with which we accom 
plished the difficult journey. 

This achievement was, of course, en 
tirely due to Enoch. At the outset he 
protested stoutly against the waste of 
time and trouble involved in my plan. 
It was only after much argument that I 
won him over to consenting, which he 
did with evident reluctance. But it is 
right to say that, once embarked on the 
adventure, he carried it through faith 
fully and with zeal. 

The wounded man lay silent, with 
closed eyes, while our discussion went 
on. He seemed in a half lethargic state, 
probably noting all that we said, yet un 
der too heavy a spell of pain and weak 
ness to care to speak. It was not until 
we two had woven a rough sort of litter 
out of hickory saplings, covered thick 
with moss and hemlock twigs, and 
Enoch had knelt by his side to look to 
his wounds again, that Cross spoke : 

" Leave me alone ! " he groaned an 
grily. " It makes me worse to have you 



touch me. Are you not satisfied? I 
am dying ; that ought to be enough for 
you." 

"Don t be a fool, Mr. Cross," said 
Enoch, imperturbably, moving his hand 
along the course of the bandage. " We re 
trying to save your life. I don t know 
just why, but we are. Don t make it 
extra hard for us. All the help we want 
from you is for you to hold your jaw." 

" You are going to give me up to your 
Oneidas ! " cried the suffering man, rais 
ing his head by a violent effort at the 
words, and staring affrightedly straight 
ahead of him. 

There, indeed, were the two friendly 
Indians who had come with me to the 
swamp, and had run forward in pursuit 
of Cross s companions. They had re 
turned with absolute noiselessness, and 
stood now some ten feet away from us, 
gazing with stolid composure at our 
group. 

A hideous bunch of fresh scalp-locks 
dangled from the belt of each, and, on 
the bare legs beneath, stains of some 
thing darker than vermilion mingled 
with the pale ochre that had been rubbed 
upon the skin. The savages breathed 
heavily from their chase, and their black 
eyes were fairly aflame w r ith excitement, 
but they held the muscles of their faces 
in an awesome rigidity. They were 
young men whom pious Samuel Kirk- 
land had laboriously covered, through 
years of effort, with a Christian veneer 
ing. If the good dominie could have 
been there and seen the glances they 
bent upon the wounded enemy at our 
feet I fear me he would have groaned in 
spirit. 

" Keep them off ! " shrieked Cross, his 
head all in a tremble with the sustained 
exertion of holding itself up. "I will 
not be scalped ! So help me God, I will 
not ! " 

The Indians knew enough of English 
to understand this frantic cry. They 
looked at me as much as to say that this 
gentleman s resolution did not materi 
ally alter the existing situation, the prob- 



82 



IN THE GALLEY. 



abilities of which were all on the other 
side. 

"Lay your head down, Mr. Cross," 
said Enoch, almost gently. " Just keep 
cool, or you ll bust your bandages off. 
They won t hurt you till we give em the 
word." 

Still he made fitful efforts to rise, and 
a faint purplish color came into his 
throat and cheeks as he strove excitedly. 
If Enoch had not held his arm he would 
have torn off the plaster from his breast. 

" It shall not be done ! I will die 
now ! You shall not save me to be tor 
tured scalped by these devils ! " 

I intervened here. "You need fear 
nothing from these Indians," I said, 
bending over him. "Lie back again 
and calm yourself. We are different 
from the brutes in your camp. We pay 
no price for scalps." 

"Perhaps those are not scalps they 
have hanging there ; it is like your cant 
ing tongue to deny it ! " 

It was easy to keep my temper with 
this helpless foe. " These savages have 
their own way of making war," I an 
swered calmly. "They are defending 
their own homes against invasion, as 
well as we are. But we do not bribe 
them to take scalps." 

" Why not be honest you ! " he said, 
disdainfully. "You are going to give 
me up. Don t sicken me with preach 
ing into the bargain ! " 

"Why be silly you!" I retorted. 
"Does the trouble we propose taking 
for you look like giving you up ? What 
would be easier than to leave you here 
for the wolves, or these Indians here. 
Instead of that we are going to carry 
you all the way to your home. We are 
going to hide you at Cairncross until 
I can get a parole for you from General 
Schuyler. Now will you keep still ? " 

He did relapse into silence at this a 
silence that was born alike of mystifica 
tion and utter weakness. 

Enoch explained to the Oneidas, 
mainly in their own strange tongue, my 
project of conveying this British pris 
oner, intact so far as hair went, down 
the Valley. I could follow him enough 
to know that he described me as a war 
rior of great position and valor ; it was 
less flattering to have him explain that 
Cross was also a leading chief, and that 



I would get a magnificent ransom by 
delivering him up to Congress. 

Doubtless it was wise not to approach 
the Indian mind with less practical ar 
guments. I saw this, and begged Enoch 
to add that much of this reward should 
be theirs if they would accompany us 
on our journey. 

"They would be more trouble than 
they are worth," he said. " They 
wouldn t help carry him more than 
ten minutes a day. If they ll tell me 
where one of their canoes is hid, betwixt 
here and Fort Schuyler, that will be 
enough." 

The result was that Enoch got such 
information of this sort as he desired, 
together with the secret of a path near 
by which would lead us to the river trail. 
I cut two buttons from my coat in re 
turn, and gave them to the savages ; each 
being a warranty for eight dollars upon 
production at my home, half way be 
tween the old and the new houses of the 
great and lamented Warrraghiyagey, 
as they had called Sir William Johnson. 
This done, and the trifling skin-wound 
on my arm re-dressed, we lifted Cross 
upon the rude litter and started for the 
trail. 

I seem to see again the spectacle upon 
which I turned to look for a last time 
before we entered the thicket. The sky 
beyond the fatal forest wore still its 
greenish, brassy color, and the clouds 
upon the upper limits of this unnatural 
glare were of a vivid, sinister crimson, 
like clots of fresh blood. In the calm 
gray-blue of the twilight vault above 
birds of prey circled, with a horrible 
calling to one another. No breath of 
air stirred the foliage or the bending 
rushes in the swale. We could hear no 
sound from our friends at the head of 
the ravine, a full half-mile away. Save 
for the hideous noises of the birds a 
perfect silence rested upon this blood- 
soaked oasis of the wilderness. The 
little brook babbled softly past us ; the 
strong western light flashed upon the 
rain-drops among the leaves. On the 
cedar-clad knoll the two young Indians 
stood motionless in the sunset radiance, 
watching us gravely. 

We passed into the enfolding depths 
of the woods, leaving the battle-field to 
the furred and feathered scavengers and 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



the scalping-knives of the forest prime 
val. 

Our slow and furtive course down the 
winding river was one long misery. I 
recall no other equally wretched five 
days in my life. 

The canoe which Enoch unearthed on 
our first evening was a small and frag 
ile affair, in which only one beside the 
wounded man could be accommodated. 
The other must take his way as best he 
could through the sprawling tangle of 
water-alders, wild artichoke, and vines, 
facing myriads of flies and an intoler 
able heat in all the wet places, with their 
sweltering luxuriance of rank vegetation. 
One day of this nearly reduced me to 
the condition of our weak and helpless 
prisoner. I staggered blindly along 
toward its close, covered to the knees 
with black river-mud, my face and 
wounded arm stinging with the scratches 
of poisonous ivy and brambles, my brain 
aching savagely, my strength and spirit 
all gone. I could have wept like a child 
from sheer exhaustion when at last I 
came to the nook on the little stream 
where Enoch had planned to halt, and 
flung myself on the ground utterly worn 
out. 

We were somewhat below Fort Schuy- 
ler, as near to the first settlements on 
the German Flatts as we might with 
safety venture by daylight. Thereafter 
we must hide during the days, and steal 
down the river at night. Enoch had a 
small store of smoked beef ; for the rest 
we ate berries, wild grapes, and one or 
two varieties of edible roots which he 
knew of. We dared not build a fire. 

Philip Cross passed most of his time, 
while we lay hiding under cover, in a 
drowsy restless stupor, broken by fever 
ish intervals of nervous activity of mind 
which were often very like delirium. 
The heat, the fly-pest, and the malarial 
atmosphere of the dank recesses in which 
we lay, all combined to make his days 
very bad. At night in the canoe, float 
ing noiselessly down the stream, Enoch 
said he seemed to suffer less and to be 
calmer in his mind. But at no time, 
for the first three days at least, did he 
evince any consciousness that we were 
doing for him more than might under 
the circumstances be expected. His 



glance seemed sometimes to bespeak 
puzzled thoughts. But he accepted all 
our ministrations and labors with either 
the listless indifference of a man ill unto 
death, or the composure of an aristocrat 
who took personal service and attention 
for granted. 

After we had passed the Little Falls 
which we did on our third night out 
the chief danger from shallows and 
rifts was over, and Enoch was able to 
exchange places with me. It was no 
great trouble to him, skilful woodsman 
that he was, to make his way along the 
bank even in the dark, while in the now 
smooth and fairly broad course I could 
manage the canoe well enough. 

The moon shone fair upon us, as our 
little bark glided down the river. We 
were in the deep current which pushes 
forcefully forward under the new press 
ure of the East Canada waters, and 
save for occasional guidance there was 
small need of my paddle. The scene 
was very beautiful to the eye the white 
light upon the flood, the soft calm 
shadows of the willowed banks, the 
darker, statelier silhouettes of the for 
est trees, reared black against the pale 
sky. 

There is something in the restful 
radiance of moonlight which mellows 
hearts. The poets learned this, ages 
since ; I realized it now, as my glance 
fell upon the pallid face in the bow be 
fore me. We were looking at one an 
other, and my hatred of him, nursed 
through years, seemed suddenly to have 
taken to itself wings. I had scarcely 
spoken to him during the voyage other 
than to ask him of his wound. Now a 
thousand gentle impulses stirred within 
me, all at once, and moved my tongue. 

"Are you out of pain to-night?" I 
asked him. " The journey is a hard one 
at best for a wounded man. I would 
we could have commanded a larger and 
more commodious boat." 

" Oh, aye ! So far as bodily suffering 
goes, I am free from it," he made answer, 
languidly. Then, after a little pause, 
he went on, in a low musing voice : 
" How deathly still everything is ! I 
thought that in the wilderness one heard 
always the night-yelping of the wolves. 
We did at Cairncross, I know. Yet 
since we started I have not heard one. 



84 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



It is as if we were going through a dead 
country." 

Enoch had explained the reason for 
this silence to me, and I thoughtlessly 
blurted it out. 

"Every wolf for forty miles round 
about is up at the battle-field," I said. 
"It is fairly marvellous how such in 
telligence spreads among these brutes. 
They must have a language of their 
own. How little we really understand 
of the animal creation about us, with 
all our pride of wisdom ! Even the 
shark, sailors aver, knows which ship to 
pursue." 

He shuddered, and closed his eyes as 
I spoke. I thought at first that he had 
been seized with a spasm of physical 
anguish, by the drawn expression of his 
face ; then it dawned upon me that his 
suffering was mental. 

" Yes, I dare say they are all there ! " 
he said, lifting his voice somewhat. "I 
can hear them see them ! Do you 
know," he went on excitedly, "all day 
long, all night long, I seem to have 
corpses all about me. They are there 
just the same when I close my eyes 
when I sleep. Some of them are my 
friends ; others I do not know, but they 
all know me. They look at me out of 
dull eyes ; they seem to say they are 
waiting for me and then there are the 
wolves ! " 

He began shivering at this again, and 
his voice sank into a piteous quaver. 

" These are but fancies," I said, gently, 
as one would speak to a child awakened 
in terror by a nightmare. "You will 
be rid of them once you get where you 
can have rest and care." 

It seemed passing strange that I 
should be talking thus to a man of as 
powerful frame as myself, and even 
older in years. Yet he was so wan and 
weak, and the few days of suffering had 
so altered, I may say refined, his face 
and mien, that it was natural enough 
too, when one thinks of it. 

He became calmer after this, and 
looked at me for a long time as I pad 
dled through a stretch of still water, in 
silence. 

" You must have been well born, after 
all," he said, finally. 

I did not wholly understand his mean 
ing, but answered : 



" Why, yes, the Van Hoorns are a very 
good family noble in some branches, 
in fact and my father had his sheep 
skin from Utrecht. But what of it ? " 

"What I would say is, you have acted 
in all this like a gentleman." 

I could not help smiling to myself, 
now that I saw what was in his mind. 
"For that matter," I answered lightly, 
" it does not seem to me that either the 
Van Hoorns or the dead Mauverensens 
have much to do with it." I remem 
bered my mother s parting remark to 
me, and added: "The only Van Hoorn 
I know of in the Valley will not be at 
all pleased to learn I have brought you 
back." 

" Nobody will be pleased ! " he said, 
gloomily. 

After that it was fit that silence 
should again intervene, for I could not 
gainsay him. He closed his eyes, as if 
asleep, and I paddled on in the alter 
nate moonlight and shadow. 

The recollection of my mother s 
words brought with it a great train of 
thoughts, mostly bitter. I was bearing 
home with me a man who was not only 
not wanted, but whose presence and 
continued life meant the annihilation of 
all the inchoate hopes and dreams my 
heart these last two years had fed upon. 
It was easy to be civil, even kind, to 
him in his present helpless, stricken 
state ; anybody with a man s nature 
could do that. But it was not so easy 
to look resignedly upon the future, from 
which all light and happiness were ex 
cluded by the very fact that he was alive. 

More than once during this reverie, 
be it stated in frankness, the reflection 
came to me that by merely tipping the 
canoe over I could even now set every 
thing right. Of course I put the evil 
thought away from me, but still it came 
obstinately back more than once. Un 
der the momentary spell of this devilish 
suggestion I even looked at the form 
recumbent before me, and noted how 
impossible it was that it should ever 
reach the bank, once in the water. 
Then I tore my mind forcibly from the 
idea, as one looking over a dizzy height 
leaps back lest the strange latent im 
pulse of suicide shall master him, and 
fixed my thoughts instead upon the man 
himself. 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



85 



His talk about my being well born 
helped me now to understand his char 
acter better than I had before been able 
to do. I began to realize the existence 
in England in Europe generally, I 
dare say of a kind of man strange to 
our American ideas ; a being within 
whom long tradition and sedulous train 
ing had created two distinct men one 
affable, honorable, generous, likeable 
among his equals, the other cold, self 
ish, haughty, and harsh to his inferiors. 
It struck me now that there had always 
been two Philips, and that I had. been 
shown only the rude and hateful one be 
cause my station had not seemed to en 
title me to consort with the other. 

Once started upon this explanation I 
began to comprehend the whole story. 
To tell the truth, I had never under 
stood why this young man should have 
behaved so badly as he did ; there had 
been to me always a certain wantonness 
of brutality in his conduct wholly inex 
plicable. The thing was plainer now. 
In his own country, he would doubtless 
have made a tolerable husband, a fair 
landlord, a worthy gentleman in the 
eyes of the only class of people whose 
consideration he cared for. But over 
here, in the new land, all the conditions 
had been against him. He had drawn 
down upon himself and all those about 
him overwhelming calamity simply be 
cause he had felt himself under the 
cursed obligation to act like a " gentle 
man," as he called it. His contempt 
uous dislike of me, his tyrannical treat 
ment of his wife when she did not fall 
in with his ambitions, his sulky resort to 
dissipation, his fierce espousal of the 
Tory side against the common herd I 
could trace now the successive steps by 
which obstinacy had led him down the 
fell incline. 

I do not know that I had much satis 
faction from this analysis, even when I 
had worked it all out. It was worth 
while, no doubt, to arrive at a knowl 
edge of Philip s true nature, and to see 
that, under other circumstances, he 
might have been as good a man as 
another. But all the same my heart 
grew heavy under the recurring thought 
that the saving of his life meant the de 
struction of all worth having in mine. 

Every noiseless stroke of my paddle in 
VOL. VIII. 7 



the water, bearing him toward home, as 
it did, seemed to push me farther back 
into a chill, unknown world of gloom 
and desolation. Yet, God help me, I 
could do no other ! 



CHAPTER XXXVI 

A FINAL SCENE IN THE GULF WHICH MY 
EYES AKE MEKCIFULLY SPAKED. 

JUST before daybreak of the fifth day 
we stole past the sleeping hamlet of 
Caughnawaga, and as the sun was rising 
over the Schoharie hills I drew up the 
canoe into the outlet of Dadanoscara 
Creek a small brook which came down 
through the woods from the high land 
whereon Cairncross stood. Our jour 
ney by water was ended. 

Enoch was waiting for us, and helped 
me lift Cross from the canoe. His body 
hung inert in our arms ; not even my 
clumsy slipping on the bank of the rivu 
let startled him from the deep sleep in 
which he had lain for hours in the boat. 

"I have been frightened ! Can he be 
dying ? " I asked. 

Enoch knelt beside him, and put his 
hand over the patient s heart. He shook 
his head dubiously after a moment, and 
said : " It s tearing along like a race 
horse. He s in a fever the worst kind. 
This ain t sleep it s stupor." 

He felt the wounded man s pulse and 
temples. " If you re bent on saving his 
life," he added, "you d better scoot off 
and get some help. Before we can make 
another litter for him, let alone taking 
him up this creek-bed to his house, it 
may be too late. If we had a litter 
ready, it might be different. As it is, I 
don t see but you will have to risk it, 
and bring somebody here." 

For once in my life my brain worked 
in flashes. I actually thought of some 
thing which had not occurred to Enoch ! 

" Why not carry him in this canoe ? " 
I asked. "It is lighter than any litter 
we could make." 

The trapper slapped his lank, leather- 
clad thigh in high approval " By ho- 
key ! " he said, " you ve hit it ! " 

We sat on the mossy bank, on either 
side of the insensible Philip, and ate the 
last remaining fragments of our store 



IN THE I/ALLEY. 



of food. Another day of this and we 
should have been forced to shoot some 
thing, and light a fire to cook it over, no 
matter what the danger. Enoch had, 
indeed, favored this course two days be 
fore, but I clung to my notion of keep 
ing Cross s presence in the Valley an ab 
solute secret. His life would have been 
in deadly peril hereabouts, even before 
the battle. How bitterly the hatred of 
him and his traitor fellows must have 
been augmented by the slaughter of 
that cruel ambuscade I could readily 
imagine. With what words could I 
have protected him against the right 
eous rage of a Snell, for example, or a 
Seeber, or any one of a hundred others 
who had left kinsmen behind in that 
fatal gulch ? No ! There must be no 
risk run by meeting anyone. 

With the scanty meal finished our 
rest was at an end. We ought to lose 
no time. Each minute s delay in get 
ting the wounded man under a roof, in 
bed. within reach of aid and nursing, 
might be fatal. 

It was no light task to get the canoe 
upon our shoulders, after we had put in 
it our guns, covered these with ferns 
and twigs, and upon these laid Philip s 
bulky form, and a very few moments 
progress showed that the work before 
us was to be no child s play. The con 
formation of the canoe made it a rather 
awkward thing to carry, to begin with. 
To bear it right side up, laden as it was, 
over eight miles of almost continuous 
ascent, through a perfectly unbroken 
wilderness, was as laborious an under 
taking as it is easy to conceive. 

We toiled along so slowly, and the 
wretched little brook, whose bed we 
strove to follow, described such a wan 
dering course, and was so often rendered 
fairly impassable by rocks, driftwood, 
and overhanging thicket, that when the 
sun hung due south above us we had 
covered barely half our journey, and 
confronted still the hardest portion of 
it. We were so exhausted when this 
noon hour came, too, that I could make 
no objection when Enoch declared his 
purpose of getting some trout from the 
brook, and cooking them. Besides, we 
were far enough away from the river 
highway and from all habitations, now, 
to render the thing practically safe. Ac 



cordingly I lighted a small fire of the 
driest wood to be found, while the trap 
per stole up and down the brook, mov 
ing with infinite stealth and dexterity, 
tracking down fish and catching them 
with his hands under the stones. 

Soon he had enough for a meal and, 
niy word ! it was a feast for emperors 
or angels. We stuffed the pink dainties 
with mint, and baked them in balls of 
clay. It seemed as if I had not eaten 
before in years. 

We tried to rouse Cross sufficiently 
to enable him to eat, and in a small 
way succeeded, but the effect upon 
him was scarcely beneficial, it appeared 
to us. His fever increased, and when 
we started out once more under our bur 
den, the motion inseparable from our 
progress affected his head, and he began 
to talk incoherently to himself. 

Nothing can be imagined more weird 
and startling than was the sound of this 
voice above us, when we first heard it. 
Both Enoch and I instinctively stopped. 
For the moment we could not tell 
whence the sound came, and I know not 
what wild notions about it flashed 
through my mind. Even when we real 
ized that it was the fever-loosed tongue 
of our companion which spoke, the ef 
fect was scarcely less uncanny. Though 
I could not see him, the noise of his 
ceaseless talking came from a point 
close to my head ; he spoke for the 
most part in a bold, high voice unnatu 
rally raised above the pitch of his recent 
faint waking utterances. Whenever a 
fallen log or jutting bowlder gave us a 
chance to rest our load without the 
prospect of too much work in hoisting 
it again, we would set the canoe down 
and that moment his lips would close. 
There seemed to be some occult connec 
tion between the motion of our walking 
and the activity of his disordered brain. 

For a long time of course in a very 
disconnected way he babbled about 
his mother, and of people, presumably 
English, of whom I knew nothing save 
that one name, Digby, was that of his 
elder brother. Then there began to be 
interwoven with this talk stray mention 
of Daisy s name, and soon the whole dis 
course was of her. 

The freaks of delirium have little sig 
nificance, I believe, as clues to the saner 



IN THE GALLEY. 



courses of the mind, but he spoke only 
gently in his imaginary speeches to his 
wife. I had to listen, plodding wearily 
along with aching shoulders under the 
burden of the boat, to fond, affectionate 
words addressed to her in an incessant 
string. The thread of his ideas seemed 
to be that he had arrived home, worn 
out and ill, and that he was resting his 
head upon her bosom. Over and over 
again, with tiresome iteration, he kept 
entreating plaintively : "You are glad to 
see me ? You do truly forgive me, and 
love me ? " 

Nothing could have been sadder than 
to hear him. I reasoned that this cease 
less dwelling upon the sweets of a ten 
der welcome doubtless reflected the 
train of his thoughts during the jour 
ney down from the battle-field. He had 
f oreborne to once mention Daisy s name 
during the whole voyage, but he must 
have thought deeply, incessantly of her 
in all likelihood with a great soften 
ing of heart and yearning for her com 
passionate nursing. It was not in me 
to be unmoved by this. I declare that 
as I went painfully forward, with this 
strangely pathetic song of passion re 
peating itself in my ears, I got fairly 
away from the habit of mind in which 
my own love for Daisy existed, and felt 
myself only an agent in the w r orking 
out of some sombre and exalted ro 
mance. 

In Foxe s account of the English mar 
tyrs there are stories of men at the 
stake who, when a certain stage of the 
torture was reached, really forgot their 
anguish in the emotional ecstasy of the 
ideas born of that terrible moment. In 
a poor and imperfect fashion I ap 
proached that same strange state not 
far removed, in sober fact, from the de 
lirium of the man in the canoe. 

The shadows were lengthening in the 
woods, and the reddening blaze of the 
sun flared almost level in our eyes 
through the tree-trunks, when at last 
we had crossed the water-shed of the 
two creeks, and stood looking down into 
the gulf of which I have so often spoken 
heretofore. 

We rested the canoe upon a great 
rock in the mystic circle of ancient Ind 
ian fire worship, and leaned, tired and 
panting, against its side. My arm was 



giving me much pain, and what with 
insufficient food and feverish sleep, 
great immediate fatigue, and the vast 
nervous strain of these past six days, I 
was well-nigh swooning. 

"I fear I can go no further, Enoch," 
I groaned. "I can barely keep my feet 
as it is." 

The trapper himself was as close to 
utter exhaustion as one may be and have 
aught of spirit left, yet he tried to speak 
cheerily. 

"Come, come!" he said, "we nmstn t 
give out now, right here at the finish. 
Why it s only down, over that bridge, 
and up again and there we are ! " 

I smiled in a sickly way at him, and 
strove to nerve myself manfully for a 
final exertion. " Very well ! " I made 
answer. "Just a moment s more rest, 
and we ll at it again." 

While we still stood half reclining 
against the bowlder, looking with trep 
idation at the stiff ascent before us on 
the farther side of the gulf, the scene of 
the old quarrel of our youth suddenly 
came to my mind. 

" Do you see that spruce near the top, 
by the path the one hanging over the 
edge ? Five years ago I was going to 
fight this Philip Cross there, on that 
path. My little nigger Tulp ran be 
tween us, and he threw him head over 
heels to the bottom. The lad has never 
been himself since." 

"Pretty tolerable fall," remarked 
Enoch, glancing down the precipitous, 
brush-clad wall of rock. " But a nigger 
lands on his head, as a cat does on her 
feet, and it only scratches him where it 
would kill anybody else." 

We resumed our burden now, and 
made our way with it down the winding 
path to the bottom. Here I was fain to 
surrender once for all. 

"It is no use, Enoch ! " I said reso 
lutely. " I can t even try to climb up 
there with this load. You must wait 
here ; I will go ahead to Cairncross, 
prepare them for his coming, and send 
down some slaves to fetch him the rest 
of the way." 

The great square mansion reared be 
fore me a closed and inhospitable front. 
The shutters of all the windows were 
fastened. Since the last rain no wheels 



88 



IN THE GALLEY. 



had passed over the carriage-way. For 
all the signs of life visible, Cairncross 
might have been uninhabited a twelve 
month. 

It was only when I pushed my way 
around to the rear of the house, within 
view of the stables and slave quarters, 
that I learned the place had not been 
abandoned. Half a dozen niggers, 
dressed in their holiday, church-going 
raiment, were squatting in a close circle 
on the grass, intent upon the progress 
of some game. Their interest in this 
was so deep that I had drawn near to 
them, and called a second time, before 
they became aware of my presence. 

They looked for a minute at me in a 
perplexed way my mud-baked clothes, 
unshaven face, and general unkempt 
condition evidently rendering me a 
stranger in their eyes. Then one of 
them screamed : " Golly ! Mass Douw s 
ghost ! " and the nimble cowards were 
on their feet and scampering like scared 
rabbits to the orchard, or into the base 
ment of the great house. 

So I was supposed to be dead ! Curi 
ously enough, it had not occurred to 
me before that this would be the nat 
ural explanation of my failure to return 
with the others. The idea now gave 
me a queer quaking sensation about the 
heart, and I stood stupidly staring at 
the back balcony of the house, with my 
mind in a whirl of confused thoughts. 
It seemed almost as if I had come back 
from the grave. 

While I still stood, faint and bewil 
dered, trying to regain control of my 
ideas, the door opened, and a white- 
faced lady, robed all in black, came 
swiftly out upon the porch. It was 
Daisy and she was gazing at me with 
distended eyes and parted lips, and 
clinging to the carved balustrade for 
support. 

As in a dream I heard her cry of rec 
ognition, and knew that she was gliding 
toward me. Then I was on my knees at 
her feet, burying my face in the folds of 
her dress, and moaning incoherent noth 
ings from sheer exhaustion and rapture. 

When at last I could stand up, and 
felt myself coming back to something 
like self-possession, a score of eager 
questions and as many outbursts of 
deep thanksgiving were in my ears all 



from her sweet voice. And I had tongue 
for none of them, but only looked into 
her dear face, and patted her hands 
between mine, and trembled like a leaf 
with excitement. So much was there to 
say, the sum of it beggared language. 

When finally we did talk, I was seated 
in a great chair one of the slaves had 
brought upon the sward, and wine had 
been fetched me, and my dear girl bent 
gently over me from behind, softly rest 
ing my head against her waist, her hands 
upon my arms. 

"You shall not look me in the face 
again," she said, with ah ! such compas 
sionate tender playfulness "until I 
have been told. How did you escape ? 
Were you a prisoner ? W T ere you hurt ? " 
and oh, a host of other things. 

Suddenly the sky seemed to be cov 
ered with blackness, and the joy in my 
heart died out as by the stroke of death. 
I had remembered something. My 
parched and twitching lips did their best 
to refuse to form the words : 

" I have brought Philip home. He is 
sorely wounded. Send the slaves to 
bring him from the gulf." 

After a long silence, I heard Daisy s 
voice, clear and without a tremor, call 
out to the blacks that their master had 
been brought as far as the gulf beyond, 
and needed assistance. They started 
off helter-skelter at this, with many ex 
clamations of great surprise, a bent and 
misshapen figure dragging itself with a 
grotesque limping gait at their tail. 

I rose from my chair, now in some 
measure restored to calmness and cold 
resolution. In mercy I had been given 
a brief time of blind happiness of bliss 
without the alloy of a single thought. 
Now I must be a man, and walk erect, 
unflinching to the sacrifice. 

"Let us go and meet them. It is 
best," I said. 

The poor girl raised her eyes to mine, 
and their startled, troubled gaze went 
to my heart. There must have been 
prodigious effort in the self-command 
of her tone to the slaves, for her voice 
broke down utterly now, as she faltered, 

You have brought him home ! 
For what purpose ? How will this all 
end ? It terrifies me ! " 

We had by tacit consent begun to 
walk down the path toward the road.. It 



IN THE YALLEY. 



89 



was almost twilight. I remember still 
how the swallows wheeled swiftly in the 
air about the eaves, and how their twit 
tering and darting seemed to confuse 
and tangle my thoughts. 

The situation was too sad for silence. 
I felt the necessity of talking, of uttering 
something which might, at least, make 
pretence of occupying these wretched 
minutes until I should say : 

"This is vour husband and fare 
well ! " 

" It was clear enough to me," I said. 
"My duty was plain. I would have 
been a murderer had I left him there to 
die. It was very strange about my feel 
ings. Up to a certain moment they 
were all bitter and merciless toward 
him. So many better men than he were 
dead about me, it seemed little enough 
that his life should go to help avenge 
them. Yet when the moment came 
why, I could not suffer it. Not that my 
heart relented ; no, I was still full of 
rage against him. But none the less it 
was my duty to save his life." 

" And to bring him home to me" She 
spoke musingly, completing my sen 
tence. 

" Why, Daisy, would you have had it 
otherwise ? Could I have left him there 
to die alone, helpless in the swamp ? " 

" I have not said you were not right, 
Douw," she answered with saddened 
slowness. " But I am trying to think. 
It is so hard to realize coming like 
this ! I was told you were both dead. 
His name was reported in their camp, 
yours among our people. And now you 
are both here and it is all so strange, 
so startling and what is right seems 
so mingled and bound up with what is 
cruel and painful Oh ! I cannot think ! 
What will come of it ? How will it all 
end?" 

"We must not ask how it will end!" 
I made answer, with lofty decision. 
" That is not our affair. We can but 
do our duty what seems clearly right 
and bear results as they come. There 
is no other way. You ought to see 
this." 

"Yes, I ought to see it," she said, 
slowly and in a low distressed voice. 

As she spoke there rose in my mind a 
sudden consciousness that perhaps my 
wisdom was at fault. How was it that I 



coarse-fibred male animal, returned 
from slaughter, even now with the blood 
of fellow-creatures on my hands should 
be discoursing of duty and of good and 
bad to this pure and gentle and sweet- 
souled woman ? What was my title to 
do this ? to rebuke her for not seeing 
the right ? Had I been in truth gener 
ous ? Bather had I not, in the purely 
selfish desire to win my own self-appro 
bation, brought pain and perplexity 
down upon the head of this poor wom 
an? I had thought much of my own 
goodness my own strength of purpose 
and self-sacrifice and fidelity to duty. 
Had I given so much as a mental glance 
at the effect of my acts upon the one 
whom, of all others, I should have first 
guarded from trouble and grief ? 

My tongue was tied. Perhaps I had 
been all wrong. Perhaps I should not 
have brought back to her the man whose 
folly and obstinacy had so well-nigh 
wrecked her life. I could no longer be 
sure. I kept silence, feeling indirectly 
now that her woman s instinct would 
be truer and better than my logic. She 
was thinking ; she would find the real 
right and wrong. 

Ah, no ! To this day we are not set 
tled in our minds, we two old people, as 
to the exact balance betweon duty and 
common-sense in that strange question 
of our far-away youth. 

There broke upon our ears, of a sud 
den, as we neared the wooded crest of 
the gulf, a weird and piercing scream 
an unnatural and repellent yell like a 
hyena s horrid hooting ! It rose with 
terrible distinctness from the thicket 
close before us. As its echoes returned 
we heard confused sounds of other 
voices, excited and vibrant. 

Daisy clutched my arm, and began 
hurrying me forward, impelled by some 
formless fear of she knew not what. 

"It is Tulp !" she murmured, as we 
went breathlessly on. " Oh, I should 
have kept him back ! Whv did I not 
think of it ! " 

" What about Tulp ? " I asked, with 
difficulty keeping beside her in the nar 
row path. " I had no thought of him. 
I did not see him. He was not among 
the others, was he ? " 

" He has gone mad ! " 

"What Tulp, poor boy? Oh, not 



90 



IN THE GALLEY. 



as bad as that, surely ! He has been 
strange and slow of wit for years, 
but " 

" Nay, the tidings of your death 
you know I told you we heard that you 
were dead drove him into perfect mad 
ness. I doubt he knew you when you 
came. Only yesterday we spoke of con 
fining him but poor old Father pleaded 
not. When you see Tulp, you shall de 
cide. Oh! What has happened? Who 
is this man ? " 

In the path before us, some yards 
away, appeared the tall, gaunt form of 
Enoch, advancing slowly. In the dusk 
of the wooded shades behind him hud 
dled the group of slaves. They bore 
nothing in their hands. Where was 
the canoe? They seemed affrighted or 
oppressed by something out of the com 
mon and Enoch, too, wore a strange 
air. What could it mean ? 

When Enoch saw us he lifted his 
hand in a warning gesture. 

" Have her go back ! " he called out, 
with brusque sharpness. 

"Will you walk back a little?" I 
asked her. "There is something here 
we do not understand. I will join you 
in a moment." 

" For God r sake, what is it, Enoch ? " 
I demanded, as I confronted him. " Tell 
me quick ! " 

" Well, we ve had our five days tussle 
for nothing, and you re minus a nigger. 
That s about what it comes to." 

" Speak out, can t you ! Is he dead ? 
What was the yell we heard ? " 

" It was all done like a flash of light 
ning. We were coining up the side 
nighest us here we had got just where 
that spruce, you know, hangs over 
when all at once that hump-backed nig 
ger of yours raised a scream like a paint 
er, and flung himself head first against 
the canoe. Over it went, and he with it, 
rip, smash, plumb to the bottom ! " 

The negroes broke forth in a babel of 
mournful cries at this, and clustered 
about us. I grew sick and faint under 
this shock of fresh horrors, and was fain 
to lean on Enoch s arm, as I turned to 
walk back to where I had left Daisy. 
She was not visible as we approached, 
and I closed my eyes in abject terror of 
some further tragedy. 

Thank God, she had only swooned 



and lay mercifully senseless in the tall 
grass, her waxen face upturned in the 
twilight. 



CHAPTEK XXXVH. 

THE PEACEFUL ENDING OF IT ALL. 

IN the general paralysis of suffering 
and despair which rested now upon the 
Valley, the terrible double tragedy of 
the gulf passed almost unnoted. Women 
everywhere were mourning for the hus 
bands, sons, lovers who would never re 
turn. Fathers strove in vain to look 
dry-eyed at familiar places which should 
know the brave lads true boys of theirs 
no more. The play and prattle of 
children were hushed in a hundred 
homes where some honest farmer s life, 
struck fiercely at by savage or Tory, 
still hung in the dread balance. Each 
day from some house issued forth the 
procession of death, until all our little 
churchyards along the winding river 
had more new graves than old not to 
speak of that grim, unconsecrated God s- 
acre in the forest pass, more cruel still 
to think upon. And with all this to 
bear, there was no assurance that the 
morrow might not bring the torch and 
tomahawk of invasion to our very doors. 

So our own strange tragedy had, as I 
have said, scant attention. People list 
ened to the recital, and made answer : 
" Both dead at the foot of the cliff, eh ? 
Have you heard how William Seeber is 
to-day ? " or, " Is it true that Herkimer s 
leg must be cut off ? " 

In those first few days there was little 
enough heart to measure or boast of the 
grandeur of the fight our simple Valley 
farmers had waged, there in the am 
bushed ravine of Oriskany. Still less 
was there at hand information by the 
light of which the results of that battle 
could be estimated. Nothing was known, 
at the time of which I write, save that 
there had been hideous slaughter, and 
that the invaders had foreborne to im 
mediately follow our shattered forces 
down the Valley. It was not until much 
later until definite news came, not only 
of St. Leger s flight back to Canada, but 
of the capture of the whole British army 
at Saratoga, that the men of the Mohawk 



IN THE VALLEY. 



91 



began to comprehend what they had 
really done. 

To my way of thinking, they have ever 
since been unduly modest about this 
truly historic achievement. As I wrote 
long ago, we of New York have chosen 
to make money, and to allow our neigh 
bors to make histories. Thus it hap 
pens that the great decisive struggle of 
the whole long war for Independence 
the conflict which in fact made America 
free is suffered to pass into the records 
as a mere frontier skirmish. Yet, if one 
will but think, it is as clear as daylight 
that Oriskany was the turning-point of 
the war. The Palatines, who had been 
originaUy colonized on the upper Mo 
hawk by the English to serve as a shield 
against savagery for their own Atlantic 
settlements, reared a barrier of their 
own flesh and bones, there at Oriskany, 
over which St. Leger and Johnson strove 
in vain to pass. That failure settled ev 
erything. The essential feature of Bur- 
goyne s plan had been that this force, 
which we so roughly stopped and turned 
back in the forest defile, should victori 
ously sweep down our Y ane J> raising 
the Tory gentry as they progressed, and 
join him at Albany. If that had been 
done, he would have held the whole 
Hudson, separating the rest of the Colo 
nies from New England, and having it in 
his power to punish and subdue, first the 
Yankees, then the others at his leisure. 

Oriskany prevented this ! Coming as 
it did, at the darkest hour of Washing 
ton s trials and the Colonies despond 
ency, it altered the face of things as 
gloriously as does the southern sun, ris 
ing swiftly upon the heels of night. 
Burgoyne s expected allies never reached 
him ; he was compelled in consequence 
to surrender and from that day there 
was no doubt who would in the long 
run triumph. 

Therefore, I say, all honor and glory 
to the rude, unlettered, great - souled 
yeomen of the Mohawk Valley, who 
braved death in the wildwood gulch at 
Oriskany that Congress and the free 
Colonies might live ! 

But, in these first few days, be it re 
peated, nobody talked or thought much 
of glory. There were too many dead 
left behind too many maimed and 
wounded brought home to leave much 



room for patriotic meditations around 
the saddened hearth-stones. And per 
sonal grief was everywhere too deep and 
general to make it possible that men 
should care much about the strange oc 
currence by which Philip and Tulp lost 
their lives together in the gulf. 

I went on the following day to my 
mother, and she and my sister Margaret 
returned with me to Cairncross, to re 
lieve from smaller cares, as much as 
might be, our poor dear girl. All was 
done to shield both her and the stricken 
old gentleman, our common second fa 
ther, from contact with material remind 
ers of the shock that had fallen upon 
us, and as soon as possible afterward 
they were both taken to Albany, out of 
reach of the scene s sad suggestions. 

From the gulf s bottom, where Death 
had dealt his double stroke, the sol 
dier s remains were borne one way, to 
his mansion ; the slave s the other, to 
his old home at The Cedars. Between 
their graves the turbulent stream still 
dashes, the deep ravine still yawns. 
For years I could not visit the spot 
without hearing, in and above the cease 
less shouting of the waters, poor mad 
Tulp s awful death-scream. 

During the month immediately fol 
lowing the event, my time was closely 
engaged in public work. It was my 
melancholy duty to go up to the Falls, 
to represent General Schuyler and Con 
gress at the funeral of brave old Briga 
dier Nicholas Herkimer, who succumbed 
to the effects of an unskilful amputation 
ten days after the battle. A few days 
later I went with Arnold and his reliev 
ing force up the Valley, saw the siege 
raised and the flood of invasion rolled 
back, and had the delight of grasping 
Peter Gansevoort, the stout commander 
of the long-beleaguered garrison, once 
more by the hand. On my return I had 
barely "time to lease The Cedars to a 
good tenant, and put in train the finally 
successful efforts to save Cairncross 
from confiscation, when I was summoned 
to Albany to attend upon my chief. It 
was none too soon, for my old wounds 
had broken out again, under the expo 
sure and travail of the trying battle 
week, and I was more fit for a hospital 
than for the saddle. 



IN THE GALLEY. 



I found the kindliest of nursing and 
care in my old quarters in the Schuyler 
mansion. It was there, one morning 
in January of the new year, 1778, that 
a quiet wedding breakfast was cele 
brated for Daisy and me and neither 
words nor wishes could have been more 
tender had we been truly the children 
of the great man, Philip Schuyler, and 
his good dame. The exact date of this 
ceremony does not matter let it be 
kept sacred within the knowledge of us 
two old people, who look back still to 
it as to the sunrise of a new long day, 
peaceful, serene, and almost cloudless 
and not less happy even now because 
the ashen shadows of twilight begin 
gently to gather over it. 

Though the war had still the greater 
half of its course to run, my part there 
after in it was far removed from camp 
and field. No opportunity came to me 
to see fighting again, or to rise beyond 
my major s estate. Yet I was of as 
much service, perhaps, as though I had 
been out in the thick of the conflict ; 
certainly Daisy was happier to have it 
so. 

Twice during the year 1780 did we 
suffer grievous material loss at the 
hands of the raiding parties which ma 
lignant Sir John Johnson piloted into 
the Valley of his birth. In one of these 
the Cairncross mansion was rifled and 
burned, and the tenants despoiled and 
driven into the woods. This meant a 
considerable monetary damage to us 
yet our memories of the place were all 
so sad that its demolition seemed al 
most a relief, particularly as Enoch, to 
whom we had presented a freehold of 
the wilder part of the grant, that near 
est the Sacondaga, miraculously escaped 
molestation. 

But it was a genuine affliction when, 
later in the year, Sir John personally 
superintended the burning down of the 
dear old Cedars the home of our youth. 
If I were able to forgive him all other 
harm he has wrought, alike to me and 
to his neighbors, this would still remain 
obstinately to steel my heart against 
him, for he knew that we had been good 
to his wife, and that we loved the place 
better than any other on earth. We 
were very melancholy over this for a 
long time, and, to the end of his placid 



days of second childhood passed with 
us, we never allowed Mr. Stewart to 
learn of it. But even here there was 
the recompense that the ruffians, though 
they crossed the river and frightened 
the women into running for safety to the 
woods, did not pursue them, and thus 
my mother and sisters, along with Mrs. 
Romeyn and others, escaped. Alas ! 
that the Tory brutes could not also 
have forborne to slay on his own door 
step my godfather, honest old Douw 
Fonda ! 

There was still another raid upon the 
Valley the ensuing year, but it touched us 
only in that it brought news of the vio 
lent death of Walter Butler, slain on the 
bank of the East Canada Creek by the 
Oneida chief Skenandoah. Both Daisy 
and I had known him from childhood, 
and had in the old times been fond of 
him. Yet there had been so much in 
nocent blood upon those delicate hands 
of his, before they clutched the gravel 
on the lonely forest stream s edge in 
their death-grasp, that we could scarce 
ly wish him alive again. 

Our first boy was born about this time 

a dark-skinned, brawny man-child 
whom it seemed the most natural thing 
in the world to christen Douw. He 
bears the name still, and on the whole, 
though he has forgotten all the Dutch 
I taught him, bears it creditably. 

In the mid - autumn of the next year 

it was in fact the very day on which 
the glorious news of Yorktown reached 
Albany a second little boy was born. 
He was a fair-haired slender creature, 
differing from the other as sunshine dif 
fers from thunder-clouds. He had noth 
ing like the other s breadth of shoulders 
or strength of lung and limb, and we 
petted him accordingly, as is the wont 
of parents. 

When the question of his name came 
up, I sat, I remember, by his mother s 
bedside, holding her hand in mine, and 
we both looked down upon the tiny, fair 
babe nestled upon her arm. 

" Ought we not to call him for the 
dear old father give him the two names 
Thomas and Stewart ? " I asked. 

Daisy stroked the child s hair gently, 
and looked with tender melancholy into 
my eyes. 

" I have been thinking," she mur- 



mam 



-^-aS^-.^ .:i 






VOL. VIII. 8 



94 



IN THE GALLEY. 



mured, " thinking often of late it is 
all so far behind us now, and time has 
passed so sweetly and softened so much 
our memories of past trouble and of the 
the dead I have been thinking, dear, 
that it would be a comfort to have the 
lad called Philip." 

I sat for a long time thus by her side, 
and we talked more freely than we had 
ever done before, of him who lay buried 
by the ruined walls of Cairncross. Time 
had indeed softened much. We spoke 
of him now with gentle sorrow as of a 
friend whose life had left somewhat to 
be desired, yet whose death had given 
room for naught but pity. He had been 
handsome and fearless and wilful and 
unfortunate ; our minds were closed 
against any harsher word. And it came 
about that when it was time for me to 
leave the room, and I bent over to kiss 
lightly the sleeping infant, I was glad in 
my heart that he was to be called Philip. 
Thus he was called, and though the Gen 
eral was his godfather at the old Dutch 
church, we did not conceal from him 
that the Philip for whom the name was 
given was another. It was easily with 
in Schuyler s kindly nature to compre 
hend the feelings which prompted us, 
and I often fancied he was even the 
fonder of the child because of the link 
formed by his name with his parents 
time of grief and tragic romance. 

In truth we all made much of this 
light-haired, beautiful, imperious little 
boy, who from the beginning quite threw 
into the shade his elder and slower 
brother, the dusky-skinned and patient 
Douw. Old Mr. Stewart, in particular, 
became dotingly attached to the younger 
lad, and scarce could bear to have him 
out of sight the whole day long. It was 
a pretty spectacle indeed one which 
makes my old heart yearn in memory, 
even now to see the simple, soft-man 
nered, childish patriarch gravely obey 
ing the whims and freaks of the boy, 
and finding the chief delight of his wan 
ing life in being thus commanded. Some 



times, to be sure, my heart smote me with 
the fear that poor quiet Master Douw 
felt keenly underneath his calm exterior 
this preference, and often, too, I grew 
nervous lest our fondness was spoiling 
the younger child. But it was not in 
us to resist him. 

The little Philip died suddenly, in his 
sixth year, and within the month Mr. 
Stewart followed him. Great and over 
powering as w T as our grief, it seemed al 
most perfunctory beside the heart-break 
ing anguish of the old man. He literally 
staggered and died under the blow. 

There is no story in the rest of my 
life. The years have flowed on as peace 
fully, as free from tempest or excitement, 
as the sluggish waters of a Delft canal. 
No calamity has since come upon us ; 
no great trial or large advancement has 
stirred the current of our pleasant exist 
ence. Having always a sufficient hold 
upon the present, with means to live in 
comfort, and tastes not leading into 
venturesome ways for satisfaction, it has 
come to be to us, in our old age, a deep 
delight to look backward together. We 
seem now to have walked from the out 
set hand in hand. The joys of our child 
hood and youth spent under one roof 
the dear smoky, raftered roof, where 
hung old Dame Kronk s onions and corn, 
and perfumed herbs are very near to us. 
There comes between this scene of sun 
light and the not less peaceful radiance 
of our later life, it is true, the shadow 
for a time of a dark curtain. Yet so 
good and generous a thing is memory 
even this interruption appears now to 
have been but of a momentary kind, and 
has for us no harrowing side. As 1 
wrote out the story, page by page, it 
seemed to both of us that all these 
trials, these tears, these bitter feuds and 
fights, must have happened to others, 
not to us so swallowed up in hap 
piness are the griefs of those young 
years, and so free are our hearts from 
scars. 



THE END. 




THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 

By Robert Louis Stevenson. 

At my departure from the island of Apemama, for which you will look in vain in most at 
lases, the King and I agreed, since we both set up to be in the poetical way, that we should cele 
brate our separation in verse. Whether or not his Majesty has been true to his bargain, the lag 
gard posts of the Pacific may perhaps inform me in six months, perhaps not before a year. The 
following lines represent my part of the contract, and it is hoped, by their pictures of strange 
manners they may entertain a civilized audience. Nothing throughout has been invented or 
exaggerated ; the lady herein referred to as the author s muse has confined herself to stringing 
into rhyme facts and legends that I saw or heard during two months residence upon the island. 

R. L. S. 

Envoy. 

LET us, who part like brothers, part like bards ; 
And you in your tongue and measure, I in mine, 
Our now division duly solemnize. 
Unlike the strains, and yet the theme is one : 
The strains unlike, and how unlike their fate ! 
You to the blinding palace-yard shall call 
The prefect of the singers, and to him, 
Listing devout, your valedictory verse 
Deliver ; he, his attribute fulfilled, 




BJL Jl 



THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 97 

To the island chorus hand your measures on, 
Wed now with harmony : So them, at last, 
Night after night, in the open hall of dance, 
Shall thirty matted men, to the clapped hand, 
Intone and bray and bark. Unfortunate ! 
Paper and print alone shall honor mine. 



The Song. 

Let now the King his ear arouse 
And toss the bosky ringlets from his brows, 

The while, our bond to implement, 
My muse relates and praises his descent. 



Bride of the shark, her valor first I sing 
Who on the lone seas quickened of a King. 
She, from the shore and puny homes of men, 
Beyond the climber s sea-discerning ken, 
Swam, led by omens ; and devoid of fear, 
Beheld her monstrous paramour draw near. 
She gazed ; all round her to the heavenly pale, 
The simple sea was void of isle or sail 
Sole overhead the unsparing sun was reared 
When the deep bubbled and the brute appeared. 
But she, secure in the decrees of fate, 
Made strong her bosom and received the mate ; 
And men declare, from that marine embrace 
Conceived the virtues of a stronger race. 

n. 

Her stern descendant next I praise, 

Survivor of a thousand frays : 

In the hall of tongues who ruled the throng ; 

Led and was trusted by the strong ; 

And when spears were in the wood, 

Like to a tower of vantage stood : 

Whom, not till seventy years had sped, 

Unscarred of breast, erect of head, 

Still light of step, still bright of look, 

The hunter, Death, had overtook. 

in. 

His sons, the brothers twain, I sing, 
Of whom the elder reigned a King. 
No Childeric he, yet much declined 
From his rude sire s imperious mind, 
VOL. VIII. 9 



98 THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 

Until his day came when he died, 

He lived, he reigned, he versified. 

But chiefly him I celebrate 

That was the pillar of the state ; 

Ruled, wise of word and bold of mien, 

The peaceful and the warlike scene ; 

And played alike the leader s part 

In lawful and unlawful art. 

His soldiers with emboldened ears 

Heard him laugh among the spears. 

He could deduce from age to age 

The web of island parentage ; 

Best lay the rhyme, best lead the dance, 

For any festal circumstance ; 

And fitly fashion oar and boat, 

A palace or an armor coat. 

None more availed than he to raise 

The strong, suffumigating blaze 

Or knot the wizard leaf : none more, 

Upon the untrod windward shore 

Of the isle, beside the beating main, 

To cure the sickly and constrain 

With muttered words and waving rods, 

The gibbering and the whistling gods. 

But he, though thus with hand and head, 

He ruled, commanded, charmed and led, 

And thus in virtue and in might 

Towered to contemporary sight 

Still in fraternal faith and love, 

Eemained below to reach above, 

Gave and obeyed the apt command, 

Pilot and vassal of the land. 



IV. 



My Tembinok from men like these 

Inherited his palaces, 

His right to rule, his powers of mind, 

His coco-islands sea-enshrined. 

Stern bearer of the sword and whip, 

A master passed in mastership, 

He learned, without the spur of need, 

To write, to cipher, and to read ; 

From all that touch on his prone shore 

Augments his treasury of lore, 

Eager in age as erst in youth 

To catch an art, to learn a truth, 

To paint on the internal page 

A clearer picture of the age. 



THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. 99 

His age, you say ? But ah, not so ! 

In his lone isle of long ago, 

A royal Lady of Shalott, 

Sea-sundered, he beholds it not ; 

He only hears it far away. , 

The stress of equatorial day 

He suffers ; he records the while 

The vapid annals of the isle ; 

Slaves bring him praise of his renown, 

Or cackle of the palm-tree town ; 

The rarer ship and the rare boat 

He marks ; and only hears remote, 

Where thrones and fortunes rise and reel, 

The thunder of the turning wheel. 

V. 

For the unexpected tears he shed 
At my departing, may his lion head 

Not whiten, his revolving years 
No fresh occasion minister of tears ; 

At book or cards, at work or sport, 
Him may the breeze across the palace court 

Forever fan ; and swelling near 
Forever the loud song divert his ear. 



SCHOONER EQUATOR, AT SEA, 




I .-dx^J^^jymJ^ .^^ 

- * <* " V; " "" " " 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 

By Duffleld Osborne. 




k HE popularity of surf- 
bathing as a sport may 
be said to be of fairly re 
cent growth in this coun 
try. Although few per 
haps realize the fact, it is 
nevertheless true that 
most of the beaches 
where now the surf curls 
over net-works of life 
lines, and where the brown-faced bath 
ing-master lounges, lazy yet watchful, 
before hundreds of gayly clad pleasure- 
seekers, were solitudes but a few years 
since. The white-topped waves tum 
bled, one after another, unnoticed upon 
the gray shore, the sea-breeze played 
only with the rank grasses upon the 
dunes, while circling gull and tern 
screamed their confidential communica 
tions to each other without fear of being 
overheard by human eavesdroppers. 

Only on Saturdays, at the hour of full 
tide, did the scene change ; and then 
perhaps a farm-wagon or so rolled heav 
ily down to where the ripples lapped 
the sand ; a stout rope was drawn from 
its coil under the seats and tied firmly 
around the hub and axle ; a dilapidated 
fish-house lent itself for a change of 
garments, and finally, some bronzed ex- 
whaler, with his bulky strength robed 
in a flannel shirt and old trousers tied 
with ropes at waist and ankles, slipped 
his wrist through the hand-loop at the 
free end of the rope and dragged it out 
into the surf a sort of human anchor- 
buoy while women, children, and less 
sturdy manhood clung to its now tight 
ening, now slackening length, and sput 
tered and shrieked over their Saturday 
bath. 

But, passing at a bound from farm- 
wagon, hand-looped rope, and ex-whaler 
to the less picturesque, but more effec 
tual, appliances of to-day, the follow 
ing is by all odds the simplest and 
best. Two parallel ropes, firmly an 
chored, and so elevated from the shore 
as to lie along the surface of the water, 
are run out to two heavy log-buoys, also 



anchored, at a distance of seventy-five 
yards, more or less, according to the 
character of both beach and surf. Half 
way from the shore to the buoys these 
ropes should be connected by a trans 
verse line with cork-floats fastened at 
regular intervals the distances being 
such that the cork-line shall rest upon 
the water some yards beyond the point 
where the heaviest breakers comb. If 
placed closer in shore, it is likely 
to become a source of serious danger, 
for, diving beneath a heavy wave and 
coming up under, or perhaps being 
thrown with more or less force against, 
a taut rope or a rough cork-buoy, has 
been the occasion of many painful hurts, 
and serious injury can be very readily 
imagined. 

Regard being had to the above cau 
tion, this system of life-lines is really 
safer than much more elaborate contriv 
ances. Women, children, and the inex 
perienced in general should keep within 
the rectangle formed by the shore, the 
long ropes, and the cork-line ; and they 
would, moreover, do wisely to stay near 
that rope lying upon the side from which 
the surf may " set." Then, if swept off 
their feet, the chances are all in favor 
of their being carried within reach of 
some support which will keep them up 
until assistance can be had. It seems 
hardly necessary to say that any such 
complication of lines as is seen at some 
points of Coney Island, for instance, 
would be a danger rather than a safe 
guard in any surf heavy enough to 
" throw " a bather. 

A word as to bathing costumes may 
be of some service here. A man s suit 
should be of flannel, because that ma 
terial is both warm and light ; it should 
be made in one piece, sleeveless, reach 
ing just to the knee, belted in at the 
waist, and, above all, close-fitting. 

There are few, nowadays, who do not 
appreciate the privilege of playing with 
the Atlantic Ocean ; but perhaps there 
are fewer still who have ever taken the 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



101 



trouble to study the character and hu 
mors of their playmate for he is full of 
tricks, this same ocean, and his jests are 
sometimes sadly practical ; he is all life 
and good spirits the jolliest of jolly 
company when he is in the humor ; 
but he must be treated with tact, tact 
born of a knowledge of his ways and 
moods ; and, above all, his would-be 
friends must learn to recognize when 
he is really angry, and then they must 
leave him to rave or grumble alone un 
til boisterous good-nature resumes its 
sway. 

Watch and note the character of the 
surf and the formation of the beach for 
a few days ; the knowledge gained may 
be useful. Do you see that line of 
breakers a quarter of a mile away? 
There lies the bar, and to-day the surf 
is heavy enough to break upon it, though 
the depth there must be at least six feet. 
Sometimes it is shallower, and, if you 
are ambitious and foolish, you can 
wade and swim out there and meet the 
waves first-hand. It is not worth while 
to run the risk, though ; the seas will 
usually form again long before they 
reach the shore, and, if you are sensible, 
you can enjoy them fully as much here 
as if you had put several hundred yards 
between yourself and help in the always 
possible contingency of accident. 

No, it is not remarkably rough now ; 
but last week ! you should have been here 
then. There had been great tumults 
far out beyond that smoke you see float 
ing above the horizon, where some 
hidden steamer is ploughing her way 
through blue water; and the great 
seas rolled and tumbled upon the bar 
and broke there, but they had no time 
to form themselves again. Plunging 
onward under their own impulse and 
beaten out of shape by fiercely throng 
ing successors, they rushed in toward 
the shore, a seething turmoil of foam, 
sweeping the sand from one side and 
heaping it up on another all white 
above and gray below from bar to beach. 
Next week there may be scarce a ripple ; 
you would not know there was an outer 
bar, and the wavelets, as they lap the 
sand, will seem so placid that you can 
not conceive how they could ever have 
lost their temper. 

In spite of all its changes, however, 



the surf has sometimes local character 
istics as fixed as anything can be with 
which the fickle ocean has to do. For 
instance, on the Atlantic coast the storms 
are generally bred and nurtured in the 
east ; the milder weather is born of 
southern or western winds, and there 
fore it is that those who have spent much 
time upon the New Jersey beaches 
have probably noticed that during very 
heavy weather the waves, as a rule, roll 
straight upon the shore ; while when 
the surf is lighter it is apt to run di 
agonally, or, as they say, " sets " from 
the south. On the Long Island coast 
all this is reversed ; there, when the 
storm winds prevail, the " set " is strong 
from the east, and the foam and breakers 
race along the beach from Montauk 
toward the Metropolis ; while at other 
times the surf will usually run straight 
on. It is hardly necessary to say that a 
surf without " set " is far more agreeable 
and somewhat safer. A bather is not 
forced to fight constantly against the 
impulse that is drifting him down the 
beach and away from companions, ropes, 
and bathing-grounds. 

The strength and height of the waves 
depend mainly upon influences at work 
far out upon the ocean, but the beach, 
as shaped by its watery assailants, reacts 
upon them in turn. The finest surf will 
be found under the following conditions : 
First, let there be a storm well out at 
sea, sending the big rollers straight onto 
the beach, and then a sharp wind on 
shore for a few hours. The effect of 
this will be, in the first instance, to thin 
the waves, and he who is fortunate 
enough to make trial of them under 
such circumstances will find a high, 
clean-cut surf, each breaker of which 
combs over in even sequence, and yet 
without such weight or body of water 
as to seriously threaten his equilibrium. 
Should that same wind off-shore blow 
for a few hours longer, the tops of the 
waves will be cut off and the ocean be 
come too calm to be interesting. 

I speak of a " fine surf," but were each 
man asked what he understands by it 
or by the term "good bathing," his 
definition would probably be largely 
governed by his skill and ability to take 
care of himself. For instance, what 
would be highly satisfactory to a good 



102 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



surfman would be altogether too rough 
for those compelled by weakness, timid 
ity, or inexperience to stand near the 
shore and look on ; while what might 
be agreeable to them would be tame 
for him. The opinion of such as say, 
"Wasn t it splendid to-day ! Why, I swam 
way out to the bar," need not be con 
sidered. They don t enjoy surf -bathing ; 
it is only the swimming that they care for, 
and they would doubtless be even bet 
ter pleased at any point on Long Island 
Sound. But what I take to be, and 
what I mean by, " a good bathing-day," 
is one on which a man who understands 
himself can take the surf as it comes, 
either alone or " with convoy," and yet, 
when there is an ever-present excite 
ment in the knowledge that a second s 
carelessness may result in an overthrow 
of both his person and his pride. 

Turning now from the water to the 
beach itself we find its formation varies, 
from day to day and from year to year, 
almost as much as do the waves that 
are forever smiting it. It may deepen 
graduaUy or abruptly, and the shoaling 
of an abrupt beach is usually the result 
of some days heavy sea "setting" from 
one direction or the other, which cuts 
away the sand above low water-mark 
and spreads it out over the bottom. 
But that characteristic which at the 
same time varies and affects us most is 
the position and depth of what is known 
as the " ditch," that is, where, sometimes 
at a few feet, sometimes at several yards 
from the shore, will be found a sudden 
declivity caused by the continual pound 
ing of the surf along one line, and con 
sequently lying farther out in heavy 
weather, and conversely. 

As a source of danger this same 
" ditch " is often very material. Often 
a man ignorant of the surf, perhaps a 
poor swimmer or no swimmer at all, 
starts to wade out waist or breast deep. 
To his eyes there is no sign of peril ; 
one step more, and lo ! he is beyond his 
depth ; and that, too, just where the 
waves are pounding him down and the 
conditions most potent to deprive him 
of his much-needed presence of mind. 
Nor is this all ; he may not, of his own 
free will, take that last step which in 
volves him in all this difficulty, for it is 
at the edge of the " ditch " where the 



" under-tow " is strongest ; nay, more 
the very strength of the " under-tow " 
depends largely upon the depth of the 
ditch. 

Doubtless we have all heard a great 
deal about this " under-tow," as though 
it were some mysterious force working 
from the recesses of a treacherous ocean 
to draw unwary bathers to their doom. 
As a matter of fact its presence is 
obviously natural, and the explanation 
of it more than simple. As each wave 
rolls in and breaks upon the beach, the 
volume of water which it carries does 
not remain there and sink into the 
sand ; it flows back again, and, as the 
succeeding wave breaks over it, the 
receding one forms an under-current 
flowing outward of strength proportion 
ate to the body of water contained in 
each breaker, and, again, proportionate 
in a great measure to the depth of the 
ditch. Where this latter is an appreci 
able depression, it can be readily seen 
that the water of receding waves will 
flow in to it with similar effect to that of 
water going over a fall, and that a per 
son standing near is very likely to be 
drawn over with it, and thus, if the 
ditch is deep enough, carried out of his 
depth. This is all there is to the much- 
talked-of " under-tow " and the numer 
ous accidents laid to its account. 

It may be well to speak here of an 
other phenomenon not infrequently ob 
served. I do not recall ever seeing the 
name by which it is known in print, 
and, as the word is ignored by Webster, 
I shall invent my own spelling and write 
it " sea-poose." This term is loosely 
used on different parts of the coast, but 
the true significance of it is briefly this : 
There will sometimes come, at every 
bathing-ground, days when the ocean 
seems to lose its head and to act in a 
very capricious way. On such occasions 
it often happens that the beach is cut 
away at some one point, presumably 
where the sand happens to be softer and 
less capable of resisting the action of 
the water. There will then be found a 
little bay indenting the shore, perhaps 
ten feet, perhaps ten yards. The waves 
rolling into such a cove are deflected 
somewhat by its sides and "set "together 
at its head, so that two wings of a break 
er, so to speak, meet and, running 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



103 



straight out from the point of junction, 
form a sort of double " under-tow," 
which will, if the conditions that cause 
it continue, cut out along its course a 
depression or trench of varying depth 
and length. It can be readily under 
stood that such a trench tends to 
strengthen the current that causes it, 
and these two factors, acting and react 
ing upon each other, occasion what 
might be called an artificial "under 
tow " which is sometimes strong enough 
to carry an unwary bather some dis 
tance out, in a fashion that will cause 
him either to be glad he is, or to wish 
he were, within the rectangle of the life 
lines. 

I have sometimes heard old surfmen 
speak of what they call a " false poose," 
but I have never been able to find out 
just what was meant by the expression, 
much less its causes and character. I 
shall therefore leave the question for 
those who delight to delve into the 
mysteries of local nomenclature. 

And now, standing upon the dunes, 
our eyes have wandered over the expanse 
of ocean with a glance more critical and 
inquiring as it drew near the shore. 
The salt savor of the breeze is, at the 
same time, a tonic and an anodyne ; we 
are drowsy, but the sea yet draws us to 
itself with an irresistible impulse ; the 
waves are rolling straight in and break 
ing high and clean ; shall we plunge 
into their cool depths ; shall we combat 
their strength ; or ride them as they 
come galloping from the blue to the 
green, and from the green to the white, 
until at last they fall spent upon the gray 
sand of the beach ? Surely ! Who is 
there can stand by and resist such temp 
tation ! But wait ! Surf -bathing is not 
a solitary sport. See ! the beach is 
thronged with gay toilets and bright 
sunshades, and the water has already 
given place to many. Watch that couple 
as they run gracefully down to the 
shore ; they dash confidently out ; now 
they have almost reached the line where 
the waves are breaking ; he takes her 
hands, and they stand prepared to 
" jump " the breakers and then ! and 
then a big, foamy crest curls over them 
and falls with a roar ; and, as it rolls in, 
you think you see a foot reaching up 



pathetically out of its depth, and now a 
hand some yards away, until at last, from 
out the shallows of the spent wave two 
dazed and bedraggled shapes stagger to 
their feet and look, first for themselves, 
and then for each other. A broad smile 
runs along the line of pretty toilets, and 
the gay sunshades nod their apprecia 
tion. There stand some men, just where 
the breakers comb, and, as each wave 
succeeds its precursor and rises into a 
crest, you may see the half-dozen brown- 
armed figures shooting over, like so 
many porpoises, and plunging head 
foremost under the advancing hill of 
water. Look ! there come some big ones 
one, two, three of them ! The bathers 
see them too, and press out a few yards 




Fig.1. 

into deeper water ; and then the diving 
commences. It is sharp work this time ; 
the big ocean-coursers are running close 
upon each other s heels, and the heads 
scarcely emerge after the first before the 
second is curling directly above ; now 
they have passed, and each breathless 
bather looks around to see how the rest 
have fared three, four, five but where 
is the sixth ? A roar of laughter floats 
shoreward as a demoralized form is 
seen to gather itself up, almost upon 
the beach ; that last breaker of the trio 
struck too quickly for him ; he cannot 



104 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



tell you just how many somersaults he 
has turned since the ocean proceeded to 




Fig. 2. 

take him in hand, but he is sure that 
they numbered somewhere among the 
twenties. Yes, it is brisk sport, and we 
must " go in." 

But then, it does not look comforta 
ble, to be thrown ; nor will it please our 
conceit to so minister to the good-nat 
ured mirth of that gay company. It is 
pleasanter to be among the laughers 
and so we shall be. To that end a few 
hints will perhaps be found useful, and 
even though what I shall say may, when 
said, seem to be obvious enough, yet 
it is amazing how few people will, of 
themselves, perceive the obvious and 
utilize their percep 
tions. You, my scorn 
ful friend, who think 
you know it all ; you 
will go to Southamp 
ton next summer, and 
the spirit of prophe 
cy being upon me 
you will be thrown, 
ignominiously thrown, 
eight times inside of 
two weeks ; so, re 
member that much 
that is "obvious" is 
yet fairly occult after 
all, or at least might as 
well be, as far as prac 
tice is concerned. And 
now, to return to the 
ocean and to didactics. 



We shall assume, in the first place, 
that you are able to swim, and further, 
that you are not minded to follow the 
inglorious, yet really dangerous, example 
of those who wait for a calm interval, 
and then, rushing through the line of 
breakers, spend their time swimming 
out beyond. Well, then, take your place 
just where the seas comb. This point 
will vary somewhat with the height of 
the waves, but you will stand, for the 
most part, in water about waist deep 
(as shown in Fig. 1). Should a particu 
lar breaker look to be heavier than the 
preceding, remember that it will strike 
further out and that you must push for 
ward to meet it. Then, if you are where 
you should be, it will comb directly above 
your head. Wait until it reaches that 
point of its development, for if you act 
too soon or too late your chances of be 
ing thrown are greatly increased, and, 
with the white crest just curving over 
you, dive under the green wall of water 
that rises up in front. Dive just as you 
would from a low shore, only not quite 
so much downward say at an angle of 
twenty degrees off the horizontal (Figs. 
2 and 3) ; your object being to slip under 
the incoming volume of water, to get 
somewhat into the " under-tow," and yet 
to run no risk of running afoul of the 
bottom. The heavier the wave, the 
deeper will be the water in which you 
stand, and the deeper you can and 
should dive. If your antagonist be very 
big and strong, you will find it advisa- 




Fig. 3. 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



105 





The Saturday Bath in the Old Days. 



ble to strike out the instant you have 
plunged ; very much on the theory that, 
as a bicycle will stand when in motion 
and fah 1 the instant it stops, so a man 
can, by swimming under water, keep 
control of and balance himself much 
better against the peculiar vibratory 
motion which one experiences when 
under a big wave and surrounded by 
conflicting currents. Swimming will 
also tend to bring you to the surface 
again under full control, and, provided 
you have acted with judgment, you will 
find yourself, when the wave has passed, 
standing on about the line from which 
you plunged. 

A thing good to remember but dim- 
cult to explain the cause of, is that ex 
traordinarily heavy waves almost invari 
ably travel by threes ; that is, very often, 
when you have been standing at one 
spot and taking perhaps a dozen break 
ers, you will of a sudden see, rolling in 
from the bar, a hill of water and foam 
much higher and heavier than those 
that have gone before. Then be sure 
that there are two more of similar mag 
nitude close behind it and push forward 
as fast as you can. If it seems very 
heavy and you have time, you may try 
VOL. VIIL 10 



to get beyond the break and ride them 
in comfort, but if this is impossible, you 
must dive low, swim, come to the sur 
face promptly, dash the water from your 
eyes, and be ready for numbers two and 
three ; and when all have passed, if you 
are still in good shape, you will find 
some long draughts of air very agreeable. 

Sometimes it will happen that you 
cannot get far enough out in time to 
meet these big seas at the proper point, 
and then it is that your reputation as a 
surf -man will be in clanger, at least among 
those who judge by success alone. 
There is only one thing to do ; dive un 
der the foam as it boils toward you 
dive deep and swim hard. The wave 
and the " under-tow " will be here com 
mingled in a sort of whirlpool, and 
you will need all your strength and skill 
to keep " head-on." Suffer yourself to 
be twisted but a few inches from your 
course, and but doubtless you under 
stand. 

There is a rather amusing way of 
playing with the surf on days when it is 
fairly high, but thin and without much 
force. Instead of diving as the breaker 
commences to comb, throw yourself over 
backward and allow your feet to be car- 



106 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



riedup into its crest. Provided you have 
judged its strength accurately and given 
yourself just enough back somersault 
impetus, you will be turned completely 
over in the wave (Figs. 4 and 5), and 




Fig. 4. 

strike with it and upon your feet ; only 
be careful in picking out your plaything, 
and don t select one that will pound 
you into the sand, or perhaps refuse to 
regulate the number of somersaults ac 
cording to your wishes or intentions. 

Now, it is more than possible that, be 
ing a good swimmer, and having first 
made personal trial of both beach and 
surf, you may desire to offer your escort 
to well, to your sister ; and right here 
let me note a few preliminary cautions. 

Never attempt to take a woman into 
the surf where there is any reason for 
an experienced surfman to 
anticipate a sea which, unac 
companied, you would have 
any difficulty in meeting ; or 

When the water in the 
ditch is more than breast 



is more 
deep ; or 

When the " under-tow "or 
"set" is especially strong ; or 

When there is any irregu 
larity of the beach which 
might cause a " sea-poose " 
to form. 

You may also find it wise 
to observe the following : 

Never take a woman out 
side the life-lines, and never 
promise her, either ex 



pressly or by implication, that you will 
not let her hair get wet. Above all, 
impress it upon her that she must do 
exactly as you say, that a moment s hesi 
tation due to timidity or lack of confi 
dence, or, worse than all, anything like 
panic or an attempt to break from you 
and escape by flight, is likely to precip 
itate a disaster which, unpleasant and 
humiliating when met alone, is trebly so 
in company. 

And now, having read your lecture on 
the duty of obedience, etc., lead on. Of 
course, if the water deepens gradually 
and the surf is very light, you may go 
beyond the breakers, but in that event 
no skill is called for and no suggestions 
needed. 

There are several good ways of hold 
ing a woman in the surf, but the best 
and safest in every emergency is that 
shown in Fig. 6. You thus stand 
with your left and her right side toward 
the ocean, and as the wave rises before 
you, your companion should, at the 
word, spring from the sand while at the 
same moment you swing her around 
with all your force, and throw her back 
ward into the advancing breaker (Fig. 7). 
You will observe that your own feet are 
always firmly planted on the bottom, 
the left foot about twelve inches ad 
vanced, and your body and shoulders 
thrown forward, so as to obtain the best 
brace against the shock of the water. 
The question of preserving your equili 
brium is largely one of proper balancing, 
especially when, as is often the case, 
you are carried from your foothold and 




Fig, 5 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



107 



borne some yards toward the shore. 
Your companion s weight and impetus, 
as well as the position in which she 
strikes the wave that is, directly in front 
of you, all tend to make your anchorage 
more secure, or in case of losing it, your 
balance the easier to maintain. The 
body of the wave will, of course, pass 
completely over you (as shown in Fig. 
8). The instant it has so passed and 
your head emerges, clear your eyes, re 
gain your position (you will practically 
drop into it again), and if carried shore 
ward, press out to the proper point so 
as to be ready for the next. 

Should an exceptionally heavy sea 
roll in, endeavor to push forward to 
meet it as if you were alone, being very 
careful, however, not to get out of depth. 
Flight is almost always disastrous. If 
the sea strikes before you can reach it, 
there is nothing to do but bend your 
head and shoulders well forward, brace 
yourself as firmly as possible, and thus, 
presenting the least surface for the 
water to take hold of, and getting the 
full benefit of the "under-tow," swing 
your companion (who has also bent low 
and thrown herself forward) horizon 
tally under the broken wave (Fig. 9). 
If she has had much experience, it will 
be still better for you to dive together, 
side by side. 

Before dropping this branch of the 
subject I wiU call attention briefly to 
another way of carrying a woman 
through the surf. Let her stand di 
rectly in front of and facing you (as 
shown in Fig. 10). Standing thus, she 
springs and is pushed backward through 
the wave somewhat as in the former in 
stance (Fig. 11). The disadvantages of 
this method are, first : that you lose in 
impetus by pushing rather than swing 
ing your companion ; second, that she 
cannot herself see what is coming ; 
third, that neither is in as convenient a 
position to hurry forward to meet an 
exceptionally heavy wave ; and fourth, 
that you have not as good a hold in case 
a sea breaks before it reaches you, or 
any other emergency arises. 

In all that has been said, bear in mind 
that the cardinal secret of surf-bathing, 
in all contingencies, is proper balanc 
ing, and nothing but experience sec 
onding knowledge can teach you to 



measure forces and judge correctly to 
that end. 



So far the sea has been a good-natured 
though sometimes a rough playfellow 
never really irritable or vindictive ; but 
unfortunately this disposition cannot be 
counted upon. That there are dangers 




Fig. 6. 

attendant upon ocean-bathing, he who 
has been present when human life was 
being fought for can abundantly testify. 
To be sure, most of the ei accidents " are 
results of carelessness or ignorance ; but 
then the same may be said of accidents 
everywhere, and a short summary of 
the dangers peculiar to the surf may be 
of use. Some of these have been already 
indicated, as, for instance, dangers 
arising from the "under-tow." This 
by itself is not likely to trouble 
anyone except a very poor swimmer, 
and then only when the ditch is deep ; 
for the reason that the power of the 
" under-tow " is confined practically to 
within the line of breakers and cannot 
carry a bather any distance. In the 
case of a " sea-poose," however, it is 
different. I have seen a current of this 
character running out for many yards 
beyond a man s depth, and against which 



108 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 




Fig. 7. 

a strong swimmer would find it almost 
impossible to make headway. Fortu 
nately, such instances are rare, but he 
who may be thus entangled 
must remember, the moment 
he realizes his predicament, 
that by attempting to fight 
the current and swim directly 
toward the beach, he, as a gen 
eral thing, only wastes his 
strength. He must strike out 
for a few yards along shore, 
and a slight effort so directed 
will soon take him out of the 
dangerous influence. 

Again, the "under-tow" 
may help to a disaster in the 
following way : As a rule, there 
is no real danger in being 
thrown by a breaker, but 
there have been occasions 
when an inexperienced or ex 
hausted bather has been struck 
in such a way, or thrown with 
such force, as to be more or 
less injured or dazed; and 
then, before he could regain 
control of himself, and while 
prostrate in the water, he has 
been drawn back by the 
"under-tow, "rolled under and 



pounded down by each suc 
ceeding breaker, and finally 
even drowned. 

The great majority, however, 
of drowning accidents on the 
sea - board that is, of those 
which can be even indirectly 
attributed to the surf take 
place under the following cir 
cumstances : Some strong 
swimmer comes to the beach, 
entirely ignorant of the strength 
and ways of the ocean ; he 
sneers at the warnings of surf- 
men, and, choosing a calm in 
terval, dashes through the line 
of breakers and amuses himself 
by swimming out ; ropes and 
log-buoys are entirely beneath 
his notice. Finally he begins 
to feel tired ; the chop of the 
seas splashes up into his nose 
and eyes ; it is not so easy as 
swimming in still water, and 
he concludes to come in. Now, 
the chances are that he will do 
this without any serious difficulty, even 
though he does not quite understand 
how to swim high, with long strokes, 




Fig. 8. 



1,1 










110 



SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 

X 




Fig. 9. 



when on the inner slope and summit of 
each wave, until it fairly shoots him to 
ward the shore ; and then to rest and 
hold his own while on the outer slope 
and in the trough. There is always, 
however, just a possibility, and the 
stronger the surf the more possible is it 
that the inexperienced swimmer can not 
come through the line of breakers when 
and where he wants to ; he must wait 
their pleasure, and, if he has measured 
his strength closely and the delay be 
long, it is easy to see how that, in trying 
to pass, he may be thrown down into 
the " under-tow " and lack sufficient 
strength to extricate himself. 

Next to caution and life-lines, surf 
dangers are best provided against by a 
long rope with a slip-noose at the end, 
either wound on a portable reel or 
coiled and placed at the lowest point of 
the beach. Then a rescuer, throwing 
the noose around his waist, can make 
his way to a drowning man, and both 
can be drawn in by those on shore. In 
default of some such contrivance, the 
next best thing is for all the able-bodied 
to form a chain of hands ; for, let me 
say, there is nothing more difficult, even 
for a strong swimmer and expert surf- 
man, than bringing a drowning person 
in through or out of a line of heavy 
breakers. 



I recall an incident which happened 
some years since at Bridgehampton, 
Long Island, and which illustrates the 
difficulty of which I speak. A young 
clergyman had arrived only the day be- 




Fig. 10. 






SURF AND SURF-BATHING. 



Ill 



fore ; he was unable to swim a stroke ; was evident that a change of tactics was 

and his first exploit was to wade out necessary ; and, fortunately, at that mo- 

into the ocean, entirely ignorant of the ment a great ridge of water was seen 

fact that the ditch was that day both sweeping in. Thought came quickly 

abrupt and deep or perhaps even that then, and the word: "Let it throw us!" 




Fig. 11. 



there was such a thing as a ditch and 
that a single step would take him from 
a depth of four feet and safety, into 
one of six and considerable danger. 
Whether he took the step, or the "un 
der- tow" took it for him, is not ma 
terial, but the bathing-master and one 
other saw the trouble, dashed in, and, 
reaching the drowning man, were able to 
keep his head above water ; but, what 
with this and fighting the waves, they 
could not seem to make an inch shore 
ward. There were not many on the beach 
at the time, and only four or five men 
who could be of any use. A chain of 
hands was promptly formed, but it was 
not long enough to bring the inside man 
into water less than waist deep, and the 
" under-tow," pouring into the big ditch, 
sucked with all its might. So they 
swung backward and forward, now gain 
ing, now losing ground, and meanwhile 
the bathing-master and those nearest 
him, being out of depth, were fast becom 
ing exhausted. All, so far, had instinc 
tively tried to fight the waves, but it 



was passed down the line ; then it struck, 
and, for a moment, there was a confused 
tangle of legs and arms and heads and 
bodies swirled around, over, under, and 
against each other. Those closer in 
shore were hurled upon the beach, 
but the chain held together long enough 
to drag the others into a place of 
safety. Though there were no casual 
ties of any consequence, I am very cer 
tain that each link of that chain will 
not soon forget the experience and will 
appreciate the truth of my last state 
ment. 

And now, let me try to temper all this 
by saying that the dangers of surf -bathing 
are, in reality, much less than those that 
beset still-water swimming, where one 
is usually out of his depth and with very 
little chance of escape in case of cramp 
or exhaustion. Only make friends with 
the ocean, learn its ways, study its moods 
a little, and humor it, while you keep 
careful watch against any sudden ebulli 
tion of passion. Those who stand aloof 
can never realize the pleasure and ex- 



112 



IN GLAD WEATHER. 



citement of the sport they forego, nor 
shall they know the profound satisfac 
tion born of successfully combating a 



trio of big rollers, which have tossed 
companions and rivals in confusion on 
the beach. 




IN GLAD WEATHER. 



By Charles B. Going. 

I DO not know what skies there were, 

Nor if the wind was high or low ; 
I think I heard the branches stir 

A little, when we turned to go : 
I think I saw the grasses sway 

As if they tried to kiss your feet 
And yet, it seems like yesterday, 

That day together, sweet ! 

I think it must have been in May ; 

I think the sunlight must have shone 
I know a scent of springtime lay 

Across the fields : we were alone. 
We went together, you and I ; 

How could I look beyond your eyes ? 
If you were only standing by 

I did not miss the skies ! 



I could not tell if evening glowed, 

Or noonday heat lay white and still 
Beyond the shadows of the road : 

I only watched your face, until 
I knew it was the gladdest day, 

The sweetest day that summer knew 
The time when we two stole away 

And I saw only you ! 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 

By George Howe, M.D. 




WAS a medical stu 
dent in New Orleans, 
La., and the course 
of lectures for the 
season of 1858-59 
had just closed. My 
name, with others, 
had been submitted 
to the administrators 
of the Charity Hospi 
tal for appointment 
as resident stu 
dent, a certain 
number being ap 
pointed annually, 
and the announce 
ment of the names 
of the fortunate 
few was daily ex 
pected. Each morning, I met at the 
hospital gates our late professors, who 
were visiting physicians and surgeons to 
the hospital, and with other students 
made the round of the different wards, 
each according to his special taste. 

At nine o clock on the morning of 
April 26th, while I was awaiting the usual 
arrivals at the gates, one of the pro 
fessors, Dr. Howard Smith, drove up in 
his buggy, and without replying to my 
salutation, said : " George, how would 
you like to go to the coast of Africa ? " 
The doctor was a very pleasant gentle 
man, and a great favorite among the 
students, and, believing him to be in a 
very pleasant mood, I replied : " First 
rate, (doctor." " How soon can you get 
ready ? " "I am ready now." He saw 
from my perplexed air that, although I 
thought him jesting, I did not under 
stand or see the point. "I am seri 
ously in earnest, George ; would you 
like to go ? " " Yes, sir." " When can 
you be ready ? " " As soon as I can go 
to my lodgings and pack up." " Well, 
VOL. VIII. ll 



then, come with me ; " and, jumping 
into the buggy with him, I was hurried 
to the office of the McDonogh Com 
missioners, representing Baltimore and 
New Orleans. 

En route, the doctor informed me 
that John McDonogh had died in 1850, 
possessed of valuable real estate which 
he had bequeathed to the cities of New 
Orleans and Baltimore for educational 
purposes ; he had also a number of slaves, 
who were given their freedom condi 
tioned upon their emigration to Li 
beria, after a certain period of years. 
That time had elapsed and arrange 
ments were made for their transporta 
tion. At the last moment it was con 
cluded to send a medical officer with 
them, and, said the doctor, " That 
selection having been requested of me, 
you are ruy choice, if you will go." 

My engagement was soon made with 
the commissioners, to render the negroes 
such professional and other aid as would 
be necessary on the voyage. I learned 
further that all the negroes old enough 
to work had been taught trades and oc 
cupations, and that all the wages they 
had earned since their master s death 
had been placed to their credit, and 
would be distributed among them be 
fore they left ; and that they were 
fully equipped with all the agricul 
tural and mechanical appliances they 
might need to make them self-sustain 
ing upon arrival at their future home. 
There were carpenters, blacksmiths, 
coopers among the men ; and cooks, 
laundresses, seamstresses, and nurses 
among the women. It had been in 
tended to send them via Baltimore, by 
a sailing-packet leaving annually in the 
spring for the colony of Liberia with 
immigrants and general supplies, and 
returning with such products as the 



114 



THE LAST SLAW-SHIP. 



colony exported ; but an opportunity 
offering, they would be sent direct from 
New Orleans on the sailing ship Re 
becca. 

In the office some of the gentlemen 
indulged in pleasant jokes about " wool 
and ivory," and one of them wrote a 
letter to the surgeon of the United 
States man-of-war Vincennes, stationed 
on the coast of Africa, saying : " This 
is a letter of introduction and may be 
of use to you." I was so engrossed 
with the idea of going to Africa that, 
although I heard, I did not attach that 
special importance to the jokes and re 
marks that I did afterward. Leaving 
them, I went to my lodgings and soon 
packed my books, clothing, etc. 

On my way to the ship, I stopped at 
the telegraph office and sent to my 
parents, in Natchez, Miss., the following 
message : " Gone to the coast of Africa." 
I was on board the ship at twelve o clock, 
at the Government wharf, waiting for 
the tow-boat to be conveyed to sea. I 
presented myself to the captain, who 
was busy with the details of departure. 
He, having received no notice of my 
employment, appeared annoyed, but 
asked me to the cabin and ordered the 
steward to prepare my room. Going 
upon deck I saw a motley group of 
negroes, mulattoes, quadroons, men, 
women, and children of all ages, num 
bering forty-three ; they were busy get 
ting their baggage on board. Many of 
them were not anxious to go, and were 
much disheartened at the idea of leaving 
home. Just then arrived several of the 
commissioners with their wives who were 
known to the negroes, and after a while, 
they were so successful in imparting 
new courage and cheerful faces to the 
immigrants that their adieus were less 
sad than I expected. 

The ship left the wharf at four o clock 
in the evening. Early next morning we 
were at the mouth of the river, and in 
another hour on the open sea. A pleas 
ant southerly breeze drove us along 
about eight miles an hour, and dinner 
being called, I found at the captain s 

table Captain C , a naturalized 

Scotch-Englishman, the first mate, Mr. 
T , a Long Islander, and two Span 
ish gentlemen speaking very little Eng 
lish, and myself. An introduction fol 



lowed, one Spanish gentleman explaining 
that they were on their way to a trad 
ing point on the African coast, repre 
senting a commercial house in Havana, 
and that having waited a long while un 
successfully for an opportunity to get 
there, he had taken passage on this ves 
sel as far as its voyage extended. 

Our dinner over, the mate remained 
in the cabin and the other officers came 
to the table ; we were thus introduced 
by the mate : " This is Dr. Sawbones ; 
I am mate ; here is the second mate ; 
there is the carpenter. Now, how is it 
that you were engaged at the last mo 
ment to come with us ? " After explain 
ing all I knew about it, he replied : " It 
would have been better for you to have 
known something about the ship and 
her destination before you accepted." 
This recalled the jokes of the commis 
sioners and set me thinking. 

That night, during the mate s watch, 
I approached him and, after a few re 
marks about the weather, etc., said : 

"Mr. T , I did not quite understand 

your remark at dinner ; if you can do so, 
please explain." After a long silence, he 
replied : " Well, you will find it out 
sooner or later, and I do not know that 
I am violating any confidence in telling 
you now ; this ship is a Slaver. Yes ; 
that is just what she is, and belongs to 
a company of Spaniards who are repre 
sented here by the eldest of the Spanish 
passengers, who will be the captain at 
the proper time ; the other Spaniard 
will be his mate. They purchased this 
ship two months ago, and have had all 
sorts of difficulties ever since with the 
Custom-house. She sails under the 
American flag, and is supposed to be 
owned by a commission house in New 
Orleans, who are the agents there of the 
Spanish company. They wanted to ob 
tain papers permitting the ship to go to 
the African coast ; just now everything 
destined there is regarded with sus 
picion, and the Spaniards wanted to go 
in ballast to seek a cargo of palm-oil, 
camwood, and any other merchandise of 
fering. The Custom-house authorities 
declined, for various reasons, to issue 
the papers. In the meantime, the ship 
had been loaded with empty casks and 
a quantity of staves in the rough from 
which to manufacture other casks, if 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



115 



necessary. The question of getting suf 
ficient supplies of food aboard was a 
very delicate one, for food could not 
profitably be carried as freight to that 
locality, "and it was not required in 
barter. Then the Spaniards proposed 
to equip her as a whaling-ship, with her 
whaling-ground from Bermuda to the 
Cape of Good Hope. This would per 
mit her occasionally to call on the 
African coast for water and fresh food- 
supplies, yet would require a much 
longer period to complete the trip. 
Just at this time the commission house 
heard of the purpose of the McDonogh 
commissioners to send the ex-slaves, via 
Baltimore, to Liberia. After consider 
ing the matter it was determined to 
offer this ship as a means of transporta 
tion at a very moderate price. If they 
had dared to do so they would have 
been willing to pay a handsome pre 
mium ; the offer was accepted and the 
date fixed. The Spaniards now had a 
legitimate cargo for the African coast, 
and easily procured the necessary papers 
for a trading point on the Congo River, 
stopping at Liberia on the voyage out. 
I can also tell you that your presence 

here is not pleasant for Captain C , 

for he had about determined to run down 
on the south side of Cuba with these 
negroes, leave them at a place he knows 
of, and continue on the voyage. Now, 
this cannot be done, unless you come 
into the arrangement ; but I do not 
think he will say anything to you about 
it. You are a stranger and we are con 
stantly in sight of and speaking vessels, 
and it would be easy for you to say a 
few words which might spoil the entire 
expedition." 

Next morning early, as we were taking 
coffee on deck, the captain, in a general 
conversation, remarked : "What a valu 
able lot of negroes these are ; all the 
men have some trade or vocation which 
makes them most desirable on any plan 
tation. The women are all experienced 
in their duties ; they would bring a 
round sum in Cuba ; and Cuba is very 
near, and I know where they could be 
landed without much risk." 

I replied : " Captain, these negroes 
must be landed at their destination in 
Africa, and as long as I can, I will not 
permit any change of programme." 



As if to disarm me of any suspicion, 
he said : "Of course, they must be 
landed in Liberia, I was only regretting 
that so much money is just thrown 
away." 

During the mate s watch which fol 
lowed, he asked me what Captain C 

had said to me and my reply ; for the 
captain, on his return to the cabin, had 
had a long and stormy conversation 
with the Spanish gentleman, who would 
not be persuaded that there was very 
little risk in landing the negroes in 
Cuba, whether the Doctor consented or 
not. I repeated the conversation be 
tween the captain and myself. The 
mate replied : " Well, that matter is 
now decided, for we are sailing south 
east, instead of southwest, and that 
means we will not stop at Cuba this 
part of the trip." Reassured at this, I 
pressed him to tell me what he knew of 
the voyage. 

" Now," said he, " I am interested in 
this ship s voyage as well as the others, 
and you must pledge your word of 
honor to say nothing to anyone about 
it." I assented. " Well, this is my 
second voyage of this kind ; the first was 
from New York to Africa and Brazil, 
and as slavery will probably be abol 
ished in Brazil, and coolies are getting 
cheaper than negroes in Cuba, this is 
probably the last slave-ship ; and if we 
are successful, we will land the last car 
go of slaves. To begin, you must un 
derstand that there are necessary, one 
person as head manager, and three 
agents, each one with an assistant to 
replace the principal in case of accident, 
sickness, or death. The head resides in 
Havana. One agent, with his assistant, 
the Spanish captain and his friend, on 
board with us, went to the United States 
to purchase the fastest sailing-vessel 
that money could buy, and he found, in 
New Orleans, the Baltimore clipper- ship 
Rebecca, near five hundred and fifty 
tons, carrying sky-sails, studding-sails 
to royal yards, and stay-sails to royals, 
with a record of fourteen knots to wind 
ward, sailing inside of four points from 
the wind. She was fitted out with new 
sails, cordage, extra spars and yards, 
and a large supply of material with 
which to make other sails at sea, and to 
replace uncertain stays, running rig- 



116 



THE LAST SLAl/E-SHIP. 



ging, etc. The Custom-house officers 
seemed to be suspicious of her, and 
watched everything connected with the 
ship very closely. Just at this time the 
offer to the McDonogh commissioners 
was made to take the negroes as pas 
sengers, and arrangements were com 
pleted. Now began the purchase, in 
large quantities, of rice, white beans, 
pork, and biscuit, which were ostensibly 
for our passengers. With a long hose 
all the casks were filled with water from 
an opening below the water-line in the 
ship s bow, a supply of lumber was ob 
tained, and bunks constructed between 
decks the whole length of the ship s 
hold, and for several times the number 
of passengers expected ; a large cooking- 
furnace was also built on deck. An 
other agent and his assistant sailed some 
months ago for the coast of Africa, and 
has purchased and contracted to carry on 
shares as many negroes as can be stowed 
on board. The place where they are to 
meet is known on board only to the Span 
iards; another agent and his assistant 
are established as fishermen on an un 
frequented island on the south side of 
Cuba, I know that much. There, with 
a companion or two, they fish for the 
markets, so as to require a regular camp 
and a small vessel. They will be ready, 
when we arrive, to inform us when and 
where to land the cargo. The head in 
Havana keeps everything in working 
order, and it is his particular business 
to fee the customs officials and keep 
them away from where they are not 
wanted. One ounce of gold, seventeen 
dollars, per head, is the fee he pays to 
the officials for every negro landed, who 
divide among themselves, according to 
previous arrangements." 

Life on board was a very pleasant one, 
our ship splendidly provisioned with 
every delicacy necessary to our comfort ; 
with beautiful weather, our run in the 
Gulf Stream was full of interest. We 
passed south,, of Bermuda and entered 
the great Saragossa sea with its bound 
less fields of sea-weed. Each day ex 
periments were made, by changing size 
and character of sails, to develop the 
greatest speed, and I often wondered 
where they could possibly put another 
yard of canvas. All the masts were 



again examined and put to their utmost 
strain ; new stays and preventer-stays 
were added until it was no longer doubt 
ful about the masts being able to sup 
port any strain. We could easily make 
three hundred and twenty to three hun 
dred and forty miles daily, running as 
close to windward as she could sail. 
Being now in the southeast trades, we 
would run twelve hours on east-north 
east tack and twelve hours on the south 
by west tack, and in the twenty-four 
hours run make a net gain, east, of 
thirty miles. 

The negroes soon became accustomed 
to the motion of the vessel, but the 
length of the voyage tired them, and 
they often assured me that when they 
got ready to return to Louisiana they 
would walk around by land, as they had 
enough of sailing. To keep them em 
ployed, the women were engaged to 
mend and launder our clothing ; as their 
utensils were all stowed away in the 
lower hold, it was necessary to extem 
porize others. The washing and drying 
were easily accomplished, but the iron 
ing was done by putting hot coals in a. 
tin bucket and rubbing that over the 
pieces not much of a success, however, 

" Land ho ! " Anobon appeared like 
a huge sugar - loaf ; we examined the 
chronometers and found them correct, 
and did not approach nearer than about 
ten miles. We were now nearing the 
African coast, and the sailors took de 
light in the horrible stories they told 
our passengers of the customs and habits 
of the people among whom they were 
soon to be landed, with such success 
that they waited upon me and appealed 
piteously to be allowed to return to* 
Louisiana without going ashore ; they 
were willing to return to slavery, and at 
once. I tried to persuade them that 
they were victims of a sailor s joke, but 
they were not reassured. 

On July 1, 1859, there was a terrible 
storm of wind and rain, and the sea very 
rough. Cape Palmas was in sight : 
Monrovia, the capital of Liberia, being 
situated on it. The mist obscured all 
objects near the water, and after a while 
we found that we were being chased by 
a small steamer which had fired a blank 
shot for us to come to. W T e hoisted the 
American flag and sailed on, followed 






THE LAST SLA^E-SH/P. 



117 



Izy the English cruiser Viper. She ap 
proached as near as could be safely done 
and sent an officer on board. He politely 
stated his mission and was invited below, 
where the ship s papers were produced 
and shown him, as an act of courtesy 
for we were now within the limits of the 
Liberian Government. Yet, we might 
again meet our inquisitive visitor ; and if 
he was now satisfied as to our papers, it 
would avoid the necessity of a subsequent 
visit before reaching Congo River, and 
when there might not be wind enough 
to outsail him. The officer pleasantly 
observed that he knew our vessel as 
soon as it was in sight, and had been 
with other cruisers on the lookout for 
us for some time ; that his government, 
by the last mail steamer to St. Paul 
Loanda, had notified the cruisers that 
the ship Rebecca was suspected, and 
had been described with such accuracy 
that there could be no mistake. He 
thought we had an outward bound cargo, 
and was much chagrined to find that it 
was inward bound and at its destination. 
After a short stay he left and steamed 
away to the south. 

The attention of all was now directed 
to a long canoe, manned by four appar 
ently naked negroes, approaching us 
from the shore, through a very rough 
sea, without much apparent effort. 
Coming alongside, they climbed over the 
rail and jumped down among our pas 
sengers, naked, except a piece of cloth 
tied around the loins, fine specimens 
of muscular development, short and 
stout, tattooed down the forehead to the 
end of the nose and on the cheeks with 
a dark-blue pigment. The officers re 
cognized them as Kroornen, a tribe 
dispersed along the coast, employed by 
ships to load, or obtain water, or as 
pilots and never exported. A wail as 
from Hades arose from our passengers; 
it is impossible to picture the conster 
nation and terror the Kroomen oc 
casioned. The sailors, taking advantage 
of the situation, distributed themselves 
among our poor negroes and told them 
it was now time for them to take off 
their store clothes and get ready to go 
ashore just like these people, they 
had come to live with. On their knees 

they implored Captain C , the mate, 

and myself to protect them from these 



savages and take them back, and do any 
thing we desired with them. 

Looking shoreward, there was ap 
parently the end of a chain of mountains 
which gradually sloped to the sea, form 
ing Cape Palmas ; on this could be seen 
indistinctly evidences of habitation, the 
forest covering being quite thick. At 
the base was a small stream, St. Paul 
River, extending some distance into the 
interior ; between the slope and this 
little stream was a village of native huts 
in all their savage picturesqueness ; a 
number of this tribe were scattered along 
the shore, and many of them were coming 
in our direction in their curiously-shaped 
canoes, altogether a picture of unadult 
erated savage life. It was impossible to 
restore the confidence of our negroes 
with this gloomy picture of free Liberia 
and the recollections of the jokes of the 
sailors before them. 

We anchored at a place assigned by 
the Kroomen, and a message was sent 
ashore to the officials announcing our 
arrival, and requesting the presence on 
board of the agent or persons author 
ized to receive our passengers, hoping 
that the European costumes and a 
familiar tongue would accomplish more 
than anything else toward calming the 
disturbed passengers. The storm de 
layed until evening the arrival of the 
official, but his appearance quieted 
them like oil on troubled waters. This 
agent was an enthusiast, and soon gave 
us to understand that the garden of 
Eden was an ill-conditioned suburb 
compared to Monrovia. During two 
days arrangements were being made 
on shore for the transportation of the 
baggage and effects of our passengers. 

July 4th being observed as a " fete " 
day, the officers and myself were in 
vited to dine with the President of the 
Republic and his ministers. Accepting 
the invitation, we landed on the beach, 
in front of the native huts, made of 
bamboo and thatched with straw when 
they had roofs ; and ascending the cape 
by "a tortuous path, we met the only 
white man in the republic, Rev. Mr. 
Evans, an Episcopal missionary during 
thirty years and also acting United 
States consul, under whose care we 
were taken to the executive mansion, 
were introduced to, and welcomed by, 



118 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



President Benson, ex-President Roberts, 
and the cabinet. 

Before returning to the ship, the Rev. 
Dr. Evans took me aside and told me 
he was in considerable doubt as to the 
character of our vessel ; that the Balti 
more ship had not arrived, and he had 
been authorized by the government to 
tender me as my home, during my stay 
awaiting the Baltimore ship, the cutter 
lying in the harbor, which had been 
presented by Queen Victoria and was 
their only war vessel. Thanking him 
for his kindness, I told him I would con 
sider the matter. 

Reaching the ship, I told the officers 
they were suspected. At once a council 
was held and a demand made for the 
landing next day of passengers and ef 
fects, as, so far, there had been no fixed 
date determined upon. The English 
gunboat had just returned to Monrovia 
and was but a short distance from us, 
and her company was not desired longer 
than possible. This demand created 
some surprise, as it was supposed we 
would be several days longer getting 
supplies. 

Next morning a fleet of sloops, canoes, 
and yawls came alongside early. Just 
then the Spanish captain told me I 
could go with the vessel as far as the 
Congo River, where I might meet the mail 
steamer. Thanking him, I accepted and 
so informed the Rev. Mr. Evans. He 
further told me he suspected Captain 

C of treachery, for the return of the 

cruiser looked like it. By noon passengers 
and effects were landed and the captain 
returned with ship s papers, etc. The 
anchor was hoisted and away we went. 
The English cruiser followed with steam 
and sail as long as he could see us ; but 
we sailed twelve miles to his eight, and 
before dark left him out of sight. 

The Spanish captain now appeared on 
deck, a short, swarthy, black-whiskered 
man, with a cold, determined look, 
dressed in open shirt with a large silk 
handkerchief around his neck, white 
trousers, with a large red sash wrapped 
several times around his waist, a wide 
soft hat a typical bandit. His assist 
ant followed in almost similar costume, 
and went forward and rang the ship s 
bell ; the crew was called to the after- 
deck, where the Spanish Captain A 



thus addressed them, in Spanish and 
English : 

" Men, I am now the captain of this 
ship ; this is my first mate," introduc 
ing his assistant ; " the other subordi 
nate officers are retained in their posi 
tions ; the late captain and mate will 
be respected and advised with. The 
object of this voyage is a cargo of 
negroes to be purchased in Africa and 
landed in Cuba ; the trip is full of 
peril, but if successful, full of money. 
If there is one of you who desires to go 
ashore, the ship will stop at a place 
where he can be safely landed, and 
double wages to date given him." 

All expressing themselves anxious to 
sign new articles, the wages were de 
clared, if the voyage was successful, to 
be : For American captain and first 
mate, $5,000 each ; second mate, $3,500 ; 
carpenter, $3,000 ; each sailor, $1,500. 
Our crew numbered twenty-three, all 
told, Turks, Greeks, Italians, Spaniards, 
Scotch, Yankees, and Danes. 

It was plain that the Spanish cap 
tain did not trust Captain C , and 

although they were courteous to each 
other, there was an entire absence of 
familiarity. The crew had the same 
feeling, and on one occasion, while Cap 
tain C was inspecting the rudder 

hinges and suspended in a bow-line 
over the stern, the sailor at the wheel 
took out his knife and made a move 
ment as if to sever the rope and drop 
the captain into the sea. I saw the 
movement and called the Spanish cap 
tain s attention. He positively and firmly 
forbade anything like an attempt on the 

life of Captain C , unless it was plain 

he intended treachery; then he would 
act, and promptly. 

We were some weeks in advance of 
the time for the arrival of our ship at a 
point agreed upon, where the first intel 
ligence could be had of the agents sent 
there months before, and we sailed 
leisurely along until one day s sail from 
Mayumba. This portion of the coast 
was carefully guarded by the United 
States, English, Portuguese, and Spanish 
steam and sailing vessels, so that in ap 
proaching the coast there was consider 
able risk of being overhauled. Although 
our papers were regular to a point on 
Congo River, yet the vessel might have 



THE LAST SLAI/E-SHIP. 



119 



been seized as suspicious, and subjected 
to a return to Sierra Leone ; and there, 
the matter fully investigated by a court 
organized to condemn and confiscate. 

One day our movements were so reg 
ulated that, by sailing all night toward 
the coast, we would be, at daylight, fif 
teen miles distant. A yawl was then 
lowered, and the Spanish captain with 
two sailors entered it, provided with 
two days supplies and compass, and 
pulled away for land. We at once re 
turned to sea, and forty days after were 
to return to the place where the Spanish 
captain had expected to land. We were 
now under the control of the Spanish 
mate and put to sea, four hundred miles 
from land, then sailed back one day, and 
the next returned to sea, for the entire 
period of f orty days, never coming within 
two hundred miles of the shore. This 
was a very quiet and uneventful cruise ; 
on two occasions only did we see ves 
sels, which proved to be whalers whom 
we gave a wide berth. 

At daylight, on the morning of the 
fortieth day, we had approached the 
coast near enough to see distinctly ob 
jects along the shore. Yet, seeing no 
living creature, we were evidently a 
little out of the exact position, so send 
ing a man aloft, to be sure no vessel was 
in sight, we ran along the coast a few 
miles, when we saw a negro waving a 
large white flag, with a red cross its 
entire length and width ; this was the 
signal, and in a short time we saw several 
negroes dragging our yawl to the water 
from its place of concealment. In an 

hour, Captain A was again on board. 

It was plain that something had gone 
wrong ; the agent and assistant had ar 
rived much later than anticipated ; both 
had been ill with African fever and were 
at a trading post on Congo River, trying 
to get well. British cruisers had passed 
almost daily where we were then, and 
could be expected at any moment. A 
council was again held in the cabin ; the 
ship put to sea, and it was determined 
that, as our papers were regular and per 
mitted us to go to Congo River, we 
would proceed there at once and there 
await events. 

Long before we reached Congo River, 
we saw the discoloration of the sea from 
the muddy stream. Far at sea we met 



floating islands of vegetation as much as 
twenty feet square. Approaching the 
river from the sea, there was on the left 
an elevated plateau, at the base of which 
the French Government had a station, 
where negroes were apprenticed to 
employers in the French islands of the 
West Indies, for a number of years, for 
a little more than the Spaniards pur 
chased them outright. The apprentices 
did not get the money, but the govern 
ment agent, in consideration of the 
money, obliged his government to secure 
them a home, etc., at the expiration of 
contract. A French gun-boat lay at the 
station as we passed by. 

The river is irregular in width, from 
two-thirds to one and a half mile, shal 
low, full of islands, with a very tortuous 
channel from side to side. We secured 
the services of a pilot, a prince of one of 
the Congo tribes near us, on the left bank 
as you ascend. His costume was an old 
military coat and a much dilapidated 
Panama hat, his wrists and arms encir 
cled with thick silver rings and with a 
multitude of others of a kind of fibre. 
Short in stature, about five feet three or 
four inches, fine regular features, as are 
all of the Congoes, perfect teeth, hand 
somely developed limbs, and clean for a 
negro. 

Light winds and the strong current 
delayed our arrival at the trading station, 
about seventy miles from the mouth, 
until the next day. Arriving, we found 
a boat with two white men in it ; one 
was recognized as the agent s assistant, 
and before they reached us, we were in 
formed that the agent had died of con 
sumption and African fever. The speaker 
was slowly convalescing, and all trading 
operations had been suspended until his 
recovery or the arrival of the ship. His 
companion in the boat was a trader, at 
whose post he had found a home. We 
were now in for a delay of some time, as 
Spaniards move slowly. We were an 
chored about seventy-five yards from 
the shore or left bank going up stream. 

One day we saw coming up the river 
a man-of-war s long boat, with an officer 
and ten men ; they anchored almost im 
mediately under our bow, and there they 
remained as long as we were in the 
river ; they were from the gun-boat 
Tigris and had spoken the Vixen, 



120 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



which we learned had gone farther 
south to look out for us. The Tigris 
lay at the mouth of the river to intercept 
us, if an attempt be made to leave with a 
cargo of negroes. Again the Spanish 
captain left us for many days. It being 
necessary to replenish our store of 
water, it was done with a hose through 
the opening in the bow, without the 
boat s crew knowiDg anything about it, 
although but a few feet distant. 

During this time I took several trips 
up the river, going farther than any 
white man had been known to ascend it, 
and saw many tribes of negroes who had 
heard of white men from the lower 
tribes, but had never seen one, and was 
much of a curiosity with my European 
clothing and my white skin. The upper 
tribes gave me to understand that a 
white man was far from the coast, in the 
interior, that they had heard of him 
through neighboring tribes. So long a 
time had elapsed that my coming re 
called what they had heard of the white 
man, and they supposed I was the man ; 
this was Livingstone, the great explorer, 
who having reached one of the branches 
of the Congo River, diverged from it to 
explore another route. 

One of the interior traders visiting 
the river informed us that a disease 
which, he said, was declared to be small 
pox, had broken out in the barracoons 
where the negroes intended for our ship 
were being collected, and asked what 
could be done about it. Examining my 
pocket-case, I found a vaccine crust en 
veloped in adhesive plaster, which had 
been given me by Professor Fenner, 
with which to vaccinate poor people ap 
plying at the free dispensary connected 
with our college. 

I left with the Spaniard, and journey 
ing two days up the river, was carried 
southward many miles into the interior, 
in a palanquin or hammock slung be 
tween two poles, with two men at each 
end of a pole. This route was circuitous 
to avoid the annoyance of other tribes 
who would levy heavy tribute. Arriving, 
I found a barracoon to be an enclosure 
of, may be, a square of ground about 
three hundred feet on each side, fenced 
with bamboo about eight or nine feet high, 
a thatched roof running sometimes entire 
ly around it, extending, perhaps, ten feet 



toward the centre. A very frail struct 
ure as a place of confinement, but suffi 
cient to shelter from sun and rain and 
heavy dews, which were very cool. 
These barracoons were permitted in this 
locality by neighboring chiefs, because 
it enabled them easily to dispose of their 
products of depredation upon weaker 
tribes, and, being so far in the interior, 
they were safe from unauthorized visi 
tors. I found a few negroes suffering 
from small-pox, contracted from a tribe 
which frequented the coast, having in 
tercourse with Kroomen who had con 
tracted it in St. Paul de Loanda. At 
once the infected were separated and 
new barracoons erected for them, as 
well as for the uninfected, in a distant 
locality. The old barracoons were burned, 
and as far as the vaccine virus could be 
extended, it was at once used. In a few 
days, I was pleased to find a number of 
those vaccinated with a new supply of 
virus, with which I continued to vacci 
nate until the supply was exhausted. 
The Portuguese were also vaccinated and 
taught how to use the virus and save 
crusts for future use. The disease, as far 
as I could learn, was arrested there.* 

From the Spaniard with me I learned 
that enough negroes had been purchased 
and contracted for to be transported on 
shares, to load our ship ; and that her 
departure was only a question of when 
they could be put on board without risk 
of small-pox reappearing among them. 
The negroes were then sent by easy 
marches to a place half a day s journey 
from the sea- coast, where they would 
remain until the time agreed upon to 
move to the coast. This last march to 
the coast was always done at night, so 
that they had ample time to arrive be 
fore daylight. The ship was due at day 
light, and if she could not reach the 
coast at that hour, the whole business 

From the factors here I learned something about the 
manner in which the slave trade was carried on in Africa. 
A trader, Portuguese always, procured consent from a 
head of a strong tribe to establish himself among them, 
and paid liberally in presents for the privilege. Consent* 
obtained, a barracoon was at once built, and each mem 
ber of the tribe was a self-constituted guardian to protect 
it ; a scale of prices was agreed upon for negroes, ac 
cording to age and sex, averaging two fathoms or four 
yaids of calico, one flint-lock musket, one six-pound keg 
of coarse powder, one two-gallon keg of rum, some beads 
and brass wire ; an English value of about eight dollars 
gold for each negro captured by this tribe from neigh 
boring and weaker ones. There had been a lower rate of 
prices until within a few years, when competition had 
slowly increased them to present rates. 



THE LAST SLAYE-SHIP. 



121 



was postponed generally one week, the 
negroes immediately returned to the 
half-day station, rested, and cared for. 
We returned to the ship on the river, 
and found quiet preparations being 
made to leave at a moment s notice ; the 
officers purchasing goats, poultry, and 
fruit. 

Captain A alone knew the locality 

where the negroes would be met, and it 
was impossible for any sailor to have 
given information of value to the Eng 
lish in their boat under our bow. 

No opportunity had yet offered for 
my return to America, and the ship was 
about to sail. I could not make up my 
mind to remain on Congo River, and 
risk African fever for an indefinite 
period. The spirit of adventure, con 
siderable curiosity, and great confidence 
in my good luck, prompted me to accept 
an invitation from the Spanish captain 
to remain with the ship. At this time 
we learned that a Portuguese man-of- 
war had visited the mouth of the river 
and, finding the English gunboat Vixen 
there, had gone on to the north. This 
made things very much mixed, one cruis 
er south, one at the river s mouth, and 
one north, and the Portuguese was the 
worst one of all. At that time, if a ves 
sel was captured with negroes on board, 
they, and the ship with her officers, were 
taken to Sierra Leone ; the sailors being 
landed at or near the place of capture 
to look out for themselves. If the ship 
had a flag and could be identified, the 
officers were transferred at Sierra Leone 
to their respective governments for trial, 
the negroes sent ashore, and an attempt 
at colonization made, and the ship sold 
and broken up ; but if no nationality 
could be established, the officers were 
imprisoned for a term at Sierra Leone, 
with or without civil trials. If the Portu 
guese made a capture, every officer and 
sailor was sent to their penal settlements, 
and that was the last ever heard of them. 
The American government had the sail 
ing man-of-war Vincennes stationed near 
us ; we did not wish to meet her, for 
she was a fine sailer. 

One morning, early, about October 1, 
1859, the anchor was raised and we 
sailed down the river ; our papers yet 
protected us, for we had ostensibly made 



an unsuccessful mercantile venture, and 
were returning home. We took the 
English yawl in tow, and inviting the 
officer on board, enjoyed a pleasant trip 
to the mouth of the river, reaching there 
in the afternoon. The gun-boat steamed 
alongside to get her officer and learn 
our destination, and being informed, 
"United States," said : " Oh ! of course ! 
perhaps ! " Our course during the even 
ing and night was northwest, as if we 
were returning to the United States. 
This was to get off shore and ascertain 
the strength of the wind at that season, 
at different distances, also to see what 
speed we could make. At daylight our 
course was shaped south, and all hands 
employed in removing every trace of 
name from bow, stern, and small boats. 
The ship s side was painted all black 
we had white ports before. Every paper 
or scrap that could be found was, with 
our American flag, weighted and thrown 
overboard. 

"Now!" said Captain A , "we 

have no name, and no nationality ; we 
are nobody and know nothing. If we are 
captured, every mouth must be sealed, 
in that way only can we escape the se 
vere penalties." 

For four days and nights we cruised 
about, keeping the distance of nearly 
one hundred and fifty miles from land. 
On the afternoon of the fourth day, hav 
ing taken accurate observations of our 
position at sea, our course was shaped 
for the coast ; every light was extin 
guished but that of the binnacle, which 
was hooded so that the man at the wheel 
could see the compass and yet the light 
could not be seen ; an extra watch was 
kept, and at three o clock next morning 
we were within two miles of the shore, 
latitude 6 10 south, previously agreed 
upon. So correct were the chronom 
eters, and the estimation of wind and 
current, that there was no error in our 
calculations, we could hear the roar of 
the breakers, but there was not light 
enough to see the shore. As it grew 
lighter we could see the low shore-line, 
which appeared to be broken into small 
hillocks of sand sparsely covered with a 
scrubby vegetation. 

A number of small craft could be seen 
outside the breakers, they resembled 
oyster-boats. After a satisfactory scru- 



122 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



tiny of the horizon with a glass from the 
masthead, our signal, a large white flag 
with a red cross, was hoisted, and as it 
blew out was answered from the shore. 
Very soon the beach seemed to swarm 
with moving objects which we could not 
yet distinguish. A number of long, 
black objects left the shore, and, when 
through the breakers, they stopped at 
the small craft outside. Now we could 
see that the negroes were being trans 
ferred to the boats outside the breakers, 
from canoes, which ran through them, 
with from four to six in each. As the 
sloops were filled they sailed for the ship, 
and, ladders having been arranged, the 
negroes were soon coming over the 
ship s side; as each one reached the 
deck he was given a biscuit and sent 
below. It seemed slow work at first, 
but as the canoes were soon all launched 
and rushing through the surf, it pre 
sented a busy scene. The sloops were 
now flying to and from us, and a great 
number of negroes were already on board 
at 2 P.M. 

The lookout at the masthead shouted : 
" Sail, ho ! away to the southward." 
From the deck we could see nothing. 
A danger signal was hoisted at once to 
hurry all aboard faster ; in a short while 
we could see from the deck a little black 
spot. Smoke ! A cruiser ! Another 
signal, a blood-red flag, was hoisted, in 
forming those ashore of the kind of 
danger. If possible the bustle ashore 
was increased ; our own boats were 
lowered, and they aided materially. The 
approaching vessel had seen us and the 
volume of smoke increased. She could 
now be seen, and was recognized as the 
Vixen with the naked eye. A signal 
from shore that a very few remained 
was hoisted, another hour passed, and 
the vessel was certainly within three 
miles. Our boats were recalled, and 
the entire fleet of sloops soon sailed to 
ward us. Our boats were hoisted, and 
lines thrown to the sloops now alongside. 
The Vixen now changed her course 
slightly and fired a solid shot, which 
passed to leeward of us, beyond. At 
this the Spanish captain cried out : " Let 
go ! " The pin holding the staple in the 
anchor chain was cut, and the chain 
parted. Sail was hoisted rapidly, the 
negroes in the sloops climbed over the 



ship s side, and as the sloops were emp 
tied they were cast adrift with their 
single occupant, a Krooman. They 
scattered like frightened birds. 

We seemed a long time getting head 
way, and everybody was looking very 
anxious, as other sails were set ; stud 
ding-sails were added, stay-sails hoisted, 
and a large square sail on the mizzen- 
mast from the deck to topsail such a 
cloud of canvas that I felt sure the masts 
would go overboard. The Vixen was 
now within one mile and she seemed 
to have wonderful speed ; again she 
changed her course and there followed a 
puff of smoke. That was too close for 
comfort, I thought, as the splashing sea 
showed where the ball ricocheted, and so 
very near. We seemed to have gained 
some in distance during this manoeuvre, 
and the wind grew stronger the farther 
we got from land. A cloud of black 
smoke showed that a grand effort was 
being made by our pursuer to recover 
the distance lost while changing her 
course to fire at us. We were now easily 
going ahead and the distance was 
greater between us, the wind so strong 
that we were compelled to take in the 
lofty studding-sails. Another hour, and 
it was getting near night, with the 
cruiser at least five miles astern, still 
holding on, hoping something would 
happen to disable us yet. Night fell, but 
we continued our course without change 
until midnight, when we sailed south- 
southwest until daylight, so that if some 
thing should happen to our masts, we 
should be far from the route of our pur 
suer if he still followed us. 

At daylight we were on a west by north 
course, and the southeast trade-wind was 
driving us along fourteen knots an hour. 
Looking around, I found a number of 
strange white men, Spaniards, repre 
senting the barracoon from which some 
of the negroes were taken on shares. 
One half for the ship, the other half for 
the owner, whose representative would 
purchase merchandise in the United 
States or England, and ship to St. Paul 
de Loanda in the mail steamer, and from 
there in small sloops to destination. 
Among the sailors I found a number of 
strange faces, the crew of a captured 
vessel previously spoken of. They were 
glad to have a chance to return. 



THE LAST SLAISE-SHIP. 



123 



During the embarkation I was engaged 
separating those negroes who did not 
appear robust, or who had received some 
trifling injury in getting on deck, and 
sending them to an improvised hospital 
made by bulkheading a space in the rear 
of the forecastle. The others, as they 
arrived, were stowed away by the Span 
ish mate ; so that when all were aboard 
there was just room for each to lie upon 
one side. As no one knew what pro 
portion were men, all were herded to 
gether. The next morning the sepa 
ration took place ; the women and girls 
were all sent on deck, and numbered 
about four hundred. Then a close 
bulkhead was built across the ship and 
other bunks constructed. The women 
were then sent below, and enough men 
sent up to enable the carpenter to have 
room to construct additional bunks. A 
more docile and easily managed lot of 
creatures cannot be imagined. No vio 
lence of any kind was necessary ; it was 
sometimes difficult to make them under 
stand what was wanted ; but as soon as 
they comprehended, immediate compli 
ance followed. 

The negroes were now sent on deck 
in groups of eight and squatted around 
a large wooden platter, heaping-full of 
cooked rice, beans, and pork cut into 
small cubes. The platters were made 
by cutting off the head of flour or other 
barrels, leaving about four inches of the 
staves. Each negro was given a wooden 

ron, which all on board had amused 
mselves in making during our forty- 
day trip. Barrel staves were sawed into 
lengths of eight inches, split into other 
pieces one and a half inch wide, and 
then shaped into a spoon with our 
pocket-knives. It was surprising what 
good spoons could be made in that man 
ner. A piece of rope yarn tied to a 
spoon and hung around the neck was 
the way in which every individual re 
tained his property. There not being 
room on deck for the entire cargo to 
feed at one time, platters were sent be 
tween decks, so that all ate at one hour, 
three times daily. Casks of water were 
placed in convenient places, and an 
abundant supply furnished day and 
night. When night came they were 
stowed in their new quarters, the men 
amidships, the women in the apartment 



bulkheaded from the men aft, the hospi 
tal forward. Looking down through 
the hatches they were seen like sardines 
in a box, on the floor and in the bunks, 
as close as they could be crowded. 
Large wind-sails furnished a supply of 
fresh air, and the open hatches sufficient 
ventilation. 

A muster was made the next day to 
verify the lists held by each party repre 
sented. I was curious to know how 
each owner could single out his property 
among so many that did not present any 
distinguishing peculiarities. I discov 
ered that each factor had a distinguish 
ing brand ; some a letter, others a ge 
ometrical figure ; and every negro was 
branded with a hot iron on the left 
shoulder, a few days before shipment, 
by his owner or representative. They 
were all young, none less than twelve or 
fourteen, and none appearing over thirty 
years. Their contentment that day sur 
prised me. They numbered, all told, near 
twelve hundred. 

Captain A then selected about 

twenty of the strong men and clothed 
them with a sack which had holes cut in 
it for head and arms ; these men were 
called Camisas (shirts), and were re 
quired to do the scrubbing and cleaning 
between decks, etc., and given daily a 
small allowance of rum. The women 
were divided into squads and sent on 
the after-deck for an hour for each squad. 
This changing kept up until night ; the 
men were confined to the main-deck be 
tween cabin and forecastle, and sent in 
squads of as many as could get on deck 
at once. As they came up on the first 
trip, each morning, every one plunged 
into casks of salt water and ran about 
until dry. 

Notwithstanding their apparent good 
health, each morning three or four dead 
would be found, brought upon deck, 
taken by arms and heels, and tossed over 
board as unceremoniously as an empty 
bottle. Of what did they die ? and al 
ways at night? In the barracoons it 
was known that if a negro was not 
amused and kept in motion, he would 
mope, squat down with his chin on his 
knees and arms clasped about his legs, 
and in a very short time die. Among 
civilized races it is thought impossible 
to hold one s breath until death follows ; 



124 



THE LAST SLAW-SHIP. 



it is thought the Africans can do so. 
They had no means of concealing any 
thing, and certainly did not kill each 
other. The duties of the Camisas were 
also to look after the other negroes dur 
ing the day, and when found sitting 
with knees up and head drooping, the 
Camisas would start them up, run them 
about the deck, give them a small ration 
of rum, and divert them until in a nor 
mal condition. 

The negroes had brought on board 
with them several small monkeys, which 
were, to them, a constant source of 
amusement. Another and almost per 
petual pastime was the exploration of 
each other s head. We were now far 
away from land, making fourteen knots 
each hour, and had no fear of any mo 
lestation for some time to come. The 
negroes seemed to tire of the monotony 
of things, and some grog was daily dis 
tributed to the men, and native songs 
and dances were constantly going on. 
The ingenuity of everyone was taxed to 
provide a new source of amusement ; a 
special watch was put at each hatch to 
render any assistance in the event of 
sickness, and to prevent intrusion by 
the sailors. The throwing overboard 
of the dead did not seem to affect them 
in any way, as it was their belief they 
returned to Africa after death away 
from home. 

It was interesting to note the tribal 
distinctions among them ; tattooing was 
not general, but the teeth were either 
drawn or filed in most fantastic ar 
rangements, generally to a point like 
saw-teeth, or every other one was filed 
half-way down ; the nose, lips, and ears 
had perforations of different sizes, and 
a mark of distinction appeared to be 
the cicatrices of numerous short in 
cisions in the skin of arms, breast, and 
legs, sometimes of irregular shapes with 
attempts at geometrical figures. The 
colors of their skin varied also from a 
shining black to griffe. They have a 
multitude of gods, and to secure recog 
nition, procure from the fetich or medi 
cine men amulets or wristlets and ank 
lets of braided fibre which are braided 
on the limb by the medicine man, and 
remain until death or worn out. One 
will protect from fire, another from 
drowning, another from sickness, from 



serpents, from thunder (for which they 
have profound respect), from crocodiles 
in fact, all the ills of life known to 
them. They fraternized as if belonging 
to the same tribe, and I do not recall a 
single instance of an altercation. 

We were now near the end of Octo 
ber and rapidly approaching the Carib- 
bee Islands. Maps were examined, and, 
after some discussion, it was thought 
safest to run between the French islands 
of Martinique and Dominique, and our 
course was shaped for the fifteenth de 
gree of latitude, being midway. One 
morning the mountains of each could 
be seen, and as we passed between the 
islands, they appeared about twelve 
miles distant. Thus far we had not 
met a sail, and in passing, although at 
considerable distance, sent all the ne 
groes below, that we might appear to be 
an ordinary merchantman. We kept 
about one hundred miles south of Porto 
Rico, San Domingo, and Hayti, until 
we were near the extreme western end 
of Hayti. Our route was now between 
Hayti and Jamaica, as it was thought 
the winds would hold better than going 
to the south of Jamaica. While about 
midway, the lookout discovered a steamer 
far to the westward, and as its course 
was not yet known, we shortened such 
sail as could be done without discovery 
and waited. After half an hour it was 
seen that the steamer s course was al 
most east, and would intercept us. We 
slightly changed our course that we 
might pass behind, and sent all the ne 
groes below as well as the greater part 
of the wiiite men. We desired to pass 
so far distant that the absence of a 
name on our bow would not be noticed. 
The steamer was very slow, and was 
thought to be the Engh sh mail steamer 
from Kingston, touching at Hayti and 
San Domingo. She passed about five 
miles distant, and we breathed freely 
after her disappearance, then all sail 
was again made, the negroes sent on 
deck, and an extra biscuit given each 
one as a thank-offering. 

We were soon north of Jamaica, but 
there was a dangerous place which wor 
ried us greatly, Cape de Cruz, the ex 
treme southern point of Cuba, and on the 
eastern end. Our course was now north- 



THE LAST SLAl^E-SHIP. 



125 



west. Vessels from the United States 
approach very closely, thereby saving 
distance to Trinidad, a prominent port 
on the south side of Cuba, where sugar 
and molasses are largely exported. We 
knew that an American cruiser was sta 
tioned here to intercept slavers, and we 
did not wish to run a race with her. 
The speed of our ship was so governed 
that we could run by the dreaded lo 
cality late at night and at a considerable 
distance, about fifty miles. To do so 
we put on all the sail which could be 
safely carried. 

I now for the first time learned our 
destination : Take a map of Cuba and 
you will see, south-southeast of Puerto 
Principe a chain of six little islands run 
ning parallel with the island of Cuba, 
and about twenty-five or thirty miles dis 
tant. The second one from the western 
end is the largest ; it has a scrubby 
growth of mangrove bushes about eight 
feet high, a few cocoanut-trees, and a 
most valuable spring of fresh water. It 
is less than a mile wide and nearly three 
miles long, of coral formation, but a few 
feet above the level of the sea. 

It was necessary that our approach be 
after midday, so that the negroes could 
be discharged and the vessel disposed 
of before dark. By burning it at night 
the light would have attracted greater 
attention than in the day, and during 
the day it might have been supposed 
some brush was burning ashore. The 
place was a regular highway for all 
vessels approaching and leaving the 
south of Cuba. 

November 3d, we were but fifty miles 
distant at daylight, with light winds, 
making about eight miles an hour. 
About ten o clock, some few miles ahead 
of us, we saw an American bark bound 
in the same direction. It never would 
have done to approach her near enough 
to be spoken, for the captain would, in 
all probabilities, have invited himself 
aboard to have a chat for an hour or 
two. We could not shorten sail, for it 
would have attracted attention, the more 
so as her canvas had been reduced to 
enable us the sooner to overhaul her. 

What could we do ? Captain A called 

the carpenter, who, with the assistance 
of the crew, brought on deck two large 
water casks. The head of each was re 



moved, ropes secured to the rim, and 
lowered astern, so that they would drag 
with the open end toward the ship ; as 
soon as the ropes tightened our speed 
was reduced so much that the bark 
rapidly drew ahead, and in an hour 
could not see what we were doing. 

It was now mid-da} 7 , and the chain of 
islands was in sight. We had calculated 
very closely the position of the one we 
were seeking ; but our casks retarded our 
speed so that we would reach it later 
than we expected. At mid-day another 
observation was taken and our island 
located exactly about fifteen miles dis 
tant. As we approached it our signal 
flag the large white one with a red 
cross was hoisted to the top of the main 
mast. Some time elapsed and no sign 
of any living creature on the island. 
We were more than six weeks behind 
the most liberal estimate of time, and 
our Spaniards began to fear that those 
assigned to meet us here had given up 
all hopes of a successful voyage and had 
gone to the main-land. Just as the 
gloomiest views seemed to be about 
realized, we saw two men running 
through the thin undergrowth to the 
water s edge, waving their hats and ges 
ticulating wildly. A shout of recogni 
tion was the return salute. The ship 
was sailed to within half a mile, and in 
fourteen fathoms of water, and anchored. 
The four boats were lowered in a hurry 
and the landing of the negroes began. 
It was wonderful how many could be 
gotten into a yawl in the quiet sea. 
More than two hours were needed to 
land all of them, and a sufficient num 
ber of large sails for shelter and food 
supplies. 

The carpenter had been sent below 
to scuttle the ship ; all the combustible 
material aboard was collected in the 
forecastle, between decks, and in the 
cabin, liberally saturated with oil, tur 
pentine, and paint, and as the last of us 
left the ship the match was applied to 
each heap, and before we were ashore 
she was on fire from stem to stern. The 
rigging soon burned and the upper 
masts fell one after the other, still held 
to the ship by the heavy stays. She 
gradually sank, and before an hour there 
was nothing on the sea left to indicate 
a ship s destruction. 



12G 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



As the negroes were landed they were 
hurried back far enough to be out of 
sight of any passing vessel, the scanty 
growth of mangrove affording ample 
hiding. After dark the sails were so 
spread and secured as to shelter the 
negroes from the dews, which were cold 
after the warm days : these tents were 
taken down before daylight, as they 
could have been seen by a passing vessel. 
Great was the joy of the Spaniards at 
being ashore in a place of security, for 
they felt tranquil about the part yet to 
come. Immediately after all were ashore 
the fishing sloop was despatched to the 
main-land with intelligence of our ar 
rival, and during its absence I explored 
the island. I found it of coral formation 
and covered with thin soil and very little 
grass. Except the mangrove bushes 
there were no others but about a dozen 
cocoa-nut trees, stunted in growth but 
with a good supply of fruit yet green, 
and highly esteemed as a delicacy. 

The stay on the island was delightful, 
the waters furnishing us with a great 
many varieties of fish, which were ap 
preciated. The joy of the negroes was 
great at being ashore, and so bountifully 
supplied with food and water. Each 
day vessels passed, and some of them so 
near that we feared they would discover 
the island s secret. 

Before the sloop left us there was 
considerable discussion among the sailors 
about their pay, they wishing to be paid 
before the negroes were sent to the main 
land, and the Spaniards desiring that the 
remaining risks should be shared by all 
alike and all paid at the final destination. 
The matter was compromised by the 
Spaniards agreeing to pay those who 
demanded it ; but that their protection 
ended there, and those paid would remain 
on the island until they were sent for 
after our arrival. Four days after the 
sloop left, two small schooners arrived 
bringing the money for those who de 
manded it, and they were paid in Spanish 
doubloons. The negroes were now 
transferred to the two schooners, and al 
though they had appeared closely packed 
in the ship they were now jammed to 
gether in the hold, as none could be al 
lowed on deck. The officers were divided, 
and were permitted to remain on deck 
in the little space that could be found. 



We now left for Trinidad, about sev 
enty-five miles distant, and before dark 
sailed right into the harbor amid a fleet of 
vessels. We were met by a custom-house 
boat and told where to anchor, and did 
so, less than one hundred yards from 
an American bark, which seemed to be 
our late would-be acquaintance. Our 
schooners had the appearance of ordi 
nary coasters and did not attract any at 
tention. At ten o clock that night we 
saw a bright light on the beach at the 
extreme east end of the harbor, and we 
sailed for it. Arriving we were informed 
that arrangements were not complete for 
transportation, and could not be before 
next night. We returned to our anchor 
age and kept busy all night distributing 
biscuits and water to the negroes, who 
were hungry and restless. The night air 
was cold, and to keep warm I stood in 
the open hatch with my chin on a level 
with the deck, keeping my body in the 
warm air below while I breathed pure 
air ; to go below and remain a few 
minutes was terrible. I feared some of 
the negroes would die in such an impure 
atmosphere. 

Morning came slowly, and again every 
care was taken not to betray in any way 
our character. Sail after sail passed us 
coming and going. What a long day ! 
The city of Trinidad, starting from the 
beach, rises to quite a height ; the old- 
fashioned houses and irregular streets 
had very little interest, as we tired our 
eyes trying to find something which 
could possibly relieve the monotony and 
sense of great danger we felt. My pa 
tience was exhausted long before dark. 
At last the sun went down, the air 
became cool, and night again obscured 
everything. At ten o clock the light re 
appeared and we sailed for it, showing 
a single lantern, which was extinguished 
as we approached. The sloop ran ashore 
in about two feet of water, and the 
negroes hurried ashore without noise, 
wading. 

I saw in the darkness a long line of 
wagons, two-wheeled, with an open 
frame of poles and cords extending 
around the body of the wagon about 
three feet high. The women and young 
est negroes were put in the wagons, the 
framework supporting them from fall 
ing and enabling many more to crowd 



THE LAST SLAVE-SHIP. 



127 



in. The wagons started, the negro men 
following us on foot. The route led 
over a mountainous country, through 
coffee plantations, into the interior. The 
travelling was slow for some time. We 
at last descended to a plain and moved 
along very lively, reaching, at 7 A.M., 

the plantation of Don S. B , which 

was our final destination, nearly twenty- 
three miles from the coast ; here we 
halted. The negroes were sent to an in- 
closure to be fed and rested, the officers 
were escorted to the residence of the 
proprietor, where we had a bath, change 
of clothing, a good breakfast, and felt 
greatly refreshed. 

We were seated on the veranda of the 
residence, smoking, when there arrived a 
Catholic priest and an assistant, who 
passed on to the inclosure. Shortly 
after came a wagon filled with clothing, 
and being curious to witness anything 
else connected with the negroes I fol 
lowed. Inside the inclosure the negroes 
were drawn up in rows. Their brands 
were examined and they were separated 
into lots representing each mark. The 
priest, assisted by his young man, passed 
along in front, the young man register 
ing the name the priest had given each, 
as they were baptized. As the priest 
finished one lot they were at once fur 
nished, the women with a sort of loose 
gown of coarse cotton-cloth, and the 
men with a long shirt, and then sent off 
in different directions. Dinner being 
called we returned to the residence. 
After dinner I returned to the inclosure, 
but there was not a negro there, and 
visiting the fields with the proprietor 
I did not see one that I thought had 

made the voyage with us. Don S. B 

said that there were but twenty-five of 
the new arrivals on his plantation, the 
others having been delivered to the plant 
ers who had already contracted for them, 
paying $350 for each. We were guests 

of Don S. B four days, and were 

very hospitably entertained. 

The other Spaniards now began to 
interest themselves in behalf of the 
American captain, mate, and myself. 
The laws of Cuba required every person 
landed to be provided with a passport 
or permit, the latter being issued under 
certain conditions for one month, at the 



expiration of which the holder would 
be arrested if on the island ; this per 
mit, if the person is satisfactorily identi 
fied and vouched for, can be renewed 
from month to month. Now, we had 
arrived without the knowledge of the 
government, and had neither passport 
nor permit. These permits for one 
month were purchased for us by the 
Spaniards from an accommodating of 
ficial, at a cost to them of one doubloon 
(seventeen doUars) each. We concluded 
to go now to Havana, that place offer 
ing more opportunities for our leaving 
the island than the smaller ports. My 
permit represented me as a machinist, 
the captain s as a carpenter, and the 
mate s as a merchant, there being a 
number of Americans on the island in 
those capacities. 

At three o clock on the morning of 
the fifth day after our arrival we 
started for Trinidad to take the coast 
steamer to Batabano, stopping at Cien- 
fuegos, Casilda, and other points. We 
were escorted by our Spanish friends, 
all of us on horseback with old-fashioned 
trappings, holsters, and pistols. The 
steamer left soon after our arrival, and 
there were several passengers, who scru 
tinized us very closely. On the evening 
of the following day we were at Bata 
bano, the terminus of a railroad across 
the island to Havana, and late in the 
evening were in Havana, at the Ameri 
can Hotel, corner of Obrapia and Mer- 
caderes Streets, not far from the resi 
dence of the Captain-General. After 
we were there two weeks I saw an 
American steamer come into the harbor, 
and soon went out in a boat (steamers 
not being able to approach the wharves 
because of insufficient depth of water). 
I asked about passage to the United 
States ; she was leaving the next day. 
I was asked for my passport, and reply 
ing that I left it at my lodgings, I was 
informed I could come on board next 
day, one hour before leaving, provided 
with my passport, and could go with 
them. I had no passport, and my per 
mit would not answer, so I remained 
ashore while she steamed away, and be 
gan thinking. 

Two or three days after, a steamer 
from New York to Panama arrived, with 
some accident to her machinery which 



128 



THE LAST SLAW-SHIP. 



delayed her several days. I went out 
to her, shortly after her arrival, and saw 
that a number of her passengers were 

foing ashore to visit the city during the 
elay of the ship ; they could get a per 
mit at a certain place on the wharf 
and remain ashore if they desired. A 
happy idea flashed upon me, and I 
went ashore with them and asked for a 
permit to visit the island during the 
stay of the vessel ; it cost twenty-five 
cents and was given to me. I then 
went to the Captain-General s office, to 
the passport department, and stated that 
I was a passenger on the steamer in 
the harbor from New York to Panama, 
destined to San Francisco ; that I was an 
engineer going to California ; and while 
visiting the city on my permit I had 
met a planter with whom I had made 
arrangements to take off his sugar crop, 
and the season was near at hand ; that 
some new machinery was needed in the 
sugar-house, which could only be pro 
cured in the United States in time for 
use that season, and that it would be 
necessary for me to return to New 
Orleans by the Panama steamer now 
due. I therefore asked for a passport, 
as the steamer could not take me with 
out one. The clerk said those things 
were of frequent occurrence and soon 
had my passport ready, describing me 
very accurately my height, color of hair 
and eyes, condition of teeth, etc. Hurry 
ing to the hotel I related my experience 
to the American captain and mate, who 
concluded to try their luck in the role 
of homesick and discontented gold-seek 
ers anxious to return to their home in the 
States. Both of them got into a boat, 
were taken out to and around the ship 
to the place of landing spoken of, ob 
tained their permits, and together went 
to the passport office declaring them 
selves disgusted with the idea of going 
to California, and desiring to go back 
home via New Orleans, on the steamer 
reported due in a day or two. They 
obtained their passports and came to 
the hotel, where, in our well-closed 
room, a bottle of wine was opened and 
a toast drank to the success of my 
scheme. 

Two days after the Panama steamer 
arrived and remained two days. We 



were not permitted to go aboard with, 
our baggage until one hour before she 
sailed, but we were on hand in a small 
boat waiting for the hour. As we as 
cended the steps we were met by an 
officer who demanded our passports. 
These being produced and pronounced 
satisfactory we were allowed on board 
and the steward took charge of us. 
The longest hour I ever knew now slowly 
passed. At last the bells rang, the 
wheels turned, and we slowly got 
under way. We passed the frowning 
fortress Cabana, which might have been 
our prison ; farther on the Morro 
Castle, at the head of the narrow strait 
from the sea to the harbor. We passed 
out, saluted the fort, and felt quiet. 
Looking around I saw the customs of 
ficials yet on board. Their presence 
gave me great uneasiness until, when a 
mile from shore, they descended to their 
boat and left us. I could have shouted 
with joy when they were at a distance 
from us, and with difficulty restrained 
myself. It was now dark and we were 
far away from Cuba. 

Two days more and we were again 
in New Orleans. After a hurried in 
spection of my baggage, I jumped into 
a cab, and passing by the telegraph office 
sent the folio wing message to my parents 
in Natchez, Miss. : "Just returned from 
the coast of Africa, safe and well." Con 
tinuing to the Medical College I met 
Professor Howard Smith, whose joy at 
my return was nearly as great as mine. 
With him I visited the McDonogh Com 
missioners and related the history of 
the voyage to Liberia, and, as they asked 
no questions about the rest of the trip, 
I did not say more than, it being im 
possible to return as had been prom 
ised me, I had been obliged to make 
a very lengthy and troublesome trip 
along the African coast until I had an 
opportunity to return via Jamaica and 
Cuba. 

Thirty years have elapsed and nearly 
all of those connected with that voyage 
must ere this have gone to their last 
rest. I have never seen one of them 
since, and do not feel that I now vio 
late any confidence in relating the his 
tory of the voyage of The Last Slave- 
ship. 




THE POINT OF VIEW. 



SOMEONE, it seems to me, ought to point 
out to certain optimistic critics of our mi 
nor literature that there is a great and 
vital difference between taking one s art 
seriously and taking one s self, the artist, 
so. In Mr. Howells s recent defence of con 
temporary writers, for instance, in reply to 
Mr. Phelps s paper in this Magazine, they 
were most excellently championed on the 
safe ground of sincerity of effort and non- 
mercenary aims; but there is one accusa 
tion, perhaps only implicitly made, if at all, 
in Mr. Phelps s indictment, though often 
elsewhere, to which I should like to hear 
this most kindly advocate plead for his 
clients that of the self-consciousness of 
much of the work from which he looks for 
great results. 

It is almost a waste of time to say that 
this does not apply to Mr. Howells himself, 
or to his type of workers. If he has given 
us occasion lately, by his criticism and per 
formance, to wonder whether he had re 
versed the old saying, to make it read video 
deteriora proboque, meliora sequor, he has 
never left a reader in doubt that in him at 
least the cause the aim of what he was do 
ing obliterated every smaller consideration 
and left him free to use his art at its best. 
And, indeed, there is no reason at all to 
drag him into this bit of ungrateful medita 
tion, except that he takes his native con 
temporaries at the pitch of their aspira 
tions rather than their deeds, and so rouses 
the latent spirit of the advocatus diaboli that 
is in every one of us. 

It may be that the present generation of 
VOL. VIII. 12 



younger writers is destined to great achieve 
ment : Heaven send it and on the whole 
I for one fully believe it of a goodly num 
ber. But was there ever a generation that 
made such an ado over its own attitude and 
deportment about its work ? or that had in 
some respects so large an alloy of the artifi 
cial in its frame of mind ? Perhaps it is only 
the over-expectant critic who especially no 
tices the solemnity of this squaring of the 
elbows, of this discussion of technic the 
" short-story form " (note well the hyphen) ; 
the " cycle" of novels (with prefatory refer 
ences to the Comedie humaine or the recur 
rence of the Warrington strain from Es 
mond " to " The Newcomes " I should have 
liked to have Thackeray hear it called a 
" cycle," by the way) : the machinery of 
dedications, prologues, and epilogues ; in 
fine, the whole disproportion of the cackle 
to the size of the be-cackled eggs, of how 
ever excellent quality the latter may be. 
Perhaps such a critic is dyspeptic, and per 
haps he reads too much of the self-con 
sciousness of the processes into the results 
an easy matter ; but enough of his belief 
is time, nevertheless, to make it worthy of 
the notice of more sanguine souls. There 
can hardly be too strong a desire for a good 
technic, for a thorough mastery of the tools 
of one s work ; certainly there cannot be 
too strong a self-respect in a man of letters, 
if in any man ; but self-respect is perfectly 
compatible with humility before one s task ; 
and as for technic, it ought to be remem 
bered that it is not the work itself ; as the 
White Knight said to Alice in " Through the 



130 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



Looking-glass," " That isn t the song, it is 
only what it is called." 

The younger French writers, whose per 
fection of technical skill Mr. Howells and 
those he praises alike rightly admire, have 
made themselves such masters of their art 
that they are virtually unconscious of its 
exercise ; but however much they may have 
talked its argot within the "groups, "one 
does not notice that they make much pub 
lic exhibition of the processes by which the 
mastery is acquired. Still less does any 
one of them magnify the fact that he is go 
ing to do a thing above the doing of the 
thing itself ; or forget that the ars celare 
artem cannot be successfully carried out 
while the artist believes that his personality, 
at any rate, is too important a thing to be 
concealed. 

IT is prodigious what an amount of energy 
is sunk in the unsuccessful exercise of that 
inalienable right, the pursuit of happiness. 
One reason for the waste is that people are 
governed too much by the opinions of oth 
ers as to what is pleasure, and neglect to get 
information that would fit them by analyz 
ing their own experiences. Thousands and 
tens of thousands of people do things day 
after day with the purpose of enjoyment, 
which they never have enjoyed, and never 
will, but which they have learned to regard 
as intrinsically pleasant. They ride horses, 
they drive, hunt, dress, dance, or whatever 
it is, not because they get personal enjoy 
ment out of those occupations, but because 
other people have enjoyed them. 

Of course, happiness is a state of mind ; 
and it is the mind, or the soul, that we want 
to get at. "We know this well enough theo 
retically, but fail to act with reasonable in 
telligence upon our knowledge. To a cer 
tain extent, the mind is dependent for its 
states upon the conditions of the body, and 
we are rightly taught that a degree of atten 
tion must be paid to physical means if we 
are to get intellectual or spiritual results. 
But even with the enjoyment of a healthy 
body a very important share of the pleasure 
is quasi-intellectual. When he has well 
eaten or well drunken a man feels pleasantly 
disposed toward the world. His feelings 
warm, his sympathies are aroused, and he 
is happy in consequence. 

The exhilaration of the racer or the 



huntsman, of the oarsman or the football 
player, any high degree of muscular activ 
ity in a healthy man, is perhaps the nearest 
to a purely physical pleasure ; but even here 
it is a higher enjoyment when it is competi 
tive activity, for competition itself is a not 
able and legitimate delight. "Rejoiceth 
as a strong man to run a race," the Script 
ure saith, and knows its business as usual ; 
for trying to win involves a chance to lose, 
and that there is not much fun where there 
is not some hazard has been the rule since 
Eve acquired knowledge of evil at the same 
bite with good. 

Of those purely intellectual joys that 
are analogous to the physical joys, not all are 
healthy. It is fun to develop and exercise 
the mind just as it is to exercise the mus 
cles ; but there are joys of the intellectual 
glutton and the intellectual sot, joys that 
are not nearly as disreputable as they ought 
to be. Minds are clogged with over-feed 
ing and racked by over-stimulation, just as 
stomachs are. The joys of acquisition are 
not to be despised. Making money is 
mighty pleasant ; to have things is an un 
questionable source of satisfaction ; to col 
lect rare commodities, orchids, race-horses, 
railroad-bonds, is a kind of sport that thou 
sands of people follow with lively enthusi 
asm. It is fun to have and to hold, to add 
to and complete, and it has been since who 
knows how many centuries before Ahab 
longed for Naboth s vineyard. But avarice 
in all its forms, old-fashioned and venerable 
as it is, is only a second-rate sport, since it 
lacks the element that the greatest pleas 
ures must have, the element of love. 

Not passion. Passion is one of your sec 
ond-rate, quasi-physical pleasures, which 
are half pain, and cannot be depended upon. 
But love is quite a different matter, and so 
detached from all that is bodily about us, 
as to breed the hope that it will still be a 
pleasure to us when we have taken our 
bodies off. When we have loved the most, 
and with the least passion and the least 
selfishness, was it not then that we attained 
most nearly to the state of mind which is 
the great prize of life ? 

Is it a matter of general knowledge that 
to love in this fashion is the best fun agoing ? 
Is it part of the ordinary experience of the 
average man, so that it is safe to take it for 
granted that every reader of this screed can 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



131 



recall times in his life when there was a 
magic light on all he saw, and magic music 
in all he heard ? It is a common remark in 
extenuation of the inconvenience of not hav 
ing very much money that people of ordi 
nary fortune can eat as much as million 
aires ; and if we find that we can love as 
easily and as extensively on small incomes 
as on greater ones, we may safely consider 
that we have the better of the rich again. 
Perhaps we can ; wealth offers so many di 
versions that sometimes the pleasure there 
is in loving is overlooked. The impression 
certainly exists that great riches have a ten 
dency to clog the affections ; and great in 
equalities of fortune are a barrier between 
man and man, not insurmountable but ap 
preciable. Love is personal, and very great 
possessions almost inevitably throw per 
sonal qualities into shadow. We love men 
for what they are, not what they represent. 
We cultivate the muscles because it is fun 
to use them, and because it brings us the 
happiness that comes of health. For like 
reasons we make a business of the cultiva 
tion of our minds. How simple it is of us 
to neglect to the extent that most of us do 
the systematic cultivation of our hearts! 
Now and then someone discovers that to 
love one s neighbor with enthusiasm is the 
best fun there is, and makes a business of 
doing it ; and then the rest of us lean on 
our muck-rakes and gape at him, and won 
der how he can spare so much time for such 
an object. 



THE imagination of Mr. Grant Allen con 
tinues to be distressed by a learned phan 
tom in petticoats who tries to earn her own 
living, and is supposed to think meanly of 
the natural vocations of her sex. In a re 
cent magazine article he records his fears 
that if the theories of the advanced women 
are not checked, the invaluable faculty of 
intuition, which is a distinguishing feminine 
characteristic, will be educated away, with 
the direful result that men of genius will 
cease to be born. For the intuitive faculty 
pertains to genius as well as to femininity. 
Genius does not stop to reason. It arrives, 
by a sudden and immediate process which 
it inherited from its mother. It knows, it 
knows not how. It only knows that it 
knows, as women do. 



It would be a dreadful pity to have genius 
stumbling about in limbo for lack of a 
woman fit to be a mother to it. Let us 
hope it will not really come to such a for 
lorn extreme as that. Would it be inex 
cusable to derive the impression from Mr. 
Grant Allen s magazine articles, that, learn 
ed as he is in natural history, his knowledge 
of the human female is defective ? To my 
mind she seems to be constructed of much 
tougher materials than Mr. Allen imagines, 
and the influences that tend to make a man 
of her seem enormously overbalanced by 
those whose tendency is to keep her a 
woman. For my part I am not a bit afraid 
but that when God made woman He en 
dowed her with persistence enough to 
maintain the characteristics of her sex. 
Monkeys may have evolutionized into Her 
bert Spencers ; but have the females of any 
species ever yet evolutionized into males ? 
Of course there are masculine women; 
women afflicted from birth with mannish 
minds and predisposed to channels of use 
fulness which are more commonly navigated 
by men. Such women are not all Sally 
Brasses either. Some of them even pre 
sume to marry and have children. But 
they are exceptional creatures, and are eas 
ily counter-balanced by the feminine men. 
The average woman is a thorough-going 
woman, and is not to be educated out of it. 
You may teach her Latin, you may let her 
operate a type-writer, or teach school, or 
work in a factory, or dot off language by 
telegraph, and become as independent as 
you please. She is a persistent female still. 
If Mr. Allen will only stir up his males, 
and see to it that they are competent, faith 
ful, and good providers, he may cease to 
distress himself. The proportion of the 
gentler sex who insist upon reasoning by 
logical processes and competing with men 
in bread -winning avocations, will not be 
great enough to afford him legitimate dis 
tress. Take care of your men, Mr. Allen, 
and your women won t have to take care of 
themselves. And if they don t have to, 
they won t do it. The fact that some 
women who have no one else to take care 
of them are taught to take care of them 
selves seems a remote reason for alarm. A 
woman even with blunted intuitions is 
better than a woman under six feet of 
earth. 



132 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



APROPOS of successful achievement, it has 
been said that those who succeed are those 
who go on after they are tired. The ob 
servation bears a family likeness to the one 
about genius being the capacity for taking 
infinite pains, and both amount simply to 
this, that the people who arrive are those 
who don t have to stop until they get there. 
To many of us it happens that there are bits 
of thought sometimes they are bits of 
verse that come into the mind when it is 
too tired to follow them up. It can just 
grasp them and go no further. Such waifs 
are like the feathers that enthusiastic little 
boys who chase chickens on the farm find 
in their hands when the bird that they 
have almost run down gets away. Cuvier, 
they say, could construct a whole skeleton 
from a single bone, but it isn t told even of 
him that he could fix up a whole chicken 
from a few tail-feathers. Nevertheless, 
these intellectual relics are not to be wholly 
despised. Feathers that do not assume to 
be complete birds may still have a second 
ary sort of merit as feathers. 

An odd lot of such strays that turned up 
the other day in the corner of a drawer, in 
cluded some pennce, that in hands entirely 
great might have come to something. One 
that seems to have been begotten of an in 
quiry into the grounds of contemporary re 
nown makes such an appearance as this : 

So mixed it is, a body hardly knows 
If fame is manufactured goods, or grows. 
Douce man is he whose sense the point imparts 
Where advertising ends and glory starts. 

Another grasp of plumage, gleaned, it 
would seem, in another chase after this 
same bird, disclosed this : 



And here the difference lies, in that, whereas 
What a man did was measure of his glory 

In those gone days, now gauged by what he has 
He reads his title clear to rank in story. 



The patriot lives, obscure, without alarms ; 

The poet, critics tell us, smoothly twaddles. 
The patent-tonic man it is who storms 

The heights of noise, and fame s high rafter straddles ! 
Soap is the stuff 

With the rest of that last broken feather 
the bird in the hand became the bird in the 
bush. In the next lot: 

No saint s physiognomy goes to my soul 

Like the features that beam from that brown aureole 

suggests a quest after some female bird; 
and this also seems to belong to the same 
theme : 

More welcome than shade on a hot summer day 

Is the shadow she casts when she s coming my way. 

You can see she s a goddess ! Just look at her walk ! 

I own I adore her : there s bones in her talk ! 

Defend me from virgins whose talking is tattle, 

Whose ears are mere trash-bins, whose tongues merely 

rattle ; 

Whose brains are but mush, and their judgment a sieve- 
Invertebrate discourse is all they can give. 
What profits mere beauty where intellect fails ? 
Oh, give me the woman whose mind will hold nails ! 

That was quite a grasp of plumage to be 
sure. 

When the tennis ball skims by the fault-finding net 

is an odd feather from some fleet male 
bird, perhaps, who got easily away. 

Not as dry as vast Sahara, 
Just a sand-bank in July, 

suggests a parched throat, and seems mas 
culine too ; and so does the sudden ter 
minal curve of 

One cannot be a dying swan 
Offhand. 

It seems as if there might still be fun 
enough in some of the birds that shed 
these things to pay for another chase, if 
only one could get sight of them. The 
worst of these fowl though, is that the best 
feathers and the longest legs seem to go 
together. It takes quick steps and a power 
of endeavor to catch ostriches. 






DRAWN BY E. H. BLASHFIELD. 



EXQUISITES OF D ARTAGNAN S TIME. 
[The Gardens of the Luxembourg.] 



ENGRAVED BY WITTB. 



SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. VHI. 



AUGUST, 1890. 



No. 2. 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 

By E. H. and E. W. Blashfield. 




N lading down the 
sixth volume of the 
Vicomte de Brage- 
lonne, after follow 
ing D Artagnan 
from when the Gas 
con stripling rides 
into Meung upon 
his father s cher 
ished " orange-col 
ored horse" to 
where the grizzled 
captain dies Marshal of France, his ba 
ton broken by the shot which shatters 
his breast, one feels that the friends 
with whom one has fought and galloped 
through eleven volumes must be real. 
Our thoughts still linger in the ante 
chambers of the Louvre, the shaded 
walks of Fontainebleau, the hostelries 
of the Boulogne road. The hoof-beats 
have not quite died away, the swords 
are not yet quite quiet in their scab 
bards ; we remember gallants and ladies 
laced and beribboned, and turn regret 
fully to modern streets, where all the 
world seems to have gone into mourn 
ing, as if the great cardinal had just is 
sued another sumptuary law and sent 
the silks and satins of puce and cramoi- 
si to join the gold galoons and velvets 
of other edicts. But a moment ago and 
D Artagnan was at our elbow ; Richelieu 
in the Palais Royal ; a little Louis XIV. 
at play in the garden of the Tuileries ; 
but the book is closed the musketeer 
who has so long stood sentry, keeping 
the door of the past against the present, 
fades away and follows king, cardinal, 



and captain into retirement, in the qui 
et National Library, where behind the 
dusty glasses of the cases the leonine 
wigs still curl, the laces still flow over 
the armor, in the extension of life which 
the cunning burin of Nanteuil has ac 
corded them. If the people are gone, 
their town, at least in part, remains, and 
their memory with it ; the monuments 
stand on the squares, soldier and mag 
istrate alike shine in marble in the 
dusky church corner, and we may follow 
in the footsteps of Athos and Porthos, 
Aramis and D Artagnan about that Par 
is of Louis Xin. which still shows in the 
older quarters of the city of to-day like 
some ancient manuscript beneath the 
commonplace accounts of daily life that 
later men have written there. 

The epoch of 1627 to 1660 in France, 
the background against which Dumas s 
heroes stand, was not a noble one. The 
spirit of the Renaissance, the reawaken 
ing of thought and inquiry, had done its 
work in the south, and sweeping north 
ward stood triumphant and portentous 
in England, Holland, and Sweden, before 
the laurelled helmets that followed Crom 
well and Gustavus Adolphus. In Italy, 
Spain and France, grand adventure, the 
quest of continents, the discovery of new 
worlds, had degenerated into the petty 
exploits of the duellist and intriguer, 
and in them the seventeenth century 
stands like a stagnant marsh between 
the mighty river of the Renaissance and 
the torrent of the Revolution. 

One vigorous personality was born of 
these new conditions. Out of the dull 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



136 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



emptiness of the times, out of the its opposite sides the king had buc- 

dreary record of aimless conspiracies, kled firmly with two great chateaux 

invasions, famines, and persecutions, a castle palace to hold himself, the 

springs a striking figure, cloaked, boot- Louvre ; a castle prison to hold his ene- 




Costume of Musketeers in the Time of Bragelonne. 
(With Louvre in seventeenth century.) 



ed, and spurred, his hand on his rapier, 
his moustachios turned straight up to 
heaven, ready to ride, to drink, to fight ; 
gay, fearless, honorable, according to 
his code, a material and very individ 
ual type, which we call to all time the 
cavalier the type of Athos, Porthos, 
Aramis, and D Artagnan the darling of 
his age, and realizing daily its one su 
preme ideal, " un beau coup d epee," a 
good sword-stroke. This type Dumas 
has multiplied into a quadruple fasces 
of human achievement ; his heroes ride 
through a cycle of eleven volumes, with 
Richelieu before La Rochelle, with 
Charles I. in England, with the court of 
the young Louis XIV. at Fontainebleau 
and St. Germain, and above all in Paris. 
This Paris of the Musketeers was a 
small city ; a crowded, thickset town, 
bristling with towers, still wearing its 
girdle of ramparts, a girdle which upon 



mies, the Bastille. The latter is gone, 
and the former would not be recognized 
by our Musketeers could they see it 
now. Even before their time it had be 
gun to throw off its feudal gloom and 
appear in Renaissance cheerfulness, just 
as the gentlemen who rode with D Ar 
tagnan cast away the heavy cuirass of 
olden times and went to the assault in 
cloak and doublet ; but it still, in place 
of the long galleries we see to-day, kept 
walls, gates, and battlements, and was a 
fortress. Between the Louvre and the 
frowning eastern sentinel, the Bastille, 
lay the town. There the burgesses 
worked and married and buried, in 
their net-work of tiny streets, threaded 
at tolerably regular intervals by long, 
narrow thoroughfares, named after the 
saints, or those scarcely less great per 
sonages the nobles, packed with houses 
crowding together till they seemed strug- 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



137 



gling up on each other s shoulders to get 
out of the press, and glad enough of 
the breathing space given them now 
and then by some convent garden ; for 
although convents were plentiful, they 
were generally pushed out a little upon 
the skirts of commerce, and with their 
long, blank, garden-walls made streets 
ugly by day and dangerous by night in 
their convenience for the foot-pad and 
assassin. Paris still had its triple divis- 



venerable assemblage of colleges, and 
where the architects were hard at work 
upon a new Paris, building the Sor- 
bonne for Eichelieu, the Luxembourg 
for the queen-mother, and laying the 
foundations of St. Sulpice. 

The city upon its island venerable 
descendant of the Lutetia of the Parisii, 
august with the double headship of 
Church and State, bearing at once the 
crosier and the mace, the cathedral and 




A Street of Old Paris. 



ion of town, city, and university ; the 
last lay to the south of the Seine, about 
the mountain of Saint Genevieve, where 
the school of Abelard had crown into a 



the Palace of Justice was a mass of 
towers and pinnacles. 

There the mother church of Notre 
Dame rose above Paris, not as now on its 



138 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 




V 



IHw ft 

Jcto^dteF^r-T^jig 

H fc ----- 




Swiss Guards Fencing with Halberds. 
(The Bastille in the background.) 



wide modern parvis, but crowded most 
of all by hovels huddling around its base, 
like the poor struggling to touch the 
raiment of Christ. 

Thicker than anywhere else, the streets 
pressed about the Hotel de Ville, the 
centre of the town, but not yet the true 
heart of Paris, and beating but feebly, 
close as it was to the fires of La Greve, 
the place of execution ; it beat, never 
theless, and in the neighboring Palace 



of Justice, in D Artagnan s own days, 
were men as brave as any Musketeer, 
and who first of all Frenchmen cried, 
" Live the Commonwealth ! " 

The tourist of to-day hardly goes into 
D Artagnan s Paris, and never lives in 
the heart of it ; he skirts it upon the 
grand boulevards, lodges often at one 
of the great hotels which are upon its 
edge in the quarter of the Louvre, and 
crosses it to go to the Hotel de Ville, 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



139 



Notre Dame, or the Luxembourg. But 
the narrow tortuous lanes of the old 
times are inconvenient for circulation ; 
he is driven along the main arteries and 
hardly sees the historic streets at all. 
He may live for years in Paris and never 
pass through them ; his cab-driver knows 
but avoids them; while to him, as to the 
modern Parisienne, the Louvre means 
the grands magasins du Louvre. These 
are the high altars of feminine adora 
tion, and to many visitors their line of 
nouveautes far outshines the dimmed 
splendor of the historic fleurs-de-lys in 
the great building opposite, and the 
quarter is consecrated rather by bar 
gains than by recollections. And yet 
this old Paris is vastly interesting and 
easy to visit too ; D Artagnan would 
have stared at its modern map, and 
would hardly have found the city of 
1648 upon it ; for of the one hundred 



bank of the Seine cut straight across the 
garden of the Tuileries, sliced off a cor 
ner of the present Palais Royal gardens, 
ran northeast to the boulevards, then 
really what their name signifies forti 
fied ramparts and followed them to the 
Bastille. Even during the youth of the 
Musketeers these walls had grown elas 
tic, and sieges of great cities were out 
of fashion ; Henry H. had lowered the 
walls, and Kichelieu breached them to 
make way for the Palais Cardinal, which 
his last will changed into the Palais Royal 
and property of the king. The bour 
geois life had flowed over the ramparts 
long since, or struggled out through 
the fortified gates into the faubourgs, 
but it is mainly within their antique 
limits that the old houses are found to- 
da} r , by hundreds, from the Bastille to 
the Louvre, and from the Boulevard St. 
Denis to St. Germain des Pres ; they 







The " Coucher du Roi. 



and eight or so of ruled squares, which 
barely include the metropolis of to-day, 
a dozen cover the town of the Musket 
eers, the walls of which upon the right gowns 



are easily recognizable, for they thrust 
themselves out at the girdle like the gen 
tlemen and ladies who wore the wadded 
and doublets of 1627. Look at 



140 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



the people in the engravings of Bosse, 
see how they all hold themselves, bend 
ing backward from the waist ; then 
glance down some old street, and where 



his houses were lined and squared by 
Lemercier and Mansart. On all sides 
you find these old buildings sheltering 
their modern shops in the dull little Rue 




Costume of the Corps of the Black Musketeers. 
(In the time of Richelieu.) 



the houses lean back like so many but 
tresses, there you may be sure the cava 
lier walked and rode and drank. In and 
out the houses straggle, nowise in line, 
like the soldiers of Louis XIII., where 
every man wore what uniform he pleased 
so that he fought ; while the troops of 
Louis XIV. were struck all arow and 
alike by the drill-sergeant s staff, just as 



Guenegaud, where Athos stopped in 
1648, at the sign of the Grand Charle 
magne ; in the Hue de Vieux Colombier, 
where the Odeon busses rattle under the 
towers of St. Sulpice, and where Athos 
again, in 1660, with the young Brage- 
lonne, put up his horses in a quarter of 
shops filled to-day with church appurten 
ances, chalices, fonts, and candlesticks 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



141 



that would have furnished forth Aramis 
in his Breton bishopric, and with haloed 
statues much like the image de Notre 
Dame above the door of D Artagnan s 
cabaret of the Place de Greve. There 
are still windows looking upon the 
statue of Henry IV. that may have seen 
Harcourt and Fontrailles hiding on the 
crupper of the great bronze horse to 
steal the burghers cloaks ; narrow 
streets in the Marais that echoed the 
scuffle when the gentlemen banded them 
selves together to rid the quarter of 
Marion Delorme of the foot-pads that in 
fested it. The ancient fa9ades are plen 
tiful still about the central markets, and 
their ancient owners are remembered. 
Colbert kneels in marble in St. Eustache, 
and there are tablets and busts upon old 
houses to Moliere and to Rousseau. 
Jean Goujon s lovely fountain still stands 
a monument to him in the Place des 
Innocents close by, thougji the ribbon 
shops are gone which in D Artagnan s 
days did a thriving business light upon 
the charnel-houses that surrounded the 
square, showing openly their piles of 
grinning skulls to a populace which still 
inherited the mediaeval and ghastly com 
bination of indifference to, and fascina 
tion for, mortuary signs. 

Thickest of all these souvenirs in stone 
and mortar stand in the part of the town 
which lies between the Hotel de Ville and 
the Bastille, and where the little shops 
of a now humble quarter have burrowed 
into battered remains of stately old pal 
aces, like Samson s bees in the carcass of 
the lion. The Renaissance goddesses, 
who saw the great King Henry walking 
with his minister in the sumptuous court 
yard of the Hotel de Sully, now see 
the washerwomen hanging their linen 
upon the heavy carving of its fayades ; 
school-boys play under the masks and 
friezes of the Hotel d Ormesson, and girls 
behind the gorgeous restored sculptures 
of the Lavalette. Between the Gothic 
towers of the palace of the Archbishops 
of Sens is a sign in huge letters, " to let 
for commerce or manufactures ; " while 
the tower of John the Fearless, rising 
from that famous Hotel de Bourgogne, 
theatre of Mazarin s Italian comedians, 
now also forms part of a school and is 
shored up with great beams. Only the 
lovely Hotel Carnavalet has continued 
VOL. VIII. 14 



to be worthy of its ancient memories, 
though its mistress from 1689 to 1696, 
the charming Madame de Sevigne, would 
have been strangely surprised to see 
this shelter of whole lines of nobles 
turned into a " Museum of the French 
Revolution ; " her genealogical tree made 
to furnish wood to house the axe that 
was laid to its root. These old streets 
have changed so little that it is easy 
to half shut the eyes and see them as 
they were ; the Kue Tiquetonne, for in 
stance, where D Artagnan lived. Time, 
that deadly duellist, has let rapier holes 
through old Paris, and has opened the 
wide Rue Turbigo from the central mar 
kets to the Place de la Republique, but 
the Rue Tiquetonne has just escaped. 
There are wine-shops galore in it ; in 
deed they flourish throughout the city. 
The blue blouses of to-day press about 
the thick glass tumblers as eagerly as 
the buff coats and ribboned pourpoints 
leaned over the tables where the wooden 
mugs and pewter tankards were spread. 
They are old, old shops, some of them ; 
drooping feathers of wide felt hats have 
dragged in the wine lees on their 
benches, and great spurs have clinked 
over their door-sills ; in one corner is a 
triangular, vine-covered, balconied roof 
where Athos and Porthos have certainly 
sat drinking toward sunset, and watched 
for D Artagnan to come riding along the 
street to the sign of the Kid. It was 
a pleasant enough place, doubtless, to 
look down from upon seventeenth-cen 
tury life, for then the little streets were 
thoroughfares, and below our Musketeers 
was the whole jostle and push of Paris 
the street venders with their wares ; the 
page carrying his master s falcon to be 
dosed ; the long-gowned magistrate, his 
books borne before him by his lackey; the 
monk, haggling with the cobbler over 
the price of his patched sandal ; the pro 
vost-guard, gay in the particolored 
blue and white and red of the city s liv 
ery; ladies in high-hipped gowns; exqui 
sites with lace covering even the seams 
of their garments, and treading carefully 
on high pattens, strapped under soft 
boots, from the funnel-like tops of which 
cascades of lace escaped boots bearing 
always the heavy spurs, sometimes of 
massive silver, and " changing often with 
the fashion," since it was an equestrian 



142 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



age, and these cavaliers, horseless, but 
all astride the hobby of dandyism, would 
as soon have worn their scabbards with 
out swords as their boots without spurs. 
Sometimes a glittering squadron of 
gendarmes passed, covered with steel 
from head to knee in the last survival 
of armor, in deference to royal prejudice, 
despite a soldiery who hated it for its 
weight, and above all for the destruc 
tion which the visored helmet caused to 
the long locks that floated upon the 
shoulders of gentleman and burgess 
alike, and to the fierce mustachios, 
turned straight upward by assiduous use 
of that little instrument called the bigo- 
tera, and which one sees borne by Cupid 
behind the hearse in Voiture s Funeral 
of the Dandy. 

Take the Hue St. Denis of to-day, 
suppress the sidewalks and almost sup 
press the pavement, fill the windows 
with swinging signs, touch the huge Pa 
risian omnibus with a Cinderella s wand 
till it becomes the gilded coach of Louis 
XIV., diminish the number of vehicles, 
increase that of the horsemen, and you 
have the Rue St. Denis of Richelieu and 
Mazarin. By the middle of the seven 
teenth century chariots, as they were 
called, lumbered about the streets in such 
increased numbers as greatly surprised 
Bassompierre, returning from the Bas 
tille after years of imprisonment, for 
Fiacre had commenced to let cabs and 
had given them his name, and soon phi 
losophy, turning aside to the economic 
problem of cheap transportation, a "Pen- 
se"e " of Pascal was presented to the world 
in the shape of the omnibus, or carosse d 
cinq sous. The Due de Roannez in 1661 
exploited this Pensee ; but although busi 
ness in many forms was permitted to the 
great, provided it bore the name of Priv 
ilege, the omnibus soon fell into dis 
favor "the century was not yet ripe 
for the principle of equality it involved." 
The private carriages, or chariots, were 
huge vehicles seating eight or more com 
fortably ; such was the one, so eagerly 
watched by the Musketeers as it was 
driven at full gallop along the Faubourg 
St. Antoine, from the gate to the Car 
melites Convent, with poor little Ma 
dame Bonacieux peeping from its win 
dow a huge machine of wood, and 
leather, and great nails, and Genoa velvet 



curtains, with its wheels inordinately 
far apart, a perambulating room big 
enough for a whole family. The later 
coaches which rolled out daily to St. 
Germain or Fontainebleau in long pro 
cession of six horses to each, the queens 
and maids of honor within, the young 
Louis riding at the portiere of La Valliere 
were equally large, but masterpieces of 
elegance in detail, and may still be seen 
at the Museum of Cluny or in the sta 
bles of Versailles. The Rue St. Denis 
often heard the trumpets of the Maison 
du Roi, and saw the famous company, 
called, from the color of their horses, 
the Black Musketeers, riding, one hun 
dred gentlemen in files of four, with 
Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D Artagnan 
in the ranks, their renowned captain, 
Monsieur de Treville right hand of the 
King and redoubted enemy of two car 
dinals in advance, and just behind the 
scarlet casaques of the trumpeters. At 
first they were the Royal Carbineers, but 
soon carried the musket, and under their 
third commander, Monsieur de Treville, 
or Troisvilles, to whom we are intro 
duced in the first chapters of the Mus 
keteers, they became the famous corps 
of the story pre-eminently a corps 
d elite. Sons of dukes enlisted as pri 
vates, and D Artagnan is careful to tell 
us more than once that the captain of 
the King s Musketeers had precedence 
of the marshals of France. 

Their equipment was splendid, its dis 
tinctive sign being a light blue casaque 
with a large silver cross on breast, back, 
and sleeves ; they also wore the wide 
plumed hat, and the high soft boot 
reaching the thigh, while in Bragelonne s 
time they already had the stiff jack-boots 
those enormous boots which ran af 
ter the English at Fontenoy and away 
from them at Blenheim ; which splashed 
through Flanders, tramped into hostel- 
ries and over battle-fields, and bestrode 
the horses of Vandermeulen s pictures. 

Treville was the avowed enemy of 
Richelieu, Mazarin inherited the quarrel, 
and succeeded, in the time elapsing be 
tween the novels of the Musketeers and 
Twenty years after, in breaking and dis 
missing the company. But Louis XIV. 
soon reinstated it, adding a second 
squadron, of which he was the titular 
captain, and which made a brave show 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



143 



in 1660 at his entry into Paris, when the 
real D Artagnan of the memoirs tells us 
that his horse wore a small fortune in 
ribbons. 

The spot which has changed the least 
in all the city since the Musketeers met 
there in 1647, after twenty years of sep 
aration, is the sunny, spacious Place 
Boyale, now Place des Vosges. It was 
the resort of fashionable Paris in the 
days of Louis the Just. On the site of 
the old Palais des Tournelles, destroyed 
by Catherine de Medici after her young 
husband met his death there from Mont- 
gomeri s splintered lance, Henry IV. 
built the quadrangle of houses which re 
main unchanged since the workmen set 
the medallion of the great King s kindly, 
bearded face against the central fayade, 
or since a certain Marie Babutin de 
Chantal opened her eyes on the world 
in one of these same hotels. The eques 
trian statue of Louis XIII. , half nude 
and heroic, with tunic and buskins, rode 
there in marble in D Artagnan s time, 
just as the modern copy does to-day, 
necked by the sunlight through the 
trees that cluster thickly about it. The 
sullen Medicean face under its flowing 
hair looks over the gay flower-beds, the 
fountains, and the long line of steep 
gray roofs toward the little Church of 
the Visitation, where Mademoiselle de la 
Fayette, the only woman poor Louis 
ever loved, took the veil. 

Under the arcades about the quad 
rangle are fascinating glimpses into quiet 
courts where caged birds sing in the 
sun and plants stand about fountains, 
where Bosse s coquettish maid-servants 
might fill their pewter nipperkins : 
courts that suggest a score of pictures. 
A languid precieuse should lean from 
the casement between the Benaissance 
masks and scroll-work ; Mascarille and 
Scapin wait for Dorante and Leandre ; 
gilded coaches roll under the portal, or 
a swaggering cavalier with a cartel 
lounges at the door. The whole square 
is a picture even to-day, when children 
play where gentlemen once fought ; re 
tired grocers and linen-drapers read 
their newspapers under the trees, and 
Monsieur Prud homme laughs over his 
Figaro, where Malherbe and Ninon 
walked and talked. The high-pitched 
roofs, crowning the old pink and yellow 



and brown fayades, are exquisitely deli 
cate and soft in color ; and over it all, 
above the gray velvet of the house-tops, 
is the pearly, low-lying sky so familiar 
to lovers of Paris. 

Aramis s fashionable world was true 
to its, own dominant passion in choosing 
the Place Boyale for its duels and its 
promenades. From the early sixteenth 
century the Square had been a place of 
combat, the closed lists of the tour 
nament ; and bloody memories clung to 
it, which endeared it to the cavaliers. 
There Henry H. was killed, there the 
bravest mignons of Henry III. fell in the 
famous duel with Anjou s gentlemen, and 
were buried near by in the church of St. 
Paul St. Louis, with great pomp, dis 
consolate royalty writing their epitaph. 
There in D Artagnan s own day, and 
in defiance of the king s edict, dictated 
by Bichelieu, and sorely needed at a 
time when, in twenty years (ten of which 
were spent in active warfare), more 
French gentlemen had been killed in 
the duel than by the enemy the Counts 
of Boutteville and Chapelle, out of pure 
bravado, fought under the placarded 
edict, and afterward expiated their dis 
obedience on the scaffold. Later, and 
under a milder rule, came the blonde 
Duchesse de Longueville and Madame 
de Montbazon, rival Frondeuses, to 
watch the encounter between their re 
spective admirers, Guise and Coligny. 
Fortune, as usual, smiled on the Venus 
of the Fronde, whose lover, Guise, ran 
his opponent through. But it was not 
only the swashbucklers who haunted 
the place ; on pleasant days, after the 
early dinner, it was filled with the fine 
flower of seventeenth-century Paris. 
Marion Delorme aired her priceless 
laces under the arcades ; on the Square, 
Beautru, the unbeliever, saluted the 
crucifix as it passed, and when a friend 
exclaimed, "What, Beautru, are you 
then on better terms with the Lord ? " 
replied, " Oh ! we bow, but we don t 
speak." In spite of his atheism Beau 
tru was a royal favorite, as under Louis 
XHI., says La Bruyere, the courtier 
wore his own hair and was a free 
thinker, while under his successor he 
wore a wig and was a devotee ; Madame 
Scarron, who was to work this great 
change and " make religion the fashion," 



144 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



often crossed the Place on her way to 
and from the little apartment where 
her crippled husband ruled over polite 
Paris at those famous suppers where 
witticisms replaced roasts. Arthenice, 
foundress of the first French salon and 
mistress of the celebrated Hotel Ram- 
bouillet, seldom carne to the Square, for 
she rarely left the house that she had plan 
ned and built for herself and her circle of 
wits, and which served as model for the 
Luxembourg and half the fine hotels of 
Paris. In the Place Royale Bussy Rabu- 
tin paid his court to lovely Madame 
Miramion before he carried her off by 
force, like a hero or a villain of romance, 
and before our brave D Artagnan, the 
real Charles de Batz de Castelmore of 
the memoirs, rescued her. Bassompierre 
found many new things besides the car 
riages when he came there from the 
Bastille, after the long imprisonment, 
which must have been a sad trial to one 
so handsome, so elegant, and so witty 
that young men with pretensions to 
fashion or beauty were called Bassom- 
pierres. 

He was sadly out of fashion, however, 
until his first interview with the court 
tailor, for since he was king of the mode 
costume had undergone a radical change, 
and no doubt he found it hard to ad 
mire his successors. Foremost among 
them was Cadenet, Comte de Chaulnes, 
the first to wear the beribboned love 
lock much longer than the rest of the 
hair, which instantly became popular 
and was called, in his honor, the Caden- 
ette, as befitted a discovery which was the 
most famous exploit of this marshal of 
France. A little later another exquisite, 
the Duke of Harcourt, in whose suite 
the historic D Artagnan went to Eng 
land, appeared in the Place Royale with 
a great pearl in his left ear. Next day 
the price of pearls was doubled, and 
all the barber-surgeons in Paris were 
busy. Even the grave Charles Stuart of 
England followed this fashion when he 
sat to Vandyck ; its inventor was nick 
named Cadet la Perle, and when Mignard 
painted him in cuirass and sword-belt, 
he did not forget the famous ear-ring. 
Dandies are generally brave, and these 
gentlemen, recklessly careless of their 
lives, were extremely careful of their 
complexions, and spared no pains to 



soften and whiten the skin w r hich they 
constantly risked in the duel ; the hands 
that wielded sword and dagger were as 
smooth as a lady s, and dashing swords 
men slept in curl papers like Bob 
Acres. 

" Carving the fashion of a new doub 
let/ ordering laces in the Palais Royal, 
pondering over the choice of a ribbon 
or the setting of a jewel, occupied a 
large portion of a gentleman s time. A 
cavalier was no more ashamed of his 
love of dress or his use of cosmetics 
than is a modern Parisienne ; and the 
Cyprus scent, almond powder, and Span 
ish vermilion on his toilet-table did not 
prevent his risking life and limb in the 
service of his king or the defence of his 
honor. The French gentleman was far 
more mediaeval than the burgess ; and 
his ideas in regard to that same honor, 
in what it consisted and how it should 
be preserved, were some of them worthy 
of Don Quixote himself. To keep it, as 
he imagined, untarnished, he who had 
talked high-flown Phoebus with the 
precieuses overnight, would often, in the 
early morning, steal through the Place, 
his face muffled in his cloak, his plumed 
felt hat drawn well over the eyes, on his 
way to the deserted banks of the Seine, 
or the quiet stretch behind the convent 
of the barefooted Carmelites, where our 
friends first learned to know D Artag 
nan, and from such an errand he some 
times came back still more quietly, feet 
foremost, borne upon the shoulders of 
his lackeys. Young blood was hot in 
deed which needed such a deal of phle 
botomy, and society in a strange condi 
tion when the duel was not only a noble 
pastime, but, as a descendant of the old 
judicial combat, a criterion of truth, the 
only means of ascertaining which of two 
opinions was the correct one. Every 
difficulty was then a Gordian knot to be 
untied in the true Alexandrian manner, 
and cold steel was the sharpest and 
keenest of arguments, cutting through 
all sophistries and thrusting conviction 
home to the most obdurate. The pen 
was not yet mightier than the sword ; 
there was no writing to Tlie Times then ; 
no " personal interviewing " concerning 
private grievance, no pettifogging among 
gentlemen ; all differences, from creeds 
to the tying of shoe-knots, could only be 




Voi, VIII. 15 



146 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



settled in one way, and the cavalier used refusal by accompanying it with twelve 

his sword as instinctively as the insect pots of cypress powder and six bottles 

his sting. of orange-flower water. These generals 

But the moment the combatants met were worthy ancestors of the men who, 





Do you bite your tongue at me, sir ? " 



the plumed hats swept the ground in 
courteous salutation ; the compliments 
crossed each other like rapiers ; it was 
not until one of them was fairly con 
quered in gracious speech that the steel 
was unsheathed to take its part in this 
dual fence of word and weapons, for if 
they believed, like true Moslems, that 
"Paradise is found in the shadow of 
crossing swords," they had learned from 
the Spaniards the niceties of oriental 
politeness as well. These exchanges of 
civility often preceded the larger duel of 
the battle-field, and men who were to 
meet as enemies on the morrow vied 
with each other in courtesies. 

During the siege of Lerida the com 
mandant of that place sent ices and 
oranges every day to Conde, and at La 
Bochelle Buckingham presented Toiras 
with a dozen melons, and invited him to 
capitulate ; while the latter sweetened his 



at Fontenoy, hat in hand, saluted the 
English with, "Messieurs de la Garde, 
tirez les premiers." 

The cavalier has led us a long way 
from the Place Boy ale, where he saun 
tered and chatted and made love in a 
certain stately fashion, carefully follow 
ing the " carte du Tendre," that famous 
map of the region of tender sentiments, 
where every stage of the grand passion 
was indicated, from its birth in "the 
hamlet of Delicate Attentions" to its 
death in the " cold Lake of Indifference " 
or its attainment of supreme felicity on 
the "Mountain of Reciprocated Affec 
tion." A typical example of the fem 
inine counterpart of the cavalier, who 
shared with him the study of the carte, 
was Marie de Bohan, Duchesse de Chev- 
reuse. No personality of the time is 
more characteristic or better known 
than hers. Confidante of Anne of Aus- 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



147 



tria, friend of Buckingham, enemy of 
Richelieu, and catspaw of Spanish plot 
ters, she played a leading part in the 
events of two reigns. Intrigue in per 
son (and such a pretty person), con 
spiracy incarnate, giving more trouble 
to Eichelieu and Mazarin than half a 
dozen Chalais or Beauforts ; fertile in 
expedient as D Artagnan s self, a hard 
rider, an expert in the use of sword and 
pistol, wearing hose and doublet as often 
and as gracefully as gown and kirtle, 
the Frondeuse was a perverse and fasci 
nating personality, whom no historian 
of the seventeenth century can ignore, 
and who often was a prime mover of 
events. She was no Clor- 
inda, in spite of her manly 
accomplishments, but, light 
as a bit of thistle-down, 
floated on the wind of every 
caprice, and, utterly lack 
ing in principle or continu 
ity of purpose, used her 
lovers like so many chess 
men in the desperate games 
of chance in which she de 
lighted, outwitting the car 
dinals with the joyous in 
consequence of a child, 
and snarling Euro 
pean politics 
as lightly as 
she would 
tangle a skein 
of embroid 
ery silk. Un 
der Richelieu 
their scope 
was limited, 
but during 
the reign of 
his weaker 
su cc essor 
Me s dam e s 
Chevreuse, 
Longueville, 
Bouillon, and 
Mad emoi- 
selle were the 
queens of 
Paris and 
the Fronde. 

They were the acknowledged leaders of 
faction. To please Madame de Longue 
ville Turenne deserted the Royalists and 
served the Spaniard. After the surren 



der of Peronne the Marechal d Hocquin- 
court wrote to Madame de Montbazon, 
" Peronne est d la belle des belles." Gaston 
d Orleans sent a letter to the Frondeuses 
addressed to " Mesdames les comtesses, 
mar echales de camp dans I armee de ma 
fille contre le Mazarin" This same 
daughter, "la grande Mademoiselle" 
when the Parliament and the Princes 
refused to succor Conde, fighting at St. 
Antoine, opened the gates of Paris to 
the wounded and the fugitives, and hur 
rying to the Bastille turned its guns on 
the Royal army, though "that cannon- 
shot killed her husband," as Mazarin 
said, alluding to the projected marriage 




A Precieuse. 

(A lady receiving in bed and playing cards with her visitors in one of the reyelles or alcoves 
of the time the bed drawn from that of Queen Anne of Austria at Fontamebleau.) 

between Mademoiselle and her cousin, 
Louis XIV., which this bold act of hers 
rendered impossible. 

No picture of the Place Royale would 



148 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



be complete without one of these Ama 
zons ; but when she wore the buff boots 
and the cavalier s cloak, and rode with 
pistols in her holsters and a Spanish 
letter stitched into the lining of her 
doublet, Madame de Chevreuse, or de 
Longueville, would not have cared to 
pass through its gay crowds. When the 
"Frondeuse Duchesse," as D Artagnan 
called her, strolled with her train of ad 
mirers, heroes of the sword and the pen 
Conde, Conti, Turenne, and Marcillac 
Due de la Rochefoucauld, better known 
to posterity as the brilliant author of the 
"Maxims," she wore some such guise as 
that in which Nanteuil engraved her. 
Less stared at than Beaufort, whose 
massive shoulders and yellow curls 



Balzac, Malherbe (fortified against the 
cold by three doublets and eleven pairs 
of stockings), the young Corneille, Rich 
elieu s first academicians ; Mademoiselle 
de Scuderi, authoress of the famous 
novels " Cyrus " and " Clelie ; " and Mad 
emoiselle de Gournay, whom posterity 
remembers not because she wrote the 
" Ombre," but because her cat Piaillon 
and its four kittens were pensioned by 
Richelieu. 

In striking contrast to the jolly clerics 
of the type of Aramis or De Retz, an 
ominous figure sometimes crossed the 
Place, generally trudging along on foot 
as befitted a poor monk. As he ap 
proached the gay groups voices were 
hushed, the ladies bent low in billowy 




"W- 

If:/ i vpir / r- n - 
* IP, 

: 3IJ0 

aon : " * 
:| , 




^mgm^r K^C w-^- 

ilMlf&^ 






A Te Deum at Notre Dame. 
(Street costumes of 1648, the Epoch of " Vingt ans apres.") 



made him the idol of the market-w T omen, 
or his friend De Retz, the plotting 
Archbishop of Paris, "the least clerical 
of men," a whole Parnassus of poets 
passed on their way to the famous blue- 
room of the Hotel Rambouillet : Voiture, 



courtesies, the cavaliers feathers touch- 
ed the ground in lowest obeisance be- 
fore his gray Eminence the Cardinal s 
retriever. Galling indeed this deference 
must have been to the proud Bishop of 
Noyon, Clermont-Tonnerre, who, when 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



149 



very ill, prayed God to have mercy on Prodigal Sons, these allegorical figures 

his greatness, and who, when saying of the Four Elements, or the Seven Tem- 

mass, rebuked some young men who poral Works of Mercy, all in contem- 

were chatting together, with "How porary costume, the artist s patrons 

now, gentlemen, do you think it is a admired their own types and fashions. 




Court Costume of the period of Bragelonne, 1658. 



lackey who is saying mass for you?" 
Another more amiable clerical figure was 
that of the young Bossuet, who, at the 
age of twelve read his first sermon at 
the HcUel Rambouillet one evening after 
midnight, and of whom Voiture said : " I 
have never before seen anyone preach 
so early or so late." 

Though the nobles loved the Place 
Royale, royalty walked in state in the 
pleasaunce of the Luxembourg or the 
courts of the Louvre, and Richelieu and 
Mazarin preferred the quiet, green gar 
dens of the Palais Cardinal ; but there is 
one garden wherein nobles, cardinals, 
and royalty may be seen side by side, 
that "Jardin de la Noblesse Francaise, 
dans lequel ce pent cueillir leur maniere 
de Vetements," for which Abraham Bosse, 
"avec privilege da Hoi," collected the 
brightest flowers. To-day we find them 
pressed between the thick leaves, yel 
lowed by time, of huge red folios bla 
zoned dimly with tarnished fleurs-de- 
lys. In these precious old engravings, 
these Wise and Foolish Virgins, and 



Here we find Aramis in church, ele 
gantly devout, one knee on his velvet 
hassock, his dainty breviary under his 
arm, or offering the holy water to 
some fair penitent ; in a group of the 
"Guards of his most Christian Maj 
esty " D Artagnan twists his mous- 
tachios with a conquering air ; Miladi 
smiles, and waves her fan in the middle 
of a dance ; Madame Bonacieux trips 
through a busy street with a black mask 
over her pretty face, and a letter in her 
beribboned bodice ; in a wainscoted 
tapestried chamber, the leaded casement 
carefully closed, the huge door securely 
locked, Porthos s miserly flame counts 
her money ; the handsome noble giving 
alms at the door of a pleasant country 
house we like to believe is Athos, at 
Blois ; and we are sure that Porthos is 
the host who, with Mousqueton behind 
his chair, presides over the well-spread 
table in the " Banquet of Dives." 

It is pleasant to think that, perhaps, 
D Artagnan may have seen and handled 
these very engravings on his way across 



150 THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 

1^ ^^^HMBUMEF^ - 







Conspiracy. 



the Pont Neuf, or through the Cemetery 
of the Innocents, where they were sold, 
hung up in long rows like penny ballads, 
with a curious crowd before them. 

If we would make our bow at court, 
look at kings and queens and nobles, 
prim and stately, pranked out in coro 
nation robes and family jewels, Nanteuil 
will introduce us to the royal presence ; 
and if we love aristocrats superbly cos 
tumed and posed, we may study Mig- 
nard s portraits. Bosse s are more fa 
miliar and homely, with but little of 
the grand air ; his Anne of Austria has 
none of the beauty which bewitched 
Buckingham. The engraver could do but 
little with the dominant nose, the weak, 



retreating chin, and the full under-lip, 
so characteristic of her house, for her 
charm was all in her coloring, in the 
satin skin, the radiant complexion, and 
" the prettiest hand and arm in France," 
which the full half-sleeves, bordered 
with fine lace, set off admirably. She 
was quite aware of these advantages, 
and to the end of her life clung to the 
broad collars and cuffs that enhanced 
her fairness ; it was not until she was 
over forty years old that the long morn 
ings in bed, and the four hearty meals a 
day in which she delighted, transformed 
Buckingham s blonde goddess into a 
" grosse suissesse," according to De Retz, 
who in paying his court to her received 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



151 



the following advice from Madame de 
Chevreuse : Lose yourself in admiration 
of her fine skin and her pretty hand, 
and you can do what you like with 
her." 

Louis XIII. s thin, dark, melancholy 
face is a striking contrast to Anne s 
rounded fairness ; very Medicean is the 
long chin, the aquiline nose, the hollow, 
dark eyes, in which there is no trace of 
the kindly, debonair Henry IV. Al 
ways ill, and always taking medicine, 
caring only for the chase, from which he 
was often debarred by his poor health, 
surrounded by household enemies a 
wife, mother, and brother who con 
stantly plotted against his throne and 
even his life he saw his own creatures, 
his favorites and friends, join in the con 
spiracies against him, and the woman 
he loved, the young Demoiselle de la 
Fayette, frightened into a convent to 
become an agent of the Queen s party. 
He was a true Medici in caprice, indif 
ference, and lack of affection ; " Cinq- 
Mars is making an ugly face," he said, 
tranquilly, when his old favorite mounted 
the scaffold ; and his sole comment on 
the death of Richelieu, his only friend, 
was : " A great politician is dead." With 
the same quiet indifference he appointed 
regent for his son the woman who had 
always been his own and his country s 
enemy, and when, a few days before his 
death, he asked the dauphin, who had 
just been baptized, what his name was, 
and the child answered, "Louis XIV.," 
the father only replied, gently, "Not 
yet." It was but a poor phantom of 
royalty that the brave Musketeers loved 
and served. 

Bosse s Mazarin portly, handsome, 
sly-looking must have been a much 
better portrait of " L illustrissimo fac- 
chino" than the sentimental prelate 
of the Louvre ; his Louis XIV. is a 
Spanish Infante, with muttony cheeks 
and a round dot of a nose ; very Aus 
trian indeed he looks ; there is no re 
semblance to his thin, hypochondriacal 
father in the round, chubby face of 
Dieudonne, before Victory and a wig 
had crowned him. Philippe de Cham 
pagne painted Richelieu in his cardinal s 
robe ; the vivid scarlet makes the pale 
face ashy ; the sunken cheeks and hollow 
eyes show what a wreck, physically, was 



the man who carried out the policy of 
the great Henry, and saved France from 
the fate of Austria and Spain. History 
shows us that our brave Musketeers 
fought on the wrong side, but many 
a young noble erred with them, and 
regarding Anne as a wronged and 
neglected wife, acclaimed in her the 
Chimdne of Corneille s " Cid ; " Spanish 
romance, Spanish Jesuitry, Spanish 
bombast were the order of the day, and 
how could a Spanish queen, with such a 
fine complexion and such pretty parti 
sans as Mesdames Hauteville, Fargis, 
and Chevreuse fail to appeal to the 
chivalry of the youth of France ? Conde s 
fierce, foolish face ; Turenne s noble and 
beautiful head ; lazy, laughing Madame 
de Longueville, the sorry heroes of the 
Fronde, the wits, and the beauties, and 
the scholars are all familiar to us through 
the fine engravings of the National Li 
brary, the monuments, busts, and por 
traits of the Louvre and Versailles. 
The English characters Buckingham, 
Charles I., Henrietta Maria Van Dyck 
painted more than once, lending his 
noble sitters something of the graceful 
languor, the unthinking melancholy of 
the high-bred hounds he so often placed 
beside them, and Lely s portraits of the 
merry monarch, and the dishevelled 
nymphs, " his seven councillors," remain 
to show how the standard of beauty 
changes from age to age. 

For the backgrounds of his stories 
Dumas went naturally to the epoch of 
intrigue, his mots de la Jin would not easily 
have come from the bars of a helmet in 
the rougher older days ; it is the thrust of 
the rapier he loves rather than the down 
right blow of the heavy sword, the coup 
d estoc rather than the coup de faille. 
His is the true drama de cape et d epee, 
as the French have always called it, and 
his dialogue is its exponent the cloak 
to dissimulate, the sword to attack and 
defend. The whole epoch of Louis XHI. 
and of Mazarin was mask and dagger, 
conspiracy and duel. Dumas leads us 
among a gilded dramatis personoe ; he 
loves a noble, and though he distrusted 
princes the blood royal was never quite a 
common ichor to him. Friend and biog 
rapher of Garibaldi though he was, his 
artist side responded eagerly to the pict- 
uresqueness of the court. Chivalry and 





(Woman s costume of the time of the Fronde the frame from an engraving of the epoch.) 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



153 



generosity, the generosity which is akin 
to lavishness, the courage that borders on 
temerity, were his favorite virtues. He de 
fends Fouquet and detests Colbert ; likes 
the financier who spends, not the financier 
who saves ; and sympathizes thorough 
ly with that same ideal of the time, good 
swordsmanship. The intrigues of Riche 
lieu and the nobles, the English Revo 
lution, the Fronde, and the accession of 
the young Louis XIV. were all excellent 
material for the novelist, and if those 
who attribute impossible romancing to 
Dumas will follow French history, page 
for page, with the Musketeers, with the 
Dame de Monsoreau, and the Quarante- 
cinq, they will be equally surprised at 
the closeness with which he adheres to 
historical facts, the adroitness with which 
he uses real events, the cleverness with 
which he departs from them. His im 
agination has the better of it certainly 
in some cases, when he makes a wit of 
Louis XIV., and a sad and lofty hero of 
Charles II. ; but the events are generally 
furnished by history. There are a good 
many incidents to a chapter, it is true, 
and some may agree with the child 
who, speaking of that boy D Artagnan, 
the delightful Tom Sawyer, said : "I 
think those things might happen to a 
good many different boys, but I don t 
know if they d all happen to just o?ieboy." 
The justice of even this criticism, as ap 
plied to a book of Dumas, may be doubted 
on reading the memoirs of De Retz, or of 
Charles de Batz de Castelmore, Chevalier 
D Artagnan. Dumas was a Bonaparte 
in fiction ; his heroes were always busy, 
always there before the enemy, and he 
never objected to a multiplicity of events, 
like that old German officer who said 
of Napoleon : " We used to march and 
countermarch all summer long without 
gaining or losing a square mile ; and now 
comes an ignorant, hot-headed, young 
man, who flies about from Boulogne to 
Ulm, and from Ulm to the middle of 
Moravia, and fights battles in December ; 
the whole system of his tactics is mon 
strously incorrect." 

Our Musketeers, who are as reprehen- 
sibly active, are always fighting on the 
wrong side from the moment they are 
presented to us in the antechamber of 
Monsieur de Treville, until we reluctant 
ly part from them in the sixth volume 
VOL. VIII 16 



of Bragelonne. They despised, like no 
bles and like soldiers, the burgesses of 
heroic La Rochelle and the Parisians 
behind their barricades ; undoubtedly 
they shared Madame de Motteville s 
naive astonishment when she wrote of 
the popular manifestation that followed 
the release of Broussel : " Never was the 
triumph of king or Roman emperor 
greater than that of this poor little 
man, who had nothing to recommend 
him except his obstinacy in behalf of 
the public good." 

Our heroes are Royalists, everyone of 
them, aristocrats to the ends of their 
strong fingers ; believing implicitly in Di 
vine right and the prerogatives of noble 
birth, that the gentleman was privileged to 
hustle the burgher, beat his varlet, and 
terrorize the magistrate ; that " the peo 
ple is a mule to bear burdens ; " and 
in regard to their order prejudice4 as 
the marquise who said, referring to the 
death of a dissolute nobleman, " Gocl 
will think twice before damning a per 
son of his quality." 

And yet, in spite of it all, how we love 
them. Madame Roland wrote of her 
favorite authors : " Plutarch is my Bible, 
Rousseau my breviary, and Montaigne 
is my friend ; not that I do not take 
exception to much that he has writ 
ten, but when I say he is my friend that 
expresses it all." And what dear friends 
of ours these Musketeers are. How often 
in their beloved company have we gal 
loped away from care and illness and 
sorrow. No Atra Cum can follow when 
we ride with D Artagnan, a queen s honor 
hanging on our bridle-rein. How many 
Barmecide feasts we have enjoyed with 
them all in Paris taverns and wayside 
inns, and how often have they walked 
unseen by our side through the narrow 
streets and wide courts of their own old 
town. How we enjoy even the endless 
variety and boundless magnitude of their 
lies, and the dauntless way in which, true 
to their principles, if not to facts, they 
equivocate on occasions when truth-tell 
ing would have been so much easier and 
simpler ; believing with Voltaire that 
words were given us to conceal our 
thoughts. And how we rejoice in their 
virtues in Athos s open-handed gen 
erosity, in Portho s reverence for his 
comrades abilities, in D Artagnan s in- 



154 



THE PARIS OF THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 



exhaustible invention, in Aramis s devo 
tion to the trio ; how, in our age of hy- 
percriticism, of impartial views, of ex 
haustive analysis of even our friends 
motives, their unswerving loyalty to each 
other appeals to us ; and how near to our 
hearts they are in spite of their deep 
drinking and constant fighting. In 
them the old French joyousness still 
survives, the intrepid mirth that the 
Gaulish legionaries showed in Crassus s 
terrible campaign, when they jested and 
sang under the burning sun and the 
Parthian arrows, and to the Roman sol 
diers who asked them if they were not 
afraid, replied, laughing : " Yes, that the 
sky may fall on our heads." This gay- 
ety. which is the most virile form of 
courage, this high-hearted contempt of 
danger, which is the dominant note of 
the novel, warms the blood like a gener 
ous wine. Indeed the whole cycle, with 
its old pagan ideal of friendship, its 
apotheosis of the manly virtues courage, 
fidelity, and perseverance is a moral 
tonic invaluable in an epoch of weak 
nerves and indecision, in it we breathe 
a wholesome atmosphere that stimulates 
like pure air and bright sunshine ; turn 
ing its pages we feel the strong sea-wind 
blowing in our faces, the cool breath of 
the forest is on our cheeks, sweet with 
the scent of sun-warmed pines and the 
odor of fresh earth tramplad by hurry 
ing hoofs. If the heavy perfumes of a 
royal alcove or a fine lady s toilet reach 
us, they are soon dispelled by a whiff 
of gunpowder or the rich bouquet of a 
flask of Burgundy ; it is only now and 
then that a waft of incense crosses our 
path, but always around us and about 
us, resounding with the thud of the iron 
hoofs and the brave music of steel on 
steel, is the fresh air, whether it blows 
from the chalk cliffs of England, over the 
tulip-beds of Fontainebleau, or through 
the narrow streets of old Paris. 

In Bragelonne the whole atmosphere 
changes ; the soldiers became courtiers, 
court intrigue and the life of the salon, 
the strife of wits and diplomats, replaced 
the shock of steel and the hand-to-hand, 
man-to-man struggle of more robust 
times ; while the swords that in the ear 
lier story were crossed in fight were thcTi 
raised in the minuet. Our heroes were 
of another age and they fared ill at 



court. Athos s heart was broken by the 
shattering of his idol, Royalty, and the 
despair of Raoul ; loyal, steadfast Porthos 
was duped and became the tool of the 
Jesuits ; D Artagnan s pride was tamed 
by an unscrupulous master ; the least 
worthy of our heroes only flourished 
under these changed conditions, the 
crafty Aramis, and even he ceased to be 
a personality, and as General of his or 
der was only a wheel in a vast ma 
chine. 

But in spite of this what a sunny pict 
ure of court life it is ! A young king 
eager to enjoy; Colbert, the genius of 
finance, to coin gold for fetes and armies ; 
a host of men of letters to immortalize 
it all. Le cardinal est mort. Vive le 
roi ! So the ballets are danced, the jew 
ellers and embroiderers are busy, light 
laughter floats under the old trees of 
Fontainebleau, the walls of the Louvre 
echo the violins, comedies are played at 
Vaux, rockets rise from the gardens, 
even the gray castle of Blois, with its 
gloomy memories and blood-stained 
floor, becomes only a background for 
young and charming figures ; and how 
the great author revels in this spring 
time gayety. He loves physical beauty 
like a Greek, he delights in jewels and 
rich dresses like a woman, and he 
enjoys a feast like a true disciple of 
Vatel and Brillat-Savarin. As we read 
these dialogues inspired by Moliere, 
these mots worthy of Bassompierre, 
these portraits that La Bruyere might 
have signed, how complete the illusion 
is. We feel that we have coquetted with 
Madame, sighed with De Guiche, and 
are quite sure that we have seen Moliere 
make his preliminary studies for the 
"Bourgeois Gentilhomme : " we know in 
timately Fouquet s court of poets, dis 
like while we admire Colbert, and are 
firmly persuaded that Philippe would 
have made a better king than his broth 
er ; of course we are convinced that the 
Chevalier de Lorraine poisoned Madame; 
while for us the mystery of the iron 
mask is solved beyond a doubt. With 
what ease and grace it is done by this 
" Porthos of fiction : " just as the perfect 
gymnast performs his feats with an ap 
parent carelessness, so Dumas s mastery 
of his technique renders that technique 
almost invisible ; in it there is no sign of 



A DIALOGUE. 



155 



effort, no trace of the file ; the story is 
told so perfectly that the manner of its 
telling is unperceived. 

No one who has galloped and fought 
and laughed with the Musketeers can 
leave them without regret, and when we 
finally part from them we feel a certain 
sense of loss that our pleasant comrade 
ship is ended ; but we have only to re 



turn to the book-shelf, where a foot s 
space holds all this world of pleasure, like 
the tiny vase in the " Arabian Nights " 
that inclosed a genie who could fill all 
earth and sky with his gifts ; we need 
but reopen the first volume our heroes 
are alive and young again, and we can 
always repeat with D Artagnan s last 
words, " Athos, Porthos, au revoir." 



A DIALOGUE. 

By Andrew Lang. 



LUL 

OH, have you found the Fount of Youth, 

Or have you faced the Fire of K6r? 
Or whence the form, the eyes, the mouth, 

The voice, the grace we praised of yore ? 
Ah, lightly must the years have sped, 

The long, the labor-laden years, 
That cast no snows upon your head, 

Nor dim your eyes with any tears ! 
And gently must the heart have beat, 

That, after many days, can send 
So soft, so kind a blush to greet 

The advent of so old a friend. 



ELLE. 

Another tale doth it repeat, 

My mirror ; and it tells me tine ! 
But Time, the thief of all things sweet, 

Has failed to steal one grace from you 
One touch of youth he cannot steal, 

One trait there is he leaves you yet ; 
The boyish loyalty, the leal 

Absurd, impossible regret ! 
Tiiese are the magic : these restore 

A phantom of the April prime, 
Show you the face you liked of yore, 

And give me back the thefts of Time ! 




>V\jtH< 



GALLEGHER. 

A NEWSPAPER STORY. 
By Richard Harding Davis. 




E had had so many of 
fice-boys before Galle- 
gher came among us 
that they had begun to 
lose the characteristics 
of individuals, and be 
came merged in a com 
posite photograph of small boys, to 
whom we applied the generic title of 
" Here, you ; " or, " You, boy." 

We had had sleepy boys, and lazy 
boys, and bright, " smart" boys, who be 
came so familiar on so short an acquaint 
ance that we were forced to part with 
them to save our own self-respect. 

They generally graduated into dis 
trict-messenger boys, and occasionally 
returned to us in blue coats with nickel- 
plated buttons, and patronized us. 

But Gallegher was something different 
from anything we had experienced be 
fore. Gallegher was short and broad in 
build, with a solid, muscular broadness, 
and not a fat and dumpy shortness. 
He wore perpetually on his face a happy 
and knowing smile, as if you and the 
world in general were not impressing 
him as seriously as you thought you 
were, and his eyes, which were very 
black and very bright, snapped intel 
ligently at you like those of a little 
black-and-tan terrier. V~~ 
/All Gallegher knew had been learnt 
On the streets ; not a very good school 
in itself, but one that turns out very 
knowing scholars. And Gallegher had 
attended both morning and evening ses 
sions. He could not tell you who the 
Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name 
the thirteen original States, but he knew 
all the officers of the twenty -second po 
lice district by name, and he could dis 
tinguish the clang of a fire-engine s 
gong from that of a patrol-wagon or an 
ambulance fully two blocks distant. It 
was Gallegher who rang the alarm when 
the Woolwich Mills caught fire while 
the officer on the beat was asleep, and it 
was Gallegher who led the " Black Dia 



monds " against the " Wharf Rats," when 
they used to stone each other to their 
hearts content on the coal-wharves of 
Richmond. 

I am afraid, now that I see these facts 
written down, that Gallegher was not a 
reputable character ; but he was so very 
young and so very old for his years that 
we all liked him very much nevertheless. 
He lived in the extreme northern part 
of Philadelphia, where the cotton- and 
woollen-mills run down to the river, and 
how he ever got home after leaving the 
Press building at two in the morning 
was one of the mysteries of the office. 
Sometimes he caught a night car, and 
sometimes he walked all the way, arriv 
ing at the little house, where his mother 
and himself lived alone, at four in the 
morning. Occasionally he was given a 
ride on an early milk-cart, or on one of 
the newspaper delivery wagons, with its 
high piles of papers still damp and stick} 
from the press. He knew several drivers 
of "night hawks " those cabs that prowl 
the streets at night looking for belated 
passengers and when it was a very cold 
morning he would not go home at all, 
but would crawl into one of these cabs 
and sleep, curled up on the cushions, 
until daylight. 

Besides being quick and cheerful, 
Gallegher possessed a power of amusing 
the Press s young men to a degree seldom 
attained by the ordinary mortal. His 
clog-dancing on the city editor s desk, 
when that gentleman was up-stairs fight 
ing for two more columns of space, was 
always a source of innocent joy to us, 
and his imitations of the comedians of 
the variety halls delighted even the dra 
matic critic, from whom the comedians 
themselves failed to force a smile. 

But Gallegher s chief characteristic 
was his love for that element of news 
generically classed as " crime." 

Not that he ever did anything crimi 
nal himself. On the contrary, his was 
rather the work of the criminal specialist. 



GALLEGHER. 



157 



and his morbid interest in the doings of 
all queer characters, his knowledge of 
their methods, their present wherea 
bouts, and their past deeds of transgres 
sion often rendered him a valuable ally to 
our police reporter, whose daily feuille- 
tons were the only portion of the paper 
Gallegher deigned to read, y 

In Gallegher the detectivfe element was 
abnormally developed. He had shown 
this on several occasions, and to excel 
lent purpose. 

Once the paper had sent him into a 
Home for Destitute Orphans which was 
believed to be grievously mismanaged, 
and Gallegher, while playing the part of 
a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to 
what was going on around him so faith 
fully that the story he told of the treat 
ment meted out to the real orphans was 
sufficient to rescue the unhappy little 
wretches from the individual who had 
them in charge, and to have the indi 
vidual himself sent to jail. 

Gallegher s knowledge of the aliases, 
terms of imprisonment, and various 
misdoings of the leading criminals in 
Philadelphia was almost as thorough as 
that of the chief of police himself, and 
he could tell to an hour when " Dutchy 
Mack " was to be let out of prison, and 
could identify at a glance "Dick Ox 
ford, confidence man," as " Gentleman 
Dan, petty thief."/ 

e were, ^&t this time, only two 
pieces of news in any of the papers. The 
least important of the two was the big 
fight between the Champion of the 
United States and the Would-be Cham 
pion, arranged to take place near Phila 
delphia ; the second was the Burrbank 
murder, which was filling space in news 
papers all over the world, from New 
York to Bombay. 

Kichard F. Burrbank was one of the 
most prominent of New York s railroad 
lawyers, he was also, as a matter of 
course, an owner of much railroad stock, 
and a very wealthy man. He had been 
spoken of as a political possibility for 
many high offices, and, as the counsel for 
a great railroad, was known even fur 
ther than the great railroad itself had 
stretched its system. 

At six o clock one morning he was 
found by his butler lying at the foot of 
the hall stairs with two pistol wounds 



above his heart. He was quite dead. 
His safe, to which only he and his secre 
tary had the keys, was found open, and 
$200,000 in bonds, stocks, and money, 
which had been placed there only the 
night before, was found missing. The 
secretary was missing also. His name 
was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and 
his description had been telegraphed 
and cabled to all parts of the world. 
There was enough circumstantial evi 
dence to show, beyond any question or 
possibility of mistake, that he was the 
murderer. 

It made an enormous amount of talk, 
and unhappy individuals were being ar 
rested all over the country, and sent on 
to New York for identification. Three 
had been arrested at Liverpool, and one 
man just as he landed at Sidney, Aus 
tralia. But so far the murderer had es 
caped. 

We were all talking about it one 
night, as everybody else was all over the 
country, in the local room, and the city 
editor said it was worth a fortune to any 
one who chanced to run against Hade 
and succeeded in handing him over to 
the police. Some of us thought Hade 
had taken passage from some one of the 
smaller seaports, and others were of the 
opinion that he had buried himself in 
some cheap lodging-house in New York, 
or in one of the smaller towns in New 
Jersey. 

"I shouldn t be surprised to meet 
him out walking, right here in Philadel 
phia," said one of the staff. " He ll be 
disguised, of course, but you could al 
ways tell him by the absence of the trig 
ger finger on his right hand. It s miss 
ing, you know ; shot off when he was a 
boy." 

"You want to look for a man dressed 
like a tough," said the city editor ; " for 
as this fellow is to all appearances a 
gentleman, he will try to look as little 
like a gentleman as possible." 

" No, he won t," said Gallegher, with 
that calm impertinence that made him 
dear to us. "He ll dress just like a 
gentleman. Toughs don t wear gloves, 
and you see he s got to wear em. The 
first thing he thought of after doing for 
Burrbank was of that gone finger, and 
how he was to hide it. He stuffed the 
finger of that glove with cotton so s to 



158 



GALLEGHER. 



make it look like a whole finger, and the 
first time he takes off that glove they ve 
got him see, and he knows it. So 
what yous want to do is to look for a 
man with gloves on. I ve been a doing 
it for two weeks now, and I can tell you 
it s hard work, for everybody wears 
gloves this kind of weather. But if you 
look long enough you ll find him. And 
when you think it s him, go up to him 
and hold out your hand in a friendly 
way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his 
hand ; and if you feel that his forefin 
ger ain t real flesh, but just wadded cot 
ton, then grip to it with your right and 
grab his throat with your left, and holler 
for help." 

There was an appreciative pause. 

" I see, gentlemen," said the city edi 
tor, dryly, " that Gallegher s reasoning 
has impressed you ; and I also see that 
before the week is out all of my young 
men will be under bonds for assaulting 
innocent pedestrians whose only of 
fence is that they wear gloves in mid 
winter." 

It was about a week after this that De 
tective Hefiiefinger, of Inspector Byrnes s 
staff, came over to Philadelphia after a 
burglar, of whose whereabouts he had 
been misinformed by telegraph. He 
brought the warrant, requisition, and 
other necessary papers with him, but 
the burglar had flown. One of our re 
porters had worked on a New York pa 
per, and knew Hefnefinger, and the de 
tective came to the office to see if he 
could help him in his so far unsuccess 
ful search. 

He gave Gallegher his card, and after 
Gallegher had read it, and had discov 
ered who the visitor was, he became so 
demoralized that he was absolutely use 
less. 

"One of Byrnes s men," was a much 
more awe-inspiring individual to Galle 
gher than a member of the Cabinet. He 
accordingly seized his hat and overcoat, 
and leaving his duties to be looked after 
by others, hastened out after the object 
of his admiration, who found his sugges 
tions and knowledge of the city so valu 
able, and his company so entertaining, 
that they became very intimate, and 
spent the rest of the day together. 

In the meanwhile the managing editor 



had instructed his subordinates to in 
form Gallegher, when he condescended 
to return, that his services were no longer 
needed. Gallegher had played truant 
once too often. Unconscious of this, he 
remained with his new friend until late 
the same evening, and started the next 
afternoon toward the Press office. 

As I have said, Gallegher lived in the 
most distant part of the city, not many 
minutes walk from the Kensington rail 
road station, where trains ran into the 
suburbs and on to New York. 

It was in front of this station that 
a smoothly shaven, well-dressed man 
brushed past Gallegher and hurried up 
the steps to the ticket office. 

He held a walking-stick in his right 
hand, and Gallegher, who now patiently 
scrutinized the hands of every one who 
wore gloves, saw that while three fingers 
of the man s hand w r ere closed around 
the cane the fourth stood out in almost 
a straight line with his palm. 

Gallegher stopped with a gasp and 
with a trembling all over his little body, 
and his brain asked with a throb if it 
could be possible. But possibilities and 
probabilities were to be discovered later. 
Now was the time for action. 

He was after the man in a moment, 
hanging at his heels and his eyes moist 
with excitement. 

He heard the man ask for a ticket to 
Torresdale, a little station just outside 
of Philadelphia, and when he was out of 
hearing, but not out of sight, purchased 
one for the same place. 

The stranger went into the smoking- 
car and seated himself at one end tow 
ard the door. Gallegher took his place 
at the opposite end. 

He was trembling all over and suf 
fered from a slight feeling of nausea. 
He guessed it came from fright, not of 
any bodily harm that might come to him, 
but at the probability of failure in his 
adventure and of its most momentous 
possibilities. 

The stranger pulled his coat collar up 
around his ears, hiding the lower por 
tion of his face but not concealing the 
resemblance in his troubled eyes and 
close-shut lips to the likenesses of the 
murderer Hade. 

They reached Torresdale in half an 



GALLEGHER. 



159 



hour, and the stranger, alighting quick 
ly, struck off at a rapid pace down the 
country road leading to the station. 

Gallegher gave him a hundred yards 
start and then followed slowly after. 
The road ran between fields and past a 
few frame-houses set far from the road 
in kitchen gardens. 

Once or twice the man looked back 
over his shoulder, but he saw only a 
dreary length of road with a small boy 
splashing through the slush in the midst 
of it and stopping every now and again 
to throw snowballs at belated spar 
rows. 

After a ten minutes walk the stranger 
turned into a side road which led to 
only one place, the Eagle Inn, an old 
roadside hostelry known now as the 
headquarters for pot-hunters from the 
Philadelphia game market and the bat 
tle-ground of many a cock-fight. 

Gallegher knew the place well. He 
and his young companions had often 
stopped there when out chestnuting on 
holidays in the autumn. 

The son of the man who kept it had 
often accompanied them on their excur 
sions, b,nd though the boys of the city 
streete considered him a dumb lout they 
respected him somewhat owing to his 
inside knowledge of dog- and cock-fights. 

The stranger entered the inn at a side 
door, and Gallegher, reaching it a few 
minutes later, let him go for the time be 
ing and set about finding his occasional 
playmate young Keppler. 

Keppler s offspring was found in the 
woodshed. 

" Tain t hard to guess what brings 
you out here," said the tavern-keeper s 
son, with a grin ; " it s the fight." 

"What fight? "asked Gallegher, un 
guardedly. 

" What fight ? Why, the fight," re 
turned his companion, with the slow 
contempt of superior knowledge. " It s 
to come off here to-night. You knew 
that as well as me ; anyway your sport- 
in editor knows it. He got the tip 
last night, but that won t help you any. 
You needn t think there s any chance of 
your getting a peep at it. Why, tickets 
is two hunderd and fifty a piece ! " 

" Whew ! " whistled Gallegher, " where s 
it to be ? " 

"In the barn," whispered Keppler. 



" I helped em fix the ropes this morn 
ing, I did." 

" Gosh, but you re in luck," exclaimed 
Gallegher, with flattering envy. " Could 
n t I jest get a peep at it ? " 

" Maybe," said the gratified Keppler. 
"There s a winder with a wooden shut 
ter at the back of the barn. You can 
get in by it, if you have someone to 
boost you up to the sill." 

"Sa-a-y," drawled Gallegher, as if 
something had but just that moment 
reminded him. " Who s that gent who 
come down the road just a bit ahead of 
me him with the cape-coat ! Has he 
got anything to do with the fight ? " 

"Him?" repeated Keppler in tones 
of sincere disgust. "No-oh, he ain t 
no sport. He s queer, Dad thinks. He 
come here one day last week about ten 
in the morning, said his doctor told him 
to go out en the country for his health. 
He s stuck up and citified, and wears 
gloves, and takes his meals private in his 
room, and all that sort of ruck. They 
was saying in the saloon last night that 
they thought he was hiding from some 
thing, and Dad, just to try him, asks him 
last night if he was coming to see the 
fight. He looked sort of scared and 
said he didn t want to see no fight. 
And then Dad says, I guess you mean 
you don t want no fighters to see you. 
Dad didn t mean no harm by it, just 
passed it as a joke, but Mr. Carle ton, as 
he calls himself, got white as a ghost an 
says I ll go to the fight willing enough, 
and begins to laugh and joke. And 
this morning he went right into the bar 
room, where all the sports were setting, 
and said he was going into town to see 
some friends, and as he starts off he 
laughs an says, This don t look as if I 
was afraid of seeing people, does it ? but 
Dad says it was just bluff that made 
him do it, and Dad thinks that if he 
hadn t said what he did this Mr. Carle- 
ton wouldn t have left his room at alL" 

Gallegher had got all he wanted, and 
much more than he had hoped for so 
much more that his walk back to the 
station was in the nature of a triumphal 
march. 

He had twenty minutes to wait for 
the next train, and it seemed an hour. 
While waiting he sent a telegram to 
Hefflefinger at his hotel. It read : 



160 



GALLEGHER. 



" Your man is near the Torresdale sta 
tion, on Pennsylvania Railroad ; take cab 
and meet me at station. Wait until I 
come. GALLEGHER." 

With the exception of one at mid 
night, no other train stopped at Torres- 
dale that evening, hence the direction to 
take a cab. 

The train to the city seemed to Gal- 
legher to drag itself by inches. It stop 
ped and backed at purposeless intervals, 
waited for an express to precede it, and 
dallied at stations, and when, at last, it 
reached the terminus, Gallegher was out 
before it had stopped and was in a cab 
and off on his way to the home of the 
sporting editor. 

The sporting editor was at dinner 
and came out in the hall to see him, 
with his napkin in his hand. Galle 
gher explained breathlessly that he had 
located the murderer for whom the 
police of two continents were looking, 
and that he believed, in order to quiet 
the suspicions of the people with whom 
he was hiding, that he would be present 
at the fight that night. 

The sporting editor led Gallegher into 
his library and shut the door. " Now," 
he said, " go over all that again." 

Gallegher went over it again in detail, 
and added how he had sent for Heffle- 
finger to make the arrest in order that 
it might be kept from the knowledge of 
the local police and from the Philadel 
phia reporters. 

" What I want Hefnefinger to do is to 
arrest Hade with the warrant he has for 
the burglar," explained Gallegher ; " and 
to take him on to New York on the owl 
train that passes Torresdale at one. It 
don t get to Jersey City until four 
o clock, one hour after the morning pa 
pers go to press. Of course, we must 
fix Heinefinger so s he ll keep quiet and 
not tell who his prisoner really is." 

The sporting editor reached his hand 
out to pat Gallegher on the head, but 
changed his mind and shook hands with 
him instead. 

"My boy," he said, "you are an infant 
phenomenon. If I can pull the rest of 
this thing off to-night it will mean the 
$5,000 reward and fame galore for you 
and the paper. Now, I m going to write 
a note to the managing editor, and you 
can take it around to him and tell him 



what you ve done and what I am go 
ing to do, and he ll take you back on 
the paper and raise your salary. Per 
haps you didn t know you ve been dis 
charged ? " 

"Do you think you ain t a-going to 
take me with you?" demanded Galle 
gher. 

" Why, certainly not. Why should I ? 
It all lies with the detective and myself 
now. You ve done your share, and done 
it well. If the man s caught the re 
ward s yours. But you d only be in the 
way now. You d better go to the office 
and make your peace with the chief." 

" If the paper can get along without 
me, I can get along without the old 
paper," said Gallegher, hotly. " And if I 
ain t a-going with you, you ain t neither, 
for I know where Hefnefinger is to be 
and you don t, and I won t tell you." 

"Oh, very well, very well," replied 
the sporting editor, weakly capitulating. 
" I ll send the note by a messenger ; only 
mind, if you lose your place, don t blame 
me." 

c Gallegher wondered how this man 
could value a week s salary against the 
excitement of seeing a noted criminal 
run down, and of getting the news to the 
paper, and to that one paper alone. 

From that moment the sporting>edi- 
tor sank in Gallegher s estimation.! 

Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and 
scribbled off the following note : 

" I have received reliable information 
that Hade, the Burrbank murderer, will 
be present at the fight to-night. We 
have arranged it so that he will be ar 
rested quietly and in such a manner that 
the fact may be kept from all other pa 
pers. I need not point out to you that 
this will be the most important piece of 
news in the country to-morrow. 

" Yours, etc., MICHAEL E. DWYER." 

The sporting editor stepped into the 
waiting cab, while Gallegher whispered 
the directions to the driver. He was 
told to go first to a district-messenger 
office, and from there up to the Ridge 
Avenue Road, out Broad Street, and on 
to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale. 

It was a miserable night. The rain 
and snow were falling together, and 



GALLEGHER. 



161 



freezing as they fell. The sporting ed 
itor got out to send his message to the 
Press office, and then lighting a cigar, 
and turning up the collar of his great 
coat, curled up in the corner of the cab. 

" Wake me when we get there, Galle- 
gher," he said. He knew he had a long 
ride, and much rapid work before him, 
and he was preparing for the strain. 

To Gallegher the idea of going^ to 
sleep seemed almost criminal From 
the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone 
with excitement, and with the awful joy 
of anticipation. He glanced every now 
and then to where the sporting editor s 
cigar shone in the darkness, and watched 
it as it gradually burnt more dimly and 
went out. The lights in the shop win 
dows threw a broad glare across the ice 
on the pavements, and the lights from 
the lamp-posts tossed the distorted 
shadow of the cab, and the horse, and 
the motionless driver, sometimes before 
and sometimes behind them. 

After half an hour Gallegher slipped 
down to the bottom of the cab and 
dragged out a lap-robe, in which he 
wrapped himself. It was growing cold 
er, and the damp, keen wind swept in 
through the cracks until the window- 
frames and woodwork were cold to the 
touch. 

An hour passed and the cab was still 
moving more slowly over the rough sur 
face of partly paved streets, and by sin 
gle rows of new houses standing at dif 
ferent angles to each other in fields 
covered with ash-heaps and brick-kilns. 
Here and there the gaudy lights of a 
drug-store, the forerunner of suburban 
civilization, shone from the end of a new 
block of houses, and the rubber cape of 
an occasional policeman showed in the 
light of the lamp-post that he hugged 
for comfort. 

Then even the houses disappeared 
and the cab dragged its way between 
truck farms, with desolate-looking glass- 
covered beds, and pools of water, half- 
caked with ice, and bare trees, and in- 
(terminable fences. 

/ {/i/Qnce or twice the cab stopped alto 
gether, and Gallegher could hear the 
driver swearing to himself, or at the 
horse, or the roads. At last they drew 
up before the station at Torresdale. It 
was quite deserted, and only a single 



light cut a swath in the darkness and 
showed a portion of the platform, the 
ties, and the rails glistening in the rain. 
They walked twice past the light before 
a figure stepped out of the shadow and 
greeted them cautiously. 

"I am Mr. Dwyer, of the Press," said 
the sporting editor, briskly. "You ve 
heard of me, perhaps. Well, there 
shouldn t be any difficulty in our mak 
ing a deal, should there ? * This boy here 
has found Hade, and we have reason 
to believe he will be among the specta 
tors at the fight to-night. We want you 
to arrest him quietly, and as secretly as 
possible. You can do it with your pa 
pers and your badge easily enough. 
We want you to pretend that you believe 
he is this burglar you came over after. 
If you will do this, and take him away 
without any one so much as suspect 
ing who he really is, and on the train 
that passes here at 1.20 for New York, 
we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 
reward. If, however, one other paper, 
either in New York or Philadelphia, or 
anywhere else, knows of the arrest you 
won t get a cent. Now, what do you 
say?" 

The detective had a great deal to say. 
He wasn t at all sure the man Gallegher 
suspected was Hade, he feared he might 
get himself into trouble by making a 
false arrest, and if it should be the man 
he was afraid the local police would in 
terfere. 

" We ve no time to argue or debate 
this matter," said Dwyer, warmly. " We 
agree to point Hade out to you in the 
crowd. After the fight is over you ar 
rest him as we have directed and you 
get the money and the credit of the ar 
rest. It you don t like this I will arrest 
the man myself, and have him driven to 
town, with a pistol for a warrant." 

Heiflefinger considered in silence and 
then agreed unconditionally. " As you 
say, Mr. Dwyer," he returned. " I ve 
heard of you for a thoroughbred sport. 
I know you ll do what you say you ll do ; 
and as for me I ll do what you say and 
just as you say, and it s a very pretty 
piece of work as it stands." 

They all stepped back into the cab, 
and then it was that they were met by 
a fresh difficulty, how to get the detec 
tive into the barn where the fight was to 



162 



GALLEGHER. 



take place, for neither of the two men 
had $250 to pay for his admittance. 

But this was overcome when Galle- 
gher remembered the window of which 
young Keppler had told him. 

In the event of Hade s losing courage 
and not daring to show himself in the 
crowd around the ring it was agreed 
that Dwyer should come to the barn and 
warn Hefflennger, but if he should come, 
Dwyer was merely to keep near him and 
to signify by a prearranged gesture 
which one of the crowd he was. 

They drew up before a great black 
shadow of a house, dark, forbidding, and 
apparently deserted. But at the sound of 
the wheels on the gravel the door opened, 
letting out a stream of warm, cheerful 
light, and a man s voice said, " Put out 
those lights. Don t you se know no bet 
ter than that." This was Keppler, and 
he welcomed Mr. Dwyer with effusive 
courtesy. 

The two men showed in the stream of 
light and the door closed on them, leav 
ing the house as it was at first, black and 
silent save for the dripping of the rain 
and snow from the eaves. 

The detective and Gallegher put out 
the cab s lamps and led the horse toward 
a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, 
which they now noticed was almost 
filled with teams of many different makes, 
from the Hobson s choice of a livery sta 
ble to the brougham of the man about 
town. 

"No," said Gallegher, as the cabman 
stopped to hitch the horse beside the 
others, " we want it nearest that lower 
gate. When we newspaper men leave 
this place we ll leave it in a hurry, and 
the man who is nearest town is likely to 
get there first. You won t be a follow 
ing of no hearse when you make your 
return trip." 

Gallegher tied the horse to the very 
gate-post itself, leaving the gate open 
and allowing a clear road and a flying 
start for the prospective race to News 
paper Bow. 

The driver disappeared under the 
shelter of the porch, and Gallegher and 
the detective moved off cautiously to the 
rear of the barn. " This must be the 
window," said Hefflefinger, pointing to a 
broad wooden shutter some feet from 
the ground. 



"Just you give me a boost once, and 
I ll get that open in a jiffy," said Galle 
gher. 

The detective placed his hands on his 
knees and Gallegher stood upon his 
shoulders, and with the blade of his 
knife lifted the wooden button that 
fastened the window on the inside and 
pulled the shutter open. 

Then he put one leg inside over the 
sill, and leaning down helped to draw 
his fellow-conspirator up to a level with 
the window. "I feel just like I was 
burglarizing a house," chuckled Galle 
gher as he dropped noiselessly to the 
floor below and refastened the shutter. 
The barn was a large one, with a row of 
stalls on either side in which horses and 
cows were dozing. There was a hay 
mow over each row of stalls, and at one 
end of the barn a number of fence-rails 
had been thrown across from one mow 
to the other. These rails were covered 
with hay. 

In the middle of the floor was the 
ring. It was not really a ring, but a 
square, with wooden posts at its four 
corners through which ran a heavy rope. 
The space inclosed by the rope was cov 
ered with sawdust. 

/ TGallegher could not resist stepping 
into the ring, and after stamping the 
sawdust once or twice, as if to assure 
himself that he was really there, began 
dancing around it, and indulging in 
such a remarkable series of fistic ma 
noeuvres with an imaginary adversary 
that the unimaginative detective precipi 
tately backed into-a corner of the barn. 

"Now, then,"teaid Gallegher, having 
apparently vanquished his foe, ryou 
come with me." iHis companion fol 
lowed quickly as Gallegher climbed to 
one of the hay-mows, and crawling care 
fully out on the fence rails stretched 
himself at full length, face downward. 
In this position, by moving the straw a 
little, he could look down, without being 
himself seen, upon the heads of whomso 
ever stood below. " This is better n a- 
private box, ain t it? " said Gallegher. 

The boy from the newspaper office 
and the detective lay there in silence, 
biting at straws and tossing anxiously 
on their comfortable bed. 

It seemed fully two hours before they 
came. Gallegher had listened without 



GALLEGHER. 



163 



v- 



breathing, and with every muscle on a 
strain, at least a dozen times, when some 
movement in the yard had led him to 
believe that they were at the door. 
( And he had numerous doubts and 
fears. Sometimes it was that the police 
had learnt of the fight and had raided 
Keppler s in his absence, and again it 
was that the fight had been postponed, 
or, worst of all, that it would be put off 
until so late that Mr. Dwyer could not 
get back in .time for the last edition of 

e paper. \^Fheir coming, when at last 
they came/was heralded by an advance- 
guard of two sporting men, who sta 
tioned themselves at either side of the 
big door. 

" Hurry up, now, gents," one of the 
men said with a shiver, " don t keep this 
door open no longer n is needful." 

It was not a very large crowd, but it 
was wonderfully well selected. It ran, 
in the majority of its component parts, 
to heavy white coats with pearl buttons. 
The white coats were shouldered by long 
blue coats with astrakhan fur trimmings, 
the wearers of which preserved a clique- 
ness not remarkable when one con 
siders that they believed every one else , 
present to be either a crook or a prize 
fighter. 

There were well-fed, well-groomed 
clubmen and brokers in the crowd, a 
politician or two, a popular comedian 
with his manager, amateur boxers from 
the athletic clubs, and quiet, close- 
mouthed sporting men from every city 
in the country. Their names if printed 
in the papers would have been as fam 
iliar as the types of the papers them 
selves. 

And among these men, whose only 
thought was of the brutal sport to come, 
was Hade, with Dwyer standing at ease 
at his shoulder Hade, white and visibly 
in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face be 
neath a cloth travelling-cap, and with 
his chin muffted in a woollen scarf. He 
had dared to come because he feared 
his danger from the already suspicious 
Keppler was less than if he stayed away. 
And so he was there, hovering restlessly 
on the border of the crowd, feeling his 
danger and sick with fear. 

When Hefflefinger first saw him he 
started up on his hands and elbows and 
made a movement forward as if he would 



leap down then and there and carry off 
his prisoner single-handed. 

" Lie down," growled Gallegher ; " an 
officer of any sort wouldn t live three 
minutes in that crowd." 

The detective drew back slowly and 
buried himself again in the straw, but 
never once through the long fight which 
followed did his eyes leave the person 
of the murderer. The newspaper men 
took their places in the foremost row 
close around the ring, and kept looking 
at their watches and begging the master 
of ceremonies to "shake it up, do." 

V^There was a great deal of betting, and 
all of the men handled the great roll of 
bills they wagered with a flippant reck 
lessness which could only be accounted 
for in Gallegher s mind by temporary 
mental derangement. Some one pulled 
a box out into the ring and the master of 
ceremonies mounted, it and pointed out 
in forcible language that as they were 
almost all already under bonds to keep 
the peace, it behooved all to curb their 
excitement and to maintain a severe si 
lence, unless they wanted to bring the 
police upon them and have themselves 
"sent down " for a year or two. 

Then two very disreputable-looking 
persons tossed their respective princi 
pals high hats into the ring, and the 
crowd, recognizing in this relic of the 
days when brave knights threw down 
their gauntlets in the lists as only a sign 
that the fight was about to begin, cheered 
tumultuously. 

This was followed by a sudden surg 
ing forward, and a mutter of admiration 
much more flattering than the cheers 
had been, when the principals followed 
their hats, and slipping out of their great 
coats stood forth in all the physical 
beauty of the perfect brute. 

Their pink skin was as soft and 
healthy looking as a baby s, and glowed 
in the lights of the lanterns like tinted 
ivory, and underneath this silken cover 
ing the great biceps and muscles moved 
in and out and looked like the coils of 
a snake around the branch of a tree. 

Gentleman and blackguard shoul 
dered each other for a nearer view ; the 
coachmen, whose metal buttons were 
unpleasantly suggestive of police, put 
their hands, in the excitement of the mo 
ment, on the shoulders of their masters ; 



164 



GALLEGHER. 



the perspiration stood out in great drops 
on the foreheads of the backers and 
the newspaper men bit somewhat ner 
vously at the ends of their pencils. 

And in the stalls the cows munched 
contentedly at their cuds and gazed with 
gentle curiosity at their two fellow- 
brutes, who stood waiting the signal to 
fall upon, and kill each other if need be, 
for the delectation of their brothers. 

" Take your places," commanded the 
master of ceremonies. 

In the moment in which the two men 
faced each other the crowd became so 
still that, save for the beating of the rain 
upon the shingled roof and the stamp 
ing of a horse in one of the stalls, the 
place was as silent as a church. 

" Shake hands," commanded the mas 
ter of ceremonies. 

Two great, bruised, misshapen fists 
touched each other for an instant, the 
two men sprang back into a posture of 
defence, which was lost as quickly as it 
was taken. One great arm shot out like 
a piston-rod, there was the sound of 
bare fists beating on naked flesh, there 
was an exultant indrawn gasp of savage 
pleasure and relief from the crowd, and 
the great fight had begun. 

How the fortunes of war rose and fell, 
and changed and rechanged that night, 
is an old story to those who listen to 
such stories ; and those who do not 
will be glad to be spared the telling of 
it. It was, they say, one of the bitterest 
fights between two men that this coun 
try has ever known. 

Y~But all that is of interest here is that 
after an hour of this desperate brutal 
business the champion ceased to be the 
favorite ; the man whom he had taunted 
and bullied, and for whom the public had 
but little sympathy, was proving himself 
a likely winner, and under his cruel 
blows, as sharp and clean as those from 
a cutlass, his opponent was rapidly giv 
ing way. 

The men about the ropes were past 
all control now ; they drowned Keppler s 
petitions for silence with oaths and on, 
inarticulate shouts of anger, as if the 
blows had fallen upon them, and in mad 
rejoicings. They swept from one end 
of the ring to the other, with every mus 
cle leaping in unison with those of the 
man they favored, and when a New York 



correspondent muttered over his shoul 
der that this would be the biggest sport 
ing surprise since the Heenan-Sayers 
fight, Mr. Dwyer nodded his head sym 
pathetically in assent. 
In the excitement and tumult it is 
doubtful if any heard the three quickly 
repeated blows that fell heavily from the 
outside upon the big doors of the barn. 
If they did, it was already too late to 
mend matters, for the door fell, torn from 
its hinges, and as it fell a captain of po 
lice sprang into the light from out of 
the storm, with his lieutenants and their 
men crowding close at his shoulder. 

In the panic and stampede that fol 
lowed, several of the men stood as help 
lessly immovable as though they had 
seen a ghost ; others made a mad rush 
into the arms of the officers and were 
beaten back against the ropes of the ring ; 
others dived headlong into the stalls, 
among the horses and cattle, and still 
others shoved the rolls of money they 
held into the hands of the police and 
begged like children to be allowed to 
escape. 

The instant the door fell and the raid 
was declared Hefiiefinger slipped over 
the cross rails on which he had been 
lying, hung for an instant by his hands, 
and then dropped into the centre of the 
fighting mob on the floor. He was out 
of it in an instant with the agility of a 
pickpocket, was across the room and at 
Hade s throat like a dog. The mur 
derer, for the moment, was the calmer 
man of the two. 

"Here," he panted, "hands off, now. 
There s no need for all this violence. 
There s no great harm in looking at a 
fight, is there ? There s a hundred-dol 
lar bill in my right hand ; take it and 
let me slip out of this. No one is look 
ing. Here." 

But the detective only held him the 
closer. 

"I want you for burglary," he whis 
pered under his breath. "You ve got 
to come with me now, and quickly. The 
less fuss you make the better for us 
both. If you don t know who I am you 
can feel my badge under my coat there. 
I ve got the authority. It s quite regu 
lar, and when we re out of this d d 

row I ll show you the papers." 



GALLEGHER. 



165 



He took one hand from Hade s throat 
and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his 
pocket. 

"It s a mistake. This is an outrage," 
gasped the murderer, white and trem 
bling, but dreadfully alive and desperate 
for his liberty. " Let me go, I tell you. 
Take your hands off of me. Do I look 
like a burglar, you fool ? " 

"I know who you look like," whis 
pered the detective, with his face close 
to the face of his prisoner. " Now, will 
you go easy as a burglar, or shall I tell 
these men who you are and what I do 
want you for ? Shall I call out your real 
name or not ? Shall I tell them ? Quick, 
speak up ; shall I ? " 

There was something so exultant 
something so unnecessarily savage in 
the officer s face that the man he held 
saw that the detective knew him for 
what he really was, and the hands that 
had held his throat slipped down around 
his shoulders or he would have fallen. 
The man s eyes opened and closed again, 
and he swayed weakly backward and 
forward, and choked as if his throat 
were dry and burning. Even to such a 
hardened connoisseur in crime as Gal 
legher, who stood closely by drinking 
it in, there was something so abject in 
the man s terror that he regarded him 
with what was almost a touch of pity, 

" For God s sake," Hade begged, let 
me go. Come with me to my room and 
I ll give you half the money. I ll divide 
with you fairly. We can both get away. 
There s a fortune for both of us there. 
We both can get away. You ll be rich 
for life. Do you understand for 
life!" 

But the detective, to his credit, only 
shut his lips the tighter. 

"That s enough," he whispered, in 
return. "That s more than I expect 
ed. You ve sentenced yourself already. 
Come!" 

Two officers in uniform barred their 
exit at the door, but Hefflefinger smiled 
easily and showed his badge. 

" One of Byrnes s men," he said, in 
explanation ; " came over expressly to 
get this chap. He s a burglar ; Arlie 
Lane, alias Carleton. I ve shown the 
papers to the captain. It s all regular. 
I m just going to get his traps at the 
hotel and walk him over to the station. 



I guess we ll push right on to New York 
to-night," 

The officers nodded and smiled their 
admiration for the representative of 
what is, perhaps, the best detective 
force in the world and let him pass. 

Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke 
to Gallegher, who still stood as watch 
ful as a dog at his side. "I m going to 
his room to get the bonds and stuff," 
he whispered ; "then I ll march him to 
the station and take that train. I ve 
done my share, don t forget yours ! " 

" Oh, you ll get your money right 
enough," said Gallegher. " And I say," 
he added, with the appreciative nod of 
an expert, "do you know you did it 
rather well." 

Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the 
raid was settling down, as he had been 
writing while waiting for the fight to be 
gin. Now he walked over to where the 
other correspondents stood in angry 
conclave. 

The newspaper men had informed the 
officers who hemmed them in that they 
represented the principal papers of the 
country, and were expostulating vigor 
ously with the captain who had planned 
the raid and who declared they were 
under arrest. 

"Don t be an ass, Scott," said Mr. 
Dwyer, who was too excited to be polite 
or politic. "You know our being here 
isn t a matter of choice. We came here 
on business, as you did, and you ve no 
right to hold us." 

" If we don t get our stuff on the wire 
at once," protested a New York man, 
"we ll be too late for to-morrow s pa 
per, and 

Captain Scott said he did not care a 
profanely small amount for to-morrow s 
paper, and that all he knew was that to 
the station-house the newspaper men 
would go. There they would have a 
hearing, and if the magistrate chose to 
let them off that was the magistrate s 
business, but that his duty was to take 
them into custody. 

"But then it will be too late, don t 
you understand?" shouted Mr. Dwyer. 
" You ve got to let us go now, at once." 

" I can t do it, Mr.. Dwyer," said the 
captain, "and that s all there is to it. 
Why, haven t I just sent the president 
of the Junior Republican Club to the 



166 



GALLEGHER. 



patrol wagon, the man that put this 
coat on me, and do you think I can let 
you fellows go after that ? You were all 
put under bonds to keep the peace not 
three days ago, and here you re at it 
fighting like badgers. It s worth my 
place to let one of you off." 

What Mr. Dwyer said next was so 
uncomplimentary to the gallant Captain 
Scott that that overwrought individual 
seized the sporting editor by the shoul 
der and shoved him into the hands of 
two of his men. 

This was more than the distinguished 
Mr. Dwyer could brook, and he excit 
edly raised his hand in resistance. But 
before he had time to do anything fool 
ish his wrist was gripped by one strong, 
little hand, and he was conscious that 
another was picking the pocket of his 
great- coat. 

He slapped his hands to his sides, and, 
looking down, saw Gallegher standing 
close behind him and holding him by 
the wrist. Mr. Dwyer had forgotten 
the boy s existence and would have 
spoken sharply if something in Galle- 
gher s innocent eyes had not stopped 
him. 

Gallegher s hand was still in that 
pocket, in which Mr. Dwyer had shoved 
his note-book filled with what he had 
written of Gallegher s work and Hade s 
final capture, and with a running de 
scriptive account of the fight. With his 
eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer Gallegher drew 
it out, and with a quick movement 
shoved it inside his waistcoat. Mr. 
Dwyer gave a nod of comprehension. 
Then glancing at his two guardsmen, 
and finding that they were still inter 
ested in the wordy battle of the corre 
spondents with their chief, and had seen 
nothing, he stooped and whispered to 
Gallegher : " The forms are locked at 
twenty minutes to three. If you don t 
get there by that time it will be of no 
use, but if you re on time you ll beat the 
town and the country too." 

Gallegher s eyes flashed significantly, 
and nodding his head to show he under 
stood, started boldly on a run toward the 
door. But the officers who guarded it 
brought him to an abrupt halt, and, 
much to Mr. Dwyer s astonishment, 
drew from him what was apparently a 
torrent of tears. 



"Let me go to me father. I want me 
father," the boy shrieked, hysterically. 
"They ve rested father. Oh, daddy, 
daddy. There a-goin to take you to 
prison." 

"Who is your father, sonny ? " asked 
one of the guardians of the gate. 

" Keppler s me father," sobbed Galle 
gher. "The re a-goin to lock him up 
and I ll never see him no more." 

" Oh, yes, you will," said the officer, 
good-naturedly, " he s there in that first 
patrol wagon. You can run over and 
say good-night to him, and then you d 
better get to bed. This ain t no place 
for kids of your age." 

"Thank you, sir," sniffed Gallegher 
tearfully, as the two officers raised their 
clubs, and let him pass out into the 
darkness. 

The yard outside was in a tumult, 
horses were stamping, and plunging, 
and backing the carriages into one an 
other; lights were flashing from every 
window of what had been apparently an 
uninhabited house, and the voices of 
the prisoners were still raised in angry 
expostulation. 

Three police patrol wagons were 
moving about the yard, filled with un 
willing passengers, who sat or stood, 
packed together like sheep, and with 
no protection from the sleet and rain. 

Gallegher stole off into a dark corner 
and watched the scene until his eye 
sight became familiar with the position 
of the land. 

Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on 
the swinging light of a lantern with 
which an officer was searching among 
the carriages, he groped his way be 
tween horses hoofs and behind the 
wheels of carriages to the cab which 
he had himself placed at the further 
most gate. It was still there, and the 
horse, as he had left it, with its head 
turned toward the city. Gallegher 
opened the big gate noiselessly, and 
worked nervously at the hitching strap. . 
The knot was covered with a thin coat 
ing of ice, and it was several minutes 
before he could loosen it. But his 
teeth finally pulled it apart, and with 
the reins in his hands he sprang upon 
the wheel. And as he stood so, a shock 
of fear ran down his back like an elec 
tric current, his breath left him, and he 



GALLEGHER. 



167 



stood immovable, gazing with wide eyes 
into the darkness. 

The officer with the lantern had sud 
denly loomed up from behind a carriage 
not fifty feet distant, and was standing 
perfectly still, with his lantern held over 
his head, peering so directly toward 
Gallegher that the boy felt that he 
must see him. Gallegher stood with 
one foot on the hub of the wheel and 
with the other on the box waiting to 
spring. It seemed a minute before 
either of them moved, and then the 
officer took a step forward, and de 
manded sternly, " Who is that ? What 
are you doing there ? " 

There was no time for parley then. 
Gallegher felt that he had been taken 
in the act, and that his only chance lay 
in open flight. He leaped up on the 
box, pulling out the whip as he did so, 
and with a quick sweep lashed the 
horse across the head and back. The 
animal sprang forward with a snort, 
narrowly clearing the gate post, and 
plunged off into the darkness. 

" Stop ! " cried the officer. 

So many of Gallegher s acquaintances 
among the longshoremen and mill hands 
had been challenged in so much the 
same manner that Gallegher knew what 
would probably follow if the challenge 
was disregarded. So he slipped from 
his seat to the footboard below, and 
ducked his head. 

The three reports of a pistol, which 
rang out briskly from behind him, proved 
that his early training had given him a 
valuable fund of useful miscellaneous 
knowledge. 

" Don t you be scared," he said, re 
assuringly, to the horse, " he s firing in 
the air." 

The pistol-shots were answered by 
the impatient clangor of a patrol wagon s 
gong, and glancing over his shoulder 
Gallegher saw its red and green lan 
terns tossing from side to side and look 
ing in the darkness like the side-lights 
of a yacht plunging forward in a storm. 

"I hadn t bargained to race you 
against no patrol wagons," said Galle 
gher to his animal ; " but if they want a 
race we ll give them a tough tussle for 
it, won t we ? " 

Philadelphia, lying four miles to the 
south, sent up a faint yellow glow to 



the sky. It seemed very far away, 
and Gallegher s braggadocio grew cold 
within him at the loneliness of his ad 
venture and the thought of the long 
ride before him. 

It was still bitterly cold. 

The rain and sleet beat through his 
clothes, and struck his skin with a 
sharp chilling touch that set him trern- 



the thought of the over-weighted 
patrol wagon probably sticking in the 
mud some safe distance in the rear, failed 
to cheer him, and the excitement that 
had so far made him callous to the cold 
died out and left him weaker and ner 
vous. 

But his horse was chilled with the 
long standing, and now leaped eagerly 
forward, only too willing to warm the 
half-frozen blood in its veins. 

" You re a good beast," said Gallegher, 
plaintively. "You ve got more nerve 
than me. Don t you go back on me now. 
Mr. Dwyer says we ve got to beat the 
town." Gallegher had no idea what time 
it was as he rode through the night, but 
he knew he would be able to find out 
from the big clock over a manufactory 
at a point nearly three quarters of the 
distance from Keppler s to the goal. 

He was still in the open country and 
driving recklessly, for he knew the best 
part of his ride must be made outside 
the city limits. 

| He raced between desolate-looking 
corn-fields with bare stalks and patches 
of muddy earth rising above the thin 
covering of snow, truck farms and brick 
yards fell behind him on either side. It 
was very lonely work, and once or twice 
the dogs ran yelping to the gates and 
barked after him. 

Part of his way lay parallel with the 
railroad tracks, and he drove for some 
time beside long lines of freight and coal 
cars as they stood resting for the night. 
The fantastic Queen Anne suburban 
stations were dark and deserted, but in 
one or two of the block-towers he could 
see the operators writing at their desks, 
and the sight in some way comforted 
him. 

Once he thought of stopping to get 
out the blanket in which he had wrapped 
himself on the first trip, but he feared 
to spare the time, and drove on with his 



168 



GALLEGHER. 



teeth chattering and his shoulders shak 
ing with the cold. 

He welcomed the first solitary row of 
darkened houses with a faint cheer of 
recognition. The scattered lamp-posts 
lightened his spirits, and even the badly 
paved streets rang under the beats of 
his horse s feet like music. Great mills 
and manufactories, with only a night- 
watchman s light in the lowest of their 
many stories began to take the place of 
the gloomy farm-houses and gaunt trees 
that had startled him with their gro 
tesque shapes. He had been driving 
nearly an hour he calculated, and in that 
time the rain had changed to a wet snow 
that fell heavily and clung to whatever 
it touched. He passed block after block 
of trim workmen s houses, as still and 
silent as the sleepers within them, and 
at last he turned the horse s head into 
Broad Street, the city s great thorough 
fare that stretches from its one end to 
the other and cuts it evenly in two. 

He was driving noiselessly over the 

ow and slush in the street, with his 
thoughts bent only on the clock face he 
wished so much to see, when a hoarse 
voice challenged him from the sidewalk, 
"Hey, you, stop there, hold up," said 
the voice. 

Gallegher turned his head, and though 
he saw that the voice came from under 
a policeman s helmet, his only answer 
was to hit his horse sharply over the head 
with his whip and to urge it into a gallop. 

This, on his part, was followed by a 
sharp, shrill whistle from the policeman. 
Another whistle answered it from a 
street-corner one block ahead of him. 
" Whoa," said Gallegher pulling on the 
reins. "There s one too many of them," 
he added, in apologetic explanation. 
The horse stopped and stood, breathing 
heavily, with great clouds of steam ris 
ing from its flanks. 

" Why in hell didn t you stop when I 
told you to ? " demanded the voice, now 
close at the cab s side. 

"I didn t hear you," returned Galle 
gher, sweetly. " But I heard you whis 
tle and I heard your partner whistle, 
and I thought maybe it was me you 
wanted to speak to, so I just stopped." 

" You heard me well enough. Why 
aren t your lights lit?" demanded the 
voice. 



"Should I have em lit?" asked Galle 
gher, bending over and regarding them 
with sudden interest. 

"You know you should, and if you 
don t you ve no right to be driving that 
cab. I don t believe you re the regular 
driver anyway. Where d you get it." 

"It ain t my cab, of course," said Gal 
legher, with an easy laugh. " It s Luke 
McGovern s. He left it outside Cronin s 
while he went in to get a drink, and he 
took too much, and me father told me 
to drive it round to the stable for him. 
I m Cronin s son. McGovern ain t in no 
condition to drive. You can see your 
self how he s been misusing the horse. 
He puts it up at Bachman s livery stable, 
and I was just going around there now." 

Gallegher s knowledge of the local 
celebrities of the district confused the 
zealous officer of the peace. He sur 
veyed the boy with a steady stare that 
would have distressed a less skilful liar, 
but Gallegher only shrugged his should 
ers slightly, as if from the cold, and 
waited with apparent indifference to 
what the officer would say next. 

In reality his heart was beating heav 
ily against his side, and he felt that if 
he was kept on a strain much longer 
he would give way and break down. A 
second snow-covered form emerged sud 
denly from the shadow of the houses. 

" What is it, Keeder ? " it asked. 

" Oh, nothing much," replied the first 
officer. " This kid hadn t any lamps 
lit, so I called to him to stop and he 
didn t do it, so I whistled to you. It s 
all right though. He s just taking it 
round to Bachman s. Go ahead," he 
added, sulkily. 

" Get up," chirped Gallegher. " Good 
night," he added over his shoulder. 

Gallegher gave an hysterical little 
gasp of relief as he trotted away from 
the two policemen, and poured bitter 
maledictions on their heads for two 
meddling fools as he went. 

-^ They might as well kill a man as 
scare him to death," he said, with an at 
tempt to get back to his customary flip 
pancy. But the effort was somewhat 
pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that 
a salt-warm tear was creeping slowly 
down his face, and that a lump that 
would not keep down was rising in his> 
throat. 



GALLEGHER. 



169 



" Tain t no fair thing for the whole 
police force to keep worrying at a little 
boy like me," he said, in shame-faced 
apology. " I m not doing nothing 
wrong, and I m half froze to death, and 
yet they keep a- 
nagging at me." 

It was so cold 
that when the boy 
stamped his feet 
against the foot 
board to keep 
them warm sharp 
pains shot up 
through his body, 
and when he beat 
his arms about his 
shoulders, as he 
had seen real cab 
men do, the blood 
in his finger-tips 
tingled so acutely 
that he cried aloud 
with the pain. 

He had often 
been up that late 
before, but he had 
never felt so sleepy. 
It was as if some 
one was pressing 
a sponge heavy 
with chloroform 
near his face, and 
he could not fight 
off the drowsiness 
that lay hold of 
him. 

He saw, dimly 
hanging above his 
head, a round disc 
of light that seem 
ed like a great moon, and which he finally 
guessed to be the clock face for which he 
had been on the look out. He had passed 
it before he realized this, but the fact 
stirred him into wakefulness again, and 
when his cab s wheels slipped around 
the City Hall corner he remembered to 
look up at the other big clock face that 
keeps awake over the railroad station 
and measures out the night. 

He gave a gasp of consternation when 
he saw that it was half -past two, and that 
there was but ten minutes left to him. 
This, and the many electric lights and 
the sight of the familiar pile of build 
ings startled him into a semi-conscious- 
VOL. VIII. 17 



ness of where he was and how great was 
the necessity for haste. 

He rose in his seat and called on the 
horse and urged it into a reckless gallop 
over the slippery asphalt. He considered 
nothing else but 
speed, and looking 
neither to the left 
nor right dashed 
off clown Broad 
Street into Chest 
nut, where his 
course lay straight 
away to the office, 
now only seven 
blocks distant. 

Gallegher never 
knew how it be 
gan, but he was 
suddenly assaulted 
by shouts on either 
side, his horse was 
thrown back on its 
haunches, and he 
found two men in 
cabmen s livery 
hanging at its head 
and patting its 
sides and calling it 
by name. And the 
other cabmen who 
have their stand at 
the corner were 
swarming about 
the carriage, all of 
them talking and 
swearing at once, 
and gesticulating 
wildly with their 
whips. 

They said they 

knew the cab was McGovern s, and they 
wanted to know where he was and why 
he wasn t on it ; they wanted to know 
where Gallegher had stolen it, and why 
he had been such a fool as to drive it 
into the arms of its owner s friends ; 
they said that it was about time that a 
cab-driver could get off his box to take 
a drink without having his cab run away 
with, and some of them called loudly for 
a policeman to take the young thief in 
charge. 

Gallegher felt as if he had been sud 
denly dragged into consciousness out of 
a bad dream, and stood for a second like 
a half-awakened somnambulist. 




The detective placed his hands on his knees and Galle 
gher stood on his shoulders." Page 162. 



170 



GALLEGHER. 



They had stopped the cab under an 
electric light, and its glare shone coldly 
down upon the trampled snow and the 
faces of the men around him. 

Gallegher bent forward and lashed 
savagely at the horse with his whip. 

" Let me go," he shouted as he tugged 
impotently at the reins. "Let me go, 
I tell you. I haven t stole no cab, and 
you ve got no right to stop me. I only 
want to take it to the Press office," he 
begged. " They ll send it back to you all 
right. They ll pay you for the trip. I m 
not running away with it. The driver s 
got the collar he s rested and I m 
only a-going to the Press office. Do you 
hear me ? " he cried, his voice rising and 
breaking in a shriek of passion and 
disappointment. " I tell you to let go 
those reins. Let me go or I ll kill you. 
Do you hear me ? I ll kill you." And 
leaning forward the boy struck heavily 
with his long whip at the faces of the 
men about the horse s head. 

Some one in the crowd reached up 
and caught him by the ankles and with 
a quick jerk pulled him off the box and 
threw him on to the street. But he was 
up on his knees in a moment and caught 
at the man s hand. 

" Don t let them stop me, mister," he 
cried, "please let me go. I didn t steal 
the cab, sir. S help me I didn t. I m 
telling you the truth. Take me to the 
Press office and they ll prove it to you. 
They ll pay you anything you ask em. 
It s only such a little ways now, and 
I ve come so far, sir. Please don t let 
them stop me," he sobbed, clasping the 
man about the knees. " For Heaven s 
sake, mister, let me go." 

The managing editor of the Press 
took up the india-rubber speaking-tube 
at his side and answered " Not yet " to 
an inquiry the night editor had already 
put to him five times within the last 
twenty minutes. 

Then he snapped the metal top of the 
tube impatiently and went up-stairs. As 
he passed the door of the local room 
he noticed that the reporters had not 
gone home, but were sitting about on 
the tables and chairs waiting. They 
looked up inquiringly as he passed, and 
the city editor asked, "Any news yet? " 
and the managing editor shook his head. 



The compositors were standing idle 
in the composing-room, and their fore 
man was talking with the night editor. 

"Well," said that gentleman, tenta 
tively. 

"Well," returned the managing edi 
tor, "I don t think we can wait; do 
you?" 

" It s a half hour after time now," said 
the night editor, " and we ll miss the 
suburban trains if we hold the paper 
back any longer. We can t afford to 
wait for a purely h} T pothetical story. 
The chances are all against the fight s 
having taken place or this Hade s hav 
ing been arrested." 

" But if we re beaten on it " sug 
gested the chief. "But I don t think 
that is possible. If there were any 
story to print, Dwyer would have had 
it here before now." 

The managing editor looked steadily 
clown at the floor. 

" Very well," he said, slowly, " we 
won t wait any longer. Go ahead," he 
added, turning to the foreman with a 
sigh of reluctance. The foreman whirled 
himself about and began to give his 
orders, but the two editors still looked 
at each other doubtfully. 

As they stood so, there came a sud 
den shout and the sound of people 
running to and fro in the reportorial 
rooms below. There was the tramp of 
many footsteps on the stairs, and above 
the confusion they heard the voice of 
the city editor telling some one to " run 
to Madden s and get some brandy, 
quick." 

No one in the composing-room said 
anything; but those compositors who 
had started to go home began slipping 
off their overcoats, and every one stood 
with their eyes fixed on the door. 

It was kicked open from the outside, 
and in the doorway stood a cab-driver 
and the city editor, supporting between 
them a pitiful little figure of a boy, wet 
and miserable, and with the snow melt 
ing on his clothes and running in little 
pools to the floor. "Why, it s Galle 
gher," said the night editor, in a tone 
of the keenest disappointment. 

Gallegher shook himself free from 
his supporters, and took an unsteady 
step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly 
with the buttons of his waistcoat. 



GALLEGHER. 



171 



" Mr. Dwyer, sir," he began faintly, men as rapidly as a gambler deals out 
with his eyes fixed fearfully on the cards, 
managing editor, "he got arrested Then the managing editor stooped 




For God s sake," Hade begged, " let me go ! " Page 165. 



and I couldn t get here no sooner, cause 
they kept a stopping me, and they took 
me cab from under me but he 
pulled the notebook from his breast 
and held it out with its covers damp 
and limp from the rain, "but we got 
Hade, and here s Mr. Dwyer s copy." 

And then he asked, with a queer note 
in his voice, partly of dread and partly 
of hope, " Am I in time, sir ? " 

The managing editor took the book, 
and tossed it to the foreman, who ripped 
out its leaves and dealt them out to his 



and picked GaUegher up in his arms, 
and, sitting down, began to unlace his 
wet and muddy shoes. 

Gallegher made a faint effort to resist 
this degradation of the managerial dig 
nity, but his protest was a very feeble 
one, and his head fell back heavily on 
the managing editor s shoulder. 

To GaUegher the incandescent lights 
began to whirl about in circles, and to 
burn in different colors ; the faces of the 
reporters kneeling before him and chaf 
ing his hands and feet grew dim and 



172 



GALLEGHER. 




"Why, it s Gallagher," said the night editor. Page 170. 



unfamiliar, and the roar and rumble of 
the great presses in the basement sound 
ed far away, like the murmur of the 



sea. 



And then the place and the circum 
stances of it came back to him again 
sharply and with sudden vividness. 

Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, 
into the managing editor s face. "You 
won t turn me off for running away, will 
you ? " he whispered. 

The managing editor did not answer 



immediately. His head was bent, and 
he was thinking, for some reason or 
other, of a little boy of his own, at home 
in bed. Then he said, quietly, "Not 
this time, Gallegher." 

Gallegher s head sank back comfort 
ably on the older man s shoulder, and 
he smiled comprehensively at the faces 
of the young men crowded around him. 
" You hadn t ought to," he said, with a 
touch of his old impudence, " cause I 
beat the town." 



SERGEANT GORE. 

By LeRoy Armstrong. 




NLISTED men in the 
regular army do not in 
dulge in much court 
ing of any kind. These 
sons of Mars who hold 
the outworks of the realm are not often 
afforded an opportunity to court even 
danger. Fame, that is supposed to lurk 
in cannons mouths, there to be sought 
by aspiring young gentlemen who make 
a living by the extinguishment of other 
aspiring young gentlemen, is a thing 
so rarely heard about in the army of 
the United States that sluggish blood, 
tamed by some drill and much fatigue, 
is never moved to deeds of daring. 
Fortune is, if possible, farther away 
than promotion, for the legions are not 
munificently rewarded, and the soldier 
who can loan money is a personage cer 
tain of distinction. 

And as for courtship, which involves 
a gentler, fairer sex, that is quite out of 
the question. At their quarters, in the 
tedium of walking post, and on the long 
rides down the valley when " mounted 
pass " rewards good conduct, some of 
the men may cherish these dreams of 
fair women, but they always set the sea 
son of their felicity far in the future 
when captivity shall have been turned to 
freedom. 

But now and then even the ignoble 
recruit in the regular army finds an ob 
ject about which he may moan and 
dream. It may not be a face or figure 
that would inspire great deeds in those 
who have more frequent views of women ; 
but beauty is a matter of comparisons. 
The " handsomest woman in the valley " 
wears a diadem as dear to her as that 
which graces the " loveliest ladv in the 
city." 

Fort Bidwell had but one unmarried 
woman in the whole confines of the res 
ervation, and she was a half-Spanish 
maiden who attended the commanding 
officer s children. Her father had been 
an army officer, who consoled himself 
for assignment to Fort Yuma by marry 
ing the belle of the region a territory 



that is even yet far more Castilian than 
Saxon. Judged by all canons of beauty 
Terita was not handsome. She was 
short and dark, low-browed, and gifted 
with a mouth of most generous extent ; 
but then, she was young, her hands and 
feet were small and shapely, her eyes 
were deep and dark, and she had her 
mother s very witchery of dress. Seen 
beside the wives of the officers, Terita 
suffered somewhat ; but then no soldier 
ever saw her there. To them she was 
ever alone and unshamed by compari 
sons. 

When she wheeled the colonel s chil 
dren down the esplanade of an after 
noon the time of all times when an 
American camp is lazy the men would 
. vie with each other in attentions. True, 
they could not do much, and the first 
man at her side, if not dislodged by 
Terita s frowns, was master of the sit 
uation. 

But the sun shone brightly on the 
esplanade all the afternoon, while just 
across the creek which formed one 
boundary of the parade-ground was a 
level stretch of grass that lay like a car 
pet right up to the foot of a massive, 
towering wall of granite. The time- 
honored excuse for accosting the maid 
was to assist her and the children across 
this brook on a series of stepping-stones 
so much more desirable than any 
bridge could have been. Once over, 
the commonest kind of courtesy de 
manded that Terita permit her adorer 
to walk up and down with her, to fill 
the admiring, envious eyes of all the 
garrison, and to win the colonel s graces 
no less than the girl s, by preventing 
any of the little blunderers from falling 
in the brook. 

It was, indeed, to the rank and file, 
" the shadow of a great rock in a weary 
land." 

Of course, all this implied a well- 
dressed soldier, the patient buffing of 
buttons, the polishing of shoes, and the 
tact to simply happen on the esplanade 
not rush there as though this were 



174 



SERGEANT GORE. 



the one tiling which could make a man 
tidy and agreeable. And while four 
out of every five men in the fort would 



could expect she would dismiss the 
others, and keep herself for him only. 
But the girl was rapidly developing a 






When she wheeled the colonel s children down the esplanade. 



have given a month s pay any time to 
walk and talk with her, to touch her 
hand at chance intervals, and to wake 
that merry Southern laugh, not nearly 
that proportion cared to give the time 
and trouble necessary ; and a still small 
er number was prepared to march out 
there and run the risk of impalement on 
that keen glance, not to mention the 
ridicule such a fate would involve when 
one returned to the squad-room. 

Yet the strife for her smiles was warm 
enough, and several shared with some 
approach to equality the honor of at 
tending Terita, though not one of them 



stronger liking for Sergeant Gore than 
for anybody else. He was so handsome, 
so at ease ; his blue eyes shone with 
such a light, and his soft, white hands 
were so caressingly tender when they 
touched her own. 

He was so faultlessly dressed, and 
was so plainly accustomed some time in 
the past to even better company than 
hers, that Terita always greeted him 
with a surer welcome, walked with him 
longer, and was plainly happier with 
him than with the other men. And so 
it came to pass when rival admirers out 
witted Sergeant Gore and gained the 






SERGEANT GORE. 



175 



coveted position, she grew to inquiring 
about that young man ; grew to speak 
of his dress, his learning, his better 
past. All this was gall and wormwood 
to the gallants who heard it, and one by 
one they read dismissal in the queries, 
and left the field to Gore. 

He was not the only man of good fam 
ily whom Dame Fortune, in a perverse 
mood, had sent to the ranks of the reg 
ular army ; he was one of many. But 
his face and figure, no less than his 
family-tree, were his title-deeds of no 
bility. Sergeant Gore s weekly letter 
from his Philadelphia home had long 
been one of the events at the squad- 
rooms in Bidwell. A chosen few might 
listen to some passages. A somewhat 
larger circle had seen the photographs 
of mother and sisters, and knew the 
home-life of the Gores was one to envy. 
They paid him their highest compli- 



During the Modoc war young Billy 
Somers, just out of a civilian college at 
the East, dared the rigors of a campaign 
in the lava beds, quartering himself on 
his brother, the first lieutenant of Com 
pany G, First Cavalry. When Captain 
Jack and his three unclean abettors were 
hanged at Klamath for defying the flag 
and slaying the men who bore it, young 
William asked for a commission in the 
army. The officers in general endorsed 
his application, for he was an uncommon 
ly agreeable fellow, and all declared his 
deserts firmly grounded on " brave and 
meritorious conduct in the Modoc war." 

Pending the action of the Secretary 
of War the young man paid a visit to 
his friends in San Francisco, and then, 
as the unfruitful months vanished, he 
came to Bidwell and again accepted the 
hospitality of his brother. He found a 
comfortable seat on the broad balcony 







\ 



There smoked good "conchas" and watched the golden afternoons drift by. 

ment by being interested in that fairer of Lieutenant Somers s quarters, and 

half of life, and asking respectfully, when there smoked good " conchas " and 

the quarters were stillest, about those watched the golden afternoons drift by. 

from whom his honor kept him alien. He saw Terita, and being almost an 



176 



SERGEANT GORE. 



officer, if not already crowned with a 
commission, he needed no introduction, 
and, indeed, very little formality of 
any kind, to claim her acquaintance. 
The girl was flattered by his attentions, 



in secret many times, vexed that fate 
gave her a choice so grievous ; and she 
was often very good to Gore, though he, 
poor fellow, would come back to quar 
ters with not enough of reason left to 










" Let us walk on the grass beyond the creek to-night." Page 180. 



although the more surely he was an of 
ficer the smaller the chance for any 
union. But he found many pretexts 
for being with her. When his commis 
sion should come he might be assigned 
to some post in the South, and his 
Spanish was in woful need of dressing. 
And she well, she was a woman, and 
not averse to compliment. 

The children were seldom lifted across 
the creek now. Terita said the espla 
nade was good enough. And she could 
not encourage Sergeant Gore to walk 
with her there, where every turn brought 
them under Lieutenant Somers s bal 
cony. Yet she did love him. She wept 



distinguish between a daily detail and a 
death sentence. 

But at last the commons triumphed. 
Billy Somers s commission didn t come ; 
maybe it never would. She fed the 
hope and let her heart follow T its strong 
er bending. Gore was in ecstasies. He 
had less than a year to serve, and then 
an honorable discharge would restore 
him, somewhat like the prodigal son, to 
a father s house where there was plenty. 

Terita slipped from her room one 
night and met her lover on the grassy 
walk beyond the creek. They strolled 
up and down there in the moonlight, 
busy with pictures that are never un- 



SERGEANT GORE. 



Ill 



veiled but once in all the world. Gore 
wore his finest uniform, and strapped to 
his side, lifted from clanking against his 
spurs, was his burnished sabre ; for he 
was sergeant of the guard to-day. 

Why will a woman love the tools of 
war ? What is there in a sword to fire 
her with devotion for the wight who 
carries it ? No one knows, yet that has 
been her weakness since JEneas won the 
heart of Dido. 

The mail had arrived to-day, and its 
chief treasure, his letter from home, was 
recited at length to the fairy by his side. 
Terita listened and clung to this hand 
some fellow ; she stroked his massive 
arm, she touched his face, she sang him 
songs of love in the soft Spanish of her 
mother-tongue and she turned like a 
panther when a man came quickly 
around the base of the great rock and 
approached her lover threateningly. 

It was Billy Somers. 

"Go to the guard-house, Gore," he 
said. "You have no business here." 

But the sergeant knew his footing. 
He was trespassing on regulations ; he 
was well aware of that, but between 
him and any citizen he was the better 
armed just now. 

"I don t know why I should take or 
ders from you," he said, calmly and 
firmly ; then he added, " Mr. Somers," 
with a possible emphasis on the title. 

" You are sergeant of the guard. Go 
to your post, or I will have your belts 
off in ten minutes." 

" You go slow, or I will have you in 
the bottom of the creek .in ten seconds," 
came in anger from the soldier. Then 
he added again, as thrust, reminder, 
taunting all in one " Mr. Somers." 

" Lieutenant Somers," corrected the 
other, with an undoubted emphasis on 
the title. 

" Lieutenant ? " cried the girl, with an 
inflection of inquiry. 

"Lieutenant ! " echoed Gore, in deep 
derision. He did not believe the Sec 
retary of War would ever make that 
man an officer. 

" Yes, lieutenant," said Somers, sharp 
ly. " My commission came to-day." 

That settled it. He was clearly mas 
ter here. But Gore was game. He 
took Terita s hand and led her across 
the brook on the stepping-stones that 
VOL. VIIL 18 



long had paved the way from earth to 
paradise stones that memory would 
bind about his neck hereafter, while he 
struggled in the infinite sea of despair. 

But he would have given a sixth year 
of service in the barracks for just one 
hour at the hay corral with that subal 
tern. 

" Good-night, Terita," he said, as he 
reached her door. There was no at 
tempt at hushing his voice as became a 
plebeian on the borders of patrician 
realms. He lifted his cap with perfect 
grace, bowed low and went away, proud 
as a gentleman. 

All the officers and their families, sit 
ting the evening out upon their bal 
conies, saw the episode ; but they had 
not seen that brief passage at arms 
across the creek. The officer of the day 
only knew that here was a sergeant of 
the guard gallanting a girl when he 
should have been at his post. He put 
on his hat and called to the retreating 
figure, while Terita wrung her hands in 
an agony for Gore, then pressed them 
in rejoicing for Somers s good fortune. 

The two men met half-way across the 
parade-ground. 

" What are you doing, sergeant ? " 

"Disobeying orders, I fear, sir," an 
swered the culprit, saluting. 

" Go to your post. I shall report you 
in the morning." 

They saluted again and parted. That 
night Sergeant Gore was Upton person 
ified in his strict adherence to regula 
tions. Next morning he was relieved 
before guard mount, and the corporal 
turned over " the fort and all its stores " 
to the succeeding detail. 

"Lieutenant William Somers says 
you insulted him last night," said the 
commanding officer sternly, when he 
had summoned Gore before him. The 
non-commissioned man told the whole 
story just as it was. 

" Go back to your quarters, and never 
let such conduct occur again." 

Gore was out of it easier than he had 
expected. He was not even reduced to 
the ranks. Surely that grim old colonel 
saw more than the surface of things. 

But Terita? Well, she grew very 
chilling. Young Lieutenant Somers hon 
ored her with a horseback ride down 
the valley, though his conduct met stern 



178 



SERGEANT GORE. 



disapproval from the other officers and 
their wives. It was one thing for Te- 
rita to be courted by an enlisted man 
soon to leave the service ; it was quite 
another for an officer to show her favors 
and she a waiting-maid ! 

Sergeant Gore was not reduced to the 
ranks, but he might have been for all he 
cared. He was hopelessly smitten by 
that little girl. He could not wake his 
pride and dismiss all thought of her. 
He grew less tidy, and his springing 
gait became a painful drag. He did his 
duty in a slip-shod way, and only roused 
to interest when the squad-rooms were 
agog with speculation as to where 
" Lieutenant Billy " would be assigned 
for service. He only listened to their 
chatter when the men recounted some 
new freak of that late-fledged lieutenant. 
His arrogance, his tyranny, his petty 
spite, won him a place of singular dis 
like. Gore hoped, yet dreaded, that the 
time would come when he could wreak 
his anger on that upstart. He did 
much violence to his blood and training 
as he pictured some possible collision. 
He thought of Achilles, who was bereft 
by a baser, not a better, soldier and 
smiled at the stupendous vanity pent in 
the simile. 

A month went by. The new lieuten 
ant had an open field for Terita, so far 
as rivals went, but he still found rough 
sailing in the social waters. At last, in 
self-defence, he announced his intention 
to marry the girl as soon as he was as 
signed to duty, and said, in a burst of 
heroics, that he would be proud to take 
her with him as his wife wherever he 
might go. And from that time his woo 
ing was frowned on less hardly than be 
fore. 

But that assignment to duty! It 
troubled him far more than anyone else. 
Until it came that Spanish damsel held 
him at a most tantalizing arm s length. 
It was very provoking. He prayed for 
the Presidio, near San Francisco ; he 
dreaded Fort Yuma or St. Francis. 

Sergeant Gore lay half-asleep on a 
bench in front of the quarters, and 
gazed at that point of rocks across the 
parade - ground. The October wind 
lifted his blond hair and blew it about, 
shaming him for neglecting the barber. 
It occurred to him that the mail-coach 



was due to-day, and he was not so tidy 
as he should be when his letter came. 
He glanced down at his uniform, at his 
dusty boots ; he passed his palm across 
a very stubble-field of cheek. He waked 
to the consciousness that all this was un 
manly, not to say unsoldier-like, no mat 
ter what the provocation, and he drew 
himself together with a quick resolve to 
be more worthy of that distant home 
where he was waited with such patient 
love. 

As he set his face toward the rather 
humble house of tonsure some quality in 
the rising wind attracted him. An ar 
row of cold, like an icy needle, shot its 
warning through the warmer air. In 
the northwest, hovering on the ragged 
peaks of Shasta, were banks of leaden 
clouds, while just overhead, with lower 
ing pressure, swept the fleecy vanguard 
of the storm. 

" Blizzard to-night," said Gore, senten- 
tiously, to the barber ; and then, in a 
tone more lif e-like than they had known 
in weeks, he added : " One shave, one 
haircut, one waxed mustache," and 
clambered in the chair. 

When he left the place an hour later 
he was the Gore of other days. Not 
a fleck of dust stained the dark blue 
of his garments ; not a touch of soil 
dimmed the lustre of his shoes, while 
buttons, linen, sunny locks, and all 
marked the model soldier. 

Just before him a little heap of leaves 
and grasses woke in confusion and 
scampered up the spiral staircase of the 
wind. Over in the great corral swine 
were borrowing trouble with loud, in 
cisive cries, and carrying wisps of hay 
into the lee of heavy walls. The army of 
clouds that stood on Shasta when he 
passed before had advanced a score of 
miles, and gusts of cold, like scouts, 
were trying the passages of canon and 
hill. Light flakes of snow shot by, fell 
in a group on the porch at the quarters, 
and whirled in a waltz to the sharp 
whistling of the storm. 

"Put on your overcoats," said the 
sergeant of the guard to the relief. In 
side the squad-room some men were 
kindling a fire. Gore watched them 
through the window, then walked brisk 
ly to and fro the length of the building. 
He was erect, clear-brained, deep-breath- 



SERGEANT GORE. 



179 



ing, exultant. His vigor was wakened 
by the tonic of frost. 

Snow drifted in long, loose ridges 
across the parade-ground, as the sun 
down roll was called. At tattoo the blast 
had grown so bitter that the men stood 
close in the shelter of the buildings, as 
in midwinter ; while the officer of the 
day, in top-boots and field-cloak, was 
buried to the knees in the gathering 
drifts. Taps, the final bugle-call of the 
day, was drowned in the louder trumpet- 
ings of the hurricane. 

Gore thought of his horse, and stole 
from the barracks to make sure of the 
animal s comfort. The storm was rag 
ing. Winds, like moistened lashes, 
whipped his face. He bent his head 
and ran, stumbling over unfamiliar 
things, tripping, recovering, and chafing 
his freezing wrists. Surely he had gone 
far enough. He was bewildered. He 
turned his back and tried to find the 
outlines of the buildings or the hills. 
Vision could not pierce beyond that 
mad, tempestuous whirl of sleety snow. 

He was lost ! 

But under the chilling paralysis of 
that moment, when life and death con 
tended with just lengthened lances, the 
heart of the man rose with a throb of 
defiance. He would not be frozen. 
Where was the corral? the quarters? 
where was he ? One moment of confu 
sion meant a panic and the end. One 
moment of calmness might save him. He 
shouted aloud, but the vicious demon of 
the storm snatched the message and 
shattered it scattered it to all the winds 
at once. He knew it could not be heard 
ten yards away. But he called again, 
and just as calmly. Somewhere in that 
hurrying blast was surely a breeze that 
would carry the cry to willing ears. He 
tried again. 

Then, behind him just a little way, 
rose an answer. He turned and called 
quickly. Quicker still came a response. 
But this new voice was one of beseech 
ing. It was a plea for help. Gore strug 
gled toward it, guided by its rising, 
waking, hopeful repetition. He stum 
bled blindly against a fence and knew 
his bearings in an instant. 

There to his right, buried in the drift, 
battling feebly to escape, crouched 
"Lieutenant Billy. 



Gore gazed on him in silence just one 
moment ; but in that little lapse of time 
his bosom was a battle-field of tempests 
as fierce as that without. How easy to 
end it all just here ! No need to touch 
him ; no need to speak. No one on 
earth would ever know he stood above 
those epaulets and took receipt in full 
for slavery. 

Just one moment, and then a breath 
from that good home in far-off Philadel 
phia flashed past the leagues that lay 
between, and stirred his heart to man 
hood. 

" Hello there, Lieutenant ! " he shout 
ed, grasping a numbed arm with one 
hand, while with the other he held to 
the fence as to a life-line that could bear 
them both to safety. "Hello, there! 
Get up ! You re freezing." 

The bewildered man rose stiffly, grasp 
ing wildly for support. He could not 
walk ; he could not stand. He fell full 
length and helpless in the snow. 

Gore stooped and wrapped his strong 
arms about the prostrate body ; he raised 
it to his shoulder and then crowded 
along against the fence till it led him to 
the quarters. 

A month of fairest weather followed, 
and not a vestige of the storm-wrought 
ruin could be seen in the valley. Ser 
geant Gore was discipline again. He 
didn t care about Terita, and he was 
quits with Somers. His arms shone re 
splendent, his uniform was a model of 
beauty, his conduct was all that a soldier 
could desire. He declined with dignity 
the lieutenant s invitation to come to 
the officers quarters and be thanked. 

" Tell him," he said to the orderly, 
" that I saved him just as I would a 
steer or a pony. I don t care a copper 
whether he gets well or not." 

This was far from true ; but the 
brute in man is sometimes so 1 strong 
that it demands concessions, and they 
must be made. He could not forget, 
and it was still more impossible to for 
give. 

He was strolling past the esplanade 
one day, upright, defiant. The mail had 
just brought him a letter from home. 
It raised him visibly above all things in 
Bidwell. It warmed and comforted 
it satisfied him. 



180 



SERGEANT GORE. 



Terita leaned from the colonel s bal 
cony and accosted him. 

" So glad to see you," she said. " I 
have wanted to talk with you. Let us 
walk on the grass beyond the creek to 
night." 

"What will Somers say ? " 

How perverse he was. But even as 
he watched for the effect of his thrust, 
his heart leaped wildly. Oh, those lit 
tle hands, that gladsome face, those 
ripe, red lips ! 

"Why," with a laugh, "what do I 
care ? " 

Plainly the new commission had lost 
its charms. 

" I ll come," said Gore, not quite so 
heartily as he once had done, but with 
a vein of independence that was worth 
much to him. 

That night they crossed the creek, 
treading those blessed stepping-stones, 
and walked in the moonlight again. 
The evenings were chilling now, and Te 
rita wore a true Castilian mantilla. 
They talked of everything but one. 
She" sang the old songs, she laughed 
and nattered him ; she won him utterly, 
and then she said : 



" You were so good to save Lieuten 
ant Billy. Poor fellow, he is so grate 
ful to you." 

Gore sniffed his contempt. 

" He has been assigned to duty at I 
can t remember." 

" The Presidio ? " with fear and trem 
bling. 

" No oh, my, no. At Fort Buford, 
in northern Dakota. His orders came 
to-day." 

Talk of anything now. She has 
spread her net, has secured her prize ; 
here she transfixed him. When he left 
her that night Sergeant Gore trod on 
zephyrs. He was too happy to lie in 
bed even after taps, and stole away be 
yond the boiling springs to walk alone 
and fashion castles in the air castles 
that in these later days he has peopled 
with the fairies of love requited, the 
genii of manhood s strength and wom 
an s blessing. 

And Terita? Why, time has given 
stature, rarest comeliness, and unswerv 
ing truth to her. She is prouder of her 
home, her handsome husband, and her 
pretty children, than ever was the wife 
of a grandee in Spain. 





By Tbomas Bailey Aldrich. 

AGLAE, a widow. 

MURIEL, her unmarried sister. 

IT happened once, in that brave land that lies 
For half the twelve-month arched by sombre skies, 
Two sisters loved one man. He being dead, 
Grief loosed the lips of her he had not wed, 
And all the passion that through heavy years 
Had masked in smiles, unmasked itself in tears. 
No purer love may mortals know than this, 
The hidden love that guards another s bliss. 
High in a turret s westward-facing room, 
Whose painted window held the sunset s bloom, 
The two together grieving, each to each 
Unveiled her soul with sobs and broken speech. 
Both still were young, in life s rich summer yet ; 
And one was dark, with tints of violet 
In hair and eyes, and one was blond as she 
Who rose a second daybreak from the sea, 
Gold-tressed and azure-eyed. In that lone place, 
Like dusk and dawn, they sat there face to face. 

She spoke the first whose strangely silvering hair 
No wreath had worn, nor widow s weed might wear, 
And told her blameless love, and knew no shame 
Her holy love that, like a vestal flame 
Beside the sacred body of some queen 
Within a guarded crypt, had burned unseen 
From weary year to year. And she who heard 
Smiled proudly through her tears and said no word, 
But drawing closer, on the troubled brow 
Laid one long kiss, and that was words enow! 



182 THE SISTERS TRAGEDY. 

MUKIEL. 

Be still, my heart ! Grown patient with thine ache, 
Thou should st be dumb yet needs must speak, or break. 
The world is empty, now that he is gone. 

AGLAE. 
Ay, sweetheart ! 

MURIEL. 

None was like him, no, not one. 
From other men he stood apart, alone 
In honor spotless as unfallen snow. 
Nothing all evil was it his to know ; 
His charity still found some germ, some spark 
Of light in natures that seemed wholly dark. 
He read men s souls ; the lowly and the high 
Moved on the self-same level in his eye. 
Gracious to all, to none subservient, 
Without offence he spake the word he meant 
His word no trick of tact or courtly art, 
But the white flowering of the noble heart. 
Careless he was of much the world counts gain, 
Careless of self, too simple to be vain, 
Yet strung so finely that for conscience-sake 
He would have gone like Cranmer to the stake. 
I saw how could I help but love ? And you ? 

AGLAE. 

At this perfection did I worship too. . . . 
Twas this that stabbed me. Heed not what I say ! 
I meant it not, my wits are gone astray, 
With all that is and has been. No, I lie 
Had he been less perfection, happier I ! 

MURIEL. 

Strange words and wild ! Tis the distracted mind 
Breathes them, not you, and I no meaning find. 

AGLAE. 

Yet twere as plain as writing on a scroll 
Had you but eyes to read within my soul. 
How a grief hidden feeds on its own mood, 
Poisons the healthful currents of the blood 
With bitterness, and turns the heart to stone ! 
I think, in truth, twere better to make moan, 
And so be done with it. This many a year, 
Sweetheart, have I laughed lightly and made cheer, 
Pierced through with sorrow ! 



THE SISTERS TRAGEDY. 

Then the widowed one, 
With sorrowfulest eyes beneath the sun, 
Faltered, irresolute, and bending low 
Her head, half whispered, 

Dear, how could you know ? 
What masks are faces ! yours, unread by me 
These seven long summers ; mine, so placidly 
Shielding my woe ! No tremble of the lip, 
No cheek s quick pallor let our secret slip ! 
Mere players we, and she that played the queen, 
Now in her homespun, looks how poor and mean ! 
How shall I say it, how find words to tell 
What thing it was for me made earth a hell 
That else had been my heaven ! Twould blanch your cheek 
Were I to speak it. Nay, but I will speak, 
Since like two souls at cornpt we seem to stand, 
Where nothing may be hidden. Hold my hand, 
But look not at me ! Noble twas and meet, 
To hide your heart, nor fling it at his feet 
To lie despised there. Thus saved you our pride 
And that white honor for which earls have died. 
You were not all unhappy, loving so ! 
I with a difference wore my weight of woe. 
My lord was he. It was my cruel lot, 
My hell, to love him for he loved me not ! 

Then came a silence. Suddenly like death 

The truth flashed on them, and each held her breath 

A flash of light whereby they both were slain, 

She that was loved and she that loved in vain ! 



183 




JERRY. 



PART FIBST (CONCLUDED). 




CHAPTEK XIV. 

" As to the assertion that no amount of evi 
dence could establish the supernatural, we ask 
in amazement, On what is the supernatural 
based ? Does it rest on anything higher than 
the idle habit of mind induced by the observa 
tion of constant recurrences V " 

HE fight with Paul 
was a great event 
in Jerry s life, and 
Joe chuckled over it 
with much satisfac- 
tion, being proud 
of Jerry s " sper- 
ret." 

" An the wuss 
youuns air, Jerry, 
wusser hisn s lickin air," he had 
said more than once ; but this triumph 
was soon overshadowed by an occur 
rence of solemn portent. 

It was going to be a bitter winter ; 
everybody said so, and Joe had stopped 
work some time before to make prep 
aration for it. Jerry worked with him 
heartily enough ; coining home from 
the beloved lessons an hour earlier that 
he might help Joe bring the wood up 
from the gorges, where the pines grew 
best ; helping him build a sheltered pen 
for the three pigs that were to be kept 
and killed as needed ; helping him make 
a bin to keep the meal dry, and a box 
in which to pack salt beef. 

Jerry rather liked it ; there was a 
sense of plenty and comfort about the 
preparations which he had never experi 
enced before. All winter there would 
be enough to eat, and enough to wear, 
and wood to warm them. All this his 
father could have done, the boy thought, 
but he never had, and the winters had 
been black times of terror to him and 
his mother. 

But he said nothing to Joe about this, 
drew no comparisons ; for already he 
was imbibing some idea of keeping faith 
since once the doctor had said to him 
"You should remember you are speak 



ing of your father " and the boy had 
felt his face grow very hot ; he did not 
realize why, but since then he had not 
talked about his home nor his old life. 
Indeed, he abhorred the thought of it, 
for gradually there was growing on him 
the knowledge of the fact that his mother 
had died for him. Sometimes he would 
sit up quite still in the night with his 
little bundle held close in his arms, and 
try not to long to kill his father, try not 
to curse him and the great brutal woman 
who was now his wife. For, living with 
the doctor day after day, he was gather 
ing to himself a more clear and distinct 
understanding of right and wrong, and 
of the vast difference existing between 
the doctor and the people about him ; 
he was making every effort to imitate 
and follow him in all things, and his love 
for this man was boundless. But grow 
ing up with this adoring love he bore 
for his hero, there was a deep grievance 
and bitterness ; it was the doctor s love 
for Paul that Jerry had learned to watch 
for and suffer from ; for Jerry hated 
Paul. The slow, cool scorn with which 
Paul looked at him the manner in 
which he stood aside to let Jerry pass, 
as if the danger of touching him was to 
be avoided the way in which he vacat 
ed the library whenever Jerry entered, 
was too much to be endured without 
breeding a hatred deep and lasting. But 
if Jerry had known it, Paul had also a 
great pain ; if only it would not be be 
neath him to whip this little cur this 
wretched little pauper who had dared to 
fight and overcome him ; and beyond 
was always the dreadful doubt " Did 
the doctor know ? " 

So the bitter feeling grew between the 
boys, and Jerry s wonder as to the con 
nection between Paul and the doctor 
became one of the chief problems of his 
life for he could not touch Paul if the 
doctor " sot much sto " by him. 

He would have liked to have asked the 
doctor about it, but the same feeling 
that now made him keep quiet about his 



JERRY. 



185 



own affairs made him hesitate about ask 
ing questions. So he only watched that 
he might learn with certainty what the 
feeling was between these two. And the 
watching made him heavy-hearted ; for 
there was something in each that he 
could not understand nor copy, and they 
could talk of things of which he knew 
nothing ; yet Paul was only a boy. 

But there was always a brisk change 
when Jerry went back to the little house 
under the rocks. Joe was always there 
before him now, working busily and 
whistling the one straight, endless tune 
they had in common. 

Each day the journeys for wood were 
made, until the piles grew so high that 
Jerry thought they would last forever. 
But Joe knew better, and worked day 
by day while Jerry was in the settlement, 
and after Jerry came home, far into the 
late evening. At last the stacks had 
grown high enough even for Joe, and as 
the covered pen was ready, Joe proposed 
that they should go for the pigs before 
another fall of snow. 

"It ll be a heavy one when it do come," 
he said, looking at the clouds that were 
gathering ; clouds of deathlike, ghastly 
white, " an the devil couldn t drive them 
pigs up these rocks then." 

So Jerry came home earlier than usual, 
and they set off. 

" Jim Martin lives nigh ole Durden s 
mine," Joe said, "an youuns kin jest 
tuck a leetle spy in the hole, Jerry." 

Jerry s eyes opened very wide. 

"I m feared, "he answered, forgetting 
in his excitement that the doctor had 
told him to say " afraid." 

" Most folks is," and Joe shook his 
head mysteriously, "but I Hows as it 
can t hurt youuns jest to peek in fur a 
minnit." 

" An the water ? " Jerry asked, in a low 
tone. 

"I How it s a-drappin yit," Joe 
answered, " an it ll keep on a-drappin 
tell the Jedgment day ; it soun s power 
ful creepy, it do." 

To see " ole Durden s mine ! " Jerry 
felt his hair rise up, and all his veins 
tingle ; to look in, and maybe to see the 
gold glittering on the walls and floor, as 
he thought it must to hear that water 
dropping all day and all night, never 
ceasing, never forming into a pool or 



stream that any human eye had ever seen. 
An indefinable trembling came over him 
as he tramped down the path behind Joe, 
and he longed for, yet feared, the termi 
nation of the afternoon. 

"Thar s Jim Martin s," and Joe 
pointed to where a thin curl of smoke 
floated up slowly from among the rocks. 

"Jim s house is piled thar plum 
aginst the rocks, it are, jest fur orl the 
woii liker dirt-dauber s hole ; but my 
Nancy Ann Howed she never wanted no 
rock wall to oum house." 

"I keep a-hearing something," Jerry 
interrupted, laying great stress on the 
final g, which he found much difficulty 
in pronouncing, " something a-roamigr." 

"It s a stream as comes down the 
mounting nigh the mine," Joe an 
swered, " an it falls over the rocks jest 
as purty ! " 

"A falls," Jerry suggested, feeling 
quite sure he had said the correct thing. 

"Falls," Joe repeated, "the doctor 
names it thet too," he went on, " so I 
llows as youuns is correc a falls ; an 
youuns kin see it from up thar, from a 
rock as is jest ezackly over the hole of 
Durden s mine," stepping a little aside 
from the path to where one rock rose 
higher than the rest. 

Jerry followed eagerly ; a short, sharp 
climb, then he heard a slow, astonished 
exclamation from Joe. 

" Great-day-in-the-mornin ! " 

The boy leaned forward ; and there, a 
little below the level of the peak on 
which they stood, lying on a thin, flat 
slab of rock that projected far out from 
the dizzy cliff, was the doctor. 

"Well, Joe," looking up to where 
they stood above him. 

" Evenin , doctor," Joe answered ; 
"weuns is agoin to Jim Martin s atter 
the hogs, an I llowed I d show Jerry 
the water." 

"And it is very beautiful," the doctor 
said, turning his eyes again on the 
sombre gloom of the scene below them. 

On all sides the grim, barren rocks 
darkening down into the deep gorge 
where the crowding pines dimmed the 
shadows to blackness ; and from the far 
cliff where the light lingered longest, 
down from rock to rock the silver water 
falling and crying aloud holding up 
"white, pleading hands" down into 



186 



JERRY. 



the black gorge and out to lose its life 
in the hot, dry plains. 

"I reckon it s sorry to come down," 
the child said, with a sigh ; and the 
doctor turned and looked at the wistful 
face lifted to the far heights. Had the 
boy read his thoughts? the thoughts 
that came to him like voices from his 
own life, as he lay there watching the 
water that forever was falling like one 
in a dream forever that weary cry ! 

"An Durden s mine is down thar," 
and Joe, holding by a broken rock, 
leaned over and pointed to where below 
them the shadow deepened to the sem 
blance of a black hole. His voice broke 
harshly on the silence, and the boy 
sighed once more, and looked into the 
eyes of the man below him. He could 
not tell what he saw there, but it was 
the same thing that made him sigh. 

" An the rock youuns is on, doctor, is 
mighty thin," Joe went on, as he stepped 
back to where Jerry stood. 

"It has held me many times," the 
doctor answered, slowly ; then they 
turned and left him. 

To Joe it was the place where the 
" water came down an looked rale 
purty ; " to Jerry it was a place that 
made him afraid made him feel as he 
had done when at last he had stood on 
the greatest height he could reach, and 
saw the sun setting across the plain ; a 
feeling that made him walk in silence 
after Joe, and scarcely heed the talk of 
Durden s mine. Yes, he would go and 
look, what matter if he were dragged in 
to perish there ; it would be better than 
this feeling he could not understand. 
The doctor understood, for the doctor 
looked into his eyes sometimes, and even 
in his blind ignorance Jerry could see 
and know the unuttered longing. 

" He s lonesome, too," he whispered 
to himself, and followed silently down 
to where the black hole yawned. 

Darker and rougher the gorge grew 
the path narrowed to the merest 
thread of a track then there came a 
level space covered with piles of debris 
from the mine, and through the broad 
cutting in the pines that once had been 
the road could be seen the village of 
Durden s, that had grown from the few 
miners huts that at first had congregat 
ed around " Durden s find ; " and near 



by, the stream that fell so far, fretted 
and fumed in the artificial channel which 
the old miners had cut for it. 

" They says thet the water runned 
right in har," Joe explained, as they 
stood in front of the mine, " an ole 
Durden got the fust gole outer the 
water ; atter thet he foun it in the 
rock, he did, an he jest sot to work an 
dug a ditch over yon for the water, an 
dug in the cave fur the gole." 

Then he led the boy nearer and nearer, 
picking his way carefully over the rocks 
and rotting logs that were strewn about 
the opening of the deserted mine, down 
into a sort of basin, where they paused 
and looked up to the slab far above them 
on which the doctor lay ; and it looked 
so high and thin, such a precarious rest 
ing place ! 

A few steps further and the blackness 
of darkness gathered about them. 

" Listen ! " Joe whispered, pausing. 

There was the sharp rattle of the stone 
they had dislodged that rolled some 
where into the darkness ; then through 
the silence came the drip of far-off water 
slow heavy, regular, save that now 
and then there came a double sound as 
though too much had gathered for one 
drop a quick, irregular sound like the 
catch in a sob or a sigh. 

The boy stood very still ; the silence 
and the darkness seemed to grow about 
him, and the sound of the dropping 
water seemed to rise and swell, then to 
fade and die like some creature crying ! 
He was awe-stricken he was afraid to 
stir even to raise his hand to ,touch 
Joe who stood so near ! Like one in a 
nightmare who could not move nor cry ! 

Great drops of sweat gathered on his 
temples he trembled like a leaf in the 
wind ; was there anything back there in 
the darkness ? anything coming toward 
him anything ? that drawn, white face 
he had seen in the coffin ! The dead 
eyes were open and staring at him 
something touched him ! 

A wild cry broke from his lips, and 
turning, he fled up the rugged opening 
falling, scrambling, breathless, until 
he lay sobbing under the ghastly white 
light from the snow-clouds ; hiding his 
eyes and crying with sharp, quick gasps. 

" Great-day-in-the-mornin ! " and Joe 
stood over the trembling child in much 



JERRY. 



187 



wonder ; " I jest teched youuns, an sich- 
er holler I never hearn what ails you 
uns, anyhow ? " trying to raise the boy, 
" thar warn t nothin to skeer youuns." 

"I seen him I seen him!" Jerry 
answered between his sobs " I seen 
Lije Milton ! " 

Joe sat down on a rock, overcome. 

" Lije Milton ? " he repeated, slowly 
"an Lije never b lieved as he d git 
up agin ! " 

No doubts of the fact crossed his 
mind ; no question as to how or why ; 
that Jerry had seen Lije Milton was a 
simple fact which proved to his mind 
that the dead hero did not sleep in 
peace and quiet. 

Gradually the sobs died away, and 
Jerry lifted himself as one exhausted. 

" Less us go," he said ; " less git 
away from this place," and Joe followed 
obediently. 

Jerry, somehow, was taking rank 
above him, and this last revelation raised 
him into something of a hero. 

All the slow way home they were 
silent, except for the orders and cries to 
the hogs that were inclined to wander 
in their going. Neither at supper was 
there any conversation, and it was not 
until Joe had smoked one pipe, and had 
fairly started on another, that he broke 
the silence. 

" It were surely cur us, Jerry," he be 
gan, gravely, "thet I ve been agoin 
thar a heaper times, an never sawn ner 
hearn nothin ceppen the water a-drap- 
pin naryer thing ceppen thet, an thar s 
sumpen in it sure jest sure," looking 
solemnly at his companion, who, in a 
chair opposite, gazed steadily into the 
fire ; thar s sumpen in it," he repeat 
ed, "fur it stan s to reason that Lije 
wouldn t hev come fur nothin ; thar s 
somethin onlucky bout thet place fur 
youuns, Jerry, thet s what it means," de 
cisively, " an youuns hed jest better 
keep clar of thet hole." 

"I will," Jerry answered, drawing his 
sleeve across his nose, " I ll never go 
nighst it agin, you bet I mean again," 
he corrected himself. 

" Agin or again," Joe repeated, "don t 
make no diffrunce to me ; I ain t per- 
tickler bout sich leetle trash as thet, 
but don t youuns go anigh Durden s ; 
mebbe thar s a heaper gole thar, but it 



ain t fur youuns," pushing the fire into 
a brighter blaze, " an I feels a kinder 
all-overish when I members how youuns 
screeched when I jest barly teched 
youuns ; sposen youuns gits yer leetle 
book an read a spell," throwing another 
log on the mass of coals, "it ll be sorter 
cheerfuller to read bout the leetle boy 
as got the fly in hisn s eyes," then more 
slowly, " but it beats me how he done 
it." 

" The doctor said it was the words he 
wanted to lam me," Jerry answered, as 
he took his book down from a shelf, "I 
spec it ain t it is not for rayly true." 
Joe s English was demoralizing, and 
Jerry puzzled sorely over his words, 
speaking slowly and correcting himself 
when he remembered. And Joe was 
very lenient, treating these efforts as 
signs of the weakness of Jerry s intel 
lect. 

"Jest please yourself bout words, 
Jerry," he said, kindly ; "I don t rayly 
hev no f eelin agin one word or ernether ; 
it s orl one to me, jest so I kin on erstan 
youuns ; now jest pole erlong but thet 
boy an hisn s fly." 

So Jerry found the place and read 
slowly and earnestly, holding the book 
to catch the firelight. And Joe listened 
with much satisfaction, a look of pride 
growing in his eyes as he watched the 
child ; and when the page was turned 
Jerry paused, as he always did, to show 
Joe the picture. 

"It s jest as naytral," bending his 
gray head over the poor woodcut, "thar s 
the leetle boy, an thar s hisn s fly 
a rale big un an it s flewed away, it 
hes." 

" The fly is out of my eye, " Jerry 
read in a sort of recitative. 

"It jest is," Joe commented, "an 
thet s what I said, it flewed away." 

It was more cheerful, the reading, 
and their spirits rose in a measure ; but 
when bed-time came, Jerry, by Joe s ad 
vice, brought his blankets and spread 
them close by Joe s bed ; and once or 
twice in the night Joe got up to put 
more wood on the fire, and waked the 
boy to tell him to " quit a-cryin so pit- 
terful." 

The darkness and the sobs together 
were more than Joe could bear, and the 
next morning it was determined that 



188 



JERRY. 



Jerry should ask the doctor about his 
vision in the mine. 

Jerry s heart was very heavy as he 
trudged away to the doctor s, for with 
the feeling that his mother was always 
near him the feeling that had given 
him so much comfort there was min 
gling now the mystery of the dead who 
walked the earth because they were not 
easy in their graves. Joe believed it 
firmly ; and yesterday, had he not seen 
Lije Milton with his own eyes ? And 
was his mother wandering like this ? 

She had died for him. 

"If she had let Dad bust my head 
agin the chimbly her d a-been a-livin 
right no," and he drove his hands deeper 
into the cavernous pockets of his coat, 
Joe s coat, that Paid had laughed at. His 
heart was heavy, yet with it there was 
a feeling of importance that sustained 
him ; Lije Milton had come to warn 
him ! And he held himself a little more 
erect. 

The fire burned brightly in the study, 
and the doctor was there when Jerry en 
tered. 

" Well, Jerry," he said, then returned 
to the book he was reading, so that the 
questions which hung on Jerry s tongue 
had to be put away until the lessons, 
which were done mechanically that day, 
were over. 

"We shall have some heavy snows," 
the doctor said when they had finished, 
" and you may not be able to come every 
day, Jerry, so I have arranged copies 
and lessons which you can do at home 
on the days when the weather is too 
bad." 

"Yes, sir, and I m very" pausing, 
doubtfully " much obliged to you," the 
doctor suggested, gravely. 

" Much obliged to you," Jerry repeat 
ed, then added quickly, " I rayly rayly 
are ! " as if the copied words did not 
satisfy him, nor express his gratitude. 

The doctor smiled, then asked, kindly : 

"Did you get your hogs home safely ? " 

" Yes, sir ; and, doctor," feeling that 
the time for his revelation had come, "I 
went into Durden s mine," his eyes 
growing Avide as he spoke. 

" Well." 

The boy paused ; with the doctor lis 
tening, the story seemed, somehow, to 
lose all importance. 



"It is the truth, doctor," then in the 
excitement that came over him, he re 
turned to his own special English : 
"Yes, sir, sure as I stan afore you, I 
sawn Lije Milton I did, an Joe Hows 
as he come to tell me that the gole in 
Durden s mine ain t fur me." 

" Did you expect to buy Durden s 
mine ? " the doctor asked, quietly. 

Jerry shook his head. 

" No, sir." 

" Then why should Lije Milton come 
back to tell you that you must not have 
it?" 

Jerry looked doubtful. 

" Joe said so." 

" Well, Joe is mistaken ; nobody can 
work Durden s mine unless they first buy 
it, and it will take a great deal of money 
to do that." 

"Is Durden s mine full of gole ? " the 
boy asked. 

"I do not know," -the doctor answered, 
"I have never examined it, but they say 
the new mine is much better." 

"An* I never sa\vn Lije ? " 

" I do not think you did, Jerry," and 
the doctor smiled kindly on him. 

" Well, farwell," looking up longingly 
into the face above him, " mebbe I can t 
git back to-morrow." 

" Good-by, Jerry," holding out his 
hand. 

The boy took it reverently, and looked 
at it almost adoringly ; then for an in 
stant his hold on it tightened and he 
raised his eyes 

"You goes to thet rock a-heaper 
times ? " he asked. 

" The rock over Durden s ? " with some 
curiosity in his tone. 

"Yes, sir." 

" Very nearly every day," waiting for 
what the child would say next. 

There was a pause ; then, still holding 
the doctor s hand, Jerry drew a little 
nearer. 

"Joe says it s awful thin," pleadingly, 
"an you ll fall, please, doctor ! M 

The doctor shook his head. 

" You and Joe need not be anxious," 
he said, "that rock will outlast me." 

Jerry turned to the door. 

" Farwell," he repeated, " but I m 
afraid fur you ; " then the door was shut, 
and the sound of his footsteps died away 
before the doctor moved. 



JERRY. 



189 



It bad been so long since anyone had 
cared since wistful eyes had watched 
for good or ill to him so long ! 

Far back in the years there had been 
eyes whose faithfulness and love had 
never faltered ; eyes that looked at him 
now from out the shadows when the 
day darkened from out the fire from 
out his books ! Eyes he had turned 
away from eyes 

"that looked into his eyes with smile 
That said be strong-, yet covered anxious 
tears the while ! " 

So long ! And now these humble eyes 
looked up and pleaded for his safety 
watched lest ill should come to him 
loved him believed in him. 

Poor little waif ; poor little ignorant 
heart still half asleep ; was it kind to 
shake it free of dreams to make it open 
its eyes to the broad, blinding light of 
knowledge the merciless light that 
spared nothing? 

The fresh shadowy dawn wherein he 
now lived, was it not better ? 



CHAPTER XV. 

" Like dry and flimsy autumn leaves that blow 

From all far distances, until by chance 

They meet and rest within some sheltered 

spot ; 

So lives oft come together, and so rest, 
Until some wilder wind sends them apart 
To longer wanderings on the lonely road. " 

THE day Jerry came home from the 
doctor s with his bundle of books and 
copies was the last of the open weather, 
and the winter closed in with cruel 
coldness. 

For days the snow fell ; the world lay 
motionless ; no sound of wind, no move 
ment, a death-like stillness while the 
snow-banks grew higher and higher 
the pine-branches drooped and cracked 
sharply under the growing weight and 
in the long, bitter nights the beams and 
logs of the house groaned and strained 
shuddering as with a sudden blow 
from an unseen hand. 

The wild creatures roamed and cried 
through the dark hours, coming nearer 
to man, growing fiercer and bolder in 
their hungry need. Each day as the 
door was opened, a path had to be 



cleared through the snow before Joe 
could do anything toward the day s 
work. Then in the long hours when 
Joe was gone, Jerry lived a lonely life 
in the dark house with window and door 
barred, and only the fire and Pete for 
light and company. Joe taught him 
how to load and use the rifle, and 
charged him not to hesitate to fire on 
man or beast. 

He fed the hogs with the rifle close at 
hand, and watched with a nervous fas 
cination the great tracks that day by day 
came about the house ; and sometimes 
he heard the creeping footsteps and 
wild cries as he sat spelling over his les 
sons by the firelight. 

A dreary life, until one day Joe 
brought home a window-frame fitted 
with glass, and screwed it in the win 
dow. 

" Youuns kin see now, Jerry," he 
said, " an kin read youuns leetle books," 
and the boy looked up very thankfully. 

After that he worked diligently, send 
ing his papers to the doctor when Joe 
happened to pass that way, and in return 
receiving words of commendation and 
freshly arranged work. And in the long 
evenings he explained to his friend the 
processes by which he worked, and 
showed him all his papers, until over 
Joe s manner there came a change. He 
treated the boy so tenderly, listened to 
his words and explanations so proudly, 
and when Jerry read aloud sat silent 
and admiring. Out among his friends 
he spoke of Jerry as " my boy," and 
made allusions to the future when Jerry 
should stand with the best. 

He bought the boy a cot toiling up 
the slippery trail with it on his back 
and Jerry s eyes opened wide with de 
light and wonder. Then he brought a 
new book from the doctor, and made a 
little shelf for Jerry to keep his books 
and papers on. And Jerry, grown white 
and a little thin from his winter s cap 
tivity, looked gravely out of the window, 
and wondered what all this attention 
from Joe meant. 

He was growing very silent as the 
days went by, and was learning to brood 
in the enforced loneliness of his life. 

From Joe he had heard all that he 
knew of Paul and his connection with 
the doctor ; that Paul was the son of a 



190 



JERRY. 



friend who in dying had given him to 
the doctor, though some people thought 
that Paul was enough like the doctor to 
be his own ; that Paul was very rich, 
and one day would own most of the mine 
in Eureka ; and the reason Jerry had 
seen so little of him during his earlier 
visits to the doctor was that Paul was 
daily in Eureka learning from the engi 
neer all about the mine and mining. 

"He ll hev a heaper gole, sure," Joe 
had said, thoughtfully ; " but I Hows 
thet thar s some as ll hev as much." 
And Jerry had listened with a dull pain 
at his heart. 

The doctor loved Paul the doctor 
worked for Paul s interests ; and Paul, a 
rich man, would pass Jerry by like the 
dust in the road. 

It was a bitter thought to Jerry. 

It was not often during the long 
winter that the boy could go to the 
doctor; but each time he came home 
with a clearer and more mortifying 
knowledge of his own deficiencies, and 
of the distance that lay between even 
Paul and himself while the doctor 
seemed hopelessly far. But with this 
knowledge there came ever a firmer de 
termination to overcome all. 

He worked eagerly carefully un 
ceasingly ; doing his sums, writing his 
copies over and over, and reading his 
few books until he knew them very thor 
oughly. He saved and spelled out every 
scrap of newspaper that came into his 
hands, storing in his mind a strange 
medley of words and ideas ; while 
through and over all was the memory of 
the doctor s words that had taken root 
and were bearing fruit in the boy s ways 
and tones the suggestion that some 
day Jerry could be as the doctor was. 
He thought of it by day and dreamed of 
it by night, building wonderful castles 
in the air. He would be a gentleman 
some day, and have books all around his 
room ; he would have clothes such as 
Paul had, and walk and talk as Paul 
did only he would be stronger, and 
love his lessons, which Paul did not. 
But one thing hurt him one thing was 
a great disappointment to him he 
could never touch Paul again, because 
Paul belonged to the doctor. And not 
only did Paul possess the doctor s love, 
but was protected by it from any re 



venge in Jerry s power. He could never 
touch Paul again, even though he had a 
feeling that Paul did not love the doc 
tor had not Paul called the doctor a 
" meat-axe ? " 

"But I whipped him for that," the 
boy would say to himself, and feel 
startled at the sound of his own voice 
coming back to him from the empty 
room. Each day he tried to read in the 
Bible the doctor had given him, but 
could make very little of it as yet ; the 
words were strange and different from 
the words in his books, and he was often 
at a loss to understand them. But here 
Joe occasionally was able to give him 
unexpected help ; telling him roughly 
and vaguely some of the stories brought 
to his mind by the names Jerry spelled 
out. 

"Adam he were the fust man as ever 
growed," he said, " an Eve were the fust 
woman, an she were made outer Adam s 
bones, she were ; an youuns kin read 
an see thet s the livin truth ; an the 
critters an the yarbs were made fust to 
gie Adam sumpen to eat." 

"But the Golding Gates, " Jerry 
asked, " it don t tell about that." 

Joe shook his head doubtfully. 

"I don t ezackly onderstan bout 
thet," he said, "but I allers hearn 
thet the Bible telled all about it ; I 
knowed a preacher onest as telled me a 
heaper tales, an he llowed thet they 
corned from the Bible ; an the doctor 
he tole my leetle Nan bout the good 
place, an he read it out the book thet 
thar wornt no mo sufferin thar, ner no 
mo cryin . Lord ! I ll never forgit how 
he sot thar an read the book tell I d jest 
as lieve a-died a-longer Nancy-Ann," 
looking meditatively into the fire. 

And Jerry, never thinking of turning 
to any but the first part of the book, 
plodded on as faithfully, as trustfully as 
he had journeyed toward the setting sun, 
because his mother had pointed there 
for the "Golden Gates ; " he worked his 
way through verse after verse, with full 
intention of reading the whole book be 
cause the doctor had given it to him as 
a guide to his mother. 

And gazing into the fire, or out of the 
window, he would dream and wonder 
without ceasing longing for the snow 
to be over and the spring to come. He 



JERRY. 



191 



grew to love old Pete, and was sorry 
when the hogs were killed one after an 
other, even though they lived like 
princes in consequence of it, having 
plenty of meat, and plenty of grease for 
their bread. 

Jerry had never lived so well in his 
life, and he appreciated all his comforts, 
but not as he would have done a year 
ago ; for he wanted now something 
more than food and clothes. In that 
little time he had been educated up to 
unappeasable wants, and the beautiful, 
happy time when he could be satisfied 
was forever past. 

The time when with childish eyes we 
look no further than from hour to hour ; 
touching mysteries and wonders as the 
butterflies touch the flowers ; glad for 
the sunshine ; hearing music in the rain ; 
sleeping, and dreaming golden dreams 
through the dark hours, until Want 
comes to us held in the arms of Knowl 
edge want that creeps into our hearts 
and voices looks longingly from our 
eyes walks with us all our days, until 
death stills our longing with a friendly 
hand upon our hearts. 

And Joe watched and wondered ; was 
it " books an larnin " made the boy so 
quiet ; made him grow so tall, and slim, 
and white ; and stand looking so long 
and so silently out of the window ? 

The boy was changing in every way, 
and between the two a different relation 
ship was being formed. Jerry had risen 
to a great height in Joe s estimation, 
and gradually all his pride and love had 
centred on the boy. "My boy," he 
called him, and had a growing ambition 
concerning him. He had not for one 
moment forgotten the fight between 
Jerry and Paul, and each visit he paid 
to the doctor, in carrying back Jerry s 
papers, he would look at Paul and smile 
in a way to rouse all Paul s ire. 

" Jerry s rale well," he would say, " an 
gittin rale strong." 

And Paul would try to answer uncon 
cernedly, but once or twice he found the 
doctor s eyes fixed on him with a criti 
cising look in them that was anything 
but calming ; and the boy took Joe into 
his list of hates. 



"I cannot see what you find to in 
terest you in that stupid man and boy," 
he said to the doctor one day. 

"Neither of them are s*tupid," the 
doctor answered, not lifting his eyes 
from his book ; " and the boy is above 
the average in intellect, he is learning 
rapidly." 

" And what good will his learning do 
him ? " scornfully. 

"The same good your learning will 
do you, possibly more." 

" More good ! " haughtily. " I have 
a name and a fortune to support." 

" And Jerry has both to make," then 
the doctor returned to his book. 

Paul did not feel that he could say 
anything more just then ; but the con 
versation rankled in his mind. 

That Jerry should be put on an equal 
ity with him was an insult hard to bear 
but that Jerry should dare to found a 
name and fortune was a still more bitter 
thought. He would brood and brood 
over the thought sometimes ending 
with an oath, sometimes with a laugh ; 
Jerry should work in his mine yet ! 

But he told the doctor none of this. 

So the winter had its day ; a long, 
merciless day that seemed to have no end. 

And many folded tired hands for aye 
and many would have found their 
graves a warm refuge. Hard and ear 
nestly the doctor worked among the 
hovels in Durden s and Eureka ; helping 
in money, and words, and skill. No 
weather stopped him, no hardship 
seemed to turn him aside ; and often 
Joe would come home and tell many 
things he had heard of the doctor s de 
votion to the people a devotion he 
could not understand. And Jerry mind 
ing the house and the hogs up on the 
mountain, and Paul cursing his loneli 
ness down on the plain both wondered 
and tried to find some reason for this 
strange and uncalled-for sacrifice of time, 
and comfort, and money ; but it was a 
riddle neither of them could read as yet. 

Only " eyes that have wept see clear " 
see clear and far into the lives, and 
hopes, and sufferings of their fellows 
only eyes that have wept have this second 
sight. 



192 



JERRY. 



PAKT SECOND. 



CHAPTEE I. 



" There is no caste in blood, 
Which runneth of one hue, nor caste in tears, 
Which trickled salt with all." 

A KUMOR had come to Eureka, a 
rumor that Eureka was to have a rail 
way, and the town was wild with excite 
ment. 

So many years had rolled by without 
one ripple to mark their going, that this 
sudden waking up seemed to bewilder 
the people. So many quiet years where 
in Jerry up on the mountain-side, and 
Paul in the valley, had grown and de 
veloped "each after his kind." Paul, 
absorbed in himself Jerry, clinging 
close to the aim set before him in his 
childhood, absorbed in dreams grown 
out of his study of his idealized master, 
the doctor. Through all these years he 
had followed without question in any 
direction the doctor had indicated ; had 
plodded eagerly through anything the 
doctor would teach him. But though a 
dreamer, his education had opened his 
eyes to many things that he would glad 
ly have ignored. He now recognized 
his own class very distinctly ; he realized 
the rank from which he had sprung, and 
looking on them he saw the haggard, 
stolid drudges the weary, dirty, igno 
rant women and his mother had been 
such as these ? 

He hated his class because they were 
so low, and he hated himself for the 
feeling ; he hated social grades and the 
"accident of birth," and history was to 
him a black record of injustice, and suf 
fering, and wrong ; a narration of how 
the strong crowded down the weak, and 
that only because they were weak. 

And at last his dreams took shape, 
and to himself he seemed to come down 
out of the clouds. The doctor s life- 
work had been to raise humanity his 
own life-work should be to raise his 
class. 

Wrong must be righted ; and in this 
wide western land, where all had equal 
chances, all should $ise. 

The Master of Mankind had come 
down to earth to lift up all humanity 
aye and had been murdered by a mob ! 



Even so ; but His teachings had lived, 
and through eighteen hundred years 
had worked and leavened the world ; 
and now the time had come for reform ! 

And what higher task could a man 
set for himself ? Surely he would be a 
reformer. 

But with the patronizing patience of 
youth he determined to begin humbly ; 
he would show that he was not a wild 
theorizer ; he would be practical at the 
start, and possible all through. And he 
asked the doctor s advice about opening 
a free school in Durden s, for he had 
decided that education must be the first 
step in reform. 

But the doctor shook his head. 

"Make them pay you, Jerry," he said, 
" if it is only ten cents a month ; putting 
a money value on it is the only way to 
make them appreciate it." 

" But many of them are too poor to 
pay," the young man answered slowly. 

"None are too poor to buy tobacco 
and whiskey," quietly ; " besides, you are 
old enough now to think of making your 
own living." 

Jerry looked up quickly with the 
blood rising slowly in his face, as the 
doctor went on : 

" Joe is old now, and he has done a 
great deal for you." 

"I could not help it," Jerry answered 
eagerly, "I was too young to know, 
when he first took me in, and since then 
he has never allowed me to work ; my 
education has been his pride." 

" Very true, and it all has been quite 
right until now ; but now," and as of 
old the doctor tramped up and down 
the room with his spurs rattling at his 
heels, " now it will be good for you to 
work ; you will be helped mentally and 
morally by working for yourself. I 
think the school is a good plan ; but I 
advise you to take the school already 
established in Eureka, and make reason 
able charges ; the schoolmaster is old 
now, and never has been of any prac 
tical value." 

" And what will he have to live on 
without his school ? " Jerry asked. 

" He .has land ; land that will bring 
him in a little fortune before long," 



JERRY. 



193 



thoughtfully; "besides he has money 
put away ; I will speak to him if you 
like, so that you can secure the school- 
house and his influence." 

Jerry looked doubtful ; his intentions 
about the great work he had chosen 
had been so different. He had pictured 
to himself a beginning where all would 
be gratitude and good feeling ; where 
he would tell the people what he pur 
posed doing for them, and begin by be 
ing a hero ! 

Now, the opening scene was all 
changed ; and he put in a position to 
sue for patronage. 

He had never spoken to the doctor of 
this great purpose, and now, somehow, 
the disclosure seemed impossible, for 
there was no escape from the doctor s 
reasoning ; it was undeniably right that 
he should support himself ; a thing that 
had not occurred to himself in his 
dreams. 

And yet, how could he say to the peo 
ple " I am doing this entirely for your 
good but you must pay me for it ? " 
How could a man professing to work on 
a high moral plane, push cash pay 
ments ! 

And he answered slowly : 

"Let me think of it, doctor?" 

" Of course." 

And Jerry walked home slowly. 

This conversation had taken place a 
year before the railway excitement had 
touched the little towns of Durden s 
and Eureka, and for that length of time 
Jerry had been schoolmaster in Eureka 
after the doctor s plan. 

It had made Joe very proud, and it 
was music in his ears when he heard 
the people say " Mr. "Wilkerson ; " and 
when he saw Jerry making out his 
monthly bills, or signing receipts as 
" J. P. Wilkerson," his heart would 
throb with delight. But the height of 
his joy was reached when the Eureka 
Star published a flourishing notice of 
the " talented young schoolmaster, Pro 
fessor Jeremiah P. Wilkerson " ! 

Fully realizing the absurdity of the 
position, the amusement of the doctor, 
and the sneers of Paul, Jerry found 
this notice hard to bear ; but his cup 
seemed to overflow when he found that 
in his pride Joe had taken the notice to 
Paul as a triumph for Jerry ! 
VOL. VIIL 19 



No scoffing remarks from Paul no 
labored explanation even, would have 
made the old man understand the amus 
ing side of the notice or the little worth 
of it ; and though feeling just as Jerry 
knew he would feel, the doctor said 
such kind things to Joe that he returned 
home greatly elated, and with two pins 
fixed the bit of newspaper to the wall 
where he could see it always without any 
trouble. 

But the year had seemed a lifetime to 
Jerry. He had had to unlearn so much 
to bear so much to be disappointed 
in so much ; for outside of books he 
had no knowledge. 

His whole life, since Joe had taken 
him in, had been spent between the 
little house under the cliffs and the 
quiet of the doctor s study ; and this 
year of practical work among the people 
had been a revelation to him. 

Among the delusions which had been 
dispelled was the one that Joe worked 
in Eureka. Not that Joe had ever said 
that he worked in Eureka, but somehow 
the belief had grown up with Jerry, 
until now he discovered that a mistake 
had been made somewhere. To his as 
tonishment he found that few people in 
Eureka knew Joe Gilliam that fewer 
still knew where he worked, and no one 
seemed to have asked what his work 
was. 

All this came to Jerry by accident, 
for it did not occur to him to ask any 
questions about Joe ; but when later on 
he found that even in Durden s every 
body believed that Joe worked in Eu 
reka, he felt as if walking in a mist full 
of strange surmises concerning the old 
man, and in his musing his thoughts 
took curious shapes ; for why should 
there be any mystery? Back through 
all the years his thoughts had gone and 
had found many things that could not 
be accounted for. 

Why had the house been so carefully 
guarded ? What was there in it to 
tempt a thief ? And working nowhere 
that Jerry could hear of, how did Joe 
make his money ? For Joe surely had 
money. But even this was a revelation 
to Jerry ; for until he had gone to Eu 
reka and had seen the way in which 
Joe s class lived, it had never occurred 
to him to question Joe s mode of life. 



194 



JERRY. 



It had been so different from the doc 
tor s, where Jerry often lunched or 
dined, that it had seemed to him coarse 
and rough ; but one insight into a 
Eureka house, and his eyes were instant 
ly opened to the fact of Joe s superior 
mode of life ; and at once he faced the 
mystery of the source of Joe s money. 

So through these puzzles that were 
almost troubles, and many others, the 
year had waxed and waned and worn 
away, as years will do if only one is pa 
tient enough. And Jerry had rearranged 
all his plans and ideas ; had patiently 
readjusted all his theories as to pov 
erty and want, placing them on a new 
basis that he deemed firm and practi 
cal, and that he was sure would stand 
all tests. 

But suddenly, like the swift, unac 
countable changes in a dream, the great 
est excitement ever known in that re 
gion had laid hold on Durden s and 
Eureka ; the deepest and wildest excite 
ment that could touch any small, unim 
portant place a railway was coming ! 
As surely as the sun shone and the wind 
blew, a railway was coming, and hun 
dreds of people with it. Eureka was to 
be made a great city ; the value of land 
was to reach an unheard-of figure, and 
all the inhabitants would bloom into 
millionaires ! 

How the report had come, or whence 
it had come, no one knew ; but it was 
there among them like the fire on the 
prairies. Nothing could quench the talk 
it roused, nor the hopes that flared and 
flamed in every direction. 

Money was coming to all without one 
stroke of work being done. Fortune 
was walking calmly across the hot, dry 
plains, across mountains and rivers, 
steadily on to the town of Eureka, her 
chosen, favorite child. 

The days and the years had passed 
very quietly until the talk of a railway 
had waked up the community, and in 
toxicated it with the thought of wealth. 
The people gathered on the corners with 
an eager, hungry look growing on their 
usually stolid faces ^ stopped each other 
on the street to discuss this all-absorb 
ing possibility ; wild with delight ; 
shouting and drinking ; betting their 
all as to where the railway would enter 
the town, what land would be the most 



valuable, and who had the best chances 
for the future. 

It seemed to ring all the changes on 
the different characters ; the parsimoni 
ous became absolutely stingy, holding 
their money with an eager grasp as the 
possibility of getting more seemed to 
come nearer to them ; the avaricious 
became greedy for it ; the reckless threw 
it away more wildly. The very children 
and women caught the infection, fight 
ing among themselves, and drawing 
their husbands and sons into the horrid 
drunken frays that seemed to occur in 
every house and shop. 

"I never hearn the like," and Joe 
paused in his eating and put down his 
knife and fork, "Eureky is jest a-bilin 
over." 

" It will be a great thing for Eureka," 
Jerry answered, then went on more 
slowly, as if trying to understand his 
own words, " and people talk of buying 
the land in every direction." 

"What fur?" 

" To make money," and Jerry s voice 
and expression were very grave. 

Joe looked anxiously into the young 
face opposite him. 

" Does youuns want some ? " he said 
doubtfully. Jerry looked up quickly. 

" Do I want land ? " he asked ; " thank 
you, Joe, I have no need for land, and I 
think it a wrong thing to speculate in." 

Joe took up his knife and fork to go 
on with his supper, while a puzzled look 
came over his face. With each year 
that had passed Jerry had become a 
greater mystery to him, until now he 
had no real hope of ever understanding 
him again. " His boy " had developed 
entirely out of his reach and knowledge, 
and Joe could only admire. 

But this last enunciation was to Joe 
the strangest of all Jerry s sayings 
that to speculate in land was a sin. Was 
this a remnant of Jerry s youthful weak- 
mindedness that education had failed 
to correct? And from this time Joe 
watched Jerry with careful curiosity 
watched while Jerry strove in vain to 
right himself and hold his place amid all 
this wild excitement. 

It seemed marvellous to Jerry how in 
the twinkling of an eye all about him 
was changed, and he had to stand and 
see not only his dreams and his the- 



JERRY. 



195 



ories swept away, but the long year s 
hard work annihilated, while this intox 
icating greed for gain absorbed the 
people in its whirling vortex. 

Jerry had read a great deal about 
money and money s power ; had thought 
that he had some knowledge on the sub 
ject, and so thinking had built for him 
self a bulwark of calm indifference to 
this thing that so swayed the world ; 
indeed, he had determined to live entire 
ly above it. 

But now, as he watched, he began 
dimly to realize that the cumulative, 
crushing, almost crazing influence of 
money w r as an awful thing a thing to 
be afraid of. He looked and listened, 
appalled and astonished, and his hopes 
for his class seemed futile. How use 
less to try to make anything of these 
creatures, so far down in the scale of 
humanity ; so hungry for this power 
that was in itself so unworthy, and of 
which they could make only the lowest 
uses ! How he despised them, and how 
he hated the knowledge that he had been 
born one of them ! 

Nor had he any opportunity to take 
counsel and comfort from the doctor, 
for his time was fully occupied by the 
school, and by the long conversations he 
was now called upon to hold with his 
patrons, the parents of his scholars. 

Their confidence in Jerry first arose 
from his having been called " Professor" 
by the Star, and now they thought they 
could get no better views than his as to 
the land speculators w r ho were already 
creeping into the tow T ns. So they asked, 
and Jerry answered unhesitatingly 
against these strangers, and tried to 
show the people the dark sin that was 
hidden at the core of the fair-seeming 
schemes these land-speculators set forth 
to tempt them. 

To speculate in land w r as a crime, he 
told them, and the Government was re 
sponsible for it ; the Government should 
hold all land and rent it ; should not 
throw out God s gifts, which should be 
dispensed fairly, to be scrambled for by 
the crowd. Of course the weak would 
go to the wall the weak who had 
every right to life save the strength to 
hold it. 

In answer, the plausible first specula 
tors insisted that the land, having been 



thrown out for a general scramble, would 
all be grasped by "sharpers, "unless they, 
with command of ready money, should 
be allowed to buy it, in order to hold it 
for the poor people who would come with 
the railway ; this was all they wanted 
to do, and would promise to sell it 
fairly, with only enough margin allowed 
to pay themselves for their trouble and 
expense. 

Their trouble ! 

And Jerry enlarged on this phase of 
the question with a sarcastic strength 
that won him scholar after scholar, and 
made the people hold their land against 
all temptations. 

He was earnestly true in his opinions, 
and put them forth with the strength 
that truth begets. He saw many visions 
of the multitudes that w r ere to come ; vi 
sions of poor people seeking new homes 
and new openings in which to begin new 
lives. 

They had always lived up five pairs 
of stairs, he thought, with only enough 
land at the base to bear the weight of 
the five stories ; but was this all the 
land the livers in the tenements were 
entitled to ? Scarcely enough land to 
bury them in, unless they were buried 
five layers deep ! packed away like sar 
dines in a box ? 

Their lives spent in horrible want and 
misery ; with no right to God s sweet 
air and sunshine that are so freely given. 
Looking out with hungry, hollow eyes ; 
hunting in noisome garbage piles and 
gutters for dirty refuse. Naked skulk 
ing starving until almost they gnawed 
their useless hands that could find no 
work ; while the broad, breezy fields 
were tilled by steam. 

It was surely a black sin. 

And in the depths of the fire Jerry 
saw visions of model farms spreading 
far across the plains ; fair homes where 
the scum from all the cities from all the 
world, would settle and become honest 
citizens. 

All they needed was room for expan 
sion ; room to be thrifty, and moral, and 
religious ; room to breathe in, and look 
ing up to realize their God realize Him 
not as a careless " First Cause," who let 
the creatures of his hand multiply until 
they overflowed his world and crushed 
and crowded each other down to death 



196 



JERRY. 



and hell ! Not so, but as the merciful 
Father who made room enough for all, 
and did not send disease and misery as 
the cures for the mistake of over-popu 
lation ! 

Jerry s heart was on fire with the time- 
old wrongs of humanity, and his tongue 
was ready. 

Shortly the Star caught up his views 
and polysyllabled them until they were 
scarcely to be recognized ; but Joe s 
heart swelled with pride. 

" It were rayly liker preacher," he said 
over and over to himself, and listened 
eagerly to all that reached him about 
Jerry ; and in himself he began to real 
ize a most notable character ; one who 
had rescued from poverty and obscurity 
a great light ! 

Jerry was the " coming man " a man 
bound to rise ; a man with all the glory 
of no ancestry of ignorance and a log- 
cabin about his early years. 

And Joe gathered the papers secretly, 
and paid Dan Burke to read them to 
him ; for he was afraid to ask Jerry. So 
Dan read the fiery columns to Joe, and 
declared himself willing to extend Joe s 
credit to an indefinite extent ; congratu 
lated him on his boy, and prophesied 
that some day Jerry would be Presi 
dent ! 

And Joe went home and made the fire, 
and ground the coffee for supper, and 
in the midst stopped his work and put 
it all aside, covering his face with his 
hands. 

"I oughter a-done this for youuns, 
Nan," he whispered, " I oughter a-done 
it ! " then went away and hid among the 
rocks, that Jerry might not find, when 
he came home, that Joe had done his 
work for him. Nan had always done 
her own work and crouching down 
among the rocks he looked back at the 
little house saying : " Surely it s God s 
truth that dead folks come back surely 
it s God s truth." 

Meanwhile, in Eureka the talk ran 
high. Day by day the reports and sur 
mises grew more wild and numerous ; 
land values were run up to an imagi 
nary price that no fortune could com 
pass then a sudden stop ! 

The people were breathless and puz 
zled the speculators, who had come 
with such laudable desires to spare eve 



rybody trouble, and to save land for the 
poor who would certainly flock to this 
new opening, were bewildered ! 

" Somebody " had bought up all the 
public lands ! It was declared that with 
in a radius of twenty miles all the Gov 
ernment lands were gone ! 

There was a pause of deathlike still 
ness ; then a howl of rage and curses 
went up against this mysterious person 
who was to reap this immense fortune. 
People, and speculators, and adventur 
ers made common cause against this 
crafty "Unknown" ; and all small jeal 
ousies and animosities were merged in 
one great anger against this person who 
had over-reached them. 

And Jerry, boiling with indignation, 
denounced the " Unknown " openly and 
without stint ; the soulless creature who 
had done this wicked thing had specu 
lated on the necessities of the hungry 
hordes that would surely follow the 
road. 

His visions were all swept away ; for 
the land about Eureka was all gone ; 
bought up to be held until the crowd 
should flow a living stream across the 
mountains to this * promised land," only 
to find the sharpers before them ! 

It was a black crime, but a crime le 
galized by the Government ; and God 
would surely curse such a Government 
and Nation. 



CHAPTEK H. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool 

Visions of a perfect state ; 
Drink we last the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate." 

HIGHER and higher the excitement 
ran ; who was this mysterious buyer ? 

The newspaper was sarcastic, then 
angry, then bitter ; Jerry s articles grew 
longer and more darkly withering ; but 
all to no purpose, the Unknown did not 
reveal himself. 

Nearer and nearer the fateful railway 
came ; built only from the nearest town, 
it seemed to come with magical rapidity. 
It had worked its way now to one of the 
lowest passes in the mountains, and be 
fore long all doubts as to where it would 
come into Eureka would be over. 

And as time went on public opinion 



JERRY. 



197 



slowly but surely came to the one verdict, 
that this unknown person had bought 
his land in the right place ; the town of 
Eureka would spread all over his do 
main, if he would allow it. 

Higher and hotter the talk rose, and 
reports flew hither and thither. Then 
one morning one cloudy, cold, spring 
morning a morning Jerry never for 
got ; whose piercing dampness often 
touched him ; whose cloudy heaviness 
often weighed him down in after days 
a notice appeared in the Star a notice 
short and terse, offering high wages to 
workmen to lay off in lots this great 
tract of land ; and the doctor s name 
was signed to it. 

Jerry s heart seemed to stand still ; 
and a silence seemed to fall over the 
town. 

The doctor. The hero, the friend, the 
trusted benefactor of the town. 

Jerry turned away silently from the 
man who had shown him the notice ; he 
wanted to be alone, for he felt as if some 
hand had wounded him sorely. 

His hero doing this thing, speculating 
in what was man s inalienable right, 
Land ; the dust from which God made 
him ! 

Had not the doctor often discussed 
with him the sin of speculating in land ? 
More than this, had they not extended 
their discussions to the finer point of 
the injustice that lay at the foundation 
of large estates ; and had not the doctor 
disapproved, to a great extent, of it all ? 
How, then, must this action be read ? 

Was he doing it for Paul Henley ? 

Jerry s face darkened ; this thought 
seemed to hurt him more than all the 
possible sufferings of the immigrants 
who were expected ; and that this was 
so made him ashamed. Yet, was it pos 
sible that the doctor loved Paul to this 
extent that beautiful, delicate, useless 
creature ? 

Jerry clenched his fists. 

Was Paul made of different flesh and 
blood that he could not guide a plough ; 
could not dig ; could not eat common 
food, nor wear common clothes ? Had 
God made him of finer stuff ; so fine that 
his guardian was driven to wrong-doing 
in order to provide for him ? 

For twenty-four hours the country 
side made no sign, no sound ; then 



whispers crept about ; angry, malignant 
whispers, that intensified as the day 
went on. 

All these years that the doctor had 
been among them, they said, pretending 
to devote his time and money to the 
bettering of his fellow-creatures, he had 
been making his plans for this grand 
stroke of business. In his long rides 
about the country under cover of visit 
ing the poor and sick, he had been 
searching the land for gold ; been work 
ing hard in his own interests, and in the 
interests of his adopted son, Paul Hen 
ley. 

They declared that he had been for 
years in secret communication with this 
railway company, and had known all 
along how things would turn out. That 
he had bribed the Government to let 
him have the land for next to nothing ; 
had bribed the railway company to come 
in over his land, and to put the shops 
and station on his land. 

More than this, he had bought up 
gold-land at the same low price, deceiv 
ing the Government. The realization 
of the awful wickedness of these reported 
actions and motives seemed to dart like 
a flash through the usually stolid minds 
of the people ; and within a day after 
reading the doctor s call for workmen 
they made up their minds that no hand 
in either town would be lifted to work 
for him. 

And listening, and thinking, Jerry 
found that a public benefactor had no 
right to look after his own interests ; he 
saw that once to begin a course of self- 
sacrifice is to be bound to it forever ; the 
world watches closely, and never per 
mits a retrogression, not the deviation 
of a hair s breadth from the prescribed 
path. 

Prove your nose patient, and you 
prove it a poor thing meant for the 
grindstone. Unselfish natures prefer 
being imposed on, says the world, and 
benefactors have no right to be anything 
but benefactors. 

Meanwhile, Jerry felt like one walking 
in a dream ; and, after the first shock, 
after his mind had re-established itself, 
all the talk, even the printed notice, 
seemed absolutely preposterous and im 
possible. 

And all through the long day, during 



198 



JERRY. 



which he received many visits from his 
patrons, it was very clearly realized by 
him that not only all Eureka, but all 
Burden s, had declared against the doc 
tor, and were ready to cry him down, 
and, as far as possible, to ruin him. 

Jerry could scarcely believe the situa 
tion, and more than once during his 
many interviews with the people, he 
asked them if it were possible, even with 
this provocation, for them to condemn 
this man who had spent years in their 
service ; who had been their friend in 
ever} phase of life ; who had set no limit 
to the time nor the money spent for 
them. 

And the answer came sharply if the 
doctor had not pretended ; if, from the 
first, he had declared his intentions, 
they would not have blamed him ; but 
he had won their confidence by false 
pretences so that he could cheat them, 
and this they could not forgive. 

Jerry s repeated assurances that the 
doctor had bought the land for some 
good purpose, and not as a speculation, 
were not heeded, for all the facts of the 
case, as far as the people could see them, 
were against the doctor. The buying 
of the land was one fact ; the notice in 
the Star was another fact ; Jerry s ig 
norance of the transaction was a third 
fact ; and the fourth fact, which everj 7 - 
one knew, was that for years the doctor 
had been buying up the interests in the 
Eureka mines in the name of Paul Hen 
ley. 

"All this evidence could not be dis 
puted, and Jerry could only retreat on 
the declaration that, after all, there was 
no real reason why the doctor should 
not buy the land ; no real reason why 
the people should blame him for his 
course ; no reason save that he had given 
them so much that they felt they had a 
claim on all. 

He determined, after much hesitation, 
that he would go to the doctor and ask 
him for some explanation ; and yet, how 
could he do such a thing ; what right 
had he to question any act of this man ; 
how dare he look beyond his word and 
teaching ? 

Besides, the doctor knew all that had 
been said about this transaction before 
he revealed his name, and, if he had 
cared for the opinion of the people, he 



would have printed his explanation along 
with his call for workmen ; and if he had 
cared for Jerry, he would have given 
him long ago some hint that would have 
stopped his pen, and so would have left 
unsaid many hard things which had ir 
ritated the people against the unknown 
buyer. 

And with this last unavoidable con 
clusion, Jerry faced a truth that he had 
long realized, but from which he had 
turned away the truth that the doctor 
had never loved him. For years, ever 
since he had realized that the doctor 
was in every particular different from 
those about him, Jerry had watched him 
carefully, and by means of the deep love 
he bore him had learned that the doc 
tor s life was one long struggle to lose 
himself in anything that would absorb 
him. Through all disguises Jerry had 
seen this motive in all that the doctor 
did for the people about him ; and when 
he turned to his own case Jerry still saw 
this motive. The discovery hurt him, 
for always the thought followed, " I am 
a work that keeps him from remember 
ing I am a duty that satisfies his con 
science ; only this I am to him." It was 
through his love that Jerry had felt in 
the doctor s nature the lack of this same 
love ; found that the doctor had another 
theory than the one he held as to honest 
love and honest hate ; the doctor never 
flinched from his duty to all the world, 
nor to any segment of it that came within 
his reach, but he did not love it. 

And bitterly it had come home to 
Jerry that all the adoration he had with 
out question lavished on this his Ideal 
had fallen unheeded, if not unseen. 
This knowledge had not come to him all 
at once, but gradually, like the shadows 
that follow the morning sunlight all is 
still bright? but when you look attentive 
ly the shadow is where the sunlight was. 

The doctor was a mystery that with 
all his love Jerry could not solve. He 
was learning new lessons about him 
now, but his heart was growing heavy 
with the new wisdom. 

For years Jerry had realized in some 
measure the doctor s suffering, and had 
pitied him. Too often he had seen him 
sit for hours and never turn a page 
too often had seen the mask drop from 
his face and a deadly weariness take 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



199 



possession of it too often had found 
him lying face down on the rock over 
Burden s Mine too often he had seen 
these and other signs not to know that 
his past needed sympathy. All this had 
made him love this man with a pitying 
love that was pain ; but now the new 
wisdom that hurt him took the form of 
the, question " Was the doctor greedy 



for gain was it possible that this pitiful 
weakness touched his idol ? " 

That there must have been sin in his 
past to cause all the suffering in his 
present Jerry never doubted, but he 
had made sure always that they had 
been the sins of a noble nature ; but 
avarice could his idol fall so low as 
that? 



(To be continued.) 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 

By Grace Ellery Cbanning. 




IXTEEN in all. Five large ones, two 
small queer ones, four medium, three with 
the Greek pattern, the little brown one, and this 
beauty. Just look at it, Manuelo ! " and the speaker 
balanced in her hand, with an air of triumph, the 

delicate basket whose intricately woven tints formed a whole fascinating even to 
the eye of the uninitiated. 

" It is a good one, senorita," admitted Manuelo, guardedly. " The senorita has 
as fine a lot of baskets now as anyone in the valley, saving only old Anita. Ah ! if 

the senorita could see hers ! " 

He stopped abashed, for the young girl had clapped her hands over her ears,, 
and was shaking her head laughingly at him. 

" Manuelo ! Manuelo ! " said she, reproachfully, " how many times have I for 
bidden you to mention old Anita to me ? Isn t it enough to spend all my time 
and money, pursuing every basket which reaches my ears, without being 



200 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



haunted by the ghost of old Anita? 
Besides," she added, irrelevantly, " you 
know I don t believe in old Anita and 
her baskets." 

Manuelo smiled ; a smile like swift 
sunshine. "That is because you have 
not seen them, seiiorita," said he. " If 
you had, you would believe in no others. 
There is one of them so high, senorita " 
with a graceful turn of the wrist indi 
cating the size. 

" Three feet ! Why, it is a mammoth, 
Manuelo ! " 

"And fine" lie cast a disdainful 
glance at the baskets about her "you 
have nothing like it, senorita. But that 
is not all. Where the pattern goes there 
are feathers woodpecker s feathers 
woven in, all of the brightest scarlet 
oh, far gayer than these ! " 

Elsa shook her head, dejectedly. <* 

"You are determined to make me 
miserable, Manuelo. Now, what is the 
use of telling me this when Anita and 
her baskets are how many miles away ? 
and you know she wouldn t sell one of 
them for less than the price of a small 
ranch. If I were a man I might mount 
my horse, make off into the wilderness, 
and raid the mystical Anita for the sake 
of her baskets ; but since I am not " 
with an expressive smile the young girl 
turned again to the contemplation of her 
treasures. 

It was a pretty enough sight Manu 
elo thought so, at least the dainty 
creature surrounded by the ancient 
baskets, beneath a frame of splendid 
scarlet passion - flowers. The sunlight 

tlinted on her golden hair and floating 
ress ; and all about and beneath lay the 
fragrant groves of orange and lemon, and 
the gardens where roses red, white, and 
golden held carnival all the year round. 
A pretty sight, Manuelo thought, quite 
unaware what a striking element he 
himself added, cast upon the lower step 
with all the lazy grace of his nation in 
his figure, all its dark beauty in his 
face, and all its picturesqueness in his 
costume loose shirt, wide trousers, som 
brero, and gay kerchief knotted about 
his throat. By his side lay his guitar. 

There were two things on earth that 
Manuelo loved his guitar and Lolita. 

Lolita was loosely tethered in the 
grove at this moment. There was noth 



ing in her appearance to distinguish 
her from any other of the score of bron 
chos in the village. But as for the gui 
tar, there was none like it in all the 
South or West. In the first place, it was 
very old. Manuelo s mother had fingered 
it, and her mother s mother before her. 
They said it came first from Spain, a 
love-gift from some ardent Spanish 
lover, in the days when Manuelo s ances 
tors were great people in the new land, 
and to be a Mexican was to be of the 
nobility of California. Be that as it 
might, nothing else remained of all the 
traditional grandeur and pride save the 
guitar, and, perhaps, a statuesque turn 
of its young heritor s head. And the 
quaint golden inlaid tracery of the gui 
tar had grown rusty, while the statu 
esque head served only to set off a ragged 
sombrero. 

That troubled Manuelo not at all, 
strange compound of pride and careless 
ness, fiery impetuosity, and supine in 
dolence that he was. 

His old curmudgeon of an uncle, with 
whom he lived, might scold and swear, 
rolling Spanish oaths at him ; Manu 
elo was thoroughly contented with his 
meagre lot, equally happy while tearing 
madly about the country on Lolita, or 
lying idly at the feet of Elsa Loring, 
singing Southern melodies to his be 
loved guitar. 

How many hours he had spent so 
since blue-eyed Elsa came to occupy the 
hammock on the porch at Las Delicias, 
neither Manuelo nor Elsa cared to 
reckon. To Elsa it was such a natural 
thing to have him at her feet ; to Ma 
nuelo, so simply natural to be there. 
And now Elsa had contracted the basket 
craze. 

"What will you do with them all, 
senorita ? " demanded Manuelo, abruptly, 
after watching her silently for a space. 

Elsa looked up from the five she was 
critically trying to make a choice be 
tween. 

"Do with them?" she repeated, 
vaguely ; " oh, I shall take them home 
with me." She blushed a little. Manu 
elo said nothing. " You see," continued 
Elsa, confidentially, "in our part of the 
country they don t have anything like 
them, nothing half so beautiful, and so 
the people are all wild about them. The 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



201 



more I can get the better I shall like it, 
and the prouder I shall be. Only" 
she added, ruefully " I can t get many 
more, for I have pretty nearly ruined 
myself already, in spite of the wonder 
ful bargains you have found for me." 

Manuelo looked pleased. " You need 
not give yourself trouble for that, senor- 
ita," said he, "there are more, plenty 
more, and cheap. I will find them for 
you." 

Elsa s blue eyes gave him a glance be 
fore which his own fell for sheer joy. 

" Yes," said she, " I dare say you will. 
I believe you even cause them to spring 
from the ground. I am not sure you 
don t sit up nights to manufacture them 
yourself and all for a song ! Look at 
that beauty only four dollars it cost 
me. You could have sold it to the 
Englishman for double. I sometimes 
think, Manuelo, that you are too good 
to me." 

Manuelo looked out into the grove 
at Lolita. 

" Senorita," he stammered, " impos 
sible ! It is you who are too good." 

" And all the other things, the walks, 
and drives, and music," persisted the 
girl, "when I was so ill, and they 
brought me here to cure me, and I was 
so homesick that I almost preferred to 
die. Do you know what I should have 
done without your music ? I should 
have gone mad." 

She turned her eyes to him. Actually 
there were tears in them. 

Manuelo sprang from his step. " Sen 
orita," he cried, quite beside himself, 
" I beg of you ! It was all nothing ! 
I loved to do it, senorita the walks, 
the drives, the music ; and as for the 
baskets a miserable set of wretched 
ones, not worth your thanks," he added, 
in order to dispose of them utterly. 
" Now, had they been the baskets of 
Anita, the senorita might indeed " 

And Elsa threw back her golden head 
and laughed merrily with still moist 
eyes. 

"Aunt Mary," she said, an hour later 
Manuelo, after singing her many songs, 
had gone in search of the mail, a duty 
he had long since assumed, counting 
himself richly paid for the dusty ride 
by the smile home letters brought to 
Elsa s lips "Aunt Mary," said she, 



" this is the loveliest country on earth, 
but it would be rather dull without 
Manuelo, don t you think? Tell me 
what can I give him to show how grate 
ful I am to him ? " 

Aunt Mary thought a moment, her 
mild eyes fastened upon the delicate 
wild-rose face before her. Perhaps that 
very thing suggested her reply. 

"My dear," she said, "why not give 
him your photograph ? " 

Elsa sat bolt upright in horror. 

" Good gracious, Aunt Mary ! My 
photograph to Manuelo ! " 

" Well, my dear," answered the placid 
lady, "there is nothing he would like 
so well. You asked my opinion. You 
owe a great deal to his devoted service. 
He has shown himself a faithful friend, 
and it would please him to be treated 
as such. Besides, the lad is a gentle 
man. Under the circumstances there 
can be no impropriety." 

" No, of course not," murmured Elsa, 
blushing daintily, "but it is very, very 
unorthodox ! Still, as you say, I owe 
him a great deal." 

She sat very thoughtfully after that 
for a long time, leaning back in the ham 
mock, letting her eyes wander from the 
nest of roses and passion-flowers about 
her, over palms, and pepper-tops, to the 
distant snow-capped peaks against the 
sky of more than Italian blue. All that 
landscape was full of Manuelo to her 
full as her days had been since she first 
came, a delicate invalid, who could do no 
more than lie all day in the hammock 
and listlessly absorb the sunlight. Well, 
it was Manuelo who swung the hammock 
for her the very day after her arrival 
Manuelo, who chanced just then to be 
irrigating the orange-groves at Las De- 
licias. 

Elsa s fragile grace and fairness, the 
golden hair and blue eyes which looked 
twice angelic beside the florid Spanish 
beauties and tropical wealth of color all 
about, exercised a subtle spell upon 
Manuelo from the outset. Her suffer 
ings and needs appealed to all that was 
chivalrous in his ardent nature. From 
watching to occasional ready aid, from 
that to daily service, was a rapid growth. 
Never had lady more devoted cavalier 
than Elsa in the dark-eyed Mexican. It 
was he who guided her walks ; who found 



202 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



a safe little mustang for her ; who de 
vised excursions ; who piloted her to all 
the points of beauty ; who introduced 
her to the Padre at the old mission, and 
trotted out for her benefit all pictur 
esque characters in the neighborhood ; 
who ransacked huts and scoured ranches 
in pursuit of Indian baskets, when fi 
nally the fell mania of collecting seized 
upon Elsa. 

" Manuelo," she asked him once, mar 
velling at his unwearied energy, "why 
is it that you, who are so full of activity, 
don t do something ? " 

" Senorita," he replied, calmly, looking 
up from under his sombrero, " there is 
nothing to do." 

" Then why not go away? " persisted 
Elsa. " You are young and strong. You 
waste your life in this sleepy little village." 

Manuelo s eyes grew suddenly very far 
away. 

" Who knows ? " said he, dreamily ; 
"I have thought of it. It is dull at 
times, and Pedro grows crosser. There 
is my cousin Jesus in the Esperanza 
mines. There there is always something. 
Perhaps some day ! " 

" Some day is no day," said Elsa, shak 
ing her head. "You should make up 
your mind and go at once." 

Manuelo glanced about, at the garden, 
the vine-covered porch, the cool little 
fountain in its forest of calla lilies, then 
he looked at Elsa and smiled very sweetly. 

" Senorita," said he, " it is good here 
too." He picked up the guitar, touched 
the chords, and swept the girl away with 
the magic of a Southern song. 

Elsa thought of all these things and 
many more now. The result of her 
meditation was that she selected from 
her desk that night a photograph of 
herself. On the back she wrote, " Ma 
nuelo, from Elsa Loring, with grateful 
thanks." 

She gave it to him the next day with 
a little graceful, merry phrase ; but she 
was totally unprepared for its effect 
upon Manuelo. 

A great wave of color, of light, surged 
into his face and glowing eyes. He ab 
solutely trembled. For a moment he 
could say nothing. When he did speak, 
it was but two stammering, tremulous 
words. 

" Senorita ! Gracias ! mille gracias ! " 



"It is nothing, nothing at all, Manu 
elo," said Elsa, lightly. But in her heart 
she had a sudden misgiving as to the 
wisdom of Aunt Mary s benevolence. 

Manuelo never spoke again of the 
gift. Only he was, if possible, more 
serviceable and gentle and thoughtful 
than ever, while his mellow voice and 
plaintive guitar might be heard nightly 
floating above the perfumed groves of 
Las Delicias. 

Elsa grew fonder and fonder of him, 
and treated him like a favored brother. 
She found the country, the climate, and 
Manuelo all perfect, and declared that 
she herself should be perfectly happy 
but for one thing. 

" And that one thing ? " said Aunt 

Mary, with a smile. 

" The baskets of Anita," asserted Elsa, 
as with a mischievous laugh she disap 
peared into the house. 

The peaceful weeks new by. In a land 
where there is nothing to mark the flight 
of time save fresh succession of flowers, 
time flies faster than elsewhere. The 
oranges came, and ripened upon the 
trees into luscious globes of juicy sweet 
ness ; the almonds blossomed, and the 
apricots and peaches turned the land 
scape into a Japanese garden of pearl 
and white. The poppies blossomed and 
ran across the mesas, acres of them, 
waves of living, palpitating orange- 
golden glow. The larks came and sang 
over them. One by one out came the 
multitudinous wild flowers and car 
peted every inch of ground, running 
boldly into the very poppy-fields. And, 
finally, when every tree and bush and 
bit of land was set in flower and leaf 
and clothing green, the roses held their 
perfect April festival. By millions they 
waved and climbed and bloomed ex 
travagantly on every hand. White and 
gold and crimson, and every tint be 
tween, the land disappeared under roses, 
the whole face of the country glowed and 
blossomed with them. 

So, perfumed and flattered andwooed, 
and caressed by flowers and sun and 
softest air, the fragile Elsa strength 
ened her hold of life daily, and bloomed, 
like the land about her, into beauty and 
sudden happiness. Such a change had 
come over her. Manuelo was not a little 
proud of it. 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



203 



" Senorita," said he, " you should live 
always in our South." 

Basket-hunting remained Elsa s favor 
ite occupation. She was constantly re 
newing her determination to consider 
the collection complete, and as con 
stantly being lured from it by the sight 
of a novel form, a quaint pattern, or 
some "bargain too good to be lost." 

Her collection was quite a theme of 
interest to all the inhabitants of the 
little village who knew her, each one of 
them personally, by this time. They 
were fond of bringing their friends to 
see the assortment which Elsa was al 
ways ready to display, and more than 
one excellent bargain found its way to 
Elsa s ears through their interest. It 
was early days then. If Elsa went back 
now to the village she would find baskets 
rarer than roses in an Eastern winter, 
and held at proportionate prices. But in 
these days she had it much her own way. 

Many and various were the baskets. 
Great bell-shaped black and white ones ; 
tall, delicate, vase-like shapes ; odd ones 
like hour-glasses broken abruptly ; some 
small and dainty like a lady s bonbon- 
niere ; others flat and like tiny saucers 
for sweet-breathed violets there was 
no shape, size, or texture missing from 
Elsa s store. Of every age, tint, degree 
of wholeness and cleanliness truly they 
formed a treasure to make a connois 
seur s heart beat high and enviously. 

One unusually warm afternoon Ma- 
nuelo rode up to the entrance of Las 
Delicias. He had been setting out 
orange-slips all day, and then had rid 
den a couple of miles beyond to secure 
a basket of which Francisco Martinez 
had told him over their work. Baskets 
were growing scarce, and Manuelo had 
to look farther afield each day. 

This one proved to be a miserable 
affair, small, dingy, and ragged, besides 
smelling most self-assertingly of all its 
latest uses. Manuelo almost decided 
not to take it at all, but he hated to go 
back empty-handed. The owner com 
pounded for "four bits," and finally 
Manuelo left the hut with the basket in 
his hand and disdain in his eyes. 

" Still," thought he, solacingly, "it is 
one more, and will amuse the senorita." 

He made Lolita fast to the usual pep 
per-tree. "Here is Manuelo now," he 



heard Elsa say, as he came up the path. 
And then a fierce pang of jealousy smote 
his heart. 

On the top of the wide steps sat Elsa, 
radiant, and Aunt Mary close behind ; 
and in front of Elsa, huge, mellowed by 
age to a beguiling brown, and with a 
great, florid pattern sprawling alluringly 
about its wide mouth, stood the king of 
all baskets. Yet it was not the basket, 
nor Elsa s triumphant eyes, which Ma 
nuelo noticed with that bitter pang, but 
the lounging figure of Jose Silva on the 
step below. 

Jose was the natural rival of Manuelo. 
In the first place Jose was a year older, 
and an inch taller, and as agile with his 
feet as Manuelo with his fingers the 
best dancer, as Manuelo was the best 
musician, in San Miguel. In the second 
place, Jose had in his blood that taint 
which no Mexican ever pardons the 
Indian taint and Manuelo was a Mex 
ican Caballero at heart, with all the 
pride and prejudice of his race hot 
within him. There was no love lost 
between the two. Doubtless it was more 
to anger Manuelo than for any other 
purpose that Jose, knowing well his de 
votion to Elsa had he not ridiculed it 
for months back as openly as he dared ? 
had taken the pains to bring her a 
basket which far outrivalled any Manu 
elo had ever been able to find. 

"No doubt he stole it," thought Ma 
nuelo, bitterly, as he w r ent up the steps. 
He was too proud to show his feelings, 
except by an extra touch of Castilian 
dignity as he saluted the ladies and 
Jose. 

" Only look, Manuelo ! " cried Elsa, 
unable to suppress her excitement. 
" Jose has brought me the most magni 
ficent basket ! Only see how fine it is, 
and what a pattern ! He says it is at 
least a hundred years old. Isn t it su 
perb?" 

"It is very fine, sefiorita," answered 
Manuelo, proudly. 

" And only ten dollars," said Elsa, ex 
ultantly. "Think of it! Why, I wouldn t 
have missed it for half as much again." 

Jose smiled, a swift, flashing smile. 
He was very handsome when he smiled. 

Manuelo hated him. 

" Then take care, senorita," said Jose, 
" I may raise my price." 



204 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



Elsa laughed. "No," she said, "I 
am not afraid. You are honest ; all you 
Mexicans are. Look at Manuelo ; he 
has sold me baskets for a song all win 
ter." 

Jose glanced, just glanced, at the bas 
kets about him, and then back at his 
own, and he smiled a little. The smile 
said as plainly as words, " I am too polite 

to say so, but such baskets ! Now 

mine ! " 

Manuelo s blood boiled. He, too, looked 
bitterly at the baskets he had gathered 
with such loving pride. How coarse 
and dingy and common they had all at 
once grown beside the magnificent bas 
ket of Jose. And as for the last w r retched 
one he would gladly have thrown it 
out into the grove, had such a thing 
been possible. At this very moment 
Elsa caught sight of it. 

" Oh ! " she exclaimed, " what is that 
in your hand? another basket for 
me?" 

Manuelo gathered all his Castilian 
pride. He produced the basket and 
handed it to her indifferently. 

"It is a wretched one, seilorita," he 
said, calmly, "but will serve to increase 
your collection." 

Elsa took it and looked at it silently. 

Josu looked at it too, and smiled. 

"It was very kind of you to bring it," 
said Elsa, gently, "and I only wonder 
you could find any you have brought 
me so many." She put it beside the 
others, then she stood off and looked at 
the entire row. Manuelo watched the 
varying expression as she looked from 
one to another. When she came to the 
monster which headed the line with an 
air of conscious superiority (for which 
Manuelo could have kicked it) her eyes 
brightened with delight, and she clasped 
her hands together, naively ; Manuelo s 
heart contracted. " Oh, you beauty ! " 
she exclaimed, involuntarily ; then, " I 
believe I shall have to give up collecting 
now," she said, with a laugh. "I shall 
never be satisfied with anything less 
than this again, and there are no more, 
there can t be any more like it can 
there, Manuelo ? " She turned to him, 
confidingly. "Did you ever see a bas 
ket more beautiful than this?" 

Jose cast a glance of malice. Manuelo 
drew himself up proudly. 



"Senorita," said he, "yes the bas 
kets of Anita!" Then he felt himself 
grow scarlet, for there was an irrepres 
sible ripple of laughter, quickly sup 
pressed, from Aunt Mary, and a hoarse 
chuckle from Jose. Even Elsa had 
smiled a swift, involuntary smile. But 
Elsa was a little gentlewoman, and there 
was no mistaking the sudden passion 
of Manuelo s eyes. 

" Oh, yes, surely," she said, with easy 
naturalness, " I had forgotten the beauti 
ful baskets of Anita." Then she picked 
up one of the lesser baskets, crowned 
it with scarlet passion-flowers, and 
called upon them all to admire the 
effect. 

It was gracefully and graciously done, 
and Manuelo knew it. He took up his 
hat quickly. 

" Adios, senorita ! " said he. Elsa 
looked up quickly. 

" Are you going already, Manuelo ? 
Will you not stay and sing for us ? " 

He shook his head. "Thanks, sen 
orita ; " catching the mocking eyes of 
Jose he murmured something about 
" manana." Then he turned away down 
the rose-bordered path under the olives, 
carrying his head very high indeed, 
while the guitar dangled at his side. 

Poor Manuelo ! He knew worst of 
all that he had betrayed himself ; that 
all his pride had not availed. Ridiculed, 
despised, his loving work of all the 
winter made worthless in a single mo 
ment, and finally to be misbelieved. He 
had not minded Elsa s laughing jests at 
old Anita all winter what a different 
thing they sounded now in the light of 
Jose s mocking eyes. Manuelo set his 
teeth and his face grew stern. 

" We shall see if they will believe or 
no," said he. 

He unfastened Lolita, threw himself 
upon her, thrust his heels into her sides, 
and without a backward glance at the 
house galloped away. 

Old Pedro was standing in front of 
the dilapidated adobe house when the 
clattering of swift hoofs came up the 
road, and Manuelo, leaping lightly down, 
with a dexterous turn of the rein made 
the pony fast to a low pepper-tree. 
Then he came up to Pedro, who took 
his pipe from his mouth and regarded 
him disapprovingly. 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



205 



he. 



How now, lazy bones ! " grumbled 



Manuelo was pale, and the dust lay 
thickly upon his purple kerchief. 

" Money ! " said Manuelo, briefly. 

Old Pedro sniffed scornfully, and put 
his pipe back again. Manuelo came a 
step nearer. 

" I want money ! you hear ? I must 
and I will have it ! " 

" Do you expect me to give it to you, 
then, idler ? Where is that from the 
orange picking ? Gone ! thrown away ! 
and you think I will give you more to 
throw in the dust," Pedro s voice 
was raised discordantly "good-for- 
nothing ! Not I ! " 

" See," said Manuelo, " will you lend 
it?" 

" No," said Pedro, " not a cent will 
I!" 

Manuelo made a despairing gesture. 

" Have it I must, and will ! " He 
turned away, leaned against Lolita, 
one hand thrown across her neck, and 
thought desperately. 

Old Pedro watched him curiously. 
Suddenly an evil light came into his 
eyes. 

"Manuelito," said he, caressingly. 

" Yes," said Manuelo, mechanically ; 
he was thinking, thinking. , 

" You want that money badly ? " with 
an evil grin. 

" Desperately." 

"Good! Give me the guitar you 
shall have it." 

Manuelo started violently. Involun 
tarily he laid his hand upon it. Sell 
the guitar, his best-beloved, his treas 
ure ! He dragged it hastily round, and 
glared at it, the sole remnant of all the 
faded glories of his family. As soon 
part with Lolita ! 

" Good ! " said old Pedro, with a 
sneer ; "you can do without the money, 
idiot, that s plain to see." He turned 
to go in. 

" Wait ! " said Manuelo. He unstrung 
the guitar from his shoulder, and held 
it out in both hands to Pedro. 

" How much for it ? " said he. 

Old Pedro came back grumbling. 
The guitar was very old, the inlaid part 
shabby ; it would need new strings ; he 
feared the tone was not what it had 
been. 



" Twenty-five dollars," said Manuelo, 
sternly, " and it is yours." 

Pedro held up his hands to heaven. 

Twenty-five dollars ! Saints above ! 
was he made of money ? Fifteen would 
be ruinous. 

" Twenty-five dollars now, on the 
spot, or I will take it to the Englishman, 
who you know will give me thirty. 
Yes or no ! " 

" No ! " 

Without a word Manuelo slung the 
guitar over his head and turned to Lo 
lita. 

"Now, did ever one see such a hot 
head ! " cried old Pedro, in grieved sur 
prise. "A word is a blow with him. 
Here, madcap, give me the guitar and 
take the money. Besides, the English 
man is away and you are in haste to 
throw the good money in the dust, I 
warrant. Come, bring on the guitar." 
And so, grumbling and swearing, the old 
man went in and unearthed his miserly 
guarded store. Manuelo stood by im 
passive and silent, having once more 
unslung the guitar. 

"Here," said Pedro at last, reluc 
tantly handing the money to him. It 
went to Pedro s heart to part with these 
dollars, but there was consolation in 
the guitar. He knew, if Manuelo did 
not, what the curio-hunting English 
man would give for the rarest guitar in 
America. 

Manuelo took the money, laid the gui 
tar in the grasping hands outstretched 
for it, and turned away. He leaped 
straight upon Lolita, and paying no 
heed to the questions and commands 
which Pedro screamed after him, rode 
off under the drooping peppers. 

" The mad fool ! " grumbled Pedro. 
And then he looked at the guitar and 
chuckled to himself. 

Three days and three nights Manuelo 
loped southward to the mountains. He 
stopped each night at some ranchero s, 
but each morning s sun found him 
again on Lolita s back, his canteria 
stuffed with some frugal provision for 
the day. The mountains about grew 
steeper, the ranches lengthened into 
broad domains holding each many 
square miles in its boundaries ; the vil 
lages dwindled into mere scattered 



206 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



hamlets, and finally there was not much 
else than a rude trail from one solitary 
adobe hut to another. But it grew 
ever more picturesque. The chaparal- 
covered hills were abloom with silver ; 
quails and wood-doves, jack-rabbits and 
squirrels started up in all directions 
from under Lolita s feet ; and the yuc 
cas, myriads of them, stood thickly over 
the sides of the great hills, and high on 
impassable ledges above the wild ra 
vines, like the multitudinous snowy 
banners of a hidden army. 

It was very still. There were no car 
riages, still less railroads. Only now 
and then the figure of a horseman go 
ing at the easy lope which replaces a 
walk where distances are always meas 
ured by miles, or a solitary tourist with 
his bag and gun slung across his shoul 
der. For, year by year, as the ranches 
go, as the " Greaser " and the Indian 
go, as all the semi-tropical Spanish- 
Bohemianism is driven farther back, the 
picturesque-loving tourist takes refuge 
more and more in " tramping " it 
through the by-ways of California. 

It was late on the afternoon of the 
third day when Manuelo, loping along 
over a level mesa, beheld high upon a 
hillside the object of his quest a gray 
patch which his experienced eye knew 
for a cluster of adobe huts. He drew a 
sigh of relief. 

" So," he muttered, " there they are. 
It is well." Then he bent and stroked 
Lolita s neck reassuringly. 

"Courage, my darling," said he, "we 
are almost there, and then a good sup 
per and a night s rest for thee." 

At that moment, round the sharp turn 
of the road came a pedestrian ; a pedes 
trian at whom Manuelo glanced care 
lessly, then with sudden wonder, then 
with a thrill, a shock which made his 
heart bound and stand still. 

The stranger was young, thirty per 
haps, tall and slender. He walked with 
the assured gait of a mountain-climber, 
but his jaunty costume betrayed the 
"civilizee," if not the dandy. A pictu 
resque sombrero shaded his handsome 
face, out of which two clear gray eyes 
looked coolly and merrily. Certainly 
there was nothing in all this to make 
Manuelo s heart behave so madly ! The 
stranger carried a gun across his shoul 



der, and from a leather strap hung a 
bag, sketching-stool, and a mammoth 
Indian basket. Upon this basket the 
gaze of Manuelo was fastened with silent 
horror. Big, brown, finer than woven 
silk ; and woven in a marvellous pattern 
which showed a constant scarlet gleam 
throughout it, Manuelo would have 
known it among ten thousand others 
the basket of Anita ! Meanwhile the 
stranger had approached, and lifting 
his hat with a smiling "Buenos dios, 
sefior ! " was passing by. At the same 
instant Manuelo reined Lolita straight 
across the path. "Senor," said he, "a 
thousand pardons ! " He leaped from 
his horse. The stranger regarded him 
coolly but friendlily. 

" A thousand pardons, senor," repeat 
ed Manuelo, agitatedly, taking off his 
hat. "You have there a fine basket, 
seiior ! " 

The "seiior" smiled. "You are a 
connoisseur, then, my friend ? " said he. 
"Yes, it is a magnificent specimen." 
He pulled it round and contemplated it 
with satisfaction. " I bought it from an 
old Indian woman up yonder," he added, 
"and I am inclined to think I was in 
luck, though she fleeced me to a pretty 
extent. It weighs more than a feather, 
too," he added, smiling as he readjusted 
it with a little shrug. 

"Senor" Manuelo s heart beat so 
fast and hard it must almost have been 
visible through his jacket "as you 
say, it weighs ; you will find it will grow 
heavier as you go, senor. If you would 
care to part with it " 

"Thanks ! " said the stranger, calmly, 
" I am in nowise anxious." 

"If it were a question of the 
price ?" 

"It is not in the least a question of 
the price." 

" Senor " Manuelo s tone was en 
treating, supplicating. "I have come 
many miles to purchase that basket. 
Three days have I travelled, seiior ! If 
you would but sell it " 

The stranger looked at him with new 
interest. He noticed for the first time 
the haggard lines of the young Mexican s 
face. 

" Why do you come so far and take 
so much trouble for this particular bas 
ket : there must be thousands of oth- 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



207 



ers ? " he asked, with direct and clear 
scrutiny. 

"There are thousands of others, 
senor ; yes ! but there is none other 
like this in all the country." 

The senor smiled a little triumphantly. 

"In that case," said he, "you must 
understand that, having been lucky 
enough to find it, I may naturally wish 
to keep it. I am sorry for you, my 
friend," he added, "sorry to be dis 
obliging, but I am a collector of beauti 
ful things, an artist, and this basket is, 
by your own admission, a treasure." 
He bowed and made a step to pass 
politely. But Manuelo laid a desperate 
hand upon his arm. 

" Senor," said he, " would no price 
tempt you ? Would you not sell it even 
for a large, a very large price ? " 

The stranger smiled. "Why," said 
he, "I don t say that. I dare say I 
might if the price were large enough ; 
I am by no means a millionaire." 

Manuelo drew himself up. " Senor," 
said he, calmly, "I offer you twenty-five 
dollars." 

The stranger started and his eyes 
grew kindly, almost compassionate in 
their gaze. "My poor boy," said he, 
gently, "I could not take it from 
you." 

Manuelo s head began to go round 
and round. 

" Sefior," said he, desperately, " you 
must you will ! It is not from me ; it 
is it is from a rich old Englishman, a 
madman for baskets. He will pay any 
price ; he cares not what they cost him, 
and he has set his heart upon this. 
Twenty-five dollars is nothing to him 
nothing, sefior ! Look ! " He plunged 
his hand into his pocket and brought it 
out full of loose gold and silver. " This 
is all his, you may suppose, senor it is 
not mine ! But the basket I pledged 
myself. You will sell it, senor ? for the 
love of God ! There are reasons ! 
sefior ! " 

He stopped, and hung with all his 
soul upon the moment s pause. P.. wild 
notion of offering to throw in Lolita, too, 
flashed across him, but he felt its un- 
tenableness in conjunction with the 
Englishman. 

Meanwhile the stranger looked doubt 
fully from Manuelo to the basket. 



" There is something which strikes me 
as odd about this transaction," he thought 
to himself, quizzically, profoundly puz 
zled. " I am a tenderfoot, and, possibly, 
this is one of the customs of this singu 
lar country. Still, to keep a mounted 
Mexican curio-hunter scouting about the 
country with unlimited credit no, cash 
seems to me an unique luxury, even 
for a wealthy Inglese. However," he 
added to himself, tolerantly, "that s 
none of my business, is it? and the 
boy s pride is evidently on the qui vive 
to secure this treasure. Shall I let him 
have it? He certainly wouldn t own 
that cash, or be so free with it if he did. 
No doubt he gets his little profit from 
it, so why should I scruple ? " 

"Very well," he said at last, aloud, 
" since you and your Englishman are in 
the majority, I will part with the basket 
at that figure." 

" Seiior ! mille gracias ! " Gratitude, 
the most fervent and genuine gratitude 
spoke in the tones, and the eloquent 
dark eyes. 

" Decidedly," thought the senor, " this 
passes ! " 

Manuelo counted out the twenty-five 
dollars, and offered it to the stranger, 
who was slow to take it. 

" You are sure," he said, " that you 
do not repent ; that you are not exceed 
ing your Englishman s authority ? " 

" Senor sure ! " 

The stranger unslung the basket and 
handed it to Manuelo. " Adios, my 
friend," said he, kindly ; "I yield to you 
more than to the Englishman s dollars." 

Manuelo removed his sombrero, and 
stepped aside to clear the path. Under 
one arm he clasped the basket. 

" Adios, senor," said he, courteously, 
his dark eyes lit with joy, his whole face 
beaming. 

With a parting smile the stranger dis 
appeared down the winding path, while 
Manuelo, his heart singing within him, 
leading Lolita and bearing the basket, 
went slowly up the mountain trail. 

Three days afterward he entered the 
town of San Miguel, dusty, travel-stained, 
and penniless, but with his mission ac 
complished. He brought with him the 
basket of Anita. 

He did not go at once to Las Delicias. 
Being a lover, he was fastidious. Being 



208 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



a Spaniard, he was something of a poet ; 
and both the lover and the poet in him 
dictated that a victor should go not 
unadorned, bearing his spoils unto his 
lady. So he went straight to the hut of 
old Pedro. 

Pedro was out, which was an agree 
able omen at the outset. Having watered, 
fed, and groomed Lolita, Manuelo en 
tered the little hut, washed away the dust 
of his six day s ride, donned his fiesta 
suit, knotted the gayest kerchief about 
his beautiful throat, and emerged as 
gallant a cavalier as heart could wish. 

Only he missed the guitar. But be 
fore his e} T es stood the basket. Smiling 
he caught it up, and with the lightest 
heart resaddled the refreshed Lolita, 
and rode straight to Las Delicias. 

It was evening. A superb southern 
moon flooded the quiet town with such 
light as one must go to California even 
to imagine. The wide casements and 
windows at Las Delicias all stood open, 
but there was no one on the porch when 
Manuelo made his way up the path with 
the basket in his hands. He looked in 
side. Still no one. Perhaps, thought 
Manuelo, they had strolled into the 
grove. He stood a moment, irresolute, 
beside the clump of over-reaching lau- 
restinas, when all at once voices came to 
him, drifting across the still air from the 
lime-walks on the left ; and at the same 
moment they the voices emerged into 
the moonlit space beyond. The myste 
rious silver glow made them visible like 
figures in a dream. Manuelo, sunk in 
the shadow, was in another world. 

Elsa s white dress brushed her com 
panion why not, since his arm was 
about her? and her sweet eyes were 
raised with infinite contentment to the 
strong, loving ones looking down at 
her. 

"And so/ said she, "all the time I 
have been hard at work for you ; and 
while you were tramping about in search 
of beautiful scenes, I was hoarding 
beautiful things for you. There will be 
enough to fill the studio." 

"All of which," answered the mellow 
voice, "was very naughty of you, my 
sweetheart! You were to do nothing 
but get well and strong for me." 

" Oh, but I did that too ! " answered 
Elsa, lightly. " So well and strong, all 



the time I was riding, and climbing, and 
hunting up treasures. Only ask Manu 
elo." 

" And who is Manuelo ? " 

" Manuelo is Manuelo ! My devoted 
cavalier, the dearest and most delight 
ful fellow ! He has been better than 
the sun and air to me ; and, dear, you 
will not mind that I gave him my 
picture ? Aunt Mary said, under the cir 
cumstances it was quite right. If I had 
not been betrothed, of course, I would 
not have done it. You are not dis 
pleased ? " 

" Displeased ! my beloved ! Wait and 
see how I shall thank him for being 
good to you ! " 

"He has deserted us for some days 
orange-picking, I suppose but you 
will see that he never forgets me ; I am 
sure he will bring me a basket when he 
comes." 

"Then," said the mellow voice, be 
tween mirth and regret, " I have lost my 
only chance of outrivalling him in his 
own line. You should have seen the 
basket I let slip through my hands the 
other day, Elsa ! " 

" Oh, Robert ! but why ? " 

" Well, I had purchased it against my 
conscience, to begin with, at the rate of 
fifteen dollars ; and it was a mighty one, 
a regular elephant for a poor pedestrian 
who was foolishly impatient to catch a 
certain train, in order to reach a cer 
tain little sweetheart of his ! However," 
lightly, " I dare say I should have hung 
on to the basket in spite of qualms of 
conscience and legs, had I not encoun 
tered a basket-hunter who was madder 
than I, and who offered me the pretty 
sum of twenty -five dollars for it." 

" And you let it go oh ! " 

" Well, my darling, he did want it so 
very badly and what right had an im 
pecunious artist to luxuries of that mar 
ket value? And then I did not know 
you were smitten with the basket craze, 
sweetheart, or I would have kept the 
basket, and gone without say, coal." 

But this mild sarcasm was thrown 
away. Elsa, the basket-bewitched, was 
dreaming of the lost one. 

" What was it like ? " was her medita 
tive and irrelevant reply. 

"Well," resignedly, "its majesty 
would stand, I think, about three feet 



THE BASKET OF ANITA. 



209 



high. It was very quaintly shaped. It 
was the finest I ever have seen. There 
was a beguiling, mellow-brown tone to 
the whole, which attested its honorable 
age, and a most seductive pattern climb 
ing about its sides. But there was some 
thing more a gleam of scarlet about it 
which gave it character." 

Elsa clasped her hands. "And you 
sold it ! How could you ? Why, it 
is like the basket of Anita ! " 

"Now, who in the name of reason 
is Anita? Another of your attendant 
sprites?" 

" Anita is a mythical old woman who 
lives on a mythical hill, and nurses a 
mythical basket, visible only to the eyes 
of Manuelo and whose Doppelganger 
you sol " 

"Sweetheart!" 

Two transfigured faces were uplifted 
in the moonlight, and two pairs of lips 
melted together. 

Perfectly unobserved, a shadow melt 
ed into the shadows down the road. 



Unobserved, Manuelo led Lolita out into 
the road and leaped upon her back. He 
hesitated a moment only a moment 
then he turned her head away from the 
old mission and Pedro, and galloped 
straight into the open country, toward 
the mines of Esperanza. 

It was only an hour later that Elsa, 
running up the steps with happy, un 
seeing eyes, stumbled over something, 
tripped, and would have fallen headlong, 
but for the arms about her. 

"Why! what was that?" exclaimed 
Elsa. 

Her lover stooped, fumbled in the 
uncertain dusk until his hand encoun 
tered the object ; then he held it up in 
the moonlight. 

There was an exclamation from both, 
then silence. 

They had recognized, at the same 
moment, the upturned photograph in its 
depth, and the scarlet gleam of wood 
pecker s feathers about its rim. 

It was the basket of Anita. 




V*mjmftm 



VOL. VIII. 20 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 

By Edward Marston. 




VEEYTHING relating 
to Mr. Stanley seems to 
possess a special and 
peculiar interest for a 
very large portion of the 
public of many nation 
alities. Such readers I 
have thought might be glad to know 
something about the method of writ 
ing, and the daily life, of the author 
of a work respecting the appearance of 
which they have already evinced such a 
very extraordinary interest, for probably 
no book has ever been more eagerly 
looked for in every part of the civilized 
world, and in many languages, than the 
one which Mr. Stanley lately finished. 

On Mr. Stanley s arrival in Cairo he 
immediately telegraphed to me, inviting 
me to pay him a visit there, with a view 
to forward the progress of the great work 
he had in hand ; and he suggested that 
I should bring an artist with me. I 
need not say that I accepted the invita 
tion with the greatest possible pleasure. 
I arrived at Cairo at three o clock on 
the morning of my sixty-sixth birthday. 
It would have been too much to expect 
the great man himself to meet me at 
the station at that unreasonable hour. I 
was very grateful to find that he had sent 
his courier and dragoman with two car 
riages ; the carriages had been specially 
engaged some hours before, and were 
left outside while the men looked after 
me and my luggage ; by the time we got 
through and out of the station, one had 
decamped, and the other was occupied 
by a stalwart foreigner who swore loudly 
that there he was and there he meant to 
remain in spite of any engagements to 
the contrary. Eemonstrance or expla 
nation in a tongue unknown to him was 
useless. Possession was the whole of 
the law here. There was not another 



carriage to be found, but there were 
scores of screaming and fighting Arabs 
to carry our luggage, and we had to walk 
to our hotel. The affectionate warmth 
of Stanley s greeting when we met, at 
once made me quite at home, and I found 
myself the guest of a very remarkable 
man, whose name was ringing through 
the civilized and uncivilized world ; a 
man whom everyone was longing to see 
as the hero of the day. To be so hon 
ored and so sought after was, as he one 
day said to me, " enough to turn his 
head, if he had not had much more seri 
ous matters to think about." 

I think it may be looked upon as an 
almost unique thing in the history of 
authors and publishers for a publisher 
to be invited to travel so far to give prac 
tical assistance to an author in the prep 
aration of his manuscript. The truth, 
however, was that a great book had to be 
written within a certain period of time, 
and if not completed by that time, there 
was every chance that it would never be 
completed at all. 

To attain this end Mr. Stanley had 
very wisely decided not to proceed home, 
where to write his book in peace and 
quietness was out of the question ; while 
in Egypt there was a possibility of com 
parative seclusion, and the advantages 
of a most delightful climate, where even 
confinement to the desk would not be 
so injurious as in the murky atmos 
phere of London at that period of the 
year. Those who know Cairo are well 
aware that its climate during the winter 
months is simply perfect. The dry and 
exhilarating air acts in itself as a tonic, 
and the almost complete absence of rain 
and fog and leaden skies, and the ge 
nial temperature, all combine to make 
life in Cairo, even to a recluse, thor 
oughly enjoyable. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



211 



Mr. Stanley, after his arrival, and after 
the first display of honors forced upon 
him by the Khedive and other digni 
taries of the place, very wisely departed 
from the noise and bustle of Shephard s 
Hotel, and found a charming retreat in 
the Hotel Yilla Victoria. This hotel is 
situated in the most beautiful part of 
Cairo, not far from the Ezbekiyeh Gar 
dens, and is surrounded on all sides by 
fine and newly built mansions. It com 
prises three separate buildings which 
form three sides of a quadrangle, in the 
centre of which is a charming garden. 
Here are pleasant walks, shaded by huge 
palm, and orange trees laden with ripe 
fruit ; one of the latter looked tempting 
ly into Mr. Stanley s working-room. In 
the centre is a fountain surrounded by 
tropical and oriental plants, and the an 
tics of a monkey tied to a tree give va 
riety to the scene. The landlord of this 
hotel seems to fully appreciate the 
charms of his surroundings. How or 
when he conducts his business is a mys 
tery. To me it seemed that most of his 
time was spent lolling luxuriously in a 
hammock, smoking a cigarette, or, for 
exercise, mildly swaying himself back 
ward and forward on a rope swing or 
reclining and complacently dozing in a 
bower under a canopy of yellow sweet- 
scented roses. Life to him appeared 
like a pleasant dream. He reminded me 
of Tennyson s "mild-eyed, melancholy 
Lotos-eaters." 

" With half -shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream." 

A sharp contrast to this lazy, happy 
lounger was the toiler in the room whose 
open windows looked out over a trellis 
of roses and ripe mandarins, on this 
idle garden, where doves and gray- 
backed crows were familiar visitors. I 
must, however, do this good landlord 
the justice of saying that, notwithstand 
ing the easy enjoyment he seems to get 
out of his life, his hotel is admirably 
managed. It is charmingly furnished 
throughout, the living is very good, the 
bedrooms are lofty, airy, and well looked 
after in every respect. 

It was in that part of the hotel far 
thest removed from the street that Mr. 
Stanley took up his abode. Here he 



had a fine suite of rooms on the ground 
floor, very handsomely furnished in the 
oriental style. . A large, lofty reception- 
room and an equally large and hand 
some dining-room. In these he received 
some of the most important or most per 
sistent of his many callers ; but as a rule 
he shut himself up in his bedroom, and 
there he wrote from early morning till 
late at night, and woe betide anyone 
who ventured unasked into this sanctum. 
He very rarely went out, even for a stroll 
round the garden. His whole heart and 
soul were centred on his work. He had 
set himself a certain task, and he had 
determined to complete it to the exclu 
sion of every other object in life. He 
said of himself, "I have so many pages 
to write. I know that if I do not com 
plete this work by a certain time, when 
other and imperative duties are imposed 
upon me, I shall never complete it at 
all. When my work is accomplished, 
then I will talk with you, laugh with 
you, and play with you, or ride with you 
to your heart s content ; but let me alone 
now, for Heaven s sake." 

Nothing worried him more than a tap 
at the door while he was writing ; he 
sometimes glared even upon me like a 
tiger ready to spring, although I was 
of necessity a frequent and privileged 
intruder, and always with a view to for 
warding the work in hand. He was a per 
fect terror to his courier and black boy. 
When his courier knocked tremblingly 
at his door, he would cry out, " Am I a 
prisoner in my own house ? " " I ve 
brought you this telegram, sir." " Well, 
I detest telegrams ; why do you persist 
in bringing them ? " 

Sali, the black boy who travelled with 
him throughout his long and peril 
ous expedition, is a youth of some re 
source. Until this terrible book had 
got into his master s brain he had been 
accustomed to free access to him at all 
hours ; but now things were different ; 
every time he approached the den, the 
least thing he expected was that the ink 
stand would be thrown at his head. He 
no longer ventured therein. One day he 
originated a new wa t y of saving his head ; 
he had a telegram to deliver, so he in 
geniously fixed it on the end of a long 
bamboo, and getting the door just ajar, 
he poked it into the room and bolted. 



212 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



At luncheon and dinner Mr. Stanley 
was quite another man. He and I and 
his secretary generally messed together ; 
occasionally a friend dropped in. Mr. 
Stanley is himself extremely abstemious. 
He drinks nothing but about a table- 
spoonful of brandy in a glass of water, 
and in this respect he is somewhat forget 
ful of his friends. One evening a friend 
came in to dinner, and we sat for about 
two hours smoking and listening to his 
stories, but it never once occurred to 
him to ask his friend to take anything 
with his cigar. At length his guest, who 
was growing thirsty, asked him before 
leaving if he might have a little whiskey 
and soda. "My dear fellow," said he, 
" why did you not ask for it before ? I 
never once thought of it. I ask your 
pardon ! " I frequently remonstrated 
with him for passing dish after dish 
without touching them. His invariable 
reply was, " How can I eat and work ? 
You know well that yonder are several 
pages for me to complete before I sleep." 
"But," I replied, "you are killing your 
self, it is quite impossible for the strong 
est constitution to stand such a strain 
as this ; when I came here ten days ago, 
you seemed to me to be in the most ro 
bust health ; already I notice a differ 
ence in you ; you complain of sundry 
aches and pains ; beware of your old 
enemy, gastric fever ! " His reply to 
this was, " Ah ! but the book ! the book 
must be done." 

On the day after my arrival Dr. Parke 
called and urged him, for his health s 
sake, to go out for a drive with him ; but 
he steadily refused to move out of his 
room. 

One day I did succeed in getting him 
out for half an hour. We walked down 
to get a glimpse of the Nile. The air 
was sufficiently cool to be invigorating ; 
it did him good. After contemplating 
the river for a few seconds he re 
marked, " Eight months ago I drank its 
waters at its eastern source, which I 
discovered years ago. On my recent 
expedition I discovered its western 
source in the no longer fabulous Moun 
tains of the Moon that source water 
must have taken almost as long to travel 
here as I have done. Now that you have 
discovered the mouth let us go back to 
work." Except to dine out once or 



twice in the evening, he was only once 
more outside the garden during my stay. 

I may say that my own life while in 
Cairo was not one of indolence or leis 
ure. I never worked more incessantly 
in my life, for I had determined not to 
leave Cairo without a very large propor 
tion of the complete manuscript, and 
the whole of the sketches and maps in 
my portmanteau. First, there were 
Stanley s photographs to be developed 
by a local photographer, in order that 
we might see how they would come out. 
It is needless to say that these negatives, 
taken with infinite care, by Stanley him 
self, of scenes all through the journey, 
were regarded by him and by me with 
the utmost jealousy. I therefore took 
upon myself to watch the whole process 
from beginning to end, and I never lost 
sight of these precious negatives till I 
carried them back to the hotel. Alas ! 
I am sorry to say that many of the pict 
ures had almost disappeared from the 
glass, and at best could only serve to 
suggest valuable hints to our artist 
these had been over-exposed or not 
sufficiently exposed in the blazing sun 
of the tropics ; others I was delighted 
to find come out quite clearly, and rep 
resent scenes of the greatest value, ar 
tistically and geographically, as well as 
conveying accurate types of new races 
in the interior. 

Again, knowing that I should have to 
convey with me a manuscript of very 
great value, which, if lost in transit, 
would not merely be a loss to myself but 
to a world of readers anxiously waiting 
for it, I determined to have a second 
copy made of the whole. One copy I 
determined to carry with me, and the 
other to send forward registered to Lon 
don, in a separate trunk. 

To accomplish this I obtained and set 
up a copying press in the secretary s 
room, but as much of Stanley s manu 
script before I reached him had not 
been written in copying-ink, that por 
tion I copied out myself, and for the re 
mainder I worked away several hours at 
the copying-press, and obtained in this 
way about four hundred folios. 

Mr. Stanley s memory of names, per 
sons, and events is quite marvellous, but 
in the compilation of his book he by no 
means trusted to his memory. His con- 




VOL. VIII. 21 



214 



HOW STANLEY W ROTE HIS BOOK. 



stant habit was to carry a small note 
book 6x3 inches in his side-pocket : in 
this he pencilled notes constantly and 
at every resting-place. Of these note 
books he has shown me six of about one 
hundred pages each, closely packed with 
pencil memoranda. These notes, at 



was spending the winter in Cairo ; and 
the operation was one in which the 
great traveller evidently took great 
pleasure. I am not sure, however, that 
he was regarded by Miss Meyrick as a 
model sitter. The painting had been 
commissioned by Sir George Elliot, 
and was destined for the rooms 
of the Koyal Geographical So 
ciety of London. The portrait 
is life-size and nearly full length, 
a defect in my humble opinion, 




Sali s Device for Delivering Telegrams. 



times of longer leisure, were expanded 
into six larger volumes of about two hun 
dred pages each of very minute and 
clear writing in ink. I send you fac 
similes of two pages from one of these 
journals. In addition to these field 
note-books and diaries, there are two 
large quarto volumes, filled from cover 
to cover with calculations of astronom 
ical observations, etc. 

One of the few diversions from the 
constant labor on his book in which Mr. 
Stanley indulged during my residence 
with him was sitting for his portrait to 
Miss E. M. Meyrick, a student and silver 
medallist of the Royal Academy, who 



as it terminates abruptly below the 
knees, and I could see no good reason 
why the feet should not have been in 
cluded ; as it is the legs and the iron- 
shod staff have the look of being ab 
ruptly cut off. Apart from this, which 
may be very inartistic criticism, the por 
trait struck me as being a remarkably 
good and life-like one. 

Another diversion, or rather distrac 
tion, from his work was the necessary 
attention he had to give to the artist 
whom I had taken with me for the pur 
pose of making working drawings for 
the various artists to be employed on 
the illustrations. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



215 



^ 



/ /4.a-4jc<.t+ f &-*-*. 6-^^ 





A Page from Stanley s Journal. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



217 



Mr. Joseph Bell was an admirable were very good friends, but Stanley 
sketcher, fertile in suggestion, and quick could not endure the torture for more 
at taking hints and notes, but somehow than two hours a day, and he always 




Stanley and Joseph Bell, the Artist, Preparing Sketches. 



he always managed to irritate Stanley 
by what may be called his excessive ver 
bosity, and the mischievous delight he 
always took in endeavoring to land 
Stanley on the horns of some dilemma. 
For example, he got him to describe the 
method of getting a donkey across a 
deep river. Stanley explained to him 
how the porter led the donkey into the 
stream, holding the bridle and keeping 
the donkey s head (which was alone visi 
ble) out of the water, with one hand, 
and swimming vigorously with the other 
hand. " Yes," said Bell ; " did the 
porter carry a rifle ? " " Of course," 
said Stanley. "Yes," says Bell, "and 
in which hand did he carry the rifle, 
seeing that one hand is already engaged 
in guiding and helping the donkey, and 
the other in swimming for dear life ? " 
This was a sort of fun which Stanley did 
not appreciate. On the whole they 



rose from the encounter with a sigh of 
relief and a wish that it was all over. 

As regards the illustrations in his 
book, Mr. Stanley does not pretend to 
be an artist, but during his whole jour 
ney, and even under the most peri 
lous conditions, he never failed to 
make rough notes and sketches, or 
photographs, of the most interesting 
scenes and events, and in this way he 
accumulated abundant material. Of 
course, they were not in all cases such 
as an artist could make a perfect picture 
from without the aid of Stanley s accurate 
memory and vivid power of description. 

The illustrations which accompany 
this article were obtained by Mr. Bell 
for this special purpose. In order to 
insure accuracy of detail, I obtained for 
him Mr. Stanley s sanction to take a 
photograph of every scene ; and these 
photographs have greatly assisted him. 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



219 



Among the celebrities who called upon Mr. Stanley was Zebehr Pasha, the 
great Soudan slave-dealer, of whom Gordon had such a high opinion that he 
urged the government to appoint him as his successor at Khartoum, in 1883-84. 
He remained some time chatting with Stanley. 

It is needless to say that every mail brought Stanley shoals of letters from 
all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children, and from all parts of the 
world ; and his courier was besieged by numbers of total strangers ready to 
bribe him to any extent if only he could arrange for them to get even a glance at 
him. 

One day an Austrian enthusiast called and sent in a polite note asking Stanley 
to fix a time when he might bring forty of his compatriots 
with him, all anxious for the opportunity of shaking him 
by the hand. This astute gentleman accompanied his re 
quest by a very handsomely mounted cigar-case as a 
souvenir. This elegant little present obtained for the 
persevering stranger a brief interview for himself, but 
the hand-shaking of his forty friends could not pos 
sibly be entertained. 

It has unfortunately happened that notwith 
standing the immense number of letters received, 
the practice has generally been to destroy them 
after brief acknowledgment, otherwise I should 
have had a very rich assortment placed at my 
disposal ; as it is, I am permitted to make a 
few extracts from the letters received by 
one or two of the last mails, which had 
not yet been consigned to oblivion. 

The first I quote from is one that 
touches me personally, it comes from 
the United States. 



Don t let the publisher* or the Lecture Bureau 
chaps worry you almost to death, simply be 
cause the world wants to know more fully, 
and by next week if possible, what you have 
done. 



I am bound to admit the wisdom of 
these words. 

Here is a charming little letter from 
a small school-girl in Wales : 



DEAR MR. STANLEY: 

I have been very much interested in hearing 
about your travels in Africa, and should very 
much like to read your book, as I am sure it 
would be very interesting. I would much 
rather read about a geographical hero than a 
historical one. It was very kind of you to go 
through such perils to rescue Emiii Pasha. 
I liked so much to hear of your fighting against 
the dwarfs, and should like to see one very 
much ; they must look so funny, being so small. 

I am a little school-girl at school, and I am 

eleven years old. I am very fond of geography, 

and am always longing to go round the world. 

I remain 

Your little friend, 

G. E. 




Sali, negro servant of Stanley throughout the Expedition, 
and at Cairo. 



220 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



Another enthusiast hailing from 
America asks for Mr. Stanley s 0/6? cap. 

Right glad am I that you are once more in a 
civilized country. I have carefully watched 
your proceedings from the time you discov 
ered Livingstone. You (ire a brick ! Now, if 
you are inclined to sell the cap you wore through 
Africa, I am prepared to give you a fancy price 
for it, to add to my collection of curiosities ; it 
shall be preserved in a glass case with your 
name on same. 

A firm of tobacconists makes the fol 
lowing cool request : 

Will you kindly accord us your gracious per 
mission to append your noble name, and your 
photograph (might we ask for your autograph ?) 
to a iirst-class quality of cigar and cigarette, 
made by ourselves from the best and finest to 
bacco, etc. 

A photographer writes : 

SIR : Pray excuse the liberty taken by a 
stranger in approaching you at a time when 
your hands and mind must be so full, but since 
to satisfy the demands of an admiring public 
some one must claim the proud position of per 
forming the task I covet, that of executing a 
portrait, etc. 

A poetical soldier in Cairo says : 

I humbly beg you will kindly accept the 
enclosed few simple lines from a soldier. I 
am no poet, but have expressed myself as well 
as possible, etc. 

Mr. S. replied kindly to this, and has 
made the Cairo soldier very proud. 

The following letter is from an old 
acquaintance of the Pocock days : 

DEAR SIR : Please to excuse me for the lib 
erty I have taken in writing to you, but in 
knowing you, an taking a very great enterest 
in you treavels, I congrelatue you on your safe 
return, hoping you may long live to Injoy you 
ealth and hapness for your labours. I have 
always taken great entrest in yours travels 
ever since we meet at Zanzibar. ... I 
ham the man that don your boat when the 
Pocock Brothers was with you and I should like 
a few lines from you, as I should like them 
put in our papers here, etc. 

Mr. Stanley was no stranger to me 
when I first arrived here. My whole ex 
perience of him, during my nearly three 
weeks residence with him, most fully 
confirmed the opinion I have always 



held, through good report and evil re 
port, for the last eighteen years. That 
he is the greatest explorer of modern 
times will scarcely be gainsaid by his 
bitterest enemies ; but beyond the pos 
session, in an unusual degree, of the 
qualifications for a successful explorer, 
it is impossible to live long with him in 
the intimacy in which I have lived with 
out discovering in him many other of 
the characteristics which go to make a 
good and great man, a ruler of men. 
His conversation, frequently impas 
sioned, was always elevated and pure, 
carrying with it the conviction of truth 
fulness and earnestness of purpose ; his 
conception of duty high and noble ; 
his scorn of everything sordid and mean 
strong and withering ; he is truthful and 
sincere, and without a tinge of envy 
or malice. He is generous, even lavish 
in his gifts ; notwithstanding his iron 
will his heart is as tender as a child s. 
That his mind is imbued with a reveren 
tial belief in an over-ruling Providence 
is constantly exhibited in his conversa 
tion. 

"I am not," said he, "what is called 
superstitious. I believe in God, the 
creator of the Universe . . . Many 
forms of belief and curious ideas respect 
ing the great mystery of our being and 
creation have been suggested to me dur 
ing my life and its wanderings, but after 
weighing each and attempting to under 
stand what must be unsearchable, my 
greatest comfort has been in peacefully 
resting firm in the faith of my sires. For 
all the human glory that surrounds the 
memory of Darwin and his wise com 
peers throughout advanced Europe, I 
would not abate a jot or tittle of my be 
lief in the Supreme God and that Divine 
man called his Son." 

In the existence of supernatural agen 
cies, and judging by the story of " Ran 
dy and the Guinea Fowl," which he 
related in his recent article, it is evident 
that miracles presented no stumbling- 
block to him. 

He is certainly not immaculate. I have 
seen and known something of his strong 
and passionate nature, but I have read 
in this book something, too, of his won 
derful self-control under the most trying 
circumstances in which a man could be 
placed. Take him for all in all, I think 



222 



HOW STANLEY WROTE HIS BOOK. 



it may well be said of him that he does 
not make the high place he has reached 



" A lawless perch. 

Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure ; but through all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a Blameless Life." 



I bade adieu to Mr. Stanley on the 
third of March, with my portmanteau 
stuffed with manuscripts, glass negatives, 
and maps. I reached London on the llth, 
and on the 14th I was enabled, by the 



activity of the printers, to despatch to 
him first proofs of nearly the whole of 
the first volume. 

He worked at his manuscript with as 
much ardor as when (to quote Gerald 
Massey) : 

"He strode o er streams and mountains, 

To free the leaguered band ; 
He stood by Nile s far fountains, 

Lord of the old Dark Land ! 
Where Death the forest haunted, 

And never dawned the day, 
He pierced the gloom undaunted, 

For that was Stanley s way." 




Stanley Dictating to His Secretary. 



I 




THE SEASON S BOON. 

By G. Melville Upton. 

WHEN all the swooning air is stilled at noon, 
And quiet shadows gather in the glade, 
Then drowsy locusts sing within the shade 

Sing praise of summer and the days of June ; 

And spiders, thankful for the season s boon, 

Throw their light webs across the sky, all stayed 
With strongest ties, of shining silver made 

To bind the wings that wander neath the moon. 



DECLINE AND FALL. 

By Annie Eliot. 



" DEAR FRANCES : 

"I am here. That has often the air 
of a self-evident statement ; believe me, 
in this case, it is not one. When I 
climbed out of the stage last week, 
after being jolted and precipitated and 
playfully tossed and caught again for 
twenty miles or so, it was a matter for 
serious doubt whether I was all here or 
not. But I think I am all essential 
parts of me, at least. There are certain 
airs and graces which a too censorious 
world considers essential parts of me 
which I have left behind somewhere on 
the road. Never mind, I shall un 
doubtedly find them on the way back ; 
they are not the sort of property to 
tempt the rustic of the region to appro 
priation. In fact, I may as well make 
a clean breast of it, for you will be sure 
to find it out. I am at present having 
an accds of simplicity true, unassumed, 
unpicturesque simplicity simplicity 
without any arriere pensee whatever. 
It seems to me that I have longed for 
this opportunity all my life to be en 
tirely natural, without giving a thought 
to how my being so was going to affect 
anybody. It is not only that I eat when 
I am hungry and go to bed when I am 
tired, and sit still when I ve a mind, 
but it has reached my mental attitude 
too. I don t anticipate or plan, and I 
don t see why anybody should. I know 
what you ll say that it is just another 
spell of feeling the hollowness well, 
perhaps it is ; I know that same old 
emotion turns up in all sorts of forms. 
Or it may be that the air is beginning 
to exert the beneficial effect the doctor 
says it possesses. 

" The mistress of the house I mean 
the two mistresses of the house are 
amusing, in fact, likable. They are both 
little, gray -haired, widowed women, 
only one is littler, grayer-haired, and, I 
dare say, more widowed than the other. 
They are decidedly women of their 
world, only it reaches each of them in a 
different way. The one to whom I have 
hitherto applied the comparative degree 
VOL. VIII. -23 



is also the younger, and it is she that 
has the imagination. It is an imagina 
tion that has never been developed by 
circumstances, but to her what is emo 
tional or abstract or picturesque ap 
peals. I am clever to have found this 
out, because it is difficult to recognize 
the emotional or the abstract or the 
picturesque in the mass of detail with 
which she cumbers her narrative, but I 
have found it out. The other one has a 
burning interest though sometimes 
quenched by the ice-water of New Eng 
land reticence in purely material ques 
tions. Where do I get my clothes ? I 
think that is about the most satisfacto 
ry subject with her. I tell her, and then 
I feel snubbed because she has never 
heard of the places. But she rolls them 
afterward as sweet morsels under her 
tongue, which is something of a conso 
lation. Have I been unnecessarily de 
tailed in my description ? Well, that is 
the extent of my social environment, 
unless you count the people who come 
over now and then with supplies, with 
whom I always exchange a word or two 
from the front steps that is part of 
the simplicity, you understand. Oh, 
yes, there is one other he is a supply 
himself of the pulpit in the Centre, 
four miles from us. Now, I see you 
smile. At last, you say, we have come 
to the human interest. No, really, 
Frances you know I would not hesi 
tate to tell you if it were, but let me 
convince you. He lives in the only 
other house in this part of the country 
boards there, while he preaches for 
the summer in the aforesaid pulpit. So 
much in favor of your theory, I admit. 
He is good-looking quite but with an 
expression that betokens too much con 
fidence in life s being a pleasant thing 
you know the kind--a little trusting, 
if anything ; which circumstance, fully 
considered, cannot be said to be for or 
against. But listen. I have heard him 
preach ; I have met him once. He is 
narrow, opinionated, the plain, unvar 
nished product of a theological seminary 



226 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



of the most orthodox proclivities. Need 
I say more ? He has all the disadvan 
tages of the unfledged of every kind, 
with the added hinderance of profound 
conviction that he has Divine warrant 
for ignorance a special outgrowth of 
this variety. Were the magnificent, 
broad, intellectual clergymen that you 
and I so much admire ever incased in 
this sort of shell, I wonder ! I feel 
that I have placed the Reverend Alfred 
Neal above suspicion. 

" Write to me, dear, and I will con 
tinue to tell you about my simplicity. 
"Yours always, 

"BETTY." 

Miss Everard laid down her pen and 
sought in her portfolio for an envelope. 
Then she took up her letter and read it 
hastily through. " Betty ! " she said to 
herself, as she folded and addressed it to 
Miss Waring, " that is not a name to be 
bestowed under a republican govern 
ment. It ought to have Lady before 
it, and then it suggests powder and 
plumes and patches. Lady Betty ! 
How pretty she would be in a ruff and 
high red-heeled shoes ! " She had risen 
while she soliloquized, and, placing her 
stamped and sealed letter upon her 
dressing-table, she glanced in the mir 
ror. "But just plain Betty! Well, 
perhaps not hopelessly plain Betty 
and she smiled calmly at her own re 
flection, "but unpowdered, unplumed, 
unpatched, nineteenth-century Betty 
that is highly inappropriate." 

She sauntered indolently to the small 
window and looked across at the pine- 
woods, whose fragrant, spicy breath 
came into the room below the slightly 
raised sash. It was one of those win 
dows to open which demands strength 
which is as the strength of ten, and 
which, when opened, refuse to be 
closed again save with the velocity and 
archaic force of a battering-ram. " I 
have been used," pondered Miss Ever 
ard, with that volatility which comes 
with the accomplishment of a definite 
duty, " to windows which remained 
up without visible means of support. 
Since I came to Kenyon s I have learned 
better. It seems to me that one vol 
ume of Roman history and a hair-brush 
don t keep that window up high enough." 



She gazed idly round the room. "I 
guess one of my second-best slippers 
will about do it," and she inserted that 
bit of personal property, with no mean 
skill, so that the high heel raised the 
window two or three inches farther. 
" That isn t much," she concluded, 
somewhat warm with the effort, " but 
it is something. How delicious that 
pine-fragrance is ! " and she bent her 
head so that her little nose drew in 
long breaths of the sweet air through 
the opening. Then she walked over 
again to the dressing-table, took down 
a broad hat which hung at one side, 
and, picking up her letter, went slowly 
out of the room. At the door she 
paused and looked back. 

" I suppose that window will come 
down," she soliloquized, still idly, " and 
grind that slipper and the hair-brush to 
powder. Nevermind. Home can stand 
it and they must have hair-brushes 
over at the Centre. " There was an 
inconsequence in whatever she did 
which was itself a conscious charm for 
her in her life here. It was a delight 
ful sense, this of having no duties, of 
being able to saunter from table to win 
dow and back again, to put on her hat, 
and make stop-gaps of useful informa 
tion when she chose, after the hurry, 
social, intellectual, and physical, of the 
last five years. 

On the wide door-stone, in two little 
chairs, sat Mrs. Mint and Mrs. Thrum. 
It demanded a trained faculty of obser 
vation to immediately recognize the 
fact that these two chairs were just 
alike. It struck most people, as it had 
struck Miss Everard, that they were 
totally unlike, and it was only after 
coming across them several times when 
they were empty that one perceived 
that it was the.figures of their usual oc 
cupants which imparted this air of dis 
tinct dissimilarity. Now, for instance, 
Mrs. Thrum s was an alert, inquisitive, 
somewhat self-willed rocking-chair, as 
she sat on the edge and tipped it for 
ward to the extreme limit of equilib 
rium ; when it went back it flew back 
suddenly as if only to take breath for 
another prolonged pause in its con 
strained position on the front end of 
the rocker. As for Mrs. Mint s, hers 
was a calm, even-tempered, mildly au- 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



227 



thoritative chair. It moved slowly 
back and forth, and asserted itself no 
further than by way of gentle accom 
paniment to the statements made from 
its depths. Except now and then when 
there was a pause, then it furnished 
suggestions of its own, its slow, regu 
lar motion conveying to all intelligent 
minds the assurance that the world 
went on just about as well whether we 
looked after it or not, and there was no 
use in being uncomfortable. 

"Mrs. Thrum," said Miss Everard s 
clear voice in the hall, " shall I leave my 
letter here on the table ? or is it too 
late for the butcher?" 

"Land, yes!" said Elvira Thrum. 
"He was here before you was up." 

"But Edward hasn t been from the 
store, Elvira," suggested her sister. 

"No, and he won t be here till he 
thinks I ve forgot that he brought me 
cream o tartar and labelled it salera- 
tus," replied Elvira, somewhat grimly. 

" I don t know as he will," assented 
Mrs. Mint. Betty sauntered to the 
door and leaned against the side, with 
the letter still in her hand, pending the 
discussion of its chances. Both the 
little old women turned and looked up 
at her. 

" Perhaps there ll be somebody along 
from the other house, 5 hazarded Ca 
milla, " on the way to Centre. You 
might stick it in the railing in case 
anybody is." 

"Are those cherries artificial?" in 
quired Elvira. 

" Cherries ? " said Betty. " Oh, yes, 
very artificial indeed," and she put up 
her hand and pinched one of the red 
ornaments of her hat. 

" I wouldn t wonder," continued Ca 
milla, rocking to and fro, her hands 
folded in her lap, " but what Mr. Neal 
would be going on down this morning. 
He calls on old Miss Stiff pretty regu 
lar." 

" Did you buy them on it ? " asked 
Elvira. 

" Er yes I think I did," answered 
Betty, " and yet, I m not sure perhaps 
I saw them somewhere no, I m sure 
they were on it." Her anxiety to please 
made her almost painfully conscien 
tious. 

"She says he s a great comfort to 



her. He s so positive in his faith," com 
mented Mrs. Mint, with satisfaction. 

" I suppose you most always buy em 
ready made," asserted Mrs. Thrum. 

" Yes," said Betty, conscious that this 
proceeding would have its objection, " it 
is more convenient, you know, and you 
can tell " 

"All the faith I could ever see that 
old Miss Stiff had," interrupted Elvira, 
as her rocking-chair flew back once and 
then forward again, where it remained 
poised, "was that all the people that 
didn t agree with her d get come up 
with." 

" Something like David," remarked 
Camilla. 

" I don t know as Mr. Neal d get 
along any too well with David," said El 
vira, with a certain amount of irrele 
vance. "I got my last bonnet ready 
made, and it looked like a peck-measure 
when I got it home." 

" They look very differently when one 
gets them home," answered Betty. 

She stood smiling down on her two di 
minutive companions as she spoke, tap 
ping her belated letter against her small 
white teeth, her dainty yellow gown 
turned away at the throat, where the 
cream-colored embroidery was caught 
together with a gold pin, the only orna 
ment she wore. Then she raised her 
eyes and glanced up the road. 

" Suppose I should walk over to Cen 
tre myself," she suggested. The gate 
of the " other house," the one just be 
yond the bend of the road, creaked as 
it was pulled open. They could always 
hear that gate creak. Camilla turned 
and looked up the road. 

"Here comes Mr. Neal now," she 
said, placidly. Betty did not change 
her position as she watched the young 
man come briskly toward them, but her 
smile grew more amused. He was quite 
conscious of the scrutiny he was under 
going, and as he raised his hat, just op 
posite the door, his face was flushed 
and he spoke with an embarrassed lit 
tle laugh. 

" Good - morning, ladies," he said. 
" Can I be of any service ? I am going 
to the Centre." 

He was a tall man, too slight for his 
height ; his clothes were evidently care 
fully put on, and his expression was 



228 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



somewhat provokingly amiable, as Betty 
had hinted to Miss Waring. His man 
ner and appearance indicated that some 
what uneasy consciousness of externals 
which, by some apparent in justice, seems 
to be a part of those who, it is conceded, 
are specially occupied with the hidden 
and the vital. He looked at Betty as 
he spoke, as most men would have done 
in his place, and, meeting her gay little 
nod of greeting, immediately turned his 
eyes away and looked questioningly at 
Elvira and Camilla. He even contrived 
to convey a slight shade of disapproval 
in the way in which he did this. Pos 
sibly her smile and nod were too gay ; 
possibly, in spite of their gayety, they 
were too indifferent, too suggestive of 
this person s proneness to take life eas 
ily, and to consider morning meetings 
with young clergymen as destitute of 
any profound importance. 

"Did you sit up with Mr. Thomas 
last night ? " asked Elvira. 

"Yes, I did," he replied, with solem 
nity. 

" Did he die in the night ? " she asked, 
quickly, before Camilla could speak. 

" Oh, no, he s better this morning." 

" Is ? " Perhaps there was a shade of 
disappointment in this observation, but 
not more than was entirely natural. 

" The Thomases always had rheumatic 
fever as a family," said Camilla. " Reu 
ben Thomas s father had it twice. I 
said to him once, it was when we lived, 
my husband and I, in Whitney, that 
was before my husband went into busi 
ness with his brother and we had the 
little house that set back from the street, 
and Pelatiah, that s Reuben Thomas s 
father, used to drive by every day 
with " Elvira s rocking chair had hung 
fire long enough. "Here s Miss Ever- 
ard," she said, "talking about walking 
over to Centre herself." 

Camilla looked at her sister with mild 
reproof, but met no glance of apology. 
Elvira was looking at Mr. Neal and re 
volving another question. Neal had 
not raised his eyes to Betty s a second 
time, but, as he listened respectfully to 
the sisters, he was conscious to his fin 
ger-tips that she was watching him from 
the vantage of the threshold, with that 
same tantalizing little smile. Elvira s 
remark necessitated his addressing her. 



" Can I will you " he began, looking 
up and stammering a little in his em 
barrassment. She waited a moment, 
but he did not finish his sentence. The 
day was warm and damp, and his hair, a 
trifle longer than fashion demands, had 
curled into little rings about his fore 
head, giving him a very boyish look. 

" How nice to have your hair curl 
like that," she said. "Just nothing but 
the w r eather ! " 

The soul of the Reverend Alfred Neal 
quivered with resentful confusion, but 
he found no words with which to assert 
his dignity, and grew scarlet under the 
mocking brightness of Betty s sweet 
smile. 

"Well, it is," said Mrs. Thrum. 
Neither she nor Mrs. Mint felt the in 
dignity. 

" Do you do yours with an iron ? " she 
went on, swiftly. 

" I ve given it up entirely," said Miss 
Everard, laughing. Then, meeting a 
look of scepticism from Elvira, she ad 
ded, " Oh, you mean in the back of my 
neck yes, with an iron." 

"I mean in the back of your neck," 
said Elvira. 

During the conversation the Reverend 
Alfred Neal grew warmer and warmer. 
It seemed to him to more than verge on 
indelicacy. It was not the sort of thing 
that men of his cloth should listen to. 
And yet, when Mrs. Thrum finished her 
last sentence, to save his life he could 
not prevent his eyes from a hasty 
glance at the back of Miss Everard s 
head, where a small blond, fluffy curl 
made itself seen below the rim of her 
hat. Unfortunately he also met her 
eyes, and there was that in their mali 
cious depths that worsted him yet fur 
ther. Then their expression changed 
utterly. She stepped down, and held 
out her letter. 

" Will you mail it for me ? " she said, 
gravely. " I shall be very much 
obliged." And lifting her delicate 
skirt with one hand, and with a nod of 
farewell, she passed down from the 
piazza to the gate, so near that her dress 
touched him, and, crossing the road, 
turned into the cool pine- woods just be 
low. Alfred Neal went on his way to 
the village in a state of mind not alto 
gether well regulated. He was a little 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



229 



vexed, a trifle shocked, and a good deal 
embarrassed. A course of reflection, 
however, upon his own position and the 
transitory influence of a girl like Miss 
Everard restored his ordinary confident 
composure before he entered the main 
street of the Centre, where domestic 
commerce was represented by two stores, 
on the front piazza of each of which sat 
the proprietor in his shirt-sleeves, with 
his chair tipped back against the white- 
painted wall. 

Betty made her way over the slip 
pery pine-needles, until, with a steadi 
ness of purpose denoting a specific goal, 
she reached a tall pine-tree whose shaft 
went straight up, not bothering itself 
with branches, for thirty feet. Here she 
threw herself down and, removing her 
hat, leaned back in the embracing roots. 
The resinous bark gave forth its spicy 
smell. Hot as it was, there was a faint 
breeze which just kept up conversation 
in the tops of the pine-trees. Small and 
active insects went pottering about the 
moss and needles and soft earth. It 
was delicious. Betty drew a sigh of 
satisfaction, and pitied the people in 
towns. A faint smile touched her lips 
as she recalled Neal s expression in his 
first flush of annoyance at her imperti 
nence. 

" It did curl prettily," she said to her 
self, lazily stretching her arm over her 
head. " It made him almost debonair. 
Fancy the Reverend Alfred Neal debo 
nair ! He doesn t know what it means. 
Ho ! hum ! " she yawned. " Yes, I sup 
pose life is real, life is earnest. But I 
have to convince myself of it ; some peo 
ple are born believing it. They re just 
like that ant. They take life seriously 
and hurl themselves against obstacles 
without in the least knowing why," and 
Neal passed entirely out of Miss Ever- 
ard s consciousness in a mist of philoso 
phic speculation which was one of the 
privileges of Kenyon s. She never had 
time for it at home. 

It was high noon when Neal came 
back along the dusty high-road. As he 
drew near the two-house hamlet known 
as Kenyon s, he tore open a letter and 
began to read it. It was from a theo 
logical classmate who was settled in the 
small town where they had both been at 
college. He wrote with the freedom of 



a man sure of his audience, and among 
other things referred to a certain laxity 
of doctrine perceptible even in his own 
congregation as a part of the undoubted 
laxity of the age. " We have had enough 
of the doctrine of brotherly love," wrote 
this confident young preacher. " It is 
time to dwell on the other side. Bro 
therly love in these times of breadth 
and toleration will take care of itself. 
Heaven forbid that I should underrate 
its importance, but let you and me, Bro 
ther Neal, see to it that brotherly warn 
ing and argument also continue." 

Neal nodded his head as he read in 
warm acquiescence. It was a pity that 
so many preachers gifted of God were 
so prone to be over - lenient tow r ard the 
promptings of a personal devil. And 
he breathed a sigh, genuine and de 
voted, over the evils which it might 
lead to. There was not the slightest 
taint of hypocrisy in the soul of Alfred 
Neal ; he was single-minded and earnest. 
At the close of the letter his friend gave 
him an item or two of news. " Emily 
Grant asked about you the other day, 
and was interested to hear of your sum 
mer s work. She spends part of the 
summer in New Hampshire, whither she 
goes to-morrow." 

Alfred Neal folded the letter, put it in 
his pocket, and, crossing the road that 
he might be more in the shade of the 
over-reaching branches, betook himself 
again to meditation. Emily Grant ! She 
had been his companion in many of the 
harmless gayeties of the little town. On 
picnics he had often found himself at 
her side, and after the weekly sociable 
his forethought had usually provided 
her with an escort home. She was a 
pretty girl, with a sweet, yielding ex 
pression, and an inflexibility of opinion 
that would have done credit to an in 
quisitor. More than one whisper had 
reached young Neal s not ungratified 
ears regarding her innate suitability for 
the part of clergyman s wife. It is to 
be supposed that Emily s own ears had 
not been entirely unassailed by such 
suggestions, but she had never shown 
them anything but the most becoming 
indifference. When Neal left for this his 
first parochial experience in the wilds of 
Maine, they had parted with unemotional 
propriety and an unexpressed expecta- 



230 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



tion of meeting again, which, possibly, 
upon the part of one or the other, might 
be said to approximate to a determina 
tion. To - day, as he walked quickly 
along, his hat in his hand and the 
breeze ruffling still further those un- 
clerical rings of hair, the image of Em 
ily Grant, though unexceptionable in 
detail, had a certain colorlessness. An 
annoyed squirrel rustled suddenly at 
his right. He turned to watch, if might 
be, its rapid course along the pictu 
resque pathway of a broken, moss-grown, 
insufficient rail -fence. Caught by a 
glint of color, his eye wandered farther 
into the woods. At the base of the 
pine-tree, just visible from the lonely 
road, sat Miss Everard. The pale yel 
low of her dress blended with the wood 
browns and dusky greens about her, 
while the hot sunlight penetrating here 
and there made flecks of a still paler 
gold. She suggested a true butterfly 
of fashion, alighted for a moment in the 
flowerless recesses of the forest. She 
was reading, and his step did not star 
tle her into lifting her head. Alfred 
paused a moment. The insufficient 
fence had come to a sudden pause here, 
forcing the squirrel into a precipitate 
leap and leaving the way invitingly open 
into the solitude peopled by this har 
monious young person. The road was 
hot and dusty, the wood cool and fra 
grant, and Kenyon s dinner-hour was fif 
teen minutes off. Miss Everard seemed 
rendered peculiarly accessible by the sur 
render of the fence, and Neal turned and 
made his way up the slippery brown 
pathway. She raised her eyes and smiled 
in recognition. Now that he had come, 
he realized that he had no statement to 
make, and his conscientiousness led him 
to feel that the occasion demanded one. 
Evidently she was deficient in conscien 
tiousness, for she did not share his un 
easiness. 

" That is a nice root," she observed, 
pointing it out in a friendly way. " If 
you sit down a little lower you will find 
it makes a back, and there is a place for 
your arm too." 

Neal had not expected to sit down by 
her side. He had had a vague idea of 
standing and saying a few words to her. 
It seemed almost too sylvan to sit on 
the ground, in the lazy attitude her sug 



gestion indicated, and take part in a 
tete-a-tete. But his six-mile walk made 
the resting-place not uninviting, and he 
remembered that he had done the same 
thing at picnics without incurring se 
rious liabilities. Moreover, her man 
ner and w 7 ords were of a disarming sim 
plicity. 

"Did you bring me a letter?" she 
asked. 

"No, there were none for you." 

" Such is the faithlessness of friends." 

" Do you not expect too much from 
your friends ? " he ventured. 

"Undoubtedly I do. Everybody 
does. And then we all get disappointed, 
and begin over again." 

" Perhaps you should have said your 
nominal friends," he suggested, with 
good-humored tolerance. 

Miss Everard was unaccustomed to 
be told what she should have said. 

" Well, yes. What other kind are 
worth having? I don t care a pin for 
people who are your friends and are 
ashamed to be called so," she said, wil- 
fuUy. 

" That is not quite what I meant," he 
began, carefully. 

" Oh, meant ! " exclaimed Betty, throw 
ing her head back against the trunk of 
the tree and looking at him under her 
eyelashes. "What difference does it 
make what any of us mean ? " 

Such utter irrelevance was a novelty 
to Neal. His perplexity with the man 
ner gave him no time to ponder the au 
dacity of the matter. He experienced 
a shade of satisfaction that he had not 
stood up, after all ; he recognized dimly 
that the pulpit attitude would have put 
him still more at a disadvantage. 

" I I " he began. 

"Now, don t say," she interrupted, 
" that though it may not make any dif 
ference what / mean, you are glad to 
say it makes a great deal of difference 
what you mean ! " 

The very fact that any expression of 
this kind had been so far from his lips 
perplexed him the more. He envied the 
man who might have the presence of 
mind to answer her so. 

"Because it won t do any good. I 
suppose," she went on, curiously, " that 
is what you are always thinking of do 
ing people good." 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



231 



" I wish I was," he replied, honestly. 

" Now I like that in you," said Betty, 
her eyes softening, as she leaned for 
ward again, her hands lying clasped 
around her knee. " It is very interest 
ing." 

" It ought to be," he answered, " but 
it isn t always." He paused, frightened, 
feeling that he had made a dangerous 
betrayal. She did not seem at all 
shocked. 

"No, I suppose not," she answered. 
"But then, you know, nothing is al 
ways." 

This was not the form of consolation 
that he felt the occasion demanded, but 
whether it was the rest and the cool 
ness, or her words or her presence it 
self, his aroused conscientiousness al 
lowed itself to be soothed and he let his 
statement go undefended. 

"I had a letter this morning," he 
said, still under the influence of this 
sudden expansiveness, " from a friend 
who is more than a nominal one one 
whose friendship is a privilege indeed." 

" Ah ! " said Miss Everard. But be 
fore he had time to think this exclama 
tion irrelevant too, " And was it a nice 
letter ? " she questioned, with a smile. 

"Yes," he assented, with momentary 
hesitation at the insufficiency of the ad 
jective, " really, a precious letter." 

" Do you get one every day ? " in 
quired Betty, with friendly imperti 
nence. 

"Every day? Oh, no. He has a 
large parish and " 

"Oh!" said Betty again. "He s a 
man. Yes, go on." But her rapidly 
drawn conclusions and their modifica 
tions made it impossible for him for the 
moment to go on. It flashed across him 
what she had thought, and he paused 
and laughed in some embarrassment. 
He thought of Emily Grant, and he 
was alarmed to see how near he had un 
wittingly drawn to the reefs of senti 
ment. 

" That s all right," said Betty, com 
posedly, "he has a large parish 
and " 

"And he finds his time fully occu 
pied," concluded Neal, somewhat in 
effectively. Now that she had steered 
him safely off again he almost regretted 
that he had not dallied with the danger 



a little. He would have liked to have 
answered her that he was heart-whole 
Emily Grant being for the moment in 
abeyance and possibly have received 
some like acknowledgment from her. 

" You must have a great deal in com 
mon," she said. "That makes it so 
easy to write." 

" Yes," he answered. He saw her in 
tention to be sympathetic and interest 
ed, but did not find it so easy to take 
advantage of as at first. Emily Grant 
seemed to be in some inexplicable fash 
ion an intrusive influence. She waited 
a moment, and then she looked up into 
the tall tree-tops. 

"Isn t it nice," she said, "the trees 
and the dry ground and the warm sun ? 
Aren t you glad you are not a trilobite 
or a a some kind of a pod, you know, 
that lived before the earth was done ? " 
and she brought her lazy glance down 
to rest upon his. 

"Yes," he said, smiling, "I think I 
am." 

" They must have had such a stupid 
time," she commented, " poking round." 

He felt that her geological knowledge 
might be doubtful, but her imagination 
found a response in his own percep 
tions. 

" Yes," he said, " it is a distinct pleas 
ure to live to-day," and he, too, looked 
about him appreciatively. 

"And to live one must eat," said 
Betty, gayly, looking at a toy watch. 
" The dinner-hour of Kenyon s will be 
past when you swing that atrociously 
rusty gate. As for me, I shall be just 
in time. And we have such beautiful 
things to eat at our house, I wouldn t 
miss one of them ! " she asserted, greed 
ily. He followed her down the rough 
path and crossed with her the dusty 
road. When he left her at the gate he 
looked back at the morning interview as 
a time when he had not known her very 
well. As he entered Deacon Evans s, and 
knew from the clatter of knives and 
forks that they were at dinner, he won 
dered if his detention had been alto 
gether a profitable one. She was an 
attractive woman, to be sure, but Emily 
Grant would never have thought of 
bringing a member of the Christian 
ministry into even momentary compar 
ison with " some kind of a pod." 



232 



DECLINE AND FALL 



On a day of the next week Miss Ever- 
ard came into the sitting-room and 
found both rocking-chairs empty. It 
was a disappointment. It rained hard, 
and she had come down from her room 
after what was to her sedulous applica 
tion to the " Decline and Fall " though 
possibly to a student somewhat desul 
tory and she felt the need of relaxa 
tion. She wandered to the window and 
watched the chattering little puddles in 
the middle of the road, and the tops of 
the trees waving irresolutely against the 
sky. She bethought herself that rainy 
afternoons were not altogether dreary in 
the city. One could stay at home now 
and then, and someone might happen 
in for a cup of tea. The kitchen door 
opened and Camilla came in, and took 
her rocking-chair. 

" Oh, Mrs. Mint," said Betty, "I want 
to be entertained." 

"When I lived in Whitney," Camilla 
began Betty leaned her head against 
the wall, swinging one slippered foot, 
the other lying out of sight "I used 
to entertain a good deal. I remember 
once they were coming to our house to 
the sewing society. It wasn t the church 
society. I ll tell you just how it was. 
They used to do more talking than sew 
ing at the church society. My husband 
used to say to me, that was when he 
was alive, that we lived in Whitney, and 
he used to go in the evening, along with 
the other gentlemen, they always liked 
to have him come too I remember Mrs. 
Burns saying to me once that it was al 
ways a different sort of sewing society 
when Anise Mint came. My husband s 
name was Anise, and he had" a brother 
Cummin. Old Father and Mother Mint 
both of them had a liking for Bible 
names, and they said it always seemed 
providential their names being Mint and 
having just those two sons. They al 
ways spoke of them as my two sons 
Anise Mint and Cummin the sound 
of it sort of pleased them. My husband 
was a very lively man." 

The poignancy of Mrs. Mint s grief at 
the loss of this attractive consort had 
sufficiently passed away for her to dweh 1 
upon his qualities with calm apprecia 
tion. Her rocking-chair was moving 
back and forth in its usual contempla 
tive manner, with her two little hands 



resting on its arms. Betty nodded from 
time to time, and said, " Oh," "Yes," 
and " Indeed," when occasion demanded 
it, which was not often. 

" He used to say about the church sew 
ing society that he made excuses to come 
at all sorts of times, but he had never 
struck it when they weren t just putting 
away the sewing. So there were some of 
us used to meet between times, those of 
us that were interested, and that was the 
one that was meeting at our house at 
the time I speak of. Mrs. Burns was 
the first to come 

Just here Elvira came into the room, 
and, taking possession of her own rock 
ing-chair observed : " Those hollyhock 
seeds aren t no manner of use." 

"And she said when she came that 
she didn t see why she hadn t run across 
young Mrs. Babbitt on her way over. 
She lived near her in the house that 
stood at the end of the green, and it was 
burned afterward, and they couldn t get 
the insurance. It had run out just the 
week before." 

"I got em of Amelia Thomas," said 
Mrs. Thrum. "She told me they 
blossomed most any time. I planted 
them along in the spring and they 
haven t blossomed yet, and I guess they 
don t mean to. Is that a photograph of 
your sister that stands alongside of 
your mirror ? " 

"Yes," answered Betty, "my older 
sister." 

"Married?" 

" Oh, yes, and lives in " 

" I was trying to tell her about the 
time that " began Mrs. Mint. 

" Where did you say she lived ? " asked 
Mrs. Thrum. 

"In Cleveland." 

" Does ? " 

" That Mrs. Babbitt committed sui 
cide," concluded Mrs. Mint. 

" Suicide ! " exclaimed Betty. 

" Yes," replied Mrs. Mint, placidly, 
" that was the reason she didn t come. 
She d taken laudanum. They had two 
doctors ; old Doctor Norton, that lived 
in the next town, he happened to be 
driving through, and Dr. Bent called him 
in he was a young man and inexpe 
rienced. My husband said 

" There is Mr. Neal," said Mrs. Thrum ; 
" I shouldn t wonder if he was coming 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



233 



over here. Land ! lie hasn t any um 
brella. I guess something s happened. 
He looks sort of hurried." 

Betty leaned forward and looked out 
of the window. Mr. Neal did seem hur 
ried. He was running as fast as he 
could through the driving rain, and 
along the muddy road. 

"You don t suppose anybody s com 
mitted suicide, do you ? " asked Betty, 
with some apprehension. 

" I guess anybody over there hasn t," 
said Mrs. Thrum, decidedly. "Caleb 
Evans feels about dying as the wicked 
man did about the resurrection it ll 
come soon enough, anyhow." 

She stepped to the door, leaving her 
rocking - chair to fly back and forth 
wildly, while Mrs. Mint tipped hers a 
little forward and waited. Betty rose 
too, and went to the door, looking over 
Mrs. Thrum s shoulder. It really seemed 
as if there was to be an event. 

" Oh, Mrs. Thrum," panted Neal, as he 
sprang up the low steps, "there has 
been an accident. Nat has had his arm 
badly cut in the cutting-machine. His 
father is away and there isn t anybody 
good for anything over there. Can one 
of vou come over while I run for the 
doctor ? " 

"Cut?" said Elvira. "Nat? Why, 
I ll come right over." 

"You don t go a step to-day, Elvira ! " 
said Mrs. Mint from the balanced rock 
ing-chair. "I don t propose to nurse 
you through rheumatic fever. I ll go 
myself," and she rose and came for 
ward. 

" Well, I guess you ll take some time 
to get ready," retorted Elvira, "so as 
you won t come down with pneumonia." 

"I ought to have thought of that," 
said Neal, and paused, dismayed, as he 
looked out at the driving storm. He 
knew perfectly well that both these old 
ladies were really invalids. But the 
case was so urgent even now it seemed 
to him the delay had been tremendous. 
As Mrs. Thrum spoke, Betty, with swift 
movement, had slipped by her, snatch 
ed a heavy shawl from the chair in 
the little entry and now stood by his 
side. 

"I ll go," she said, impatiently. 
" Come." 

He turned and looked at her, the 



shawl drawn over her dainty head, her 
face pale with fright. 

" You? " he said, doubtfully. 

" Yes," she answered. " Come, I say ! " 
and darted down from the sheltering 
porch into the heavy rain. 

" But " he began, as he followed her. 

"Land!" observed Elvira, "that ll 
be the end of that dress. Slippers, too. 
I wonder which arm it is he s cut." 

Camilla had already gone to her room 
to prepare to face the storm. 

"Get some bandages ready, quick, 
Elvira," she called out. 

"I m getting them," replied Elvira. 
"Did you think I thought it would do 
just as well to get them to-morrow ? " 

"Tell me what to do," Betty said. 
He did so in a few words. He had im 
provised a tourniquet and had stanched 
the bleeding for the present, but feared 
that it might break out afresh, and then 
it would be to do over again. 

" Yes," she said, " I understand ; " and 
they entered the Evans s house. The 
boy s mother was in a state of partial 
collapse from fright, but still held the 
arm as Mr. Neal had bidden her, look 
ing alarmingly white. The younger 
sister was shrieking, "Oh, Nat ll die, 
won t he ? " in the stimulating and en 
couraging manner peculiar to ungov- 
erned feminine anxiety. The boy him 
self, calm enough, lay on the floor, the 
stained bandages giving Betty one aw 
ful moment of sickening nervousness. 
But Alfred Neal, while he paused to see 
if this was going to do, did not perceive 
this ; he only saw her drop down on the 
floor, slip her hands about the wounded 
arm, telling the half-fainting woman to 
go away until she felt better, and, with 
a little smile of encouragement to the 
boy himself, introduce suddenly ele 
ments of order and relief. Then he 
dashed out a second time into the rain 
after the doctor. 

Insensibly, during the last week, his 
admiration for another sort of Betty 
had been growing, but now he carried 
with him a new impulse toward this 
pale, smiling young woman, w r ith firm, 
gentle fingers, who had tossed back her 
heavy shawl, and, with raindrops still 
hanging on her hair and little, soaked 
slippers, had calmly taken the position 
of ministering angel. Possibly a min- 



234 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



istering angel might have chosen other 
language to express Miss Everard s next 
idea. 

"You little idiot," she observed to 
the irresponsible Eliza. " He won t die 
unless he does it to get rid of hear 
ing you make that outrageous noise." 
Eliza held her tongue and gazed like 
one distraught at the young lady, with 
the beautiful clothes, who had a com 
mand of ready invective somewhat at 
variance with her appearance. Betty 
took immediate advantage of her stupe 
faction. 

" Now go and get your mother a glass 
of water," she said, " and take her this," 
and she placed a toy vinaigrette in the 
hands of the obedient Eliza. Then she 
began to talk to Nat, whose boyish en 
durance found food and comfort in her 
attentions. She had begun bravely, but 
it was with a sigh of relief that she 
heard Mrs. Mint s voice in the entry. 

"Don t take on,", she was saying. 
" Men are always doing things to them 
selves, even in their cradles." The vi 
sion of a large man in a small cradle in 
clined Betty s nerves to hysterical laugh 
ter, but she did not yield to it. "It s 
fortunate the Lord made em tough," 
concluded Mrs. Mint. With this placid 
ity between her and the contingency of 
Neal s unprofessional bandaging prov 
ing insufficient, it did not seem very 
long to Betty before the doctor entered, 
with Neal, who had met him at the end 
of a mile covered at racing speed. Then 
she was free to go out of the room and 
take her damp skirts and slippers home 
again. Neal had an umbrella for her 
this time, and in that short, sloppy 
walk home they were nearer in sym 
pathy than they had ever been before. 
The half -mocking and critical, half -in 
different attitude which Miss Everard 
had hitherto maintained to the young 
clergyman had given way to a natural 
feminine confidence in this man, who had 
known what to do in case of accident 
and had then run a mile, in a pouring 
rain, for a doctor. The old ineradi 
cable instinct of the weaker toward the 
stronger had gotten the better of her 
cultured perceptions. With Neal an 
equally natural force exerted itself. 
She had been feminine and calm and 
apprehensively brave, instead of fasci 



nating, eluding, and dangerously broad- 
minded. In fact, she had adopted a de 
meanor which would have done credit 
to Emily Grant herself. He did not 
formulate this last idea, but it was in 
the background, casting its protecting 
shadow over the attachment he felt for 
Miss Everard. 

The next two weeks saw the two often 
together. Kenyon s was too remote from 
contemporary observation for gossip. 

As for Mrs. Mint and Mrs. Thrum, 
life was to them a spectacle of much in 
terest, few surprises, and no fining and 
refining of motives or mental processes 
whatsoever. 

It was natural that the time Neal had 
to spare from pastoral work should be 
spent with Miss Everard. Notwith 
standing their many differences, and the 
fact that Betty was always mentally com 
paring him with greater men of his own 
profession, to his manifest disadvantage, 
they represented the same intellectual 
plane. In a community where intellect 
ual interests were wide-spread, these dif 
ferences would have kept them apart ; 
in this isolated spot they were drawn 
together. 

One afternoon she again sat before 
the open window writing. The deeper, 
thicker green outside, and the burning, 
impalpable haze that penetrated without 
obscuring the landscape, showed that it 
was no longer early summer. 

" Dear Frances," her letter ran : " It has 
always been my wish to gratify your en 
tirely legitimate appetite for personal 
details, when in my power. I shall let 
this occasion be no exception ; conse 
quently, when you ask How about the 
clerical Mr. Neal? Is not the point of 
view changing ? I hasten to reply with 
a frankness which should disarm un 
worthy suspicion. Yes, certainly, the 
point of view has changed." 

Here Miss Everard paused, and in 
sensibly drifted into a purposeless rev- 
ery ; then, biting her pen-handle with 
some determination, she brought herself 
up sharply to self-analysis. 

" Much more than this I am not pre 
pared to say. He has grown more 
interesting, certainly I am not sure 
that he has not grown indispensable I 
know I can trust you to understand that 
I refer only to my existence here. He 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



235 



annoys me frequently. This may be in 
your mind an important point ^he an 
noys me more than is altogether com 
patible with personal indifference. I 
like him best when he is serious and 
earnest. Unhappily, he has oppo 
site moods moods of gayety when he 
seeks to make evident that, while he is 
a clergyman, he is not held in by iron- 
bound tradition, and then he makes 
jokes upon serious subjects. These are 
jokes which to a polished unbeliever 
would seem to lack humor, and are to 
me irreverent. He means to imply that 
his heart is so thoroughly in the right 
place that he can afford to play with 
the fringes upon the robe of righteous 
ness. I have always thought that humor 
should be the more carefully handled 
rather than the less, when applied to 
what we love and honor. After he has 
said something of this kind he perceives, 
somehow, that he has not struck quite 
the note of worldly culture he thinks ap 
propriate for my ears, and relapses into 
a mood of momentary depression which 
he shakes off with another joke, possibly 
in still worse taste, to prove to himself 
and to me that there was no harm in the 
first one. Yes, this more than annoys 
it irritates me. I think that is the worst 
I can say of him. As opposed to this, 
he has an earnestness and a sincerity of 
purpose which make me like him. Now 
and then, Frances, you know, one tires 
of these broad people to whom all things 
are equally important. 

" I could write a history of Whitney 
I think I shall, sometime. But it must 
be of its historic period when Mrs. 
Mint lived there. Such exciting things 
happened there then the air was thick 
with mystery and the salons of the 
women of Whitney wielded far, peace 
and war. Nothing happens there now. 
I went there with Mrs. Mint the other 
day. I was dreadfully disappointed. 
The streets are grassy lanes. To quote 
again from the same poem : Such a car 
pet as o erspreads every vestige of the 
city, guessed alone where a multitude 
of men breathed joy and woe, long ago. 
Perhaps the multitude of men was a 
fiction of my imagination, under the 
sway of Mrs. Mint s reminiscences. But 
not the joy and woe they are not 
prerogatives of a multitude. 



It s very trying, do you know, Frances, 
every now and then, when you are really 
interested in a subject, to come up 
against a bowlder of prepossession. Do 
you know what I mean ? Suppose one 
is talking of some point of doctrine or 
criticism, or anything you like, and you 
find what you say accepted without ar 
gument or protest, simply because your 
whole training and belief are so wrong 
that there is no use saying anything. 
And this when you know perfectly well 
that your own stand-point is really that 
learned from the wise and broad minds 
of the century. Do you know what that 
is ? It is exasperating. 

" Always yours, 

" BETTY." 

A week later Betty sat on the little 
porch. It was moonlight, and the soft 
radiance which here betrays and here 
conceals, with supernatural perception 
of the artistic needs of earth and hu 
manity, had cast its mantle over even 
the rocking-chairs which stood empty 
on either side, so that they might have 
been slight, delicate frames waiting for 
fair and unearthly shapes, instead of 
sturdy and reliable supports for Mrs. 
Thrum and Mrs. Mint, just gone inside 
out of the damp. Something of this 
sort came into Miss Everard s fanciful 
head, resting against the door-post, as 
she sat on the low step of the threshold 
and watched the dainty lace-like pattern 
made upon the wooden boards, by the 
moonlight shining through the prosaic 
cane seats of the chairs. 

" Why not a dryad ? " she said, dream 
ily. " A nineteenth-century dryad of a 
wooden rocking-chair ? I am sure if I 
were one I d rather inhabit a rocking- 
chair than the trunk of a tree." Neal 
looked up at her from the lower step. 
The moonlight fell upon her hair, soft 
ening the curves of her face and figure 
with its own half -spiritual, half-sensuous 
suggestiveness. Her eyes deepened and 
darkened as she looked from the porch 
out into the fragrant, clinging duskiness 
of the summer night. It was one or two 
minutes before he became conscious 
that she had spoken, and that, instead 
of answering, he had been watching her 
with an intensity that partook a little 
too much of the thoughtlessness of irre- 



236 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



sponsible manhood. With an effort he 
turned away and gazed into the shad 
ows of the opposite wood, whence came 
the low, persistent sounds of manifold 
insect vivacity. 

" Dryads," he repeated, slowly. He 
was not quite sure what he was going 
to say, but the sudden recollection of 
Emily Grant, as she had appeared once 
crowned with leaves at a strawberry fes 
tival, where he had addressed her as 
" Fair dryad," helped him to pull him 
self together. 

" Those old myths," he said, " will al 
ways bind the fancy more or less. They 
have a certain hold on the truths of nat 
ure that appeals to the universal hu 
man heart." 

While he could be didactic, he was 
safe from any misleading influence of the 
hour. 

"Why myths ? " demanded Betty, per 
versely. " Why may they not have ex 
isted ? long ago, you know ; I don t 
say," she admitted, with fine tolerance, 
" that they exist now. But I am quite 
as likely to have descended from a dryad 
as from an oyster." 

Although Neal did not look at her 
again he knew her portrait, and he felt 
that really she had reason on her side. 

" An oyster," he repeated, vaguely. 

"Yes, why not?" 

" I have no sympathy with the theory 
of evolution myself," he asserted, shift 
ing a little the ground of argument. 
There was a movement on the wooden 
boards of the small slippered foot at his 
side. 

" But that hasn t anything to do with 
it," said Miss Everard. 

" But it has," he responded, unguard 
edly allowing himself to be drawn into 
opposing her absurdity, and he turned 
and looked up into her face. Possibly 
Miss Everard had anticipated this, for 
she smiled down at him, and, with a sud 
den loss of active interest, said : " Has 
it ? " as if she had no particular objec 
tion. Again Neal saw the fair outline, 
and the white wrists, and the shadowy 
eyes, and again he betook himself to the 
firm ground of controversy. 

"How certain men in the Church 
itself can assume the theories of evo 
lution to be facts is a mysterious thing," 
he declared. "Its conclusions are ad 



verse to all that we have of revela 
tion." 

"Oh," she demurred, "doesn t that 
depend on the way of looking at it ? " 

"No," he said, "that would be the 
end of peace and safety. We can look 
at a thing in such a way as to make it 
appear its direct contrary." As he spoke, 
he knew that it was not as warmly as 
usual. He believed what he said, but 
for the first time in his life a doubt crept 
into his heart concerning the absolute 
verity of all the conclusions of his life. 
Was it possible that some of them might 
be mistaken ones ? Even as he pushed 
away the doubt, it was almost with the 
unallowed exclamation, What matters ? 
He was frightened at the thought. Was 
it possible that there was any force in 
the world strong enough to make his 
theological convictions a secondary mat 
ter? Yet even the fright did not last, 
the apprehension that he might be los 
ing his hold on the very essence of his 
life-work grew faint and far a\vay. Was 
everything slipping away into a world 
of unrealities except the moonlight, and 
the sweet July air, and a beautiful wom 
an on the steps above him all reali 
ties, whose presence he felt as he had 
often in moods of special grace felt other 
higher things ? 

" But shouldn t we admit all of science 
that we can ?" said Betty. "Is not that 
the way not to fear it ? " 

" Ah, that is the dangerous doctrine," 
he answered. "It is this paltering with 
science, this readiness to give up the 
divinations of truth for the mathematics 
of science that is working us loss and 
injury." 

How well he knew the words, though 
he said them perfunctorily enough. 
They came to his lips readily. They 
were the result of honest thought. 
How often he had said them and heard 
them, together with his friend of semi 
nary days, before he had come to the 
Centre, before he had loved this woman, 
who meant grace and beauty and mental 
inspiration and delicious companionship 
and life itself before he had loved her ! 
He had not known where he was going ; 
the knowledge overwhelmed him in a 
flood of conviction. Before its illuminat 
ing power he stood abashed but unre- 
gretful. He covered his eyes for a mo- 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



237 



inent s thought. It seemed to him as if 
a long time passed, but it was only a 
moment, and Betty was saying, with a 
little sigh : 

" Well, perhaps. We don t any of us 
know too much. Let us not lose the 
divinations of truth, whatever else may 
go." She thought him narrow, and 
the hopelessness of finding a common 
ground, at which she had hinted to 
Frances, oppressed her ; but she had a 
deep reverence for conviction, and as 
she saw him, his head bowed in serious 
thought, she withheld her tongue from 
argument and assented to what truth 
she accepted. Neal looked up. The 
shadows of the woods were black be 
yond the broad white pathway of the 
road, edged by the tall, ragged weeds, 
fairy-like under the general enchant 
ment. The summer chorus had grown 
somewhat subdued, the fragrance of 
sweet-william mingled with that of the 
pines. 

"Betty," he said. Miss Everard s 
eyes grew a little startled. She had not 
thought this was so near. She lifted 
her hand. 

" Hush ! " she said, leaning forward. 
" Listen a moment." Involuntarily 
Neal turned his head and looked to 
ward the road, listening too. The sound 
of a horse s hoofs was heard. 

It was a most unusual thing at night. 
Betty was vaguely frightened. There 
is always something a trifle spectral in 
the hoof -beats of an unseen horse. 
Neal was interested and curious. It 
grew more distinct, the horse and rider 
were not far off. 

" Who can it be ? " murmured Betty. 

"I don t know, I m sure," answered 
Neal, and he rose and walked down to 
the little gate, between the sweet-william 
and phlox. Betty rose too, and as she 
waited on the step saw the horse turn 
down toward Deacon Evans s. 

"It is someone for me," said Neal, 
and he half-opened the gate and paused 
again. There were voices from the 
house, and in a few moments the horse 
man had wheeled about, traversed the 
short remaining distance, and stood be 
fore Neal at the gate. 

" Old Missis Taunton is dying," said 
a boyish voice. " She s been took sud 
den, and she says as how she won t die 



without the minister. So if you ll ride 
Streak back, you ll just about get there, 
I guess." 

The boy stood holding the bridle, and 
Neal looked back. " You hear what it 
is, Miss Everard?" he said; "I must 

go-" 

" Yes, of course," she murmured, " I 
understand." 

He sprang on the horse, lifted his hat, 
and rode up the road out of sight, and 
the boy, declining her suggestion of 
rest, guessed he d walk along. 

Betty went in and put out the sitting- 
room lamp, nowadays always confided 
to her care, bolted the front door, and 
groped her way up the dark stairwajr. 
Instead of lighting her bedroom candle, 
she went to the window through whose 
uncurtained frame the moonlight poured 
in. This window was still upheld by 
Gibbon s "Decline and Fall," and she 
gazed at the volume with a transient 
revival of interest. The second volume 
had given place to the first, which had 
been finished with a sensation of tri 
umph which had carried her, free from 
conscience-pricks, over three days of no 
reading at all. With this trifling ex 
ception, the window-support sustained 
its original form. 

"It is curious," she said to herself. 
" I came up here to devote myself to the 
past, and it seems to me now that all my 
interests are in the future." 

She leaned her elbows on the top of 
the sash. When the messenger had 
swung himself from his horse below 
there at the gate, and she had heard 
him deliver his message, it had seemed 
a harsh, prosaic interruption to that 
scene of quiet, etherealized emotion. 
Old Mrs. Taunton was a hard-fisted, 
rich old woman. Who was she, that she 
should have come between these two 
just as he looked into her face and 
called her by her name ? But that im 
pression had been replaced by the reali 
zation that it was no trivial thing that 
had interrupted them. It was not a 
whim of old Mrs. Taunton. It was 
nothing less solemn than Death itself 
one of the two or three great facts of 
life. There were not so many of them 
that were unalterable, unevadable yes, 
to be sure, there was Love. And was 
not Love always confronted with the aw- 



238 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



ful strength of Death ? Oh, yes, it was 
appropriate enough. She smiled as she 
remembered her irritation with his 
opinions, the narrowness which had 
seemed a hopeless stumbling-block in 
the way of their understanding one 
another. What were such small mat 
ters, compared with the power to face 
the realities of existence ? How quickly, 
how naturally, he answered appeals such 
as this to-night an appeal men and 
women of broader culture and larger 
views might have shrunk from. It 
seemed to Miss Everard as if, for the 
first time, she saw the true proportions 
of things. 

Meanwhile Neal sat by the dying 
woman. She had sunk into temporary 
unconsciousness, but the doctor prophe 
sied a brief return to reason and urged 
him to remain. Of course he did not 
dream of refusing, and as he sat there in 
the darkened room, silent, save for the 
heavy, uneven breathing at his side, he, 
too, face to face with Death, began 
again to see things in what he felt to be 
their true proportions. He was still 
under the spell of Betty s beauty and 
grace, he still felt the subtle influence 
of the scene he had just left, but the 
caution of his training and customary 
line of thought reasserted itself. Was 
this the woman who would be a help 
meet in the work he had to do ? Would 
not this very beauty and grace be al 
most a drawback in an unappreciative 
parish ? Less avowedly, but forcibly, 
came the reflection, would not this very 
quickness of intellect, now a refresh 
ment, be a snare in the way of a fitting 
reverence for his authority and his of 
fice ? To be sure, she had other claims 
on his affection. He thought of her as 
she sat on the farm-house floor, holding 
Nat s wounded arm, pale and resolute. 
A rush of love for her swept him on for 
a moment, but he fought with it and 
turned back. It was a crisis in his life 
let him be wise ! Half an hour later 
old Mrs. Taunton stirred, and called 
feebly. Neal knelt down at her side to 
pray. When he came away in the early 
morning after she died, he walked back 
to the farm-house with firm lips and de 
termined stride. Later that day he 
wrote a friendly letter to Emily Grant. 

It was the last day of August that the 



rocking-chairs on the porch were filled 
by Mrs. Thrum and Mrs. Mint. 

"I m sorry she s going," said the lat 
ter. " She hasn t been any trouble, and 
she s made it more lively since she s been 
here." She continued : "It has seemed 
more like Whitney more like what it 
was when I lived there." 

" I m sorry too," said Mrs. Thrum. 
" She s going to send me her photograph, 
and I think I ll get a frame for it one 
of those red-velvet ones. They have em 
at the Centre. It isn t very good velvet, 
but I guess it ll do. Not but what she s 
used to the best," she added. " Ought 
to have it, too." 

" Mr. Neal ll miss her some, I guess," 
added Camilla, slowly rocking back and 
forth. 

Elvira s chair jerked back suddenly. 

"Miss her! He ll miss her, fast 
enough," and the chair flew forward 
again as Mrs. Thrum rose. " But what s 
missing f " and with what might have 
been a scornful toss she passed into the 
house. Mrs. Mint knit on placidly, 
steeped in reminiscences of a young 
clergyman who made a brief sojourn in 
Whitney. 

Miss Everard was writing to Frances. 

" Dear Frances," she said : "I start 
for home to-morrow. Yes, I think, per 
haps, I am a little bored. But it is time 
for me to be at home, anyway, if you and 
I go away for September. As for Cory- 
don yes, again it may be that I long 
to exchange the combination of crook 
and pastoral staff you refer to for some 
thing more polished and worldly. Any 
way, come and see me at the end of the 
week. 

"Yours, 

"BETTY." 

" I ve finished the Decline and Fall. " 

It was more than a year later. The 
sparse trees of the prosperous manu 
facturing town whither Alfred Neal had 
been called to take charge of a parish 
were already losing their yellow leaves, 
and the pretentious house opposite 
looked as cruelly unshaded and aggres 
sively new as its owner s social position. 
Neal looked older and somewhat graver 
this afternoon, as he read the New York 
paper that had just come by mail. His 



DECLINE AND FALL. 



239 



air of superb confidence that for a man 
of good physique and theological train 
ing nothing ever came hard had di 
minished, but he had not lost by the 
change. Instead, his face had gained in 
thought and purpose. 

"Married, October fifteenth, at the 
Church of the Holy Trinity, Elizabeth, 
daughter of Franklin Everard" the 
paper fell with a sudden rustle to the 
floor, and Neal strode to the window and 
leaned his forehead against the pane, 
staring across at the rich manufacturer s 
house, which stared back with all the 
strength of its uncurtained windows. 
In a few moments he came back, picked 
up the paper, and finished reading the 
notice. He knew the man by name and 
reputation well enough. He reddened 
with shamed annoyance when he real 
ized that he was trying to think if he had 
ever heard anything against him, and 
he was sincerely glad that he had not. 
He dropped the paper again and threw 
his head back in his one easy-chair, and 
in so doing disarranged a silk-embroid 
ered scarf worked by a member of the 
choir, and knocked off a balsam pillow 
sent him by one of his Sunday-school 
teachers. He recalled every incident of 
his last interview with Betty. After 
three months of a struggle which had 
taught him much he had not dreamed 
it necessary to learn, he had gone to see 
her at her own home. She had worn a 
pale-blue gown, and her head lay against 
the back of the cushioned, luxurious 
chair just as he had seen it on the 
rough pine-tree and the hard door-post 
at Kenyon s. 

" No, Mr. Neal," she had said, kindly, 
so very kindly. " It really is too late 
for this sort of thing, you know. Up 
there, it was different. I think, one even 
ing the night old Mrs. Taunton died 
what a superb summer night it was 
do you remember ? " He had raised his 
eyes and looked at her in silence when 
she said that. 

" Yes/ she went on, " I think you do. 
Well, that evening I think I was in love 
with you. I thought you very fine and 
noble, and I thought you could make me 
happy. Not that I don t think all those 
things now, you know," and whether her 
smile had a touch of its old mockery or 
not he could not for the life of him have 



told, " but I accept them as I do other 
facts, the personal appeal of them has 
vanished " he had been about to speak 
then, but she went on, with a slight gest 
ure " vanished, I am afraid I must say, 
Mr. Neal, forever." 

He remembered with a tremor, as of 
physical pain, how he had felt when she 
said those words. They were both silent 
for a moment. Miss Everard s slipper 
had slightly disturbed the snatched 
slumbers of a terrier that lay at her feet. 
Then she had spoken again. 

" But you thought I would not do, you 
know " 

"Miss Everard," he had broken in, 



" No, don t speak yet, please, Mr. Neal," 
she had said, smiling still ; "I can say 
it a great deal better than you can. I 
have quite a gift for analyzing impres 
sions, and I m not a bit vexed. You 
thought I wouldn t do, and 

He was glad that he had insisted on 
speaking once, at least. 

"I did a foolish thing," he had ex 
claimed ; " and I have suffered for it. 
But it was because I did not heed my 
own convictions. I admired you I 
loved you then, as now, but I did not 
know until afterward that it was your 
character, your very self, that I loved as 
well as your beauty and your wit." 

" Oh, Mr. Neal," she had exclaimed, 
softly, " you are saying beautiful things 
to me, but " here she had leaned over 
and frankly held out her hand " but you 
were right, in the first place ; there is 
nothing to be sorry for I wouldn t do 
at all. I know that now better than you 
knew it then. I thank you for being 
wise for us both." 

Had ever man had his wisdom held 
up to him wearing more completely the 
guise of folly, he wondered to-day, as he 
absently played with an etched pen- wiper, 
the gift of the youngest member of his 
Bible-class ? Folly, pitiless, irrevocable 
folly ! and how sweetly she had shown it 
him, and how sure she had been that she 
was right ! While he and he rose and 
straightened himself as though to throw 
off the burden of his fatal uncertainty 
was she perhaps right, right for him as 
well as for herself ? Heaven knows ! 

The afternoon was wearing on. Au 
tumn clouds were piling up in the west. 



240 



RENUNCIATION. 



He looked out of the window again. The 
manufacturer s youngest son was play 
ing the hose over the clothes hung out 
to dry in the side yard. He turned 
away, took his hat, and went out. Down 
the street was a small, pretty, quiet house, 
and on its piazza he rang the bell. 



" Is Miss Emily Grant still here ? " he 
asked the maid who opened the door. 

"Yes, sir," was the answer. "She 
does not leave till to-morrow." 

"Tell her," he said, entering, "that 
Mr. Neal would like to see her for a few 
minutes." 




RENUNCIATION. 

By Emily Dickinson. 

THERE came a day at Summer s full 

Entirely for me ; 
I thought that such was for the saints 

Where Eevelations be. 

The Sun as common went abroad, 
The flowers accustomed blew, 

As if no sail the solstice passed 
That maketh all things new. 

The time was scarce profaned by speech ; 

The symbol of a word 
Was needless as at Sacrament 

The wardrobe of our Lord. 

The hours slid past, as hours will, 
Clutched tight by greedy hands ; 

So faces on two Decks look back 
Bound to opposing Lands. 

And so, when all the time had failed 

Without external sound, 
Each bound the other s crucifix 

We gave no other bond. 

Sufficient troth that we should rise, 
Deposed at length the grave, 

To that new marriage justified 
Through Calvaries of Love ! 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 

By John Seymour Wood. 




|HE Archibald house, on 
West Forty Street, 
was of the character 
described as a " mod 
ernized front." A 
handsome arch in 
rough stone sur 
mounted the front 
door, which w a s 
done in polished oak 
and plate-glass. The stoop was on a 
level with the sidewalk ; a richly carved 
bow-window jutted out from the second 
story. " No. 41," in old iron open work, 
formed a pretty grating above the door. 
There was, in fact, nothing which 
would lead an ordinary person to con 
ceive of the house as given over to 
boarders, except, possibly, the sign, 



TO 


LET, 


FURNISHED. 



which was posted conspicuously below 
the first-story window, and at an angle 
which enabled him that ran to read. 

Old Mr. Archibald s death, the autumn 
before, had left his widow rather poorer 
than she anticipated. He was a great 
collector of pretty things. His taste 
was exquisite, and he had gratified it 
by filling his house with a variety of 
bric-d-brac, pictures, statuary, and old 
furniture, which made it a centre of 
attraction to many of the old gentle 
man s artistic friends. Mrs. Archibald, 
loathe to dispose of her husband s art 
collections, determined to let the house, 
as it stood, "at an exorbitant figure, to 
a very rich tenant without children." 
Under these terms, on her departure for 
Europe, her agent was entrusted witli 
the house, and her son Jerome, when he 
saw her off on the steamer, received a 
parting injunction, " Be sure and see 
that they have no children." Jerome 
Archibald saw his mother and sisters 
depart in no very enviable frame of 
mind ; but he was" a good son, and he 
VOL. VIII. 23 



resolved to forego Newport, if it would 
tend to dispose of the house as his 
mother wished, and add to her dimin 
ished income. 

His mother and sisters sailed in May. 
It was now July, and very warm and dis 
agreeable. As the " heated term " set in, 
he began to think it too bad, you know, 
of mamma and the girls to remain 
abroad for three whole years. It was 
positively absurd. What was he to 
do? After the house was let where 
was he to go ? By Jove, he felt deuced 
lonely, don t you know ! It was espe 
cially trying for a sensitive man to go 
in and out of a house with a great 
placard on it, "To Let, Furnished," 
but it was a deal more trying to have 
people come and want board. Yes, 
actually, two ladies came one morning 
and wanted to know if they could see 
the landlord. It was positively ridicu 
lous! His agent was a clevah fellow, 
but even he gave up hope of letting 
the house until fall. Hadn t he better 
run down to Newport ? He got a let 
ter from Dick Trellis that morning, 
and they really didn t see how they 
were going to get on without him in 
the polo matches. It put him in a fum 
ing fury. He had never stayed late in 
the city in summer before. How in 
fernally hot it was and nahsty don t 
you know ! His collars were in a per 
petual state of wilt they never wilted 
at Newport. Then everybody was not 
only out of town, having a good time 
somewhere, but they had a provok 
ing way now of ostentatiously boarding 
up their front-doors yes and their 
windows, too which made it doubly 
disagreeable for those who had to re 
main. It was bad enough to see the 
blinds drawn down, but boxing up 
their stone-work and planking up their 
front -doors caused Mr. Jerome Archibald 
unutterable pangs. Then they thought 
it was a boarding-house ! 

They were coming again in the after 
noon, at four. There were two of them 
ladies. In his rather depressing and 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



243 



solitary occupation of living alone in 
his house, with one solemn apoplectic 
cook and one chalk-faced maid, in order 
to exhibit it to that endless raft of 
females with "permits," who univer 
sally condemned or " damned with faint 
praise " his father s exquisite taste in 
rugs and furniture, Mr. Jerome Archi 
bald had to-day admitted to himself a 
distinct pleasure in showing "Miss Per 
kins " and her niece (whose name did 
not happen at the time to be mentioned) 
over the house, and pointing out in his 
quiet way its excellences. 

They saw the sign, they said, and so 
made bold to enter. Evidently Miss 
Perkins was a prim, thin, tall, specta 
cled, New England old maid. She had 
the delicate air and manner of a lady. 
A lady faded, perhaps, and unused to a 
larger social area than that surrounding 
her native village green. She had also 
the timid manner of hesitancy of New 
England spinsters hesitancy concern 
ing everything except questions of cas 
uistry and religion and seemed, in 
what she did, to be spurred on from be 
hind by the niece, who, was, on the whole, 
as Mr. Jerome Archibald told a friend at 
the club later, " quite extraordinary." 

In the first place, as he said, the 
niece was undeniably beautiful. 

"She wore rawther an odd street 
dress," he said, " made up in the coun 
try somewhere, by a seamstress who 
gathered her crude notions of the pre 
vailing fashions from some prevaricat 
ing ladies journal, and her hat was 
something positively ridiculous but 
her face I " The fastidious Mr. Jerome 
Archibald at once conceded to it a cer 
tain patrician quality of elegance. It 
denoted pure blood and pure breeding, 
somewhere up among Vermont hills or 
Maine forests. A long line of " intelli 
gent ancestors," perhaps. It was fine 
and beautiful. The forehead high, 
nose straight, the large eyes gray, the 
mouth and chin sweet, and yet quite 
determined. When he showed them a 
large room at the rear, on the second 
story, facing the north, the niece had 
observed, with a lofty air mind, the 
room was literally crammed with the 
most costly bric-d-brac "I think this 
will suit me very well, aunt dear, on ac 
count of the light." 



He noticed in her unfashionable dress 
a certain artistic sense of freedom, a 
soup $ on of colored ribbon here and there, 
and he concluded that she was all the 
more interesting, as an artist, in that she 
so quietly accepted the elegancies around 
her. She gave an unconscious sigh 
over a small glass-covered "Woodland 
Scene," by Duprez. Mr. Jerome Archi 
bald noticed it, and inwardly smiled, 
delighted. 

Perhaps the niece captivated him the 
more by her silent appreciation of some 
things he himself admired exceedingly. 
It was odd that she seemed always to 
choose his favorites. There was nothing 
said as to the rent, the size of the house, 
the lot, the plumbing. He spent an 
hour showing his etchings alone, and in 
the afternoon, at four, they were coming 
again, "to decide." 

II. 

OF course Mr. Jerome Archibald must 
have been an extremely susceptible young 
man to have fallen in love at first sight 
with a strange young woman, who had 
come to look at his house with a view to 
renting. But he was " rawther down 
and depressed." The usual summer ma 
laria had set in. The usual excavations 
in the streets were going on they were 
digging with " really extraordinary en 
ergy" that summer the pavements were 
up on all the Fortieth streets. Fifth 
Avenue presented the appearance of a 
huge empty canal. It w T as something 
more, this presidential year, than the 
perennial laying clown and taking up of 
pipes. "He was really ripe for une 
grande affaire du cceur" said one of his 
club friends, he was getting so lone 
some. He did fall quite entirely in 
love, precipitately, unquestionably, in 
spite of the fact that they took the house 
for a boardin g- place ! They asked to 
hire but one room only. 

When they arrived, at 4 P.M., they sat 
a few moments in the reception-room, 
while the chalk -faced, alert maid an 
nounced them to Archibald in the room 
above. Miss Perkins folded her faded, 
gloved hands in her lap and sat up on 
the sofa stiffly. They had looked at ever 
so many houses, and they had come back 
to No. 41 with instinctive preference. 




came, Miss Price, because don t you know I aw missed you." Page 254. 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



245 



"I don t think one room would be 
so very expensive," said Miss Perkins. 
"He could put up two beds easily in 
that north room, and the room we saw 
on Thirty-fourth Street was only twelve 
dollars what do you think, Elvira ? " 

" I think twelve dollars is altogether 
too high," said the niece, looking up 
from a delicate little Elzevir she was 
holding. "I think he wants to let the 
rooms very much ; none of them seem 
to be taken. Remember it is midsum 
mer, aunt dear." 

There was a little pause. 

" Of course he will prefer having nice 
people. It will be a great help to your 
art, Elvira you can study at great ad 
vantage. There are so many pictures 
for you to copy. I think your father 
would say it was a lucky find. If you 
will persist in your art, why, I think 
we are very fortunate." 

"You are always ready to sneer at 
my art, Aunt Perkins." And she gave a 
peculiar laugh. 

"It is something that has come up 
since my day," she replied, glancing 
about over the pictures and the rare 
editions on the table. " I was brought 
up to plain living. But I guess if we 
can get it all for twelve dollars we 
ought to be satisfied. It s a pleasant 
change to see the city. It s pleasant 
to see these ornaments. Yes, I don t 
blame art so much as your father does, 
Elvira, and I don t believe he would 
blame it if he knew we could have so 
much of it for twelve dollars." 

" Eather secretly admires it as much 
as I do," said the niece ; " only he likes 
to talk." 

Just then Mr. Jerome Archibald en 
tered. He w r as faultlessly dressed in 
half-mourning for his father. Indeed, 
he had dressed himself with exceeding 
care, being desirous, he frankly admitted 
to himself, of making an impression. 
He bowed graciously, and took Elvira s 
extended gloved hand, which, as she 
offered it, he held a moment. "Have 
you decided ? " he asked. 

They had explained, when they left in 
the morning, that they should want only 
one room, and he tacitly inferred that 
they would require board. He received 
a dreadful shock, but made up his mind 
that the charming niece would prove the 
VOL. VIII. 24 



more charming on closer acquaintance, 
and he deliberately decided to keep both 
the gentle New Englanders under his 
roof for a time, if he could ! The more 
he thought of the plan, the more inter 
esting the situation became to him. He 
fairly dreaded, at last, lest they should 
find their way into a remote boarding- 
house in some cheap quarter of the city, 
where it would be quite impossible for 
him to follow them. He gravely an 
nounced to the astonished maid that 
he had determined to let out the rooms 
to the ladies, who, he pretended for 
her benefit, were old acquaintances. 
When they were announced he was 
scarcely able to conceal his pleasure. 
Mr. Jerome Archibald had fallen in 
love. 

" We have decided to take one room," 
said Elvira, " if we can agree upon the 
price ; and we wish to know the price 
of board " 

" We shan t want much to eat," put in 
Miss Perkins, with a nervous twitch. 

Archibald admirably concealed a smile. 
His long mustache aided him a good 
deal in doing this. He was still stand 
ing, and he put his hand to his lips : "I 
think we shall agree very easily upon 
the price," he said. 

Miss Perkins again twitched a little. 
" We thought twelve dollars room and 
board -" she said, leaving the sentence 
half finished, while Elvira looked up at 
him, expectantly. 

" My dear ladies, I should not think 
of charging more than ten. You are 
strangers in the city, and I would not 
impose upon you for the world. It hap 
pens that this is the dull season " 

" So we thought," said Miss Perkins, 
" and board and lodging ought to come 
a little cheaper." 

" Precisely. The maid will show you 
your sleeping-room and, of course, the 
entire house is at your service. I hope 
you will find everything to your com 
fort. I am very anxious to please." 
He laughed a little. 

Elvira gave him a grateful, but at the 
same time a rather patronizing, glance. 
He felt at once that in carrying out his 
little ruse he had placed himself deliber 
ately upon a questionable footing with 
the beautiful girl. He hoped, however, 
to redeem himself by impressing her 



246 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



with his knowledge of the pursuit which, 
he accurately judged, had brought the 
ladies to the city. Archibald had at one 
time done a little painting himself. He 
had dreamed dreams, as a young man, 
which indolence and the stern business 
atmosphere of the city had choked off 
prematurely. As he looked down upon 
the girl s sweet gray eyes a vision of 
this youthful period came back to him. 
Twenty-two and thirty-two have this in 
common, that the latter age is not too 
far away to quite despise the younger 
enthusiasm. Archibald at thirty-two 
still believed in himself, don t you know. 



HI. 

SEVERAL days passed, during which the 
ladies settled themselves very readily in 
their new surroundings. They were 
very methodical, preferring to rise at 
an hour which, to Archibald, was some 
thing savoring of barbarism. He studied 
their habits, with a view to conform 
ing to them as far as possible, but 
found that he could not bring himself 
to give up his nine-o clock breakfasts, 
and so went out to his club, leaving 
orders that the ladies should be ac 
commodated at the earliest hour they 
might choose. He found that they had 
discovered Central Park, and came to 
make it a habit to stroll with them of a 
morning upon the Mall, and around 
the stagnant lakes. Central Park was 
a novelty to him, except as seen from 
horseback, or a four-in-hand, and it 
really seemed very beautiful those sum 
mer mornings he was really surprised, 
don t you know ! He wondered that 
nice people did not use the Park more 
as they did Hyde Park in London. 
As the days went on he filled his house 
with flowers, turned the second floor 
into an immense studio for Elvira, sat 
about and watched her, criticised, en 
couraged her. He forgot Newport, for 
got his polo. He had strangely ceased to 
be bored. He was happy in New York 
in mid-summer ! Dick Trellis told his 
polo friends at Newport that Archibald 
was probably undergoing private treat 
ment for softening of the brain, which 
theory, in fact, they deemed sufficiently 
complimentary. 



As for his mother and sisters in 
Europe Why, pray, should he inform 
them of his little joke ? 

Elvira worked away at her easel when 
the light was best during the after 
noon. In the evening, after dinner, the 
ladies became socially inclined. It was 
then that they allowed Archibald to 
smoke in the " studio " and talk Art with 
Elvira. Indeed he found it very diffi 
cult to talk anything else with the shy 
New England primrose. 

About Art with a big A she was 
rapturous. There seemed to be in her 
soul a strange hunger for everything 
ornate and richly beautiful. Archibald 
devoted himself to studying her. He 
became strangely interested in East 
Village, Vt., where, he gathered, the 
Hon. Ephraim B. Price, her father, was 
a very distinguished Republican law- 
3 r er and politician. He drew Aunt Per 
kins out concerning her Congregational 
church, her minister, her fear of the 
Catholics, her fondness for cats, her se 
cret disbelief in Art. Once in a while 
they read him a letter from the Hon. 
Ephraim, in which he could see reflected 
their own liking for him. He found that 
he was spoken of as " Landlord Archi 
bald." The Hon. Ephraim was a shrewd 
old fellow, however, and his counsels and 
advice were generally of the " trust-no t- 
too-much-to-appearances " order. One 
evening Miss Perkins complained of a 
headache, and Archibald found himself 
alone for an hour with Elvira. She 
sat beneath the rich brazen lamp, with 
its pretty crimson shade, absorbing 
some of the red glow in her lovely 
face. They had been two weeks in the 
city, and out of delicate feeling had 
deposited two ten-dollar bills upon the 
mantelpiece in the library, where Archi 
bald would see them. He had roared 
with laughter over them and intended 
having them framed, but ultimately he 
found a different use for their amusing 
board-money. 

He made some little allusion to the 
time they had been with him. 

" Two very short weeks," said Elvira, 
" and you have been so very unusually 
kind, Mr. Archibald. You have done so 
much for us. We have noticed it. Is 
it usual for landlords to to do so much, 
in the city?" 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



247 



" It depends," he said, gravely. " Laud- 
lords do more for people who are con 
genial you are congenial " 

" Oh f" A slight pause. 

"You are more than congenial, 
really," said Archibald. " For you take 
an interest, Miss Price. I have secret 
ly espied both you and your aunt dust 
ing " 

Elvira bit her lip. " We have dusted," 
she admitted, reddening a little, " but it 
is merely out of force of habit." 

" Really," said Archibald, " I rawther 
like you the better for it, don t you 
know ! " 

"I m afraid," said Elvira, her face 
lighting up with conscious pleasure, 
" that you have made up your mind as 
a landlord to like us, whatever we do. 
I m afraid you would not like it at all 
if you knew everything that aunt has 
done." 

" Tell me I will keep it a profound 
secret, I assure you," he laughed. 

" She has actually dared to invade 
your kitchen ! " 

"Has she?" said Archibald, dubi 
ously ; " really ! " 

" Yes, and she declares that your cook 
wastes enough every day to keep four 
families ! " 

"Really !" said Archibald ; "I ll have 
to look into it." 

"Y T ou won t save much out of what 
we pay," said Elvira, " and we don t 
want to stay if it doesn t pay you ; 
but " 

"Well?" 

"Mr. Archibald, we are poor." She 
looked down. 

"I m very sorry, I m sure I " he 
really did feel a compassion which found 
its way into his voice, and made it trem 
ble a little. 

"Aunt says you can t be making any 
money. Now, we don t think it is right 
to stay another day and be burdens, 
do you see ? " 

A solemn pause. 

"Isn t that what they are talking 
about so much now in the novels ? " he 
asked, at length. 

"What?" 

"The terrible New England con 
science ? " 

" Right is right and wrong is wrong, 
Mr. Archibald, disguise it how we may," 



and Elvira compressed her pretty lips 
firmly. 

Archibald puffed on his cigar, lazily. 

" I wasn t sure," he said, as if a doubt 
had crept into his mind. 

She glanced at him impatiently. 

"Can t you see how wrong it would 
be for us to stay here and enjoy all we 
have in your beautiful house, knowing 
that we were swindling you?" She 
stamped her foot. " Mercy ! " she added, 
half to herself, " what can you be made 
of?" 

He hastened to a display of rugged 
conscience, which relieved her. 

" Oh, of course, I see how wicked it 
would be if you did swindle; but I m 
making money ! Really I haven t spent 
the twenty dollars board -money yet. 
Oh, pray rest assured I shan t lose. I 
will tell you when I run behind." 

A great sense of relief seemed to come 
over the girl. 

"But it is all we can pay. I told father 
I would not ask for more. Father said 
he knew it would take more, but I said 
I would give up Art first." 

" Oh, I say ! " he protested. 

" And to-morrow I am going to begin 
taking lessons, but I ivill not call on 
father for another cent. He shan t be 
able to throw it in my face that it turned 
out as he said, and that I was wrong. 
When he and I dispute it always does 
turn out as he says this time it shan t." 

Archibald laughed a little. The poor 
fool, don t you know, was so captivated 
that every word, every action of the girl 
was music to him. The two weeks of 
observation had told on her dress. To 
night she wore a white muslin, elaborat 
ed with pretty ribbons. She no longer 
seemed especially rustic to him. He 
noticed that she was doing her hair now 
in the prevailing style. " By Jove ! " he 
said to himself, " I ll see that she comes 
out at the Patriarchs next winter ! " 

This was his highest earthly happi 
ness for a debutante. 

"I am going to make money," she 
went on ; " I m going to paint vases, 
plates, odds and ends, pot-boilers, you 
know, and so father shan t know what 
it costs." 

" Oh, by the way, if you do," he pre 
tended, lazily blowing out a ring of 
smoke, "I happen to know a fellow an 



248 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



old friend of mine who gives very fair 
prices for those sort of things. Now, I 
am sure he will take any gimcrack you 
may do." 

Somehow the word gimcrack dis 
pleased her. 

"My Art work has always been 
thought very pretty in East Village," 
she said. "It would never sell, but it 
was thought pretty. I used to long to 
help father and our family is so large, 
you know, four little brothers and two 
sisters younger than I am and now, if 
I only could get on, and help father! 
Oh, Mr. Archibald, you don t know how 
little law there is to go round in East 
Village ! " She heaved a deep sigh. 

He tried to appear sympathetic. 

" I know a fellow who gets a thousand 
dollars for a portrait, and he has only 
just commenced. You can t help but 
succeed, Miss Price, really ! " 

She gave him a grateful glance. 

" Oh, if I could ! " she said, anxiously. 
"I taught school one winter, but the 
pay was so small. And I ve tried you 
will laugh, Mr. Archibald, at my telling 
you these things but I ve tried story 
writing. I was so hopeful about it, and 
it took as many as ten rejections before 
I became convinced ; and now, if my 
Art fails me 

She gave a little fluttering sigh. 

" I think you have talent." 

" Perhaps it is only enthusiasm " 

"That amounts to the same thing. 
It will keep you up to your work. They 
used to tell me I had talent, but I had 
no enthusiasm, so I dropped it. I wish 
to encourage you," he added ; " I hope 
you will go on. It takes a lot of work, 
but you have just the right tempera 
ment. You will work. You will get 
on, and when you become celebrated, 
Miss Price, you won t forget your old 
friends?" 

He realized that it was a rather bold 
step forward, and he trembled for her 
reply. 

"I shall always recommend your 
house," she said, a little stiffly, making 
him feel more than ever her aristocratic 
superiority to landlords, " and I shall 
always remember your kindness. We 
went to at least six boarding-houses 
until we saw your sign we saw the 
landladies. Really, Mr. Archibald, you 



have no idea how vulgar and unartistic 
most of the houses were. There was al 
ways a disagreeable odor, as if somebody 
was frying something. If I do succeed, 
as I wish, and make friends, and get to 
be known, and all, you may be certain 
that I shan t forget you. I may organize 
an Art class, and take the whole house 
myself ! " 

He went no further. It was enough 
to him, as he sat opposite her in his 
evening dress, his rich opal, set with dia 
monds, flashing on his white shirt-front, 
his lawn tie, low shoes, white waistcoat 
everything in the latest and most ex 
pensive style it was enough for Mr. 
Jerome Archibald to sit there and smoke 
his delicate Havana, and reflect that he 
at least had her promise to do what 
she could to recommend his boarding- 
house ! 

The next day, at dinner, he again 
suggested, in an offhand way, that Miss 
Price should turn her attention to por 
trait-painting. Miss Perkins seriously 
objected at once. 

" Your father would never give his 
consent," she said. " There was old Mr. 
Raymond, who lived on the Poor Farm, 
because he found portrait-painting didn t 
pay." 

" Mr. Raymond painted dreadful, hid 
eous caricatures," said Elvira. " He. 
painted my mother s portrait, and father 
is always throwing him in my face. But 
I don t know. I have no one to begin 
on except aunt, and I have tried and 
tried, and I can t get anything but the 
expression of her spectacles." 

Even Aunt Perkins laughed at this a 
little. 

"Begin on me," ventured Archibald. 
" Call it the Portrait of an Ideal Land 
lord. " 

There was a little pause. The ladies 
rose without replying, and Archibald 
followed them into the drawing-room, 
feeling indefinitely that he had been too 
forward. As he lit his cigar and sat 
near an open window, feeling the cool 
southern breeze, he reflected that it was 
not improbable that in East Village the 
only landlord known to them was the 
keeper of a common tavern. It amused 
him to think of their primitive, quaint 
ignorance of city ways. He pictured 
the small life of East Village, Vt, the 



A NEl ENGLAND INGENUE. 



249 



narrow social horizon, the strange in 
terest in politics, the religious intoler 
ance, the " strong " views on the temper 
ance question which obtained there, and 
which leaked out from Miss Perkins as 
the days went on into August. The easy 
sense of accommodation to their new 
surroundings also amused him. 

Archibald returned to the portrait. 
" I d rawther like to have one for the 
dining-room," he said ; " I think it would 
interest some of my boarders when they 
come back next winter. I could give 
you no end of sittings, Miss Price " 

Elvira exhibited some hesitancy : 
"Well, I might try," she said. "But 
I m not at all good at hair " 

" Shave off my mustache if you like," 
said the infatuated Archibald, with a 
grimace. 

The ladies changed the subject de 
corously. It was plain that Archibald s 
little advances toward an intimacy, to 
be derived from portrait-painting, were 
being met in rather an unencouraging 
spirit, don t you know ! The next day 
he invited them, as an agreeable diver 
sion, to visit Coney Island ; but Elvira 
made an excuse that she had no time 
for " pleasuring." They seemed, indeed, 
to have few pleasures. The morning 
walk in Central Park was given up ; Miss 
Perkins spent the greater part of the 
time when Elvira was at the Art School 
in riding to and fro, apparently, upon 
street -cars. One day she came home 
very late to dinner, saying that she had 
discovered the " Belt Line." While wait 
ing her return for dinner, Archibald had 
an agreeable tete-d-tete with Elvira. 



IV. 



HE was growing more and more in 
love with this self-contained, charming, 
young New Englander. It had come to 
a time when he felt that he must speak. 
They had been at No. 41 now these four 
weeks, aunt and niece, and yet they had 
managed to preserve their distance. He 
was no nearer than the day they arrived. 

He reflected that the pleasant little 
daily comedy which had amused him so 
entirely would have to be given up the 
instant he made known to her his state 
of feeling. But at the same time he felt 



he could act out the equivocation no 
longer. He must, as a gentleman, make 
a clean breast of his deception. Archi 
bald had seen a great deal of women, 
and he believed that he understood 
them pretty well. He believed he un 
derstood Miss Price well enough to 
reckon upon the flattery of her sudden 
fascination that first day, for him, as the 
cause of his deceit. He planned to bold 
ly tell her this, one day, while they were 
waiting for Miss Perkins to revolve 
around the "Belt Line." But Elvira 
turned the conversation against his will. 
She seemed to have remarkable intui 
tions, this strange creature ! Perhaps 
she had an intuition then. At any rate, 
she announced their determination to 
return to East Village the following Sat 
urday. 

"Father writes that his ague is no 
better that I must come home," she 
said. "There are, besides, the pre 
serves " 

Archibald expressed no surprise. " If 
you go," he said, "I think I ll take a run 
up there also. I have the greatest curi 
osity about East Village." 

" There is nothing it is dreadfully I 
wouldn t have you visit East Village for 
all the world ! " 

"Why?" 

" Because " she replied, sedately. 

Kecognizing this as a sufficient reply, 
Archibald took a seat on the sofa near 
her. She was in one of her pretty, soft, 
white muslins, tied, this evening, with 
ribbons of the very latest shade of fash 
ionable apple-green. He had noticed 
the steady growth of fashion in the girl s 
appearance, but he was not quite pre 
pared for the dozen silver bangles, which 
jingled as she raised her hand to her 
hair. She had a pretty arm and hand, 
and were it not for the bangles, which 
somehow altered the current of his 
thought, he had nerved himself up to 
the point of taking, or trying to take, her 
hand in his, and telling her in a manly 
way, his story. The bangles, however, 
don t you know, diverted him. He could 
not be serious. He laughed. It was as 
if he had happened upon a wood nymph 
in seven-button kid gloves ! She misin 
terpreted his laughter, believing that he 
intended to ridicule the pastoral delights 
of East Village. 



250 



A NEU/ ENGLAND INGENUE. 



"I m not ashamed of Vermont," she 
said, drawing away a little. "I can t 
bear to have it laughed at. You would 
laugh at East Village, Mr. Archibald 
you laugh at everything. You are not 
sincere. You have too much of the city 
in you too much of its glitter and 
She caught his eyes directed laugh 
ingly upon her bangles, and blushed 
guiltily. 

"Time works its changes, don t you 
know," he said. "Even you, Miss Elvira, 
are a little affected." 

"I hate myself for it," she said; "I 
do find myself growing to like things I 
never cared for before. I think of what 
I have on from morning to night," she 
confessed, guiltily, with an imploring 
glance at her landlord. 

"Can the dead dulness of midsum 
mer in the city have wrought so won 
drous a change ? " he laughed. " How 
very gay, really, you will be next 
winter." 

" Seriously," said Elvira, " I look for 
ward to a visit to East Village as a com 
plete change and rest. When I think 
of the white, dead walls of our meeting 
house, I am glad ; when I think of the 
lack of color in everybody up there, it 
makes me glad ; when I think of the 
plainness of everything, the simpleness, 
the truth of everything, I m glad to go 
back. But don t you don t come up to 
Vermont, Mr. Archibald. Really, please, 
don t." 

Again Archibald felt impelled to seize 
her white, pretty hand, and tell his 
story. He had never come to so inti 
mate a point before. What chance had 
he ever to come so near again ? All 
that his mother and sisters could write 
would have no effect upon him now. 
All that his friends at the club would 
say, all that his Aunt Newbold would 
say his Aunt Newbold was the formid 
able dragon of his family nothing, he 
felt sure, would alter his mind. He had 
deliberated a month, he would deliber 
ate no more. Besides, she was going 
away ; perhaps if he did not speak his 
opportunity would never again occur. 
He paled a little as he was about to 
open his lips. 

Bother ! 

The chalk-faced maid entered with a 
card on a silver tray. 



V. 



ME. JEROME ARCHIBALD had very few 
hatreds ; people whom he disliked he 
carefully avoided. Being fastidious to 
an extreme, he had few friends, but he 
likewise had no enemies. He had, how 
ever, a certain cousin who lived in Bos 
ton, who had in some way early offend 
ed him, and for whom he continued to 
have a most inexplicable dislike. Hun- 
newell Hollis was a Harvard man, who 
had been a great swell at college, and 
who was considered " clevah." He was 
a year or two older than Archibald, and 
he usually presumed a little upon his 
age and upon his superior education. 
It was Hunnewell Hollis s card which 
was brought up on the silver tray. 

Archibald impatiently rose and went 
down to the reception-room. There he 
found Hollis walking up and down the 
room, apparently in some excitement. 

" Jerry, this won t do, old man ! 
heard ladies voices up-stairs ! Twont 
do ! Lucky I ran down with the yacht. 
Now I m going to carry you off with 
me. By the way, Somers, and Billy 
Nahant, and Jack Chadwick are here, 
and I took the liberty to invite them 
here overnight knew you were alone 
knew you would be glad to put them 
up." 

"By Jove, you do me great honor! 
Unfortunately I haven t room for you 
I ve only just let the house taken by 
Jove ! I must take in the sign." 

Archibald s face betrayed no sign of 
his justifiable prevarication. 

"Well, then, as it is dinner-time I ll 
stay to dinner with you." 

"Sorry, very sorry. But the ladies 
who have taken the house would think 
it very odd " 

" Well, how in the devil are you din 
ing with them, Jerry ? " 

" They asked me, in order to discuss 
the terms. A few details before signing 
the lease, don t you know ! " 

" Well, it puts me in a rather awkward 
position ; I ve left the fellows your ad 
dress ; they ll be here shortly." 

"Why don t you head em off?" sug 
gested Archibald, coolly. 

Mr. Hunnewell Hollis gave his cousin 
a glance of anger. " The whole thing is 
rather fishy," he said, suspiciously. " I 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



251 



trust, Jerry, for the honor of the fam- 

ily " 

Archibald never quite detested his 
cousin so much before. 

"There are a great many adventur 
esses about, they are on the lookout for 
rich young men like you, Jerry," and 
Hunnewell Hollis, giving his cousin a 
rather gravely serious nod, took up his 
hat and cane and departed. 

Archibald went directly upstairs. He 
heard a rustle of a dress against the 
furniture. Had Elvira been listening ? 
He hoped not. 



VI. 



ADVENTURESS ! How that odious word 
rang in his ears as he entered the room 
where the sweet primrose face was still 
in its corner of the sofa. He swore he 
would never write to, nor speak to, 
Hunnewell Hollis again. He had done 
with him forever. Yet, had he heard 
the rustle of her dress ? It gave him a 
slightly disagreeable sensation to think 
that it were possible. Elvira Price ap 
parently had not moved from her seat. 
She was in the same pretty attitude in 
which he had left her, leaning back, 
easily, against the corner of the sofa, her 
hands crossed in her lap. As he entered 
it seemed to him that she was studying 
his face. 

" I was so anxious about aunt," she 
said. " I went out to the stairs think 
ing I heard her come in. Do you know, 
it isn t the Belt Line only ; she goes to 
a mission a boys mission. She has 
taken the greatest interest in it, all the 
teachers have gone away for the sum 
mer. It is in an out-of-the-way part of 
the city, and it worries me." 

Archibald hesitated a moment, then 
he said : 

"Did you hear the row with my 
cousin ? He was very impertinent ; but 
all Bostonians are impertinent." 

The name Bostonian seemed to give 
her a slight sensation. 

"You have been in Boston?" he 
asked. 

"N Yes, and I, too, found Boston 
ians impertinent." She gave him an 
appealing glance ; then she added, after 
a pause, " I find New York quite differ 
ent." 



Miss Perkins came in shortly after, 
much fatigued, and Archibald after din 
ner went over to the club, where he fell 
in with Hunnewell Hollis again, in spite 
of the fact that he did his best to avoid 
him. Hunnewell had found his yachting 
friends, and they had had a very good 
dinner. They were all very talkative 
Somers, Billy Nahant, and Jack Chad- 
wick. They were in flannel suits and 
yachting caps, and each was bronzed 
and sunburned to a fine copper hue. 

" What is the name of the people who 
have taken your house ? " asked Hunne 
well, bluntly, after he had introduced 
Archibald to his friends. 

"Miss Perkins and her niece, Miss 
Elvira Price," replied Archibald, coldly. 

Instantly Billy Nahant pricked up 
his ears. " Why," he said, " isn t she 
an actress ? Didn t she play in Boston 
last winter?" 

" Who ? " asked Archibald. 

" Why, Elvira Price. She made quite 
a hit, I believe her debut too at the 
Boston Theatre. She played to crowded 
houses exactly two weeks ; at the end of 
that time, to everyone s surprise, she 
went home to Vermont, whence she 
came, and she calmly gave up the stage 
forever ! " 

Archibald s face was a study. 

" Did you know you were letting your 
mother s house to actresses?" asked 
Hollis, with a sneer. 

"Miss Price is probably a different 
person from the one to whom Mr. 
Nahant has reference," said Archibald, 
coldly. 

"I remember the girl," said Jack 
Chadwick. "She was very young and 
beautiful, and fitted her part admirably. 
She made an excellent ingenue. She 
held herself well not at all gushing 
don t you know but poetic, spirituelle. 
She played in A Scrap of Paper some 
picked-up company with her. She car 
ried the play very well. I have often 
wondered what became of her." 

"So this is the creature who has 
rented your house, and whom you dined 
with to-night," sneered Hollis ; " an in 
genue, indeed ! " 

" Miss Price is a lady not a creat 
ure, " said Archibald, haughtily. "As 
far as I have seen, she can only honor 
our house by remaining under its roof." 



252 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



And Archibald bowed stiffly, and took 
his leave in the midst of an embarrassed 
silence. 

vn. 

HE preferred not to see Elvira again 
before she took her departure for Ver 
mont the next day. Her aunt remained 
im the city to look after her "mission 
work." Archibald presented her, as the 
gift of a rich, unknown friend, fifty dol 
lars their board money to send some 
of her boys into the country. After 
Elvira s departure he became very de 
spondent. Elvira s image was broken 
to him, and while she had not become 
in his mind quite an adventuress, yet 
she had concealed her former life from 
him. She had deceived him. 

But as the days went by and he 
missed her, he found that he must speak 
to Miss Perkins about Elvira s acting, or 
go through a serious case of nervous 
prostration. He said very bluntly to 
her, one day, at dinner : 

"So I hear your niece is a great ac 
tress." 

Miss Perkins gave him a quick, sharp 
glance. 

" She has acted," she replied. " But 
Elvira Price had too much conscience 
to act long." 

He gave a sigh of relief. 

"She acted in Boston, because she 
was bound to try it. She wanted to try 
everything everything that would keep 
her father out of the poor-house and 
educate the family. But acting, Mr. 
Archibald, is a dreadful business ! As 
soon as Elvira saw into it a little she 
quit. The air wasn t pure enough, 
somehow, for her. Elvira, she needs 
awful pure air ! " 

Again Archibald felt a certain glow of 
satisfaction steal over him. 

" Do you know," he said, after a suit 
able pause, "I am more than half-in 
clined to make her angry by running up 
to East Village." 

Miss Perkins gave a little quinzied 
laugh of satisfaction. She was begin 
ning to like Archibald very much. 

" It would startle Elvira ; but she d be 
pleased," ventured the thin old maid. 
"She d be pleased in spite of every 
thing ! " 



A few days later Archibald, after half 
a day s journey, found himself in Ver 
mont. As the train drew near East 
Village the mountains grew higher and 
the scenery wilder. He could see the 
great August moon roll itself above the 
high crest of the mountains to the west. 
Though Archibald was far from super 
stitious, he was pained to observe that 
he saw the moon over his left shoulder. 

It was late when he stumbled from 
the steps of the car upon the wooden 
platform of the station at East Village. 
It was dark, also, and to him, extraor 
dinarily cold. He groped his way, shiv 
ering, past a blinding reflector, where 
half a dozen men in cow-hide boots were 
examining a list of invoices, to what 
he could dimly outline as the village 
stage. No one spoke to him, and he 
found that no one seemed to care 
whither he, the sole passenger, was car 
ried. He had visions of an unpleasant 
nature, of being deposited inside the 
coach in a shed or stable to await the 
morning. He felt the stage pitch and 
toss for twenty minutes like a bark 
upon an angry sea. When all was still 
again he found that the driver had 
drawn up before a white-pillared, old- 
fashioned house, which stood a little 
back from the street. At the side of 
the gate a small wooden building bore 
the sign, which was illuminated by the 
stage-lamp, 

Ephraim B. Price, Attorney at Law. 

"Oh," said Archibald, " this is El 
vira s house, and the driver is delivering 
my box of flowers." 

He leaned forward, hoping to catch 
sight of the fair young girl when the 
front-door opened to take in the box. 
But he was disappointed. The impa 
tient driver had merely left it on the 
steps of the high, white-pillared portico, 
after giving the door-bell a vigorous 
pull. 

Then followed a further few minutes 
of pitching and tossing, and the stage 
drew up before the tavern-door. A row 
of a dozen men, whose hats were drawn 
down over their eyes, and whose feet 
fell instantaneously from the rail to the 
floor as the coach drew up, came for 
ward, and one of them betrayed a desire 
to grasp Archibald s in his own horny 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



253 



hand. " Guess yell stop overnight ? 
Th ain t no other place. Sprised to see 
a stranger to-night, tew. Will you go 
in an sign will you, sir ? " 

"So this uncouth ruffian," thought 
Archibald, "is Elvira s ideal landlord! 
No wonder she distrusts me ! " 

"We re local temp rance," said the 
landlord. " An no licker s been seen to 
East Village for nigh six years. Not a 
drop, sir, an it s bustin my ho-tel high- 
er n a kite. Yes, it is ! " 

Archibald expressed commiseration. 

"As I tell d Squar Price, yeou high- 
toned, ristocratic temp rance folk ll 
hurt East Village when ye close the ho 
tel ! Why, when a gent comes up here 
fr the city, he wants to be able to call 
fer a glass o gin or a glass o whiskey s 
often s he likes." 

Archibald thought he detected the 
faint smell of liquor upon the landlord s 
breath as he talked, and it occurred to 
him that his obtrusively free-and-easy- 
manner was the result of a secret viola 
tion of the prohibitory local license law. 
" Bein fr the city, as you be," said the 
landlord, lowering his voice to a whis 
per, and placing his heavy hand on 
Archibald s shoulder familiarly, " I cale - 
late you re cold an ready for a tidy 
drink. I calc late I m talkin to a gent 
as is used ter lickerin up, even ef tis 
agin the law ? " To humor him, Archi 
bald admitted that he had no stringent 
prohibitory sentiments. 

" Well then, good ! Jest you f oiler 
me!" 

Archibald followed the landlord out 
into the hotel yard, where the latter 
pulled up the flaps of a cellar-door. 
Hearing the creaking sound, and taking 
it for an admonitory signal, the row of 
men on the hotel piazza, who had re 
sumed their seats, again dropped their 
feet on the floor, rose, and came out 
into the yard in Indian file, in perfect 
silence. Archibald followed his land 
lord do\yn into the darkness of the 
cellar, where, beneath the dim light of 
a solitary candle he perceived a cask 
with a wooden spigot, and near it half 
a dozen tin cups. The men filed down 
the steps behind him. "You ve heerd 
o apple jack?" asked the landlord, in a 
whisper. 

Archibald nodded. 



" Drink that, then ! " and the landlord 
handed him a cupful of the beverage. 
It was enough to intoxicate him. He 
drank but a very little ; as he saw the 
other men were waiting, he passed the 
cup on to them. 

" Welcome to East Village, stranger," 
said one of the men, drinking. " Be you 
up ere a-sellin marchandize ? " 

" Oh, no ! " 

" Be you come to see the Squar ? " 

Well perhaps yes." 

" Wa l, this is a dead give away ! " and 
the men laughed noisily, as rustics will. 
" Don t mention this ere cider to Squar 
Price ! " 

The next morning was delicious, the 
air clear and smelling of the mountains. 
The mist hung above the distant river, 
and a line of hills showed their green 
wooded outline above it. As Archi 
bald breathed the sweet country air, he 
stepped more briskly, felt less of his 
city malaria, drew into his lungs a long 
breath of the fresh, invigorating sum 
mer wind, which seemed to come to him 
across the high upland, from such a vast 
distance. 

He came to the old colonial gate and 
entered. The Hon. Ephraim B. Price 
was just at the moment sauntering down 
the gravel path from his house to his 
law office. As he saw Archibald enter, 
he came forward somewhat more rapidly. 
t He was a man of large frame, gaunt 
rather than spare, of prominent cheek 
bones, of lengthy chin-beard. His eyes 
were very keen, and his entire expres 
sion was one of patient alertness as if 
there was very little to be alert over, 
but a deep necessity of keeping up a 
reputation. Archibald learned after 
ward how indefatigable a partisan, and 
how strenuous a believer in the Republi 
can party the Hon. Ephraim was. 

"Sir,"" he said, after greeting Archi 
bald, and looking with a grin of pity 
upon his engraved card a grin directed 
chiefly to the " Mr." before Archibald s 
name " you are Elvira s landlord down 
to New York tell me, how is your city 
and State going, do you think ? " 

Archibald felt taken aback. Politics 
were something of which he knew noth 
ing. He was but barely aware that it 
was a presidential year. In the city he 



254 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



kept severely out of politics, as hardly 
the employment of gentlemen. 

" I I think it will go Democratic." 

A more violent frown than before. 
" If I thought so, sir ; if I imagined so ; 
if for one instant I believed that what 
we fought for during the war Eh, 
Elvira ? Here is Mr. Archibald ! " 

Then the Hon. Ephraim turned ab 
ruptly and entered his office, where, it 
may be added, he sat for the next hour, 
his feet on the cold stove before him, 
meditating where his next fee was to 
come from, and breaking out with an 
occasional invective against the wicked 
democracy. 

Before the old gentleman was a square 
window which looked out over the town. 
All day long he sat before this, as upon 
a watch-tower a censor of village mor 
als and deportment. 

"Father is so interested in the elec 
tion," apologized Elvira. "But how 
strange to see you here ; and I told you 
not to ! " 

She held a small gray kitten in her 
arms, which she stroked slowly. She 
was still in his favorite white muslin, 
and she had a gentle, sweet flush of 
pleasure in her face. 

" I came, Miss Price because don t 
you know I aw missed you," and he 
smiled. 

"You are very good. How is Aunt 
Perkins ? Did she bring her mission 
boys to your house ? She has written, 
that a friend of yours has given fifty 
dollars for the boys. Do tell me about 
it. Is she well ? Have any more board 
ers come ? " 

She plied him with questions as they 
strolled toward the white-pillared porti 
co. The house was old and shabby, but 
he did not notice it. The place was run 
down and impoverished, but it seemed 
very beautiful to him, for he noticed 
that she wore one of his roses in her 
lustrous hair. 

Entering the hallway he met some of 
the younger brothers and sisters, and 
felt a sudden strange affection spring 
up in his heart for them. Elvira took 
him through into a gloomy parlor, 
lined with plain hair -cloth furniture. 
On the walls were several portraits. 
"This was my mother," said the girl, 
affectionately, pointing to what Archi 



bald felt to be a hideous daub, a red- 
faced woman in black, against a green 
background. It was the portrait by 
Mr. Raymond, whose abode was now 
the poor-house. " She died only two 

years ago " 

" I fancy if she had lived," said Archi 
bald, " you would not have tried the 
9" 



She looked at him calmly a moment. 

" That Boston man has told you ? " 

"Yes, I learned the fact from his 
friends." 

"I shall never again." There was a 
despairing pathos in her voice. 

" Elvira," he said, slowly, " as I see it 
I think it was very noble of you to 
try." 

Then, unaccountably to him, she burst 
into tears. 

" It is what I love what I long for 
to be an actress a great actress," she 
sobbed. " But I can t I can t ! I can t 
exist with those creatures those horri 
ble men who hang about you ! No one 
knows what I endured ! No one knows 
what, too, I gave up when I left the 
stage and came home ; but I had to." 

He leaned forward in sympathy. 

" You may say what you will, but there 
is no Art like acting, and nothing so fine 
as applause. Oh, that I could bring my 
self to do it to be strong enough to do 
it to save our fortunes to help father. 
You little know how I have suffered, 
Mr. Archibald." 

" By Jove I I quite like you for it ! " 

He was on his feet at her side. Im 
pulsively he bent down and whispered 
close to her ear. "Let me be your 
audience the rest of my life ! Act for 
me let me applaud everything any 
thing you do, my darling ! always ! al 
ways ! " 

She put him away. 

" I don t feel I have acted just right 
with you," she said. " I should have told 
you that I was or might be again 
an actress," she spoke, coldly. "I don t 
believe you want them in your boarding- 
house. They are not always desirable, 
I believe ! " Elvira s eyes were fastened 
on the floor. 

Archibald paced to and fro in the par 
lor. " Confound her odd New England 
conscience ! " he muttered to himself. 
Seizing her hands, he cried, passionately, 



A NEl ENGLAND INGENUE. 



255 



"I, too, must confess. Elvira, I loved 
you that first day you came. / loved 
you ! Therefore I let you think it was 
a boarding-house." 

" And it isn t it s your own private 
Oh, Mr. Archibald ! " 

She sat and looked at him with a hor 
rified stare. The full truth of his im 
position began to steal upon her gradu 
ally. Then her face fell and she averted 
it, as she felt that a fatal untruth had 
come between them. She rose quietly 
and left him standing near her. She 
went upstairs to her room and threw 
herself upon her bed in an agony of 
tears. 

Through it all Archibald had merely 
smiled ! 

vn. 

BUT when she left him he felt rather 
weak for a moment, as if his city mal 
aria had returned upon him with a 
double force. As Elvira showed no 
signs of returning, he amused himself 
by turning over the leaves of the family 
photograph album. Face by face re 
vealed the stern, set, arid, Puritan feat 
ures, the hard, determined chins, and the 
" firmness " which, in the person of the 
Hon. Ephraim, he felt still dominated 
and controlled the public affairs of East 
Village. He threw down the album 
with a feeling of impotent rage against 
the survival of this colonial "narrow 
ness." as he liked to call it. He walked 
out of the house and wandered, much 
crestfallen and full of malaria, along the 
village street toward the hotel. A great 
many farm wagons were tied along the 
sidewalk, and there were numbers of 
fresh-cheeked country girls walking in 
threes and fours, and sweeping the side 
walk as they went. Upon a slight eleva 
tion stood a white wooden meeting-house, 
with a white steeple, and it gave him a 
chill even on that warm morning to look 
at it it looked so cold. Small groups of 
hard-featured farmers in fur caps stood 
on the corners of the streets discussing, 
presumably, the crops. He wondered if 
the fur caps were needed in that arid, 
bleak region to keep warm the native s 
sense of Right and Wrong? He made 
his way out, beneath some beautiful elms, 
into a small, old-fashioned burying- 



ground, where he discovered that "err 
ing sinners" apparently comprised the 
only element of those who were re 
quested to "Pause and Read" Feeling 
himself to be now, for some reason, 
a distinctly immoral person, he read 
some of the quaint epitaphs, to which 
he was invited, in a spirit of humility, 
which presently changed to amusement. 
In death, as in life, the hard, stern old 
village characters preserved on their 
headstones a fund of grim humor for 
the " sinner," which in Archibald s in 
stance made him smile. "Oh," he 
sighed to himself, "I long to take her 
away from all this sort of thing for 
ever ! " 

He took a long walk in the afternoon, 
and returned to the hotel to find a 
coldly worded note from Elvira inviting 
him around to tea. He removed the 
stains of his walk, and dressed himself 
with his usual care. He found Elvira 
waiting for him beneath the high white 
pillars, in an unbecoming, and as it 
seemed to him, forbidding, dress of 
black. Her face seemed unusually stem 
and relentless. There were traces of 
tears in her red eyelids, but the tears 
were dried away now, and her eyes were 
very bright and hard. 

"Don t say anything now. Father 
feels very deeply about it. We have 
had a long talk. When he heard of the 
of the unfortunate house affair he 
was so angry I could hardly pacify him." 

Archibald s heart sank within him. 
He fairly shivered. 

" He said that he did not want me to 
lower my standard," continued Elvira, 
in her clear, musical, passionless voice. 
" And I told him that he need have no 
fears. I wanted to see you first, and 
tell you. Let us not have any feeling 
about it." 

" Any feeling ! " exclaimed Archibald. 
" Wiry how can we help it ? " 

"Let us act as if we had never under 
stood one another. I will go back to 
the city with you, and Aunt Perkins and 
I will find some other place at once." 

" Go back with me and expect me 
to show no feeling ! Elvira, this is pre 
posterous ! " 

" Then I will go back alone." She 
compressed her lips, just as he had ob 
served her father do. 



256 



A NEW ENGLAND INGENUE. 



"I beg pardon, Elvira, do you mean 
can you mean that I can never I can 
never hope ? " 

She nodded her pretty flower -like 
head gravely. " Come in to tea, won t 
you? " she said, coolly. "I want father 
to hear you talk about Art." 

He turned on his heel. At last he, 
too, was angry. 

"Thanks, awfully," he said. "But if 
I go back to the hotel now, I shall just 
have time to pack my valise and catch 
the evening train." 

He walked rapidly away, leaving her 
standing upon the white-pillared por 
tico, looking with pure, sweet, upturned 
face, like a saint who has for all time 
renounced the world, the flesh, and the 
devil. Had he looked back, Mr. Jerome 
Archibald s tender heart would have 
been touched by her attitude ; he would 
have returned, and, against her will, 
clasped her in his arms and covered her 
pale lips with warm kisses. It might 
have melted her high "standard" a 
little. But he let a night intervene 
without seeing her, and the entering 
wedge of her high sense of duty did its 
work before morning. He determined 
to remain another day and make a 
further trial. When he called the next 
day she was obdurate. "Love cannot 
be built upon deceit and untruth," she 
said, sententiously. " I was not frank, 
you were not. It is better that we 
should part. I could never hold up my 
head I could never face the world. I 
know what they would call me. They 
would call me an adventuress! and 
they would hate me for being success 
ful. Yes your mother, your sisters 
everyone." 

"But you were perfectly innocent 
about it, Elvira." 

There was a little pause. 

"I, too, was innocent. I meant no 
more than to have you near me, where 
I could learn to know you love you 
and now, really, it seems as if you had 
built up a mountain of ice between us, 
don t you know." 

She merely shook her head. 

When Archibald returned to the city 
his malaria compelled him to go away 
again almost immediately to Newport. 



There, a few weeks later, his agent wrote 
him that he had succeeded in renting 
the house "at an exorbitant figure to a 
very rich tenant without children " 
thus fulfilling his mother s conditions to 
the letter. He went back to the city, re 
covered in health, to pack up a few per 
sonal effects, and found to his surprise 
that Miss Perkins and her niece were, 
at the moment he arrived, in the house. 
They had taken board on Ninth Street, 
and had gone up to take a last look 
of the charming interior where, Elvira 
guiltily acknowledged, life had been " so 
wrongly pleasant." He found Elvira 
holding a fan in her hand and seated 
pensively in an old Venetian chair in 
what was formerly her studio. As he 
entered the room she rose, blushing a 
most vivid red, and as rapidly turning 
pale again. 

" Mr. Archibald ! " she exclaimed. "I 
did not know you were in the city ! " 

"I have been here only an hour," he 
said, stiffly. 

" It is time for us to go ; " and she 
turned to the door. 

" Elvira ! " His face looked sick and 
ghastly. 

" Well ? " She drew herself up very 
coldly. 

" Are you made of stone ? " 

"Mr. Archibald, what can you mean?" 

" My child, you are capable of grind 
ing one who loves you into powder like 
er a millstone ! " 

" Aunt Perkins ! " she called out, " let 
us go ! " 

"No," he cried, "I will not let you 
go. You shall hear me ! I love you ! 
Do you hear ? And you shall not leave 
this house until you say you will be my 
wife ! I know you care for me every 
thing tells me so but you will wear 
your own and my heart out with your 
hard, cruel conscience ! What brought 
you here ? You loved me ! Why have 
you been sitting in this room ? You 
love me, Elvira I know it I feel 
it!" 

Gently he drew her to him and 
kissed her. She laid her head on his 
shoulder and breathed a little contented 
sigh. "/ don t think this is right !" 
she said. 




A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 

By H. C. Bunner. 



THE VESTIBULE TEAIN. 

THEY order, said I, this business 
more cheaply in France and therewith 
I pressed a coin of the value of two shil 
lings d pen pres into the hand of the 
Negro Porter. 

Ay, you may well say so, Sir, cried 
the Gentleman by my side twas an 
evil day for me that I left Barbizon ! 

Indeed, said I, for the matter of 
that, I know not Barbizon, but I can well 
conceive that if a gentleman be not con 
tent in France, he is ill to please or 
perhaps I might better say ill at pleasing 
and I m sure you are in no such case. 
Nay, I am in no doubt that you have 
souvenirs of Barbizon wherever it may 
be of the most agreeable sort. 

I have, indeed, he responded, with 
a sigh tis the true home of Art. 

You are then, said I, an amateur of 
art? At this, I thought, he was some 
what chill d. 

I am a painter, he responded, with 
some dignity with as much dignity, in 
fact, as he might have shown had he 
been an amateur and I had called him a 
Painter! You are a painter of land 
scapes ? said I. 

But no, he told me, he was a painter 
of figures. 

I would you had stopped awhile in 
England, then, said I, on your way from 
Barbizon you might have seen some 
truant works of art that had escaped 
from Barbizon without knowing it. 

Twould have pleased you, said I, to 
see the forty-two portraits of the once 



famous Kit-Kat Club, that were last at 
Water Oakley. They were painted by 
Sir Godfrey Kneller, who was accounted 
no mean proficient in his art entendu 
qu il n avoit jamais vu Barbizon. 

Ah, cried he, contemptuously 
Kneller and Sir Joshua Reynolds, per 
haps ? Perhaps, said I Ah, rnon cher, 
he continued, nous avons change tout 
cela. Twas cruel, said I. All true art 
is cruel, he answer d. 

I will not say, however, he went on, 
that Sir Joshua was wholly off the right 
track he had moments a certain feel 
ing sometimes or perhaps I should 
not say a feeling precisely but the 
feeling of a feeling and modelling, of 
course and here he stuck out his 
thumb, as if he would have press d it in 
a pat of butter, and made a movement 
that I took to indicate, or in some way 
hint, the convexity of an imaginary body. 
He modell d well, went on the Painter, 

but he had no jump he lacked that ! 

and here he delivered himself of a 
gesture so strange that it quite passes 
my poor power of description but 
twould have served to beckon a cham 
bermaid to tell a man to go to the d 1 
or twould have suited as well had he 
said, " Off with his head! So much for 
Buckingham I " 

I perceive, said I, when he had made 
an end of this remarkable discourse, that 
I have much to learn about art for I 
should shock you should I confide to 
you the simplicity of my thoughts about 
Sir Joshua. I wish, indeed, that we 
might continue this conversation where 



258 



A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 



we might be more at our ease for I 
vow this is no less than the third time 
that I have been interrupted in my lis 
tening by the necessity of feeing this 
Porter. 

With all my heart ! rejoined the 
Painter come to my studio whenever 
it shall be convenient for you and so 
saying he gave me his card. 

And here the Conductor shouted 
"New York !" and La Fleur seized my 
gripsack, exclaiming : 

" Forty minutes late !" 

Upon my word, said I to myself, if 
I am but forty minutes late, and not 
thrice forty years, I am much mistaken ! 



NEW YOEK. 

The Opera Comique. 

I am in the mood, said I to the 
Cleric at my hotel, to see a play. Ka- 
joola, said he, is your affair. Tis an 
opera comique, with the best of music, 
and you shall see the prettiest women 
in New York. 

I ant mieux ! said I I would not 
paint the lily yet I vow there is a sweet 
concomitancy between a pretty face and 
a pretty tune, and no song was ever the 
less sweet for coming from rosy lips. 
I bet you, he said. Tis not a matter for 
a wager, quoth I. 

Following the Clerk s directions, I 
found myself seated in a vast theatre 
which for its marble stairs and its gilt 
walls might, I thought, have called it 
self a palace. The musicians were play 
ing the ouverture as I came in. 

Presently the curtain rose and 

Pudour! O Native modesty! O ye 
gentle Nymphs of Diana, ye who once 
cast the shield of your own loveliness 
between Actceon and your Mistress ! I 
dare say Actceon scarce noted the differ 
ence shall I tell you what I saw ? 

Just heavens ! I blush while I 
write it some thirty hussies marched 
on the Stage clad shall I thus abuse 
thee, thou good old English participle ? 
clad, then, in silks and velvets but 
as tight and close to their forms as if 
each were a harlequin or an acrobat ! 

"What is this ? said I to the spec 
tator next me. Tis the Pages Chorus, 



answer d he. But wait until you shall 

see them as the Amazons! 1 had no 

mind to wait I went incontinently out 
The man at the door would have 
stopp d me Return check ? quoth he. 
Nay, friend, said I I have had my check, 
and am even now de retour. He look d 
at me as if I were a lunatick. 

Now I hold that a pretty woman 

is worth all the other pretty things in 
this world So I cannot bear to see this 
Temple of human Beauty so degraded, 
and profaned. I had as lief put breeches 
on the Venus de Medicis and make a 
trollop of her in a twinkling. 

The essence of beauty, said I to 

the Doorkeeper is the fillip" it gives to 
the imagination and no woman is so 
fair as our fancy of her. I love a trim 
waist but it must be in a neat bodice 
a graceful .... walk but tis best 
revealed in the undulations of a petti 
coat that is neither prudish nor trop co 
quet a glove may be the most seductive 
thing in the world, if it go but to the 
elbow or make but a discreet sally up a 
white arm but to stretch the suitability 
of a glove to all imaginable purposes 
to dress a woman as you bind a book 
as an upholsterer covers a chair tis 
a foul profanation, said I. Do you know 
where you live ? asked the Doorkeeper. 
In Castaly, said I. I have never been 
there, said the Doorkeeper. 



NEW YOEK. 

THE STUDIO. 

Why should I I said to myself 
condemn one art because another has 
displeased me ? As well say that all med 
icine is quackery, because I have had an 
encounter with a Veterinary. And with 
this thought in my mind, I set forth to 
visit the Painter. His atelier for so I 
found twas call d was in a vast build 
ing, which many others of his craft in 
habited in common To what end? 
thought I. Now, were the Patrons of art 
thus hived, twere easy to step in and 
pick your patron. But this assembling 
in competition of the patroniz d has to 
me an air pas trop comme-il-faut. 

I found my Painter hous d in a 
mighty fine place. But in the furnishing 



A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 



259 



of it he must have counted on a prodig 
ious floor and clean forgot the other five 
plane spaces for he had so many rugs 
that he had been forced to hang them 
on his walls and indeed, upon his 
lounges and his chairs twas a miracle, 
if a Turk had known where to sit cross- 
legged. 

But why babble I of rugs, when the 
fairest Model in the world stood, beau 
tifying a Grecian dress in a shrine 
or so I conceiv d it at the end of the 
room ? it was at the OTHER end. I re 
flected on the way that Life presents 
us her chances. 

I am glad to see you, said the 
Painter. 

I am glad to see said I. 

Mademoiselle Didon said he, pre 
senting me but I ll be hang d if your 
name have not escaped me. Monsieur 
Alors, said I. 

Je ne vous scavois j)as francois I 
did not take you for a Frenchman, he 
said. 

Parfois, I answer d ; now and then 
but tis at most a case of ccelum non ani- 
mum he look d surly my Latin was 
too much for him. You will not mind 
if I paint while we talk, he said Made 
moiselle, you have lost your pose ! 

Now I will engage that Mademoiselle 
had not lost her. . . . pose for 
whatever pose she took, twas lovely to 
look upon. But it was true, that the ges 
ture he had set her, she had as clean 
lost on my appearance, as I had lost 
my nationality. 

Now she essay d to slip back into her 
proper posture She stood poised in an 
attitude of indication, as who should say 

voild see there. Quoif I do not 

know ; but it was pretty to think that 
there was something there that inter 
ested her. I stepp d forward, and sup 
ported her outstretch d index finger 
with my own. Mademoiselle is fatigued, 
said I. With pointing at nothing, Mon 
sieur, said she. C est une haute distinc 
tion, said I. 

Your picture I address d myself to 
the Painter, has no doubt some famous 
classical subject Hero perceiving Lean- 
der s head emerging from the waves ou 
lien Lydia s apercevant d HORACE or 
Lucretia 

Subject ! he cried do you think I 



would paint a subject. With what scorn 
he said this I cannot tell you for I 
do not yet understand it Do you think, 
sir, he said, that I paint literary pic 
tures ? 

Pas du tout, monsieur, said I for 
the matter of that, I assured him a 
Painter may be no more of a man of let 
ters than to make shift to sign his name 
in the corner of his picture. You do 
not apprehend, says he. Do you know 
what we mean by art for art s sake ? 
I do not I told him save that it 
must be something practised on a full 
belly. 

This is a Composition, says he. 
Tis a question of lines and harmony. 
A composition, in fact is. ... a 
composition. And what does that 
mean? quoth I. It means nothing, 
said he. If it meant anything, it would 

not be art. 1 have heard much the 

same thing said of Poetry, I replied 
but I had no thought that the rule was 
of such general application. Is it also 
true in selling of breeches and stock 
ings ? 

Je vous ferois observer, I would 
have you observe said the Painter, 
that tis but the tip of Mademoiselle 
Didon s finger that you are required to 
support. You would make me a nig 
gard, said I. But here there came a 

timid knock and the Painter went to 
the door. For better convenience in 
talking to the person outside he put 
the door between himself and us. I 
declare and protest it was a delicate 
situation. 

For there stood I, with the tip of 
my finger lifting the tip of the Model s 
finger or, if it was not the precise geo 
metrical tip of her finger let him who 
would take a foot-rule to VENUS appraise 
the extent of my transgression I say 

I supported the tip of her finger 

I knew an epicure, once would carve a 
fowl and save himself the second joint 
he was twice wedded ; but tis to no 
purpose here but I must tell you that 
there ran such a strange current of live 
ly emotion such strange tingling and 
agreeable disturbance from my heart 
to the tip of my finger, where it met an 
other current so like it I dare swear they 

were twins and thence set back 

that first the model look d to the right 



260 



A SENTIMENTAL ANNEX. 



and I to the left and then I look d 

to the right and she to the left and 

then, in the natural ordinance of alter 
nation our eyes met and at this 

juncture, as I have said, the Painter put 
himself behind the door. 



THE STUDIO. 

THE DOOR. 

Now there are many things that 
may happen in the time that a man is 
behind a door. In the giving out of 
mouths, for example, many a man would 
have had a smaller one had he had an 
inch or two of oak between him and the 
distributing genius. Had Aladdin been 
behind the door when the Princess Bad- 
roulbadour passed for the first time 
might he not have made some honest 
wench of his own degree a happy wife 
instead of obtruding his peasantry upon 
a princess of high degree? Or had 
CASSIO been behind the door when 
OTHELLO treated his lady to such bad 
language and affronted her pretty 
neck with his blackamoor hands might 
he not have rush d in and cast OTHEL 
LO neck and heels out of window 

and thereby . . . vindicated the 
honor of a very chaste and excellent 
lady? 

But on this occasion I had no 
need to reason so abstractly for the 
Painter only bade a little boy begone 
who had come to offer himself for a 
model and came back to us. The 
pose is easy to resume, I said. 

Tis needless, said he I have drawn 
the arm. For the rest, your aid is not 
necessary. Bonjour, Mademoiselle, I 
said. I hope, sir I may be accorded 
some further lessons in art. Do you 
need them ? he asked I am but a nov 
ice, said I. It was as if the atmosphere 
had grown suddenly chill. I bowed 
profoundly perhaps my bow inclined 
a little toward the model I quitted the 
Studio. 



THE STUDIO. 

THE CORRIDOR. 

The long corridor that led to the 
street was dark I pick d my way care 
fully. Of a sudden I heard a faint 
sound of sobbing my heart moved 
within me. Who is it ? I said. 

Tis only I, sir said the Boy. 

It was the Boy, I saw, that the Paint 
er had turn d away so abruptly he was 
crouch d in a corner, crying as if his 
heart would break. Tis only I, he said. 

11 avoit des larmes dans so, voix. 

Tis only I, said I, for the most of us in 
this world. He alone is happy who 
hath another to whom he is as he is to 

himself. And what is thy trouble ? 

Thereupon he told me that the Painter 
had engaged him for that day but 
that, being come, he found a better 
model had offer d she was preferred 
and there was no employment for him 

though, as he pathetically told 

me, he was but two shillings an hour, 
while she was at the least a dollar. 
And with that, his tears overcame him 
and NIOBE, seeing him, would I am 
convinced have hid her mouchoir out 
of sight and blush d for it s lace edging. 

When it is a question of pretty 
ladies, said he tis little they think of 
the children. 

Thou art a young philosopher, said 
I but thy philosophy will serve thee 
better when thou art older. And I 
gave him a silver piece of the worth of 
two shillings. It was a foolish thing 
God grant my wisdom be no worse 

matter than my foolishness. He 

thanked me not at all ; but ran off sing 
ing twas a sort of thanks. 

But while I had been talking 

with the Boy, the night had been com 
ing on rapidly without my observ 
ing of it. There was but little light left 
in the corridor when I heard sound 

as of steps approaching tis time 

to go home, said I and then, looking 
up I perceiv d 




THE POINT OF VIEW. 



THERE was a story in the newspapers the 
other day about a Massachusetts minister 
who resigned his charge because someone 
had given his parish a fine house, and his 
parishioners wanted him to live in it. His 
salary was too small, he said, to admit of his 
living in a big house, and he would not do 
it. He was even deaf to the proposal that 
he should share the proposed tenement with 
the sewing societies and clubs of his church, 
and when the matter came to a serious issue, 
he relinquished his charge and sought a 
new field of usefulness. The situation was 
an amusing instance of the embarrassment 
of riches. Let no one to whom restricted 
quarters may have grown irksome, and who 
covets larger dimensions of shelter, be too 
hasty in deciding that the minister was 
wrong. Did you ever see the house that 
Hawthorne lived in at Lenox ? Did you 
ever see Emerson s house at Concord? 
They are good houses for Americans to know 
and remember. They permitted thought. 

A big house is one of the greediest cor 
morants which can light upon a little in 
come. Backs may go threadbare and stom 
achs may worry along on indifferent fillings, 
but a house will have things, though its 
occupants go without. It is rarely com 
plete, and constantly tempts the imagina 
tion to flights in brick and dreams in lath 
and plaster. It develops annual thirsts for 
paint and wall-paper ; the plumbing in it 
must be kept in order on pain of death. 
Whatever price is put on coal, it has to be 
heated in winter ; and if it is rural or subur- 
Voi.. VIII. 25 



ban, the grass about it must be cut even 
though funerals in the family have to be 
put off for the mowing. If the tenants are 
not rich enough to hire people to keep their 
house clean, they must do it themselves, 
for there is no excuse that will pass among 
housekeepers for a dirty house. The master 
of a house too big for him may expect to 
spend the leisure which might be made in 
tellectually or spiritually profitable in ac 
quiring and putting into practice fag ends 
of the arts of the plumber, the bell-hanger, 
the locksmith, the gasfitter, and the carpen 
ter. Presently he will know how to do 
everything that can be done in the house, 
except enjoy himself. He will learn about 
taxes, too, and water-rates, and how such 
abominations as sewers or new pavements 
are always liable to accrue at his expense. 
As for the mistress, she will be a slave to 
carpets and curtains, wall-paper, painters 
and women who come in by the day to clean. 
She will be lucky if she gets a chance to 
say her prayers, and thrice and four times 
happy when she can read a book or visit 
with her friends. To live in a big house 
may be a luxury, provided that one has a full 
set of money and an enthusiastic housekeep 
er in one s family, but to scrimp in a big 
house is a miserable business. Yet such is 
human folly, that for a man to refuse to live 
in a house because it is too big for him, is 
such an exceptional exhibition of sense that 
it becomes the favorite paragraph of a day 
in the newspapers. 

An ideal of earthly comfort, so common 



262 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



that every reader must have seen it, is to 
get a house so big that it is burdensome to 
maintain, and fill it up so full of jimcracks 
that it is a constant occupation to keep it in 
order. Then, when the expense of living in 
it is so great that you can t afford to go away 
and rest from the burden of it, the situation 
is complete and boarding-houses and cem 
eteries begin to yawn for you. How many 
Americans, do you suppose, out of the 
droves that flock annually to Europe, are 
running away from oppressive houses ? 

When nature undertakes to provide a 
house, it fits the occupant. Animals who 
build by instinct build only what they need, 
but man s building instinct, if it gets a 
chance to spread itself at all, is boundless, 
just as all his instincts are. For it is man s 
peculiarity that nature has filled him with 
impulses to do things, and left it to his 
discretion when to stop. She never tells 
him when he has finished. And perhaps 
we ought not to be surprised that in so 
many cases it happens that he doesn t know, 
but just goes ahead as long as the materials 
last. 

If another man tries to oppress him, he 
understands that and is ready to fight to 
death and sacrifice all he has, rather than 
submit ; but the tyranny of things is so sub 
tle, so gradual in its approach, and comes 
so masked with seeming benefits, that it 
has him hopelessly bound before he sus 
pects his fetters. He says from day to day, 
"I will add thus to my house;" " I will 
have one or two more horses ; " I will 
make a little greenhouse in my garden ; " 
"I will allow myself the luxury of another 
hired man ; " and so he goes on having 
things and imagining that he is richer for 
them. Presently he begins to realize that 
it is the things that own him. He has 
piled them up on his shoulders, and there 
they sit like Sindbad"s old Man and drive 
him ; and it becomes a daily question 
whether he can keep his trembling legs or 
not. 

All of which is not meant to prove that 
property has no real value, or to rebut 
Charles Lamb s scornful denial that enough 
is as good as a feast. It is not meant to ap 
ply to the rich, who can have things com 
fortably, if they are philosophical ; but to 
us poor, who have constant need to remind 
ourselves that where the verbs to have and 



to be cannot both be completely inflected 
the verb to be is the one that best repays 
concentration. 



NOTHING can be more significant to any 
one who considers criticism from the util 
itarian point of view, than the silent swift 
ness with which any art outgrows its current 
definitions. A striking illustration is the 
way in which the pertinence and value of 
the still copious talk about the conflict be 
tween realism and romanticism in the art 
of fiction have, so to speak, lapsed. This 
talk still fills the air, though the echoes it 
awakens grow sensibly fainter and fainter, 
whereas fiction itself has ceased to divide 
on these lines. There is still, of course, as 
there always has been and always will be, 
the old contrast of temperaments ; as in 
other departments of literature and the fine 
arts, the novelist s work is inevitably colored 
by the view of his material which, instinct 
ively, he takes. But the most ardent con 
troversialist would not maintain that this 
temperamental difference in virtue of 
which one writer treats his material scien 
tifically and another imaginatively is the 
difference between realism and romantic 
ism as these terms are used. Realism, as 
actually and universally understood, has the 
field all to itself ; it is an evolution ; it jus 
tifies itself historically, and has come to 
stay." In a word, the painting of life and 
the world, of character and manners, is 
nowadays artistically conscientious as a 
few years back it had not thought of being 
in avoiding solecisms. This is the feel 
ing of the time ; no novelist escapes it save 
at the expense of a barren eccentricity. 
Living in our day, Shakespeare would cer 
tainly not give his Eoman soldiers watches, 
nor would a new " Ivanhoe " have an "his 
torical error on every page." And, in the 
same degree, to counsel novelists to be ob 
servant, to eschew romantic idealization, to 
examine the nature and follow the sugges 
tion of their material, is now merely to beat 
the air. No literary artist of even the second 
rank does otherwise. On the other hand, if 
the present devotion to what is called truth 
as conspicuous in painting and sculpture 
as in literature be as hostile to imagina 
tiveness as the romanticists assert, it is not 
by " harking back" along the line of evolu 
tion that imaginativeness is to be secured. 



THE POINT OF YIHV. 



263 



The " ideality " of the fiction of the future 
will have another fascination than that of 
Alexandra Dumas. 

The truth is that the current criticism 
whose shibboleths are "romanticism" and 
" realism," has got into the polemic stage 
which is the same thing as saying that it 
has ceased to be criticism. Criticism is 
mainly an affair of analysis and classifica 
tion. These afford it ample scope, and 
dealing successfully with them confers 
abundant dignity. To decry Scott or exalt 
Mr. Rider Haggard is to be the slave of an 
abstraction, than which nothing is less crit 
ical. It may be useful by way of shocking 
the illiterate and inattentive into a compre 
hension of your position, but it is not criti 
cism, because your eye is not " on the ob 
ject " but on your position, which also in 
this case is hopelessly outside the circle of 
operations of true contemporary strategy. 
The realistic " controversialists are espe 
cially slow to perceive this. Not only are 
they singularly blind to the success of their 
own party among the novelists whose ma 
terial is exclusively human life and charac 
ter (how else explain their heat ?), but they 
seem to insist that everyone who deals with 
fiction at all should deal exclusively with 
this material. Take, for a pertinent and 
practical example, the short stories which 
Mr. T. E. Sullivan has recently collected 
in a volume, and which attract the anathe 
mas of the College of Propaganda of Real 
ism, because they are romantic rather than 
real. There is in them, however, no ques 
tion of life whatever, and to assume the 
contrary is to exhibit a most defective ana 
lytic sense. They are not even what Car- 
lyle describes in characterizing a passage of 
" WilhelmMeister"as " altogether sketched 
out " by Goethe in the most airy, grace 
ful, delicately-wise kind of way, so as to 
keep himself out of the common controver 
sies of the street and of the forum " such 
as the realism vs. romanticism controversy, 
let us say "yet to indicate what was the 
result of things he had been long medita 
ting upon." If you like them it is because 
you like the spectacle of a fine talent at 
play, because they are marked by a sensi 
tive feeling for what is cultivated and re 
fined, for diction at once polished and 
expressive, felicitous and unlabored, and 
because they are full of delicate and un 



worldly fancifulness, not at all because they 
deal with life romantically and significantly. 
If you do not like them it is because they 
strike an uncertain note in not betraying a 
full consciousness of their own character, 
because they are slightly confused in atti 
tude and blend the material properties of 
realistic fiction names, dates, places, ac 
tual passions with an utterly unreal and, 
so far as life is concerned, a somewhat irre 
sponsible imaginativeness. Why not like 
them for the one series of reasons and ob 
ject to them for the other ? But that would 
be critical, and controversy has the great 
charm over criticism of superior simplicity. 
However, exactingly complex as it is, it 
is criticism that conquers in the end. And 
surely no polemics that criticism finally 
sends to " the country of old moons " will 
be less regretted than the realism vs. ro 
manticism controversy. Its loss will make 
few calls upon our fortitude. We shall 
feel, indeed, in the great majority of in 
stances, probably, like Artenius Ward s 
famous prisoner, who languished long years 
in prison until it suddenly occurred to him 
to open the door and issue into liberty. 
The delight Thackeray would have experi 
enced at seeing Carlyle "hang up his d d 
old fiddle," which Carlyle did experience in 
beholding Voltaire s " battering ram swing 
idly in the air," will be ours. We shall 
then be able to release our attention for ex 
ercise upon actual phenomena and present 
tendencies, and, as w r ell as the sense of re 
lief from the mechanical droning of jejune 
formularies, enjoy also the exhilaration of 
seeing once more the object "as in itself it 
really is " now that it has moved on in its 
orbit and exhibits new phases since we last 
took the observation to figure upon which 
we have so long tamed. We shall be able 
to tolerate Poe and Hawthorne, Hoffmann 
and Gautier, without fear of being false to 
" realism," and so far as concerns the por 
traiture of life, we shall be able cordially to 
agree with M. Zola himself, who affirms : 
" Tout n est que rcve ! " or with the author of 
" George de Barnwell," who long ago main 
tained : " The Ideal is the true Real." 

THE melancholy days are come when the 
gentle chatelaine, from her stronghold in the 
mountains, or by the much-sounding sea, 
issues her friendly challenges to her own 



264 



THE POINT OF 



particular contest of wit and beauty, with 
all the pleasurable torment that it entails. 
" Stella and Vanessa have both arrived," 
she writes; "Lady Blarney and Miss 
Skeggs, Will Honeycomb, Esquire, and 
Captain Sentry, are expected daily. Come 
and pass a week here with these distin 
guished guests and then she names 
the day. She does not add that, long be 
fore the allotted term is over, everyone of 
this sprightly company, yourself included, 
will have become to her an intolerable nui 
sance, and that for the privilege of sharing 
her ennui you must change all your habits, 
and forego your dearest occupations. You 
are to pack your trunk and board the train 
with all possible despatch, and with the 
perfect knowledge that at your journey s 
end not even the traveller s privilege will 
be yours. You may not take your ease in 
your inn ; on the contrary, you are asked 
especially to sit up and look pleasant, to 
make yourself agreeable, if such a thing be 
possible, from one end of the long week to 
the other. You must go, of course ; there 
are many good reasons why you should not 
refuse. Your hostess is a charming woman, 
and you value her friendship ; she flatters 
you, not only by her invitation, but also in 
her method of enforcing your allegiance. 
The whole affair is to be quite informal 
a much abused word long since made mean 
ingless and you are to be free as air. For 
civility s sake, you affect to believe her when 
she says these things, knowing all the while 
as well as you do that they are false as water. 
Tyrant custom is in nothing more tyran 
nical than in this matter of the visit which, as 
now constituted, can be a matter of enjoy 
ment only to lovers and children, for whose 
benefit, it would appear, all custom s laws 
are framed. The rational man, let us hope, 
will always be truly hospitable. He will 



delight to welcome under his roof an in 
timate friend, for adoption into his own 
family, during an indefinite period. He 
will even return this visit cheerfully, for 
getting his small discomforts in the many 
compensations of the pleasant intercourse 
it confirms. But until his whole nature 
changes, he will never honestly enjoy being 
bound over to good behavior for days to 
gether, among comparative strangers, in a 
house that is not his. Of " all forms, 
modes, shows of grief " that fashion has in 
vented, this is surely the most irksome. O 
Informality, what deceits are practised in 
thy name ! One might as well put on the 
trappings of a courtier and accept feudal 
servitude at once, as in a land of freedom, 
under summer skies, to be trammelled so. 

When, in the depth of winter, we are 
dragged from our quiet firesides to perform 
social duties which for the most part we 
would gladly leave undone, it is with the 
distinct understanding that the sacrifice 
will endure for three hours only. The 
clock strikes, and we are gone. We con 
gratulate ourselves that it was no worse ; 
we have appeased our consciences, and may 
retire in good order with the satisfaction 
that follows any other disagreeable act of 
heroism. Why should this kindly law of 
self-protection be enforced at one season 
more than at another? In this brief life of 
ours, three hours a day are enough and 
more than enough to give the world. The 
long-suffering spirit of man rises in revolt and 
demands a three-hour limit, year in and 
year out, in summer and winter, spring and 
autumn. That the world has some claim 
upon us, only a savage or a philosopher 
would presume to deny ; up to this point, 
then, let it be conceded just and honorable ; 
but beyond this point, let us insist upon 
the right to be let alone. 





DRAWN BY R. F. ZOGBAUM. 



ENGRAVED BY T. H. HEARD. 



IN THE MORNING WATCH. 



SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. VIII. 



SEPTEMBER, 1890. 



No. 3. 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



By Ritfus Fair child Zogbaum. 




O 



NE bell in 
the morn 
ing watch ! 
Rolling in heavy 
surges, inky black 
save where a curling 
wave -top throws 
out a white gleam 
of foam for a mo 
ment, the mighty 
ocean stretches on 
all sides, heaving 
in long swells and 
dashing its great 
billows with hol 
low boom and 
crash of flying spray against the staunch 
steel sides of our gallant ship, plough 
ing her way in silent majesty through 
the stormy seas. High above us the 
weak light of a waning moon strives in 
vain to penetrate the fleecy masses of 
flying scud, and the wind sighs and 
moans through the rigging and hums 
in the hollow of the great foretop-sail, 
double-reefed and curving outward, 
hard as iron. The light burning in the 
chart-house under the after-bridge, re 
flects dimly in the wet and slippery 
planking of the spray-drenched deck, 
and the figures of the men on watch 
loom, shadow-like, up out of the gloom 
beyond. Forward, on the narrowing 
forecastle and on either side of the bow 
sprit, the lookouts stand, alert and vigi 
lant, while on the deck near by the stal 
wart sergeant of the guard, white belt 
and polished steel side-arms catching a 
stray gleam from the masthead light, 



paces up and down with measured mili 
tary stride in spite of the rolling of the 
ship. Groups of the men of the watch 
stand or lie about in sheltered corners, 
wrapped in their pea-jackets and with 
watch-caps pulled well down on their 
foreheads ; up on the forward-bridge 
the officer of the deck, rubber-coated 
and booted, sou -wester hat strapped 
under chin, leans with folded arms 
against the hammock nettings, peering 
out over the wide dark waste of waters ; 
and the quartermaster, the light from 
the tarpaulin-covered binnacle striking 
on his weather-beaten features, stands 
motionless at the wheel, his eyes fixed 
on the compass before him. A ward 
room " boy " as all the officers ser 
vants are called climbs up the ladder 
to the high bridge, balancing a cup of 
hot coffee on a tray and hands it to the 
officer, who, without leaving his post, 
hastily swallows the steaming beverage, 
and, with a hearty slap of his mittened 
hands on his broad chest and a growl 
of approval, casts his eyes seaward 
again. We join him, and after a word 
of greeting stand silently at his side, 
looking out over the heaving ocean and 
occasionally taking a short turn to and 
fro across the wide bridge. 

Gradually the gloom about us grows 
less profound, objects near at hand be 
come more distinct, and a gray light 
steals slowly over the surface of the sea. 
There is a movement among the men on 
the deck, hoarse orders from the boat 
swain s mate, and the daily recurring 
task of washing down the decks com- 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



268 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



mences ; a pump is working somewhere 
and the water from the hose is splashing 
on the planking. Now and then some 
early riser from the sleeping crew be 
low pokes a dishevelled head out of the 
hatch forward and looks about him ; 
the ward-room steward comes limping 
forward in slippered feet, walking on 
his heels to keep his feet out of the wet, 
and shivering in the stiff, cool breeze, 
that blows the spray in showers of salt 
drops over the high bulwarks. Far on 
the horizon ahead of us the sky takes 
on a paler hue, then a faint rosy flush 
like the reflection of a distant prairie 
fire. Now the low-lying cloud-banks 
glow with streaks of bright red and 
gold, a shaft of yellow light shoots far 
up to the zenith, and out of the heaving 
waters ahead of us, dazzling our eyes 
with his glory, the sun rises, tipping 
the crests of the waves with gold and 
bathing the white sides of the ships of 
the squadron, rising and falling to the 




Jackie is making his morning toilet." 



swell of the ocean on either side of us, 
in a flood of warm yellow light. 

" Bos n s mate there ! call all hands ! 
Call in the deck lookouts ! Lay aloft the 
lookout to the mast-head ! " the orders 
foUow in rapid succession. " Turn off 
the spar-deck circuit ! " and the great red 
and green lights on the port and star 
board sides of the bridge and the light 
at the mast-head are extinguished by 
the touch of a button in the " dynamo 
room" below, while a sailor goes "trip 
ping up aloft " to the foretop-sail yard, 
simultaneously with a long-drawn shrill 
whistle of the boatswain s pipe, echoed 
on the gun-deck by others, and the 
hoarse cry of the boatswain s mates call 
ing : " A-a-11 ha-a-nds ! Up all ham 
mocks ! " The great ship is waking up, 
and out of the hatches the men come 
tumbling one after the other sailor- 
men, apprentice boys, firemen, marines, 
cooks, and " all hands" each with ham 
mock neatly rolled, ready to be placed 
in the nettings in the bulwarks. 
Brawny, bare -chested, bare -footed 
fellows, most of them ; regardless of 
the cold wind blowing and the wet 
decks, they run nimbly to their ap 
pointed stations, some clambering 
up and opening the nettings, while 
the others pitch their hammocks in 
and stow them away and out of sight 
for the day. As we lean over the 
rail now, and look down, the scene 
is an animated one. The deck for 
ward is swarming with men, and 
" Jackie " is making his morning toi 
let and preparing for breakfast and 
the day s routine. See that gigantic 
young coxswain yonder as he souses 
his well-soaped neck and face into 
the cold water in the bucket before 
him, spluttering and blowing away 
like a grampus, then rubbing and 
polishing his muscular, sun-burned 
neck and broad white back, and hairy 
chest with his rough parti-colored 
towel. With his little circular mir 
ror perched on a coil of rope another 
sailorman is carefully parting his 
thick curly locks, while a shipmate 
looks over his shoulder and gives a 
final twist to his black silk necker 
chief, and a marine brushes his coat 
and hums softly to himself mean 
while. The steam from the galleys 






WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



269 




The bright colored bits of bunting are run up and down. 



is rising out of the hatches, and with 
it mingled, it must be confessed, with 
a smell of oil and grease from the en 
gines an odor of hot coffee and broil 
ing bacon, and the boatswain s whistle 
is heard again piping to breakfast. The 
men off duty troop down below, while 
the watch, some drying up the decks, 
others polishing the brass-work on the 
bridges, await the moment when they 
will be relieved to take the morning 
meal in their turn, with appetites sharp 
ened by the free sea air they have been 
breathing since four o clock. 

We also realize about this time that a 



little nourishment is something not to 
be despised, and as it is " close on " 
to eight bells and our own particular 
Japanese " boy " has been blinking and 
smiling at us from the deck below, evi 
dently wondering what on earth we are 
doing up there on the wet and draughty 
bridge when hot coffee and a rasher of 
bacon are waiting for us in the warm 
ward -room below, we make our way 
aft and down to the berth-deck and are 
soon seated at the table with our mess 
mates, who indulge in some good- 
humored chaff at our expense anent our 
nautical appearance, and the enthusiasm 
that induces a man to turn out for the 
morning watch when he 
don t have to. 

How brightly the sun 
is shining when we go on 
deck again ; scarcely a 
cloud to be seen, and the 
wide ocean vying with 
the sky in the brilliancy 
of its hue. A stiff breeze 
is blowing and our ac 
companying ships are 
bowling along with us 
under sail and steam, 
courtesying to the waves 
and dashing clouds of 
snow-white spray up from 
their sharp prows. The 
Boston, on our starboard 
quarter, stands out a sil 
houette against the sunlit 
space beyond; the At 
lanta, on our port quarter, 
is bathed in light, her 
sails white as milk, the 
shadows of masts and rig 
ging cast against them in 
deep-blue masses, while away out on the 
end of her main-yard a sailor is perched, 
engaged in some work. Directly astern 
of us the beautiful yacht-like Yorktown 
gracefully lides the waves, the foam at 
her bows flashing back a silvery gleam to 
the sun s raj s. Our own vessel the flag 
ship Chicago moves steadily onward, 
answering with easy roll to the heavy swell 
of the sea. To windward on the quarter 
deck " that part which sacred doth re 
main to the lone chieftain " the admiral 
is walking : hands clasped behind his 
back, his long iron-gray whiskers blow 
ing about like smoke in the fresh breeze, 



270 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



he paces to and fro with a firm, long 
stride that might put many a younger 
man on his mettle to keep up with ; 
on the after-bridge the flag-lieutenant, 
glass in hand, is signaUing to the other 
ships of the squadron, and obedient to 
his orders the bright-colored bits of 
bunting, flying out straight from the 
halliards, are run up and down from 
the bridge to the main-yard by the at 
tentive signal-boys. At the standard 
compass perched high above the deck 
in order to remove the sensitive needle 
as far as possible from the magnetic in 
fluence of the great mass of steel and 
iron composing our ship and her arma 
ment, and to serve as a standard to which 
the steering compass at the wheel for 
ward may be referred, as the latter is 
frequently placed of necessity in closer 
contiguity to the disturbing metal a 
quartermaster is stationed, ready to an 
swer any hail from the officer of the 
deck. The men on watch are variously 
engaged, some in the boats secured to 
the davits or inboard to the skids over 
the deck, some in the rigging, some 
splicing a rope here, overhauling tackle 
there, or polishing the " bright work " 
anywhere and everywhere ; while the 
" after-guard sweeper " is mopping up 
some spot on the deck, which has of 
fended the eye of the apparently omni 
present and indefatigable " executive 
officer." A difficult position to fill that 
of first lieutenant as Jack loves to des 
ignate the executive officer of a big 
war-ship like this, one requiring tact, 
experience, judgment, a cool head, and 
ready wit, firmness, and patience. His 
duties are manifold ; on him depends, 
under the orders of his chief, the main 
tenance of discipline ; he is the senior 
of the line officers, and all the details 
of the management of the ship s com 
pany in fact, of the ship herself are 
executed by him. Every complaint, how 
ever trivial, every privilege asked for, 
every one of the thousand and one ne 
cessary wants of the ship and her crew, 
pass through his hands, and scarcely any 
moment of the day can he call his own. 
His presence is required at the drills, 
the formations, the functions" from 
the "coming up of the sun until the 
going down thereof," and almost as fre 
quently at all other times too. From 



the hour in the morning when the de 
linquents for the past twenty-four hours 
are mustered by the faithful master-at- 
arms on the port side of the gun-deck, 
near the main-mast, to pass a "mauvais 
quart-d heure " in the dreaded pres 
ence of their captain, and to answer to 
him for the offences reported by the 
executive officer, until the drum beats 
the retreat at evening quarters, he is 
constantly occupied. Even at his meals, 
where he sits at the head of the ward 
room table, the messenger-boy or trim 
marine orderly may appear at his elbow 
at any moment, with official message or 
inquiry, and, should he throw himself 
down on the sofa for a few minutes 
nap, he may expect to have his slumbers 
broken by the same disturbers of his 
peace, with the same official : " Sir, the 
captain sends his compliments and wishes 
to know," etc. 

A half-hour passes, when, suddenly 
and without a moment s previous warn 
ing, the sharp rattle of a drum is heard, 
electric gongs clang noisily, loud and 
peremptory orders mingle with the rush 
of hundreds of feet as the crew hurries 
to "general quarters." To the inex 
perienced eye, what seems to be a scene 
of disorderly confusion now takes place. 
That portion of the crew whose stations 
are on the upper deck, come swarm 
ing up the hatches ; the marine guard, 
hastily grasping rifles and buckling on 
accoutrements, falls in ; the keys to the 
magazines and shell rooms are pro 
duced, and stewards, servants, cooks, 
and yeomen rig the tackle over the 
ammunition hatches in readiness for 
the work of hoisting shell and cart 
ridges. The gun-crews cast loose the 
great guns, and the death-dealing Hotch- 
kiss revolving cannons and the machine- 
guns ; hatches are hastily put on, ladders 
torn away, and the decks turned "topsy 
turvy " in an instant. Rifles are handed 
out from the armory, accoutrements, re 
volvers, cutlasses caught from their 
places, and in an incredibly short space 
of time order rises from apparent chaos, 
and every officer and man is at his post, 
and the ship is ready for action. Very 
business-like it looks too, as we stand 
in the semi-obscurity of the gun-deck ; 
the long six-inch rifles run out of the 
ports, and the men standing motionless. 



272 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



around them, awaiting the orders which 
quickly follow one after the other in 
rapid succession, now in one part of 
the ship, now in another, the crew going 
through the motions of loading and 
firing the guns, or, with rifle or revolver 
and cutlass in hand, boarding or repel 
ling an imaginary enemy. All this, how 
ever, is to Jack a mere matter of routine 
duty, drills of one sort or another tak 
ing place every day, whenever the state 
of the weather permits. The call to 
"general quarters," or to the equally 
exciting " fire quarters," may be sound 
ed at any moment of the day or even at 
night, for a man-of-war is always " mob 
ilized," to use a military term, and al 
ways kept in a state of efficiency for 
war even in times of profound peace. 
A full supply of ammunition is stored 
in the magazines, the guns, small-arms, 
and every necessary equipment for fight 
ing purposes are kept ready for use at a 
moment s notice, so that the ship may be 
ready to go into action whenever required 
to do so. Every modern war vessel is 
essentially a sea-going fighting-machine. 

The old sailing frigate and the great 
line of battle ships, with towering masts 
and enormous squares of canvas, their 
long rows of guns, tier upon tier, their 
crews of several hundred men, have dis 
appeared in the mists of the past along 
with the heroes of Cooper and Marryat. 
The smallest vessel of our squadron, 
with her six guns, her powerful engines, 
and all the appliances of defence and 
offence, that steam and electricity, in 
short, that modern science contributes 
to the safety and efficiency of a ship and 
a ship s company of the present time, 
would destroy a whole fleet of " saucy 
Arethusas." 

With the change in the ships, a 
change in the life and training of the 
sailor has come, a change so great, that 
one of Nelson s old sea-dogs, or even a 
Jackie of our late war, would be dum- 
f ounded at the manifold duties required 
of a modern man-of-war s man. Jack 
must be a soldier nowadays as well as 
a seaman. He must understand the in 
tricate mechanism of the revolving can 
non, the delicate sights and complicated 
breech apparatus of the heavy guns with 
their hydraulic mountings, the manual 
and care of his magazine rifle and his 



self-cocking revolver, as well as how to 
go aloft in a gale of wind and " pass 
the weather earring, "to pull an oar in a 
boat, or to knot and splice a rope. In 
a man-of-war s crew of to-day, many of 
the men must be specially trained for the 
peculiar kind of work falling to their 
share in the general tout-ensemble of 
modern scientific appliances that are 
necessary to insure the efficiency of the 
ship as an instrument of warfare, and 
to provide for the comfort and welfare 
of those serving on board of her. For 
example, the Yorktown, which at the 
time of the writing of this article is 
probably the most thoroughly equipped 
with the newest appointments of any 
of the vessels of our new navy now in 
commission, comprises in its crew of 
one hundred and eighty men exclusive 
of her line officers, surgeon, engineers, 
and paymaster several expert electri 
cians to run the dynamo and keep in or 
der the electric appliances ; mahcinists 
one of whom is a boilermaker, and the 
others qualified for duties connected with 
the running and repairing of the com 
plicated engines, the distilling of the 
drinking-water, the heating apparatus, 
and the many uses that steam may be 
put to ; an apothecary, several so-called 
yeomen as assistants to the paymaster, 
engineers, etc. ; besides a blacksmith, 
tailor, painter, carpenters, sailmaker, 
and others. As already referred to, the 
comfort and welfare of the crew which 
is, so to speak, the life and soul of this 
floating fighting-machine, the modern 
man-of-war must be provided for. Jack 
is certainly well fed and weh 1 clothed, 
and to the paymaster and his assistants 
falls the duty of caring for and issuing 
the various supplies, clothing, etc., which 
are necessary for his use. Clothing 
and so-called " small stores " are issued 
monthly, under the requisitions of the 
officers of the different divisions into 
which the ship s company is divided, at 
rates based on the actual cost price to 
the government of the articles required, 
among which may be mentioned under 
wear, shoes, mattresses, rain - clothes, 
tobacco, knives, razors and straps, soap, 
whisk-brooms, forks, spoons, plates in 
short a variety of goods and wares such 
as might go to make up the stock of a 
regular " country store." 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



273 




" All work and no play makes Jack a 
dull boy," and certainly the majority of 
the crew of our handsome frigate are any 
thing but dull, on the contrary, it would 
be difficult to find a more intelligent or 
"liksly" looking set of men; and, al 
though often called upon to do work of 
the hardest description, Jack has plenty 
of time to himself, and may pass the 
hours off watch and when not at drill 
pretty much as he pleases. The men s 
dinner is over some half-hour or more 



now, and the gun-deck is filled 
with them from "midships for 
ward to the eyes." Let us stroll 
up toward the bows and smoke 
our afternoon cigar among them, 
and take a look at the life between decks 
on a fine day at sea. 

The ship has a slight heel to port, but 
the wind is favorable and the big sails 
are drawing well and serve to steady 
her, so that she rolls but slightly and 
with a slow, easy motion. To wind 
ward in the sponson where the Hotch- 
kiss revolver is stationed, and further on, 
where the brown six-inch rifles thrust 
their tarpaulin-covered muzzles through 
the ship s sides some of the ports are 



274 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



open and the sunlight streams through 
them and the fresh sea -air circulates 
freely. On a locker by the arm rack 
drum and bugle hanging from the top, 
bronzed-barrelled rifles of the marine 
guard standing in a long straight row 
a sailmaker in duck working-suit is sew 
ing away with sailmaker s needle and 
thimble at some piece of canvas, possi 
bly a hammock for some messmate, 
while at the open port beyond an ap 
prentice, seated on his ditty box, port 
folio on knee and head bent low down 
over his task, pens a letter to some 
friend or fond parents in far -distant 
America. An old fellow with weather- 
beaten, wrinkled face and bristling wiiite 
chin -beard sits beside him, spectacles 
on nose, and moving his lips as he spells 
out some story from the well-thumbed 
pages of the cloth-bound book drawn 
from the ship s library, in his seamy 
knotted hands, regardless of the chips 
and shavings flying about from the ear- 



perhaps, into a neat frame he has been 
carving. Huddled about on the deck 
between the guns are groups of the 
men, playing at games of various sorts, 
reading, writing, some smoking and 
" yarning " to one another ; a hand sew 
ing-machine is going there, where the 
ship s tailor crouches, cross-legged, be 
fore it, and one old chap has just brought 
a hot flat iron from the galley stove and 
is pressing out a pair of well-worn trou 
sers, sucking away meanwhile assidu 
ously at a very short clay pipe ; and a 
gigantic young negro, black as a coal, 
is deftly weaving a knife lanyard from 
a mass of white threads secured to the 
grating covering one of the electric 
lamps. 

"White-capped, white-coated cooks are 
busy about the galleys, peeling pota 
toes, cutting up meat brought from the 
refrigerators near by, and preparing gen 
erally for the evening meal ; and ward 
room boys and mess servants Japan- 




jack is hard at work." 



penter s bench standing on the deck be 
fore him, and where one or two of the 
carpenter s mates are engaged in work ; 
and a young sailor is endeavoring to fit 
a photograph, his sweetheart s portrait 



ese, Portuguese, Italians, and any other 
nationality but Americans, if we except 
one or two colored men are occupied 
in various ways ; while, seated astride of 
a bench, the admiral s cook and the 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



275 



steward, a piece of old canvas on which 
a number of rudely drawn squares are 
painted in black and white between 
them, are deeply absorbed in a game of 
checkers. Further forward the barber 
has a corner for his chair, and is shaving 
one of the petty officers, gossiping mean 
while, as barbers will do on shipboard 
as well as on land, with his 
waiting customers seated 
or standing around him. 
Among the great anchor 
chains some of the sailor- 
men are lying asleep on the 
hard deck, others are over 
hauling their ditty boxes, 
small wooden chests in 
which Jack keeps his more 
precious belongings. 

At the foot of the ladder 
by the forward hatch a ma 
rine stands on guard, white- 
gloved and with side-arms, 
while a corporal moves 
about fore and aft, ready 
to check the least infraction 
of the many disciplinary 
rules of the ship. Now and 
then the boatswain s whis 
tle is heard on deck and 
his rough voice growls out 
some order, and it is curi 
ous to note how everyone 
suspends his occupation for 
a moment and turns a lis 
tening ear in the direction 
of the sound, lest the order 
should perchance have ref 
erence to some duty or 
work every sailor may ex 
pect to be called upt>n to ijjj 
perform at any tim e. Above 
the low hum of the voices, 
the occasional trampling of 
feet on the deck above, the 
swish and splash of the 
waves outside, a constant, never-ending 
hollow sound seems to fill the atmos 
phere, and one feels the throb of the great 
engines, in the depths of the ship away 
below, moving in a rhythmic, measured 
beat like the heart of some huge living 
creature. Let us go down the ladder to 
the engine room, looking to our footing 
carefully lest we slip on the greasy steps, 
and visit the engineer on watch for a 
minute. Along the narrow passages we 



make our way gingerly, we are unac 
customed to the close neighborhood of 
these enormous masses of metal, moving 
with admirable precision and regulari 
ty, smoothly and with gigantic force. 
There is not the shred of a uniform 
about the engineer officer as, clad in 
overalls and a " jumper," he good-natur- 




" Now and then we sight a sail." 

edly pilots us through the intricate 
maze of machinery down to the furnaces 
under the huge boilers, and shows us 
how the great fires are fed. The stok 
ers or firemen are working hard, the 
perspiration streaming from their fore 
heads. The heat is intense and the 
smell of oil and grease not particularly 
agreeable, and, although we cannot fail 
to be interested in the working of that 
force that is so untiringly and faith- 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



277 



fully propelling our noble frigate over 
the trackless ocean, under the watchful 
care of efficient and experienced men, 
we are glad to get on deck again, and 
to the cooler, fresher atmosphere above. 
The marines are putting up their swing 
ing mess-tables now and are preparing 
for supper, so wishing them bon appe- 
tit, which the hardy fellows undoubt 
edly possess anyway, let us go upon 
the spar-deck again for a tramp up and 
down as a " constitutional," before we 
in our turn prepare ourselves for the 
dinner hour, when the entire mess, with 
the sole exception of the officer of the 
deck, and possibly one of the engineers, 
assembles around the well-covered table. 
And right good fellows, too, are this little 
company of officers, hearty and straight 
forward as seamen seem to be all the 
world over, and their heartiness tem 
pered with a genial courtesy and ready 
hospitality toward the landsman, their 
messmate for the time being. 

The wardroom of the Chicago is a 
large, handsomely furnished apartment. 
The long table runs athwartships the 
entire width of the deck, and the state 
rooms of the officers, in two rows on the 
port and starboard sides aft of the table, 
open on a roomy space, well lighted and 
ventilated, and are models of conven 
ience and comfort. Stern discipline 
holds its sway, however, even here as 
well as forward where Jack swings his 
hammock, and punctually at ten o clock 
the master-at-arms makes his appear 
ance, cap in hand, and respectfully but 
firmly intimates that lights must be put 
out. An extension may be granted, how 
ever, to officers desiring to burn a light 
in their own staterooms, but those who 
are reluctant to " seek the seclusion that 
their cabins grant " as yet, or who wish 
to find consolation in the fragrant weed, 
are compelled to climb the ladder to 
the gun-deck, there to while away the 
time in the smoking corner until it suits 
them to turn in. Many a pleasant hour 
have we passed there in the society of 
one or two congenial companions, listen 
ing to the yarns and stories of many an 
exciting or humorous episode of sea-life, 
told in low tones and with the eloquence 
born of adventure. Where two marine 
orderlies keep constant vigil day and 
night, a light is burning by the enclosed 
VOL. VIII 27 



skylight hatch that ventilates the ward 
room on the deck below, and serves as 
an opening to pass up the ammunition 
for the spar-deck battery. All the way 
forward along the deck the hammocks 
of the men are swinging, and we can 
hear their deep breathing, and the mut- 
terings of some honest fellow as he 
dreams ; while close by almost over our 
heads a number of young cadets sleep 
the sleep of youth and health in their 
swinging canvas beds, undisturbed by 
our presence. Occasionally the mid 
shipman of the watch slips noiselessly 
down the companion-ladder and consults 
the barometer swinging in the passage 
leading to the admiral s cabin. 

Sometimes at this hour, when the sea 
is calm and the moon is shining, we lean 
against the machine-gun in the sponson 
and look out of the open port. Oh, the 
glory of a moonlight night at sea ! The 
sides of our ship gleam ghostly white 
against the deep blue of the water, and 
the foam, as she sends the surges bil 
lowing away from her, is bright as bur 
nished silver, and casts waves of reflected 
light up to the top of the high bulwarks, 
while the shadows of the great guns, 
thrust out of the ports, slide up and 
down on the wave-crests, or lose them 
selves in the black hollows of the seas. 
Directly ahead the ocean is a mass of 
glittering light as of electricity, while 
away off on our quarter the lamps of the 
Atlanta and Yorktown gleam brightly 
over the dark and heaving waters. Like 
some vague shape of night gliding over 
the sea seems the Atlanta, as a gleam of 
light, like a great eye opening and shut 
ting, flashes from her sides. She is 
talking to us, and the flashes of light are 
from her electric night-signals spelling 
out a message to the flagship. 

But it is the hour or two after din 
ner, when the excellent band "dis 
courses sweet music," and before tattoo 
ringing out sends Jack to his hammock, 
that to officers and crew alike are per 
haps the most pleasant of all the twenty- 
four. Everybody off duty congregates 
on the gun-deck to listen to the music, 
and to pass the time in social inter 
course before bed -time. The sailors 
gather forward of the mainmast in a 
compact mass near the band, the electric 
lights shining on their attentive faces 



278 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



and bringing them into sharp relief 
against the gloom behind them. Manly, 
honest faces most of them, from the 
wrinkled-browed, rough-bearded, weath 
er-beaten old quarter-gunner, to the 
wide-eyed, smooth-faced, curly-pated ap 
prentice; from the handsome soldierly 
marine sergeant firm mouth, shaded by 
the long military mustache drooping to 
ward the square chin to the pale, hag 
gard-eyed stoker, released for a time 
from the parching heat of the fire-room. 
The band is playing a waltz, and Jack 
and his mates are dancing together away 
forward there, by the dim light of a 
lamp, dancing with a grace, an ease, an 
elegance that many a ball-room swell 
might strive in vain to emulate. See 
the airs of that youngster there, the 
"lady" of the couple, and the coy man 
ner in which he rests on his partner s 
shoulder and points his toes out, trip 
ping lightly in the "mazes of the dance," 
and mimicking, with comical accuracy, 
the pretty affectations of some " bud " at 
her first ball, to the intense delight of 
his grinning shipmates. Or that other 
fellow there, dancing by himself in a lit 
tle cleared space, with one hand on his 
hip, the other arm raised in graceful 
curve above his head as he cuts a pigeon 
wing or glides with careless ease and 
long sliding step, like a " ballerina " of 
the ballet he is so fond of attending 
in the many ports he visits. But Jack 
is at his best in the art terpsichor- 
ean when the band having dispersed 
and the seductive strains of a Strauss 
waltz no longer urge him to fanciful 
flights of mimicry some shipmates pro 
duce a banjo or two and an accordion 
or a concertina, and the lively notes of 
a hornpipe resound on the deck away 
forward. Then he brings forth all his 
originality, agile and quick and dancing 
all over, with head, hands, body, and 
feet, stamping on the deck with resound 
ing thwack of his feet and rattling with 
his heels in rhythmic accompaniment to 
the music with the regularity and finish 
of the rolling of a drum, until, glowing 
and breathless, he gives one final spring 
into the air and makes way for another. 
With the stroke of two bells nine 
o clock the bugle sounds tattoo, fol 
lowed immediately by taps. Out go the 
lights forward, some one or two remain 



ing dimly burning, and Jack, healthfully 
tired, swings himself lightly up into his 
hammock, and, on the gun-deck silence 
reigns fore and aft. 

And so the days pass, with blue skies 
and favorable winds, and everything 
is comfortable and pleasant alike with 
officers and crew in the enjoyment of 
life at sea in fine weather. Drills of 
one kind or another are of daily occur 
rence gunnery, small-arms, cutlass, and 
revolver drills, and theoretical instruc 
tion of various natures. The chaplain 
gives a lecture to the apprentice-boys 
now and then on the geography and his 
tory of the foreign countries to be vis 
ited by the squadron. Divine service 
is held on Sunday mornings, which 
those of the crew who desire to do so may 
attend. Seated on rows of benches fac 
ing a lectern, placed on the gun-deck 
at the foot of the companion hatch, the 
men cleanly shaved and in their best 
and neatest uniforms are gathered, 
while ranged on the port side the offi 
cers group themselves ; and as the chap 
lain reads the solemn ritual of the 
church, the heads of the congregation 
are bowed in reverence, and many a 
stern face softens as a prayer goes up to 
the Almighty for the safety and wel 
fare of wife and little ones, for the dear 
ones at home. Blue skies and favorable 
winds with an occasional shower, and 
even a rainy night or two, but that does 
not take anything from Jack s comfort. 
His oilskins and sea -boots are proof 
against any ordinary wet weather, and 
he makes nothing of it, jogging along 
through the daily routine, contented and 
happy, as long as he behaves himself. 
Punishment swift, sure, and stern 
follows any misconduct on his part ; but 
take it for all in all, Jack and his superi 
ors " get on " swimmingly together, and 
the close companionship of officers and 
men, which must of necessity exist in the 
confined space of a ship of war, is pro 
ductive of a certain feeling of acquaint 
ance, not to say friendship, with one an 
other, that goes a great way toward soft 
ening the harshness of discipline. " Lor 
bless you, sir," said an old quartermaster 
to us once, when the officer of the deck 
reiterated an order in language more 
forcible and emphatic than elegant, 
" that don t mean nothing ! Mr. Blank 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



279 



is one of the finest gentlemen in the ser 
vice ; he only wants to wake the men up ! " 
However, blue skies and favorable winds 
are not always present to cheer Jack on 
his voyage across the trackless waste of 
waters ; he is frequently called on to 
battle with wind and waves for his very 
existence, and at no time does the train 
ing that fosters and develops all his 
most manly qualities, his courage and 
his skill as a seaman, show itself to bet 
ter advantage than when he is called 
upon in time of storm and danger. 

The breeze is freshening and a strong 
swell causes the ship to roll heavily. 
Although the sun shines out from the 
masses of swift-flying clouds, hurrying 
across the sky with the speed of an ex 
press train, the barometer has been stead 
ily falling, and the officer of the deck, 
walking up and down on the high bridge 
forward, the long skirts of his ulster- 
shaped great - coat flapping about his 
legs in the wind, glances often to wind 
ward, where cloud-bank on cloud-bank 
is steadily rising, and whence the wind 
comes in puffs and squalls, one stronger 
than the other. 

The vessels of the squadron are 
pitching heavily, the sister -ships At 
lanta and Boston sticking their noses 
into the waves, and apparently burying 
their forward decks under water only to 
rise again bravely and dash snow-like 
clouds of spray high over their super 
structures. Away astern, the Yorktown 
rides like a white seagull, now hidden 
almost out of sight in the deep hollows 
of the seas, anon gliding bird-like on 
their very crests, saucily bidding them 
defiance and spurning them aside. 
Stronger and more frequently come the 
bursts of wind, thicker and more threat 
ening grows the horizon to windward, 
and still our ships move steadily on under 
sail and steam. The captain is on deck, 
and a messenger boy comes jumping aft 
and, with jerk of forefinger to visorless 
watch-cap in salute, reports from the offi 
cer of the deck, that " the wind is fresh 
ening, sir ! " and the order to reef top 
sails is given. Instantly the hoarse cry 
is heard : " A-all hands reef tops ls ! " 
and the whole ship is alive in a mo 
ment. Up from below springs the exec 
utive officer, speaking-trumpet in hand, 
and takes command of the deck. The 



others follow immediately, hurrying on 
their great-coats and pulling their cap- 
peaks well down over their eyes as 
they emerge from the hatch into the 
sharp cutting wind, and the sailor- 
men come bounding up the ladders and 
run nimbly to their stations. With a 
voice that rises clear above the noise of 
the wind, that now howls through the 
rigging, the " first lieutenant " shouts 
out his orders. " Reef tops ls ! Man 
the tops l clewlines and buntlines, 
weather topsl braces ! Hands by the 
lee braces, bowlines, and halliards ! " 
The men jump to their work, quickly 
and without confusion. "Clear away 
the bowlines, round in the weather- 
braces ! Settle away the topsl hal 
liards ! Clew Down ! " The orders are 
taken up and repeated, the boatswain s 
whistle pipes cheerily ; a hundred 
brawny arms stretch at the ropes, and 
the huge yards swing round and are 
lowered to the caps, the great sails flap 
ping in the wind with loud reports like 
pistol shots. Eager as hounds held in 
the leash and waiting for the word to 
start, the topmen are huddled together 
on the deck at the foot of the shrouds. 
" Haul out the reef tackles ! Haul up 
the buntlines ! Aloft, Topmen ! " Away 
they go, scrambling up on the bulwarks 
and racing up the shrouds hand over 
hand, swarming into the tops. "Lay 
Out ! Take in two reefs! " and out on 
the long yards the agile fellows climb ; 
some of them old Jackies have kicked 
off their boots and cling like monkeys 
to the man-ropes with their stockinged 
feet, while all of them grasp the stiff 
sail with muscular fingers, hauling it up 
fold on fold and reefing it securely ; and 
the wind buffets them and sways them 
about, plucking off one or two caps and 
sending them whirling high up in the 
air away off to leeward. " Lay In ! " 
Back to the mast they all scramble 
again. " Lay Down from Aloft ! " And 
down the rigging they come, any way 
and every way, sliding down the back 
stays and tripping down the great 
shrouds to the deck again. More orders 
follow, the topsails are hoisted away 
again, the yards are trimmed, bowlines 
steadied out, and the boatswain s whistle 
once more " pipes down." On the hori 
zon the clouds gather more thickly, the 



280 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



sun, glowing angrily red behind, shoots 
out a fiery gleam across the raging 
waves from a rift among them as he 
slowly disappears. The sea is rising 
rapidly and the wind tears the crests 
from the waves and whirls them in 
smoke-like masses of vapor across the 
waters, almost shutting out our consorts 
from view. Down below the ports are 
all closed, and the gunner is inspecting 
the batteries to see that everything is 
secured. There is not much danger of 
any of the heavy guns, with all their 
modern appliances for fixing them in 
their places breaking loose even in a 
ship that rolls more violently than does 
ours, but on a man-of-war no precaution 
to guard against a possible accident is 
considered unnecessary ; and it can be 
readily understood that if one of these 
great engines of war, weighing with its 
carriage and shield in the neighborhood 
of twenty tons, should become parted 
from its fastenings and be rolled uncon 
trolled about the deck or dashed against 
its sides, a catastrophe might result en 
dangering the safety of the ship and of 
the lives of her crew. In the ward-room 
the racks are up on the table and the 
dishes and glassware slide about in a 
most inconvenient manner for hungry 
naval officers, and many a glass is spilled 
and appetizing morsel dropped in the ef 
fort to eat and drink, and to keep one s 
chair from sliding away from under him 
at the same time. The band cannot play 
this evening some of the bandsmen, to 
judge from the pallor and woe-begone 
expression of their countenances, don t 
want to very much and we gather to 
gether in our accustomed nook on the 
gun-deck to smoke and chat, and to hold 
on to what we can grasp to prevent our 
selves from sliding over to leeward when 
ever the vessel rolls. The hatches are 
all covered up battened down in one or 
two places and we can hear the waves 
crashing against the sides and the spray 
falling on the deck above. The storm 
is evidently increasing, and we are not 
surprised to see the executive officer 
emerge from the ward-room hatch, clad 
from head to foot in his oilskins, and to 
hear the command of: "To your sta 
tions, gentlemen ! " and the boatswain s 
cry of: "A-all hands shorten sail!" 
Up and out to the windy deck above 



everyone hurries, and the same evolu 
tion that took place before sunset is ex 
ecuted again, except that now all sails 
are taken in. The gale is upon us in ah 1 
its fury, and the wind roars through the 
rigging with the rush and thunder of a 
mighty cataract. The darkness of the 
night is intense, and we can just distin 
guish our topgallant masts wildly swaying 
high above us and can hear the banging 
of the sails. We can see nothing of the 
men that we know are out there on the 
yards, but now and then we can hear 
the sound of voices, torn and muffled by 
the wind, as some order is given. We 
are signalling to our consorts too, and 
as the red and green balls of fire dart 
up into the air, they throw a weird light 
on objects near at hand, bringing out 
the forms of the signal officer and his 
assistants with a startling vividness 
against the gloom about them. The 
shouting of orders, the shrieking of 
the wind, the ear-piercing piping of the 
boatswain s whistle, the trampling of hun 
dreds of feet, and the booming splash 
of the waves, make up a very pandemo 
nium of noise. Rapidly the work of 
taking in the huge squares of canvas is 
accomplished. Snap ! away go the lan 
terns that have been swinging from the 
yards, and over all and through all the 
salt spray is flying, stinging our faces 
and rattling like fine birdshot against 
our rain-clothes, as we cling to the rails 
of the after-bridge and strive to keep our 
footing on the slippery planks. 

The Yorktown is away astern ; her 
lights show dimly for a while, then dis 
appear ; she has signalled for permission 
to heave to that is, to bring the head 
of the ship to the wind and thus ride 
out the storm but no anxiety is felt on 
her account, full confidence being felt in 
the judgment of her commander and the 
ability and skill of her officers.* The 
lights of the other ships can be seen wav 
ing about in the gloom away off on our 
quarters, now and then an answering 

* The Yorktown joined the sqtfadronin Lisbon Harbor 
two days after the arrival there of the fleet. From the 
account of some irresponsible person, with more imagi 
nation than regard for the truth, a report of her expe 
riences was published in some of the newspapers which 
gave a description of the "heroic" conduct of an im 
aginary quartermaster, who was said to have saved the 
ship by a remarkable exhibition of presence of mind. 
This account was cut from the whole cloth, no such oc 
currence having taken place. The ship was at all times 
under the absolute control and management of her offi 
cers, and at no time considered in any danger. 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



281 



fire-ball shoots up in reply to our signals, 
and the white foam seething on the angry 
billows throws out gleams of phospho 
rescent light. 

We are quite contented to climb down 
below again to the warm space between 
decks, scarcely less wet under foot than 
what we have just left, for the seas dash 
with such force against the ship that the 
water spurts in through the crevices in 
the gun-ports, although they are closed 
as tightly as screws can fasten them. 
However, Jack has swung his hammock 
as usual, and "turns in" regardless of the 
storm, confident in the vigilance and 
experience of his shipmates on watch. 
And so we too climb into the high berth 
in our state-room, and creep in under 
our warm blankets, not to sleep much, 
however the ever - increasing rolling 
and pitching puts a veto on that and 
we lie there swaying from side to side 
in our bunk and listening to the creak 
ing and groaning of the woodwork, the 
noise of the storm, and the voices of 
some of the officers, who, as they may 
be called upon perhaps at any moment 
for some duty or other, have congregated 
in the smoking corner near the door of 
our room. 

What a mess we are in the next morn 
ing ! We had supposed we had secured 
everything for the night, but, somehow 
or other, things had gone adrift ; a big 
sea had struck our air-port, letting in a 
volume of water, and as we look down 
from our berth to the floor of the room 
in the gray light of the morning, clothes, 
shoes, toilet articles are heaped there to 
gether, soaking in a little pool, that 
moves gurgling about the room with 
every motion of the ship. However, 
others are as badly off as we are ; there 
is a defective scupper or two in places ; 
one of the midshipmen hasn t a dry 
piece of clothing to his name, and one 
of the ward-room officers was deluged 
by the carrying away from its fastenings 
of a twenty-gallon water-breaker as the 
barrels containing fresh water are called 
which bounded into his room through 
the open doorway, and spilled its con 
tents over everything before he could 
say Jack Kobinson. 

A tremendous sea is running when 
we go on deck, but our staunch cruiser 
rides the waves beautifully, coming back 



from a long roll to leeward slowly and 
gracefully ; everything is taut and ship 
shape, and the entire crew none the 
worse for a little discomfort, that Jack 
looks upon as part of the regular course 
of events in his sea-life. 

Gradually the gale moderates and the 
sea goes down ; blue skies and favora 
ble winds again, warm breezes from the 
Azores. Now and then we sight a sail, 
and once a little Portuguese schooner 
glides right into the midst of the squad 
ron, dipping her colors again and again 
in polite and respectful salutation to the 
great white war-ships speeding past her. 

We expect to make the land within 
another twenty-four hours or so, and 
Jack is hard at work scrubbing, polish 
ing, and painting to make his ship 
" pretty," as he would say. Water and 
sand, scrubbing brushes, and " squil- 
gees " are making the planks of the decks 
as clean as new pins. The sailors are 
everywhere, most of them barefooted, 
with trousers rolled up to their knees ; 
some of them are in their undershirts, 
bare arms covered with all sorts of de 
vices tattooed on the white skin in red 
and blue, and all of them are " buckling 
down " to their work, rubbing and scrub 
bing, splashing the water, and "hustl 
ing about," active as cats. There is a 
wonderful feeling of life in the move 
ments of a well -trained man-of-war s 
man ; he springs to his duties at the 
boatswain s mate s call, loose, easy, and 
agile, unconsciously graceful in his at 
titudes and picturesque in the manner 
of wearing his clothes, the tilt of his cap, 
or the tie of his neckerchief. 

The sea lies blue and sparkling in the 
sunlight, scarcely a ripple disturbs the 
smooth surface. We make signal to 
slow down to half-speed and to deter 
mine compass deviations by swinging 
ship. Each vessel steams in a circle 
by itself and the bearing of the sun is 
taken as she heads for some minutes 
on each point ; the comparison of the 
actual bearing of the sun which is 
established by computation with its 
bearing by compass, gives the devia 
tion for each particular point. A table 
of such deviations is made out, and 
the navigators have only to refer to this 
to know how much to allow in order to 
steer the correct course. 



282 



WITH UNCLE SAM S BLUE JACKETS AFLOAT. 



The greater part of the day is thus 
taken up, and with the gathering shades 
of evening our bows are pointed east 
ward again and we are slipping through 
the water on a course laid straight for 
Lusian shores. 

One bell in the morning watch again ! 
Gently heaving in long, undulating 
swells, dark to the horizon save where 
the lights of the ships cast silvery 
gleams down into its placid surface, the 
great ocean stretches astern and on 
either side of us, lapping caressingly 
the white sides of our beautiful frigate 
lying at rest on the smooth and peace 
ful sea. High above in the blue vault 
of heaven the stars shine down upon us 
with a soft radiance, and a warm breeze 
fans our cheeks and brings with it a 
fragrance as of a summer night. Up 
on the forward bridge a group of the 
officers stands ; one of them night 
glass in hand points to a distant 
bright light, a point or two off our 
starboard bow. " Cape Eoca light," he 
says, " and yonder lies the mouth of 
the Tagus." Bang ! bang ! signal balls 
flash from the after-bridge, and a 
rocket describes a graceful fiery curve 
up toward the sky, and bursting, scat 
ters a myriad of brilliant sparks through 
the darkness. Slowly our screws re 
volve again, slowly and simultaneously 
the ships turn to the northward, and we 
steam for a while at half-speed up the 
coast, which we know is lying to the 
eastward, and then lie-to again waiting 
for daylight to come. 

Gradually the night slips away ; a 
soft warm light creeps over the surface 
of the sea ; far on the horizon to east 
ward the sky is brightening. A black, 
low-hulled propeller glides noiselessly 
like a dark shadow between us and the 
cloud-like mass rising out of the sea over 
yonder, and as we look, lo ! there out 
lined in softest and purest purple against 
the sky, now glowing with a golden fire 
heralding the approach of the god of 
light " Cintra s mountain " greets our 
hungry eyes. 

Up comes the sun like a ball of red 
fire, flushing everything with a rosy light, 
and, trending off north and south and 
melting into the clear atmosphere, the 
" delicious land " of Portugal stretches 
its fair shores before us, and we get 



under way again, heading for the Ta 
gus. 

Slowly steaming, we move ahead ; past 
seaward-standing fleets of fishing boats 
huge lateen sails, high prows, some of 
them with the semblance of an eye rudely 
painted on either bow, as in the bygone 
days of their Phoenician or Carthaginian 
prototypes past a pilot boat, signal fly 
ing, but which we ignore, our officers 
being directed "by order" to act as 
pilots for themselves ; past a large Ital 
ian bark, every sunlit white sail set, fly 
ing before a favorable wind. Slowly we 
steam along, past the high crags of 
Cintra, with its old castle crowning the 
top, the rolling hills beyond patched 
with the stone-walled fields, and dotted 
with groups of houses and rows of white- 
towered windmills ; on over the bar 
the heavy swell lifting the ships open 
ing up the entrance to the great river, 
out of which a sharp-bowed, black-hulled 
steamer flying the flag of the British 
naval reserve, and dipping it in salute 
comes smoothly gliding. On past the 
old fort of St. Julian on our left, its gray 
ramparts rising from behind a cloud of 
spray from the great breakers roaring 
on the shoals before it ; past the stone 
circular work on our right Fort Bugio 
with its high light-tower and in through 
the narrowing opening on to the smooth- 
flowing but rapid yellow tide of the 
Tagus. Slowly steaming we move up 
the river, past old Belem tower, whence 
nearly four centuries ago Vasco da Gama 
embarked, and behind which now tall 
chimneys from the gas-works of Belem 
town vomit out dense clouds of black 
smoke ; past high bluffs on the opposite 
shore, fortress crowned, and where in a 
deep ravine a white- walled village around 
a church tower is nestled. The health- 
officer has come alongside in his dingy 
steam-launch ; pratique or permission 
to land has been granted us, and as 
our engines are stopped and we gradu 
ally lose headway, our anchors are let 
go and the huge chains rush roaring 
through the hawse-holes, and we swing 
broadside to in front of sunlit Lisbon, 
resting in tier upon tier of gray-walled, 
red-roofed houses on her many hills. 
Then, as the round ball of bunting run 
rapidly up to our main-truck, bursts out 
in folds of blue and white, and the stand- 



DIRGE. 



283 



ard of Portugal waves in the breeze, gun over the surface of the water, as our 

after gun booms in salute, re-echoing batteries give proud greeting from the 

from the ancient walls of the town, and young giant of the New World to a 

rolling in thunderous reverberation friendly people of the Old. 




DIRGE. 

By Frank Dempster Sherman. 



LET a tender song be sung ; 

Let a prayer be said ; 
Let a solemn bell be rung ; 

Love is dead. 



Brighter beamed the stars above, 
And the soft winds sped 

Whispering the secret Love 
Soon shall wed! 



With the early buds he came 

When the snows were fled : 

Lightly lisped the leaves his name 
Overhead : 



Rang the bells a merry chime 

When the promise spread ; 

Poets strung with beads of rhyme 
Fancy s thread. 



Sang the birds a sweeter strain ; 

Troops of roses red 
Followed in a laughing train 

Where he led : 



Fragrant petals softly fell 

Where his feet might tread ; 
Blossoms that he loved so well 

Were his bed. 



There he slumbers, pale and cold : 
Let a tear be shed ; 

Let a solemn bell be tolled ; 
Love is dead ! 



JERRY. 



PAET SECOND (CONTINUED). 




CHAPTER HI. 

Necessity, whose sightless strength forever 
Evil with evil, good with good must wind 
In bands of union which no power may sever : 
They must bring forth their kind, and be 
divided never." 

OE listened silently to 
Jerry s report, first of 
the notice, then of the 
determination of the 
people not to work for 
the doctor ; and finally 
of all the evil things 
they said of him. Then he laid down 
his pipe and leaned forward with a hand 
on either knee. 

" I ve been a-tellin him ever sence I 
knowed him," he began in a slow, con 
clusive voice, "as he were a-helpin orl 
the p isenest mean trash in the country, 
an I says, says I, Doctor, the least 
leetle wind ll blow trash in folks faces, 
says I," then with a long-drawn breath 
" Cuss their measly hides ! " and he 
took up his pipe again. 

" Of course it is all right for the doc 
tor," Jerry said, as if convincing him 
self, " all right for him to do as he has 
done." 

" To speckylate in Ian ? " and Joe 
paused once more in his smoking ; 
"I llowed as youuns jist spised sich do- 
in s ; the papers says youuns do, an Dan 
Burk Hows thet youuns do, an as you 
uns is got the rights on it." 

Jerry pushed his hair from his fore 
head nervously. "I mean that the doc 
tor will do it in the right way," he an 
swered, anxiously, " the doctor will not 
speculate ; he has bought the land for 
some good purpose." 

" To gie it away ? " Joe suggested 
sarcastically, " pay fur the Ian pay to 
lay it out, an gie it away ? " He shook 
his head. "The doctor s mighty easy 
fooled, but he s got mo sense ner thet." 
" He may put the lots at a very low 
rent," then Jerry left the fire and * went 
out into the darkness. He did not want 



to talk about this matter yet, for in his 
own mind he had come to no conclusion. 
Up and down he walked on the level bit 
of path that the doctor had trodden so 
slowly, when years before he spent the 
day at Joe s house to watch that the life 
came back to Jerry s poor little body. 

Up and down in the darkness, trying 
not to judge his hero, his friend, his ex 
emplar and help to all that was good and 
true ; putting away forcibly all thought 
of self, and of the position the doctor 
had allowed him to take ; pausing in his 
walk where the doctor had paused to 
say " If God will ever forgive me ! " 
that short, pathetic prayer that told so 
much and yet so little just there Jer 
ry paused and said " He cannot do 
wrong ! " then he went in again to where 
Joe still smoked by the fire. 

"It must be all right, Joe," he said, 
sitting down slowly. 

" I ain t never blamed him yit," Joe 
answered ; then more patronizingly than 
he had spoken to Jerry in years, he went 
on "I ain t got much larnin , Jerry, 
but I se knowed a heaper folks sence I 
kin member, an one thing I jest will 
say, thet no man ain t a-goin to gie away 
liker fool fur moren twenty yeer, an orl 
of a suddint turn roun an cheat folks 
fur money as he don t need ; I don t 
b lieve it no more n I d b lieve a p inter 
dorg as tole me he couldn t smeller 
mink. It s no use a-talkin to me thet 
away," and he knocked the ashes out of 
his pipe with unusual vehemence, pack 
ing it again as if protesting against the 
need of any justification of the doctor. 
" An youuns, Jerry," he went on more 
quietly, "as knows the doctor bettern 
mos folks ; youuns kin stan by him bet 
ter." Then more slowly "If I didn t 
hev sicher sighter work on han darned 
if I wouldn t lay out the Ian fur him 
myseff ! " 

Jerry did not answer, for Joe s men 
tion of his work made him think for the 
moment of the mystery in which he lived 
between these two unknown lives. 



JERRY. 



285 



" Pore doctor," Joe said at last, bring 
ing Jerry back from his musings, " ain t 
thar no way of youuns a-heppin him, 
Jerry?" 

Jerry shook his head. 

" I will go and see," he answered, " but 
if he had wanted my help he would have 
told me long ago, and have stopped my 
writing." The words were said uninten 
tionally, and Jerry was angry with him 
self for having exposed this sore place, 
especially to Joe, whom he felt, some 
how, would be glad to widen a little the 
distance between himself and the doctor. 
Joe blew out a cloud of smoke. 

" Youuns dunno the doctor yit," he 
said with a little grunt that might have 
been a stifled chuckle, " he never blazes 
no road behind him, he don t, an he 
ain t a-goin to persuade youuns not to 
bust yer brains out agin a tree, if so be 
youuns hes a mind to do it ; an he never 
splains nothin , ner axes nothin . " 

Jerry listened and had no answer ; 
rather, his heart grew cold within him 
as Joe went on, because of the confirm 
ing truth in the old man s words : 

" An he ll gie youuns cloze, an wittles, 
an firewood ; hell gie youuns as much 
as a house, but youuns mus sot thet 
house right fur over yander, right fur, 
cause he don t want no pusson s shed 
j ined onter hisn s, you bet ; he gies 
away liker fool ; but, Lord ! he don t 
want nothin a-trailin atter him ; but 
orl the same, I llowed as youuns mout 
he p him." They were hard things that 
Joe had told, but they were true ; he 
knew they were hard too, but it was not 
in his humanity to refrain from this 
little exposition of the man who had for 
years supplanted him in the life of " his 
boy" he had taken the second place 
very quietly, but he felt a little trium 
phant just now. 

And the next afternoon when Jerry 
made time for his visit to the doctor by 
giving a half-holiday, he remembered ail 
these hard sayings of Joe s, and would 
allow to himself only that he was going 
to explain his own action, and to warn 
the doctor of the feeling that was out 
among the people. Several leading men 
had been to see Jerry during the morn 
ing, and from them he had gained his 
view of the state of the community. 

All were angry and indignant, and 



very impatient to make known to their 
late friend this new feeling which had 
developed toward him. That morning 
an angry notice had appeared " declin 
ing to work for the doctor at any price 
no one would lift a finger for the man 
who had deliberately cheated the town 
out of all it had hoped to make by the 
railway," and the notice was signed 
" The citizens of Eureka and Durden s." 

Jerry had read it angrily, for he knew 
that the baffled speculators were at the 
bottom of it. These slow-thinking, shift 
less natives as in his heart he called 
his own class would never have had 
the energy nor the sense to make a 
combined move ; they might be keen at 
a bargain, but they had to be taught to 
think, taught that sin was hidden in 
land speculations. And he became more 
angry with them naturally, but unrea 
sonably so when ne remembered that 
he had taught them the chief lesson on 
this point. 

His object and his work had been 
true and right ; but, like most honest 
men who long to be benefactors, he had 
done too much ; or perhaps his pupils 
had pushed his theory too far. 

He had denounced the Government 
for selling its land, and the people saw 
the reason in this ; he had denounced 
the people who had bought this land as 
a speculation to the detriment of their 
fellow-creatures, and the people followed 
him here also ; but he had not thought 
of providing for the contingency of an 
honest man buying this land for honest 
purposes. 

"And who would have dreamed of 
such a thing ! " he said to himself, with 
unconscious sarcasm and in much bitter 
ness of spirit, when he found out who 
the mysterious buyer was, and that the 
people had applied all his teachings to 
him. "Who would have believed such 
a thing ! " and the people showed their 
faith in his judgment by refusing to be 
lieve it. 

Hurriedly and angrily he tramped 
along the road ; he wanted to have a 
long talk with the doctor, and the time 
spent in reaching his destination pro 
voked him. After much argument with 
himself he had determined to explain to 
the doctor the position he had taken, 
and whv he had taken it. It had been 



286 



JERRY. 



a hard decision to reach after Joe s 
words, but he felt that he could not be 
silent now, and so be identified with the 
people s notice ; but beyond all these 
motives he had a hope that the doctor 
would let in some light on his own ac 
tion, and he longed for this light with 
a great and loving desire. 

Alas, he reached his destination to 
find the doctor indefinitely absent, and 
a note as his only alternative. And the 
writing of that note was the hardest 
thing he had ever tried to do. If he 
still believed in the doctor, as he as 
sured himself that he did, what had he 
to say? Say that his articles in the 
newspaper did not point to the doctor 
say he was sorry for the doctor say 
he hoped that he would be just about 
the land, or say that he knew he would ? 
If he believed in the doctor any of this 
would be worse than folly if he did 
not believe in him ? 

And he laughed a little bitterly at 
himself because he wanted to say all 
these things, at the same time asserting 
violently that he believed in this friend 
of his life ! 

He pondered long, then left only a 
few lines to say that he had seen the 
refusal of the people to work for the 
doctor, and had come over to put him 
self at the doctor s service. He made 
no comment, only the simple offer, then 
went his way slowly, feeling himself in 
a more complicated position than before. 

He could not retract his own opinions 
he could not explain the doctor s posi 
tion, nor could he publish the fact that he 
had offered his services to his benefactor 
and so take a decided stand by him, for 
this would seem like parading his grat 
itude he could only stand still, and 
probably be misjudged by both sides ; 
and this was hard. 

All the way home he turned the mat 
ter over and over in his mind, but could 
see no way to better things ; he must 
wait, and if the doctor sent any answer 
to his note, abide by that. 

" Well," was Joe s greeting when later 
he came in and found Jerry standing by 
the fire with a troubled look on his face, 
" well, is you an Paul agoin to start to 
work to-morrer ? " 

Jerry turned away. 

" The doctor was out," he answered 



short] putting the supper on the table, 
" and 1 had to leave a note." 

" An Jim Martin," Joe went on, draw 
ing up his chair ; " Jim Martin he come 
along a-steppin jest as swonger, and a 
new feller alonger him. Says I, Hardy, 
Jim, whar s the railroad a-comin ? says 
L Says e, Joe Gilliam, says e, we 
are cheated, says e, an the road 
ain t going to do no good. Why, 
Jim, says I, I hearn as youuns done 
mader pile anyhow, says I. Lord, Joe, 
says e, who on airth telled youuns 
sicher spin as thet ? says e. Says I, 
Jim, I hearn it, says I, I hearn as 
youuns buyed orl the spar Ian , cause 
youuns done saved orl the money the 
doctor s been a-givin youuns ever sence 
he come. Whoopee ! " and Joe laughed 
as Jerry had never seen him laugh 
before. " Youuns orter seen him, Jer 
ry ; he looked like he d been a-settin 
oner nester ants, he did." Then more 
slowly, " It s jest what I se been a tellin 
the doctor, a he ppin orl the trash in the 
country, an notter man to he p him 
now." 

" I hope he will let me do something," 
Jerry said, but his hope was very small, 
and died the next morning when he 
found on his desk in the schoolhouse a 
sealed note from the doctor thanking 
him for his offer, but saying he had tel 
egraphed for workmen ; which fact Jerry 
was not to mention. Very short the 
note was, but it was some comfort to 
know that the doctor trusted him to this 
extent even. This was his first feeling, 
then the news in the note made him 
thoughtful. Telegraphed for workmen ; 
and Jerry pondered over this fact as, 
lighting a match, he burned the note. 

That was where the doctor had gone 
the day before ; he must have ridden 
day and night to have reached even the 
nearest post-station, and must have sent 
a man on from there with his message. 
And what would Eureka say ; and what 
would Durden s say ? 

The doctor had education, talent, 
money ; of course he would triumph in 
the end ; but what would he have to go 
through with and contend against before 
that end came ? 

And was it right ? 

Jerry broke the pencil he was sharp 
ening. 






JERRY. 



287 



He taught very vigorously that week, 
so that the children made tremendous 
strides in learning, and the one small 
tree behind the school-house was de 
nuded of almost all the hopeful branches 
it had put out during this eventful 
spring. This outward vigor was the 
sign of the growing excitement and 
anxiety in Jerry s mind. Looking back 
he could not understand how Eureka, 
kept so long in the background, had 
come so suddenly to the front. Dur- 
den s story was common enough. The 
mine had been discovered by a poor 
man, who had come from a poor com 
munity in the Eastern States ; the rush 
of people consequent on this discovery 
had come from the same part of the 
country ; they brought no capital, and 
the scheme failed. This was the reason 
given by the doctor. The story Jerry 
heard from old Joe made the failure 
seem unaccountable ; the mine was a 
good mine, Joe said, but haunted. 

That a superstition should so sway 
people was strange ; it was true that the 
people who had come were simple, un 
educated, agricultural people, not am 
bitious, and contented with very little. 
Still, it was strange that they should 
not dig for the gold that Joe said " lay 
all about inDurden s mine." And here 
again the doctor said that, though he 
had never made an examination, he was 
sure that the Eureka mine was much 
better than Dur den s. Whatever was 
the cause, Burden s had failed ; then 
the old story followed, when the peo 
ple could not get home again and had 
spread themselves on the plain, and re 
turned to their old habit of planting 
small " patches." 

The discovery of the Eureka mine 
was the next event ; the doctor, who 
had arrived about that time, united 
with Lije Milton in buying up the in 
terests ; they had worked patiently and 
cautiously, and had been repaid. 

All this Jerry could easily understand ; 
but who was it that had now made the 
fact known that the land was full of 
gold so full of gold as to bring a rail 
way there? Who had had influence 
enough to persuade capitalists to run 
such a risk ; capitalists having sufficient 
power to force the stock up until now, 
before its destination was reached even, 



many fortunes had been made by the 
road. Who could have managed this ? 

The question had come in the wake 
of a natural sequence of thought and 
reasoning, and the answer stared Jerry 
in the face. Only one man could have 
done it one man who had bought all 
the available land near the town one 
man who held most of the interests in 
the Eureka mine ! 

True, not an acre of private land had 
been touched, nor had any such offer 
been made only the public lands had 
been taken. Not a pocket in Eureka 
had been injured by this gigantic spec 
ulation ; not a soul in either town could 
say they had lost a penny, or had missed 
a penny they would have made but 
those who were coming ? 

" For some good purpose he has done 
it," Jerry said ; " I know it I know 
it ! " And still he was not sure. 

For two weeks the longest Jerry had 
ever spent the towns remained in a 
quiescent state. The excitement about 
the land speculation was starving for 
lack of new developments ; the railway 
excitement had grown old, and the peo 
ple watched anxiously to see what would 
come next. 

Nearer the railway came ; it was 
known how that many stations along the 
road had required only a week s time 
in which to make towns of themselves ; 
and yet Eureka and Durden s had not 
stirred ! Indeed, they could not stir ; 
no one could speculate or make any 
money further than would come to them 
from their private lots ; and had they 
not been told that to sit still and hold 
this land would make them rich ? 

The people were in a rage, and the 
speculators in despair ; while the quiet 
prairie, and the grim, untouched moun 
tain-side, where gold was said to lie in 
lumps, seemed to mock them ! 

How easily they had been outwitted ! 
and many curses, that were not more 
than half -smothered, followed Paul and 
the doctor whenever they rode through 
the town. Once more Jerry went to see 
the doctor, and once more missed him ; 
and a nod as the doctor cantered by the 
school-house was all that Jerry had seen 
of him. Was he angry, Jerry wondered ; 
did he suspect him of being disloyal? 
The blood mounted in the young man s 



288 



JERRY. 



face, and he remembered Joe s words, 
that the doctor neither gave nor asked 
explanations he could not ask one. 

Meanwhile, the speculators worked 
quietly among the people, and, as the 
railway n eared the town and the excite 
ment increased, they offered higher 
prices for the land. And in the town 
there were men who had combined all 
the teachings given them, making a 
theory of their own. Thus they stopped 
work, because in any case selling their 
land would make them rich ; and they 
did not sell because only to hold the 
land would make them rich also. 

And they waited in vain ! 

Day by day they scrambled for food 
while they watched with eager eyes for 
the promised money to pour into their 
laps ; and the eager eyes grew hollow 
and hungry. They had defied the doc 
tor, and so could not ask work of Paul 
Henley or the Eureka engineer ; and, 
not having planted gardens, they were 
starving. 

At last one desperate woman struck 
the key-note of the position, and, for 
many, solved the question. She chose 
a time when her husband was drunk, 
then sought the land agent ; the amount 
he offered seemed fabulous, and the bar 
gain was closed. The drunken husband 
made "his mark" before the drunken 
magistrate, and the land passed into the 
hands of the agent. Sober, the man made 
the best of it and of a shrewish wife, and 
other men sold their lots and houses. 

Suddenly the town waked up ; the 
one lodging-house was filled with these 
homeless creatures ; and their old homes 
assumed a wonderful appearance. They 
were whitewashed, houses and fences ; 
the lots were ploughed and laid off to 
look like thrifty gardens ; seeds were ac 
tually planted, late as it was ! 

The former owners began to regret ; 
and Jerry looked on angrily. 

Then, one day, as the bright May sun 
blazed triumphantly over the broad 
plains, a wagon-train turned slowly into 
the town. 

And all Eureka turned out at the 
doors, even Jerry and his school came 
out to look ; and they said " immi 
grants." But this was no common 
party ; there was a director to it who 
evidently knew his business ; he stopped 



his train in front of the school-house 
and asked his way to the chief engineer 
of the mine. 

Eureka was watching, and saw En 
gineer Mills come out of his door and 
point to an empty house near by ; then 
the party turned in that direction, and 
disappeared from all curious eyes. 

Now, indeed, all Eureka was roused ; 
very slowly, it is true ; but roused be 
fore the next day dawned to the fact 
that these men were workmen and had 
come to do the doctor s bidding ! 

The town was in a stir. Knots of 
people, men and women, gathered on 
the corners and in the shops ; and Jerry 
felt anxious. He went about a little to 
sound the people, and found the senti 
ment divided. 

The two shopkeepers of the two vil 
lages, Dave Morris and Dan Burke, who 
were leaders, were amiable ; for this in 
flux meant trade ; and Titcomb, the 
editor, was amiable also ; but the labor 
ers were furious, for this meant that 
they had been ignored, and that their 
revenge had failed. 

And Jerry began the afternoon session 
with much trouble on his mind. 

How long that day was to Jerry he 
could not express, but in the evening, 
when his work was done, he found a 
new feeling abroad. The shopkeepers 
had joined the mob ; for these workmen 
did not mean trade ; they had brought 
their own supplies everything, and 
more, that a colony would need. Curses 
were spoken out loud, now that the 
leaders had turned, and nobody seemed 
surprised nobody defended the absent 
man who had been their friend for all 
these long years. 

Jerry questioned bitterly should he 
be silent, or should he speak and try to 
check these things that as yet had not 
been said exactly in his hearing ; for the 
people still respected his connection 
with the doctor ; but he turned away si 
lent, his words would have no effect now, 
and if he spoke what could he say ? and 
he made his way slowly out of the town. 

Joe listened with the greatest delight 
to the news of the new workmen, and of 
their having brought everything with 
them that they could need. 

" Fur onest the doctor hes hed sense," 
he said slowly, "an fur onest these 



JERRY. 



289 



durned fools will see thet money an 
larnin kin beat em orl holler ! I m rale 
glad, I am ; an I m glad the doctor buyed 
the Ian an started out fur hisn s seff 
ceppen if it s fur Paul," he added slowly. 

Jerry kicked the fire viciously, and Joe 
went on : 

" But I can t, to save me, see the sin 
of speckylatin in Ian ," he said. " I works 
fur another feller, an ? I makes my money ; 
an I tucks thet money an I buys Ian , an 
if I kin fin a feller fool ernough to gim 
me twicest as much as I paid fur the 
Ian , thar ain t no sin in thet ; less it s a 
sin to be a fool." 

"And there are a hundred people 
nearly starving," Jerry began wearily, 
" because they have no land to plant ; 
and you living in plenty, have it all held 
back for the money it will bring ; money 
you do not need I call that sin." 

" I Hows as I worked fur the money," 
Joe retorted. " Merricky s a free coun 
try, an if I gits long faster ner another 
feller thet ain t no sin." 

"But it s a sin to grind the other 
down to starvation-point that you may 
make more than you can possibly want," 
Jerry went on, but without any enthusi 
asm in his voice ; he was so weary of 
his own arguments ; and his teachings 
had brought him so little satisfaction. 
He actually felt a cowardly wish grow 
ing on him that he had never said a 
word on the land question, but had al 
lowed all to take their chances. 

* An if I dunno nothin bout t other 
feller," Joe went on slowly, " ceppen 
what I reads bout him, or gits Dan 
Burke to read bout in the paper ; fur 
sartain youuns don t spec me to write 
him a letter an say, Come out har, 
au tuck somer my Ian fur nothin ? " 

" That is the very question," Jerry re 
torted ; " if Government holds the land, 
then every man is free to rent only so 
much as he can plant, and everybody 
will be provided for." 

" An if I gits me a steam-plough, as I 
hearn tell about by somer these new fel 
lers," Joe suggested, watching Jerry s face 
keenly " I kin jest plant the whole per- 
rairy, I kin, jester hummin ; an I Uow 
thet won t leave much fur t other feller? " 

"Very well," Jerry admitted, "and 
you make an enormous crop of corn, 
and the price goes down ; the people 



who have no land, have no taxes to pay, 
so can afford to buy your cheap corn ; 
every year doing this, your prairie won t 
pay for itself ; for provisions produced 
in such quantities will be too cheap." 

Joe looked on him with an expression 
that was as near contempt as he could 
bestow on Jerry. " I ain t no fool, Jerry 
Wilkerson," he said, "to plant one thing 
orl the time tell folks throws it away," 
emphasizing his words with his pipe. 
" I d plant taters ! taters, sir, as can t 
be feed fur mules an hosses ; then the 
corn ll run up high ernough, I reckon." 

" Perhaps," Jerry answered, slowly, 
looking down another vista of conse 
quences that Joe s words had brought to 
his mind the advances in labor-saving 
machinery. The effect that this would 
have on all the problems of the day, and 
especially on this land problem, was a 
question that needed an answer ; and 
the answer needed much thought. 

"Perhaps," he said, then looked up 
angrily. "You say America is a free 
country, Joe, but because she is free, is 
that a reason why she should be without 
a conscience ? Because I am out of 
prison is that any reason why I should 
steal and murder ? " 

Joe looked up in astonishment. 

" Is youuns gone plum crazy ? " he 
said at last ; "I never spoke no word 
bout stealin ner murderin , Jerry." 

" No, but because you are free to make 
money and to buy land, is that any 
reason that you should for the love of 
gold crowd others out until they die of 
starvation?" 

Joe shook his head slowly. 

" If I hed a-been thet mean, Jerry, the 
buzzards woulder hed youuns longger- 
go you bet ! " 

The argument was useless, and Jerry 
turned away. 

" God will surely bless you, Joe, for 
what you have done for me," he said ; 
then went outside into the darkness that 
he might think. 

CHAPTER IV. 

" Come near me ! I do weave 
A chain I cannot break " 

How long we live before we realize 
that life is the one breath we breathe 
the while we say " I live " before we 



290 



JERRY. 



are content to draw from every day its 
fullest uses and benefits unglorified by 
dreams of to-morrow before we learn 
that whatever effort we may make to 
touch another life, it can but end in a 
longing that is never satisfied. 

Each soul lives and dies alone. 

Day by day we knit bonds that bind 
until the blood flows, but do not join 
we tremble for the life of this one, or 
the love of that one we feel our hearts 
die because this life has passed away 
from our grasp, or that love has failed 
us in our need all this we do, fighting 
through our little day, and when the 
end comes we must let go, and journey 
out along the " lonely road " without a 
footstep timing ours, or a hand clasped 
in our own. 

And now when difficulties began to 
gather about him, Jerry found that by 
some strange chance he stood alone. 
Not only alone, but opposed to the one 
man who could have helped him : whose 
views he would have sworn that he not 
only knew, but held. And when under 
the test of this crisis the degradation of 
his class was fully revealed to him its 
greed, and its ingratitude and he re 
alized the immeasurable task he had set 
for himself in the raising of this class 
he acknowledged to himself without res 
ervation, that he had been a fool, and 
began to look for some way out of the 
dilemma. Indeed, under the cool shad 
ow of reaction he was tempted to tram 
ple under foot all high resolves, and to 
laugh to scorn all enthusiasm. 

But no time was left him in which to 
beat a retreat, for the next morning he 
found a crowd collected in front of the 
school - house ; men, and women, and 
boys. 

He stopped for a moment ; were they 
waiting for him waiting to compel him 
to face this issue ? On a nearer view, 
however, he found that they were watch 
ing the house where the doctor s work 
men lodged. 

Would there be a difficulty, he won 
dered ; and his step grew slower, for 
he would not lift a hand against the 
doctor. 

At last he mounted the little plat 
form ; for with all his tardiness of gait 
he reached it at last, and the crowd see 
ing him coming turned from where they 



watched for the workmen and gathered 
about the little porch. There were 
murmurings and cursings from among 
them, and as Jerry put the key in the 
lock a man stretched over and laid his 
hand on the latch. 

" I don t mean no harm, Mr. Wilker- 
son," he said, "but we want to ask a 
few questions before you goes in." 

Jerry looked about him slowly on the 
upturned faces, then putting his hands 
in his pockets stood still and waiting. 
There was silence for a few seconds, 
while Jerry s thoughts flashed backward 
over all he had written and said to these 
people, knowing that every word was 
about to be brought home to him now, 
to force him to take sides ; his blood 
boiled at the thought, but he would 
not take the initiative. At last a mid 
dle-aged man stepped to the front. 

" Mr. Wilkerson," he began, taking a 
piece of tobacco from his mouth, and 
carefully putting it in his pocket, " had 
the doctor any right to buy so much 
Ian ?" 

" Yes," Jerry answered, " as much 
land as he had money to pay for." 

" An take it from aller us ? " 

" Did you intend to buy ? " sarcasti 
cally. 

"Well, yes," slowly. 

" Well, it seems to me that you have 
had time enough," Jerry answered ; 
"the prairie has been before you all 
your lives, why did you not take it in 
and work it ? All these years you have 
been free to search the hills for gold ; 
why have you not done it ? " 

" Cause it wasn t any use tell the 
railroad come," the man answered. 

" You have known for months that the 
railroad was coming," Jerry went on. 

" Well, an if we did, we never had no 
money to plunk down all at onest fur 
the Ian ," and an angrier tone crept 
into the man s voice, for he felt in a 
confused way that this was not the Wil 
kerson of the newspaper. And truly, 
Jerry was questioning from under the 
reaction that had come, and the man 
answering from his life-long views, and 
not from Jerry s new teachings, which 
were not enough his to be used. 

But Jerry, rejoicing in the slowness 
of the man, which kept him from saying, 
" You told us not to buy it," cried out : 



JERRY. 



291 



" Nonsense ! tell the truth ; say that all 
the money you could have saved you have 
put in whiskey ; and now when a great 
opportunity has come, a great opportu 
nity to make fortunes, you have no 
money to put away that you can invest. 
This is the truth, and you know it ! " 
becoming more excited as he went on, 
" and all that you have to find fault with 
to-day is that another man has looked 
ahead, and has provided himself with 
money that he can double double and 
treble if he will ; aye, he can possess 
this whole country ! " 

"God made the Ian for all," was 
called out angrily from the crowd, " an 
you said so yerself." 

" And why have you been too lazy to 
take it ? " Jerry retorted ; " did you ex 
pect the Almighty to fence it in for you, 
and write your names on the fences? 
is this what you expected ? You could 
have bought this land for fifty cents an 
acre ; but fifty cents would buy three 
drinks of whiskey, and you wanted the 
whiskey, and the land would keep." 

" An so it would," was called out. 

" And so it did," Jerry cried sharply, 
" kept until two months ago. I am not 
going back from anything I have writ 
ten in your paper : I said there that it 
was wrong to speculate in land as 
wrong as to speculate in water, or air, 
or sunshine, if such a thing could be, 
for all these things are necessary to life, 
and are meant alike for all ! Speculating 
in land is in my eyes a sin, and I con 
sider it every man s duty to warn every 
other man against a thing that seems 
wrong, and so I warned you. You had 
no money to invest, for, as I have said, 
you have saved nothing ; but if you had 
had bags of gold, I should have done 
my best to keep you from speculat 
ing in land " and there came a little 
catch in his voice as he remembered 
his desertion of his higher principles at 
the beginning of his speech ; and yet, 
these people were so low ! 

"But now," he went on, his excite 
ment increasing unreasonably as he 
realized that already he had taken the 
position of champion to these low crea 
tures. And as this realization became 
more clear to him, his words became 
more harsh "But now you are not 
troubled because you think the doctor 



has done a wicked thing in buying this 
land ; you are troubled only that he 
has done a thing you were unable to 
do ! You are angry because this man 
who has been your friend for all these 
years who has given you time, and 
money, and help in every way you are 
angry because he has now the oppor 
tunity to better himself. You let any 
smooth-tongued villain turn you against 
him you refused to work for him 
you take all my words and apply them 
to him, for whom, God knows, they 
were never meant ! 

" My words were meant to warn you 
against the miserable land-sharpers, not 
meant for this man, too high and too 
noble to be for one moment doubted ! 
The doctor has bought in a great tract 
of land ; we do not know yet what he 
will do with it ; but I say, and I mean 
every word that I utter, that if he had 
bought the United States, I would be 
sure that it was for some good pur 
pose I would be sure that it was for 
the benefit of the many, and not for his 
own benefit " and as Jerry spoke his 
own full confidence came back to him, 
and with a great shame that he had for 
one moment doubted this man. 

"Now," he went on, while his voice 
grew raspingly clear "if any man has 
anything to say against the doctor, let 
him remember that he has Jerry Wil- 
kerson to fight," and taking out one pis 
tol he laid it on the low, flat rail that 
went round the little porch, and put his 
hand on the second, that was still in his 
belt. 

The crowd swayed a little, and backed 
away from the evil-looking weapon, and 
from the shining eyes of the young man, 
looking very dangerous as he stood in 
the level rays of the morning sun, hold 
ing his fast-cooling audience at a dread 
ful disadvantage. It was no rare thing 
in Eureka for men to be shot on much 
less provocation than this, and the day 
was not yet far spent enough for any ex 
citement to have culminated, or for the 
men to have recovered from the drink 
ing of the past night ; their nerves were 
still tremulous, and they moved away 
from the platform. 

" We never meant no harm to you, 
Mr. Wilkerson," they said, "but all the 
same it s durned hard lines ! " 



292 



JERRY. 



Then the door of the next house op 
ened, and the workmen came out in a 
solid body ; and Paul Henley was with 
them. They stopped a moment on the 
steps as if awaiting some advance from 
the mob gathered at the school-house ; 
and in that moment the doctor rode up. 

He stopped between the two crowds 
and looked about him : on the one side 
Paul, and the clean, respectable work 
men ; on the other the wretched mob 
dirty, thriftless, malignant people he 
had worked for but had not bettered ; 
and in the midst, standing high on the 
platform, with the sun shining full on 
the pistol he had placed in front of him, 
Jerry, the one whom for so many years 
he had carefully trained and taught ! 

Only for a second the doctor paused, 
then nodded to Jerry, and rode on to 
the workmen. 

He knew that the feeling of the com 
munity was all against him he knew 
that at any moment a bullet might find 
him ; but that was nothing. He had 
held his life with a loose grasp for so 
many years, that he scarcely remem 
bered to heed any danger that threat 
ened it. If one weighed possible results 
always, or always feared death, life be 
came only a burden, he said ; so that 
life or death meant very little to him, 
and he stood in the morning sunlight a 
ready mark for any man who thought 
himself wronged or defrauded. 

Not long he talked to the men ; then 
Paul s horse was brought, and the party 
moved off quietly, steadily, almost like 
drilled men, and everyone completely 
armed, as could be seen plainly. 

The crowd about the school -house 
was very still ; they were deeply im 
pressed by these orderly, strong-looking 
new-comers ; nor had they forgotten 
Jerry s words, nor the menacing pistol 
that still glittered under their eyes. 

It was not safe to trouble Mr. Wil- 
kerson, they thought, for in no posi 
tion had he shown any fear. In their 
eyes he had defied and bitterly criticised 
the doctor, whatever he might affirm to 
the contrary ; and now he had not on 
ly defied and criticised them, but had 
abused and threatened them also ; had 
stood there one to many, and had not 
flinched. 

But besides all these considerations for 



keeping quiet, they were also interested 
in watching a reporter, who stood in the 
shade scribbling busily. 

There was much of deep mystery to 
them in this man, and it was something 
far beyond their comprehension that 
any man should spend his time in writ 
ing down everything that was done in 
the town, and take the trouble to send 
it away to be put in a newspaper ! 

And so intent did they become in 
watching him, that they did not know 
when Jerry went into the school-house ; 
and realized no more than he did that 
this retreat was a great boon to the re 
porter. 

" The school-master finding the mob 
unwilling to make any assault, retired 
into the school-house." 

So the reporter wrote while the dirty 
crowd watched him ; and Jerry, hurt 
and angry, tried to find peace in his room. 

" But it is thought that Eureka will 
soon see exciting times" the report 
er went on ; and Jerry, thinking these 
same thoughts, but wholly unconscious 
of his position as a mob leader, deter 
mined to wait after school, and warn the 
doctor : for the doctor could not know, as 
well as he did, all that was threatened 
against him. 



CHAPTER Y. 

" So, one standing strong in the prime of his 
years, 

With his life in his grasp, looketh back through 
dim tears 

To the days of his youth : 

To the fair dewy dawn of his fresh young 
life 

E er his soul had been stained by the harden 
ing strife 

Through which he had won." 

JEBBY waited very patiently on the 
school-house steps, with his warning on 
his lips. Sat there alone, watching the 
evening light that drifted slowly across 
the plains ; while behind him the moun 
tains loomed black and gloomy, with 
the patient shadows huddling together 
about their feet waiting until their hour 
should come to possess the land. Be 
fore him stretched the road that formed 
the one street of Eureka, where in front 
of the wretched shop the men squatted 
in groups and rows, chewing, and hold- 



JERRY. 



293 



ing what might be termed " silent con 
verse " with each other ; while the wom 
en sat in the doorways of the miserable 
shanties, and up and down the road the 
children and hogs disported themselves 
indiscriminately. A wretched, squalid 
scene ; and made more so by the con 
trast with the few houses which the 
speculators had been able to buy and 
repair, and which shone out here and 
there like the " whited sepulchres " they 
were. A hopeless scene ; yet all about 
it was the exquisite glow of the evening 
light ; a cloud of light that reached to 
the black hollows of the mountains. 
God had not forgotten these creatures, 
and the place was not so wretched that 
his glory could not rest there ? So Jer 
ry thought but also "they heed no 
light nor beauty, what use to strive 
with them and destroy one s self for 
their benefit ? " 

Alas! All the "warmed over" en 
thusiasm of the morning had deserted 
him, and he covered his face with his 
hands. He would not think of these 
people ; instead, he would think what 
he should say to the doctor ; he tried 
faithfully, but in spite of all his efforts 
could only think " What will the doc 
tor say to me ? " 

His conscience was clear, and the 
doctor, if he thought about it at all, 
must know this ; and the old answer 
that came to all his reasoning on this 
matter, came once more " the only 
thing to be explained was the doctor s 
course toward him " and there had 
been many opportunities for this if the 
doctor had willed it. 

Still, he would wait and warn the doc 
tor : it was all he could do, and however 
painful the interview might prove, he 
would do this service ; a service the 
doctor would scarcely value because he 
did not realize the extent of the danger 
that threatened not only himself, but 
his workmen. 

So Jerry waited, and, in spite of all 
reasoning, hoped that his warning might 
clear the cloud that had come between 
them. 

All was very still save the idle clatter 
of the children in the street, and the 
occasional calling of one woman to an 
other : all was very still, when as the 
sun vanished the fine, clear tone of a 
VOL. VIII. 28 



horn sounded through the evening, and 
Eureka stopped to listen ! Clear and 
sharp, almost imperative, yet sweet ; a 
tone Eureka had never heard before ! 

Once more it sounded, while Jerry 
watched the shadows stealing slowly 
from their dens in the mountains ; then 
the usual noises of the time and place 
resumed their sway. But it was not 
long, for they ceased again when the 
doctor s workmen came walking down 
the street, and behind them the doctor 
riding slowly. 

" He has sent Paul home for fear of 
danger," Jeny thought, and the loneli 
ness about his life seemed to enlarge 
and to join hands with the creeping 
shadows on whose edge he stood, wait 
ing to warn this man he loved so well. 
Quietly the men moved, seeming to pay 
no heed to the sights and sounds about 
them ; talking among themselves, and 
to their leader who had a horn slung 
about his shoulder. They did not look 
like common workmen, now that he saw 
them more nearly, and he wondered 
what was their station in life. 

He waited patiently while the doctor 
gave directions, and talked with the 
men, then as he turned to ride away 
raised his voice : 

" Doctor ! " 

" Well, Jerry " how sweet that name 
sounded on his lips ! 

" I wish to tell you, sir, that there 13 
more danger in the threatenings of these 
people than you may suspect " his 
words came quickly enough at first, then 
more slowly as the doctor watched him 
with a look as if only politeness made 
him listen " they mean some of the 
things they say." 

"I have no doubt of it," was an 
swered quietly. 

"And you will be careful, Doctor?" 
almost pleadingly. 

" I am never very rash, Jerry," draw 
ing his hat on more securely, preparing 
to start, " but I am very much obliged 
to you for your warning ; good even 
ing" then Jerry stepped back and 
said no farewell, because he could not. 

However much we may think our 
selves prepared for a great sorrow, or a 
great pain, when the blow falls there is 
in it always a keener cruelty than we 
expected. There seems to be always 



294 



JERRY. 



some additional refinement of the agony 
that we had not looked for, and that 
makes us say "If it had been done 
without this, I could have borne it." 
No matter how widely we may have 
spread our lines of defence in order 
that the poor heart hiding in the centre 
might be somewhat protected, the blow 
when it falls seems to break through 
every guard. For who can measure the 
force of a stroke which another is to 
deal us ? 

And so, though for a long time Jerry 
had been conscious of the fact that he 
represented to the doctor only a part of 
his duty, he now found to his hurt that 
all along he had had in his heart an un 
recognized hope that he was something 
more. A hope that he knew only when 
he looked on its dead face as the doctor 
rode away. Mechanically he took up 
his dinner-bucket and books, and began 
his homeward journey. He could not 
realize all at once what had happened to 
him he was not sure that anything had 
happened. Only he seemed again to be 
the lonely little child, cast loose from 
all his moorings. Had he read the doc 
tor s actions aright, and did they say 
" You are old enough to take your own 
path my duty by you is done ? " 

For years he had listened to and 
learned from this man ; for years he had 
looked up to him and been guided by 
his counsels had made him his ideal 
and hero had loved him with that 
strongest love that man gives to man 
and now all was done. Either by the 
vile insinuations of enemies, or by idle 
reports by a simple misunderstanding, 
or through indifference this man he 
thought so strong had been turned from 
him. 

His life seemed shattered ; for he was 
young and trustful still, and had grown 
up to this love and influence as the 
flowers grow up to the sun. He had 
had no great sorrows since his childhood 
to take the edge from his feelings no 
betrayals to loosen his faith in mankind ; 
on the contrary, all had so fallen out in 
his life as to make him trust implicitly 
and love unquestioningly, and this rev 
elation of the mutability of all he clung 
to was very bitter. He "had been taught 
the most liberal views ; had been en 
couraged to tell fearlessly his opinions ; 



had been told that the truth must be 
spoken at all costs, and adhered to ; had 
learned from watching the highest life 
that had come within his experience, 
that all lives are lost that are not lived 
for others. And now on his first essay 
ing to champion the right ; to teach 
what he thought were the highest, 
purest principles his teacher and exem 
plar turned from him ! 

He could not understand it nor real 
ize it all at once, and had no feeling 
save a great sorrow that was deepening 
down into a corroding bitterness. 

He hated himself for being so sorely 
smitten by the loss of this friend who 
could so easily cast him aside ; and he 
determined that no eye should see his 
sorrow or realize his humiliation. 

He did his evening s work quietly, al 
most mechanically ; told Joe, whose 
keen old eyes watched him question- 
ingly, of the gathering at the school- 
house ; of his speech ; of the fact that 
he feared a real difficulty, and had 
warned the doctor. Told even of the 
horn that had sounded so " thin and 
clear " to call the workmen home. 

He seemed to hear it now, sounding 
through the beautiful tinted air sound 
ing all to rest sounding the last hour 
of his love and trust ! 

It seemed as if he would hear those 
high, clear tones through all the coming 
years. 

And he hastily opened a paper Joe 
had bought from Dan Burk a large, 
important paper from the far away out 
side world. He paused a moment, for 
facing him, in huge type heading the 
telegraphic column, was his own name. 

"J. P. Wilkerson" then, on the 
next line " Great and continued excite 
ment in Eureka ! Townspeople in Arms! 
Mass Meetings held by Wilkerson, the 
schoolmaster, and leading man of the 
town ! Dark threats against the im 
ported workmen ! Notwithstanding his 
immense interests, which may be se 
riously involved, Mr. Paul Henley and 
his guardian, supported by Engineer 
Mills of the Eureka Mines, keep a firm 
front ! Grand article from the Eure 
ka Star written by Wilkerson ! Base 
ingratitude of the latter s position ! " 
Then followed a garbled version of one 
of Jerry s articles. 



JERRY. 



295 



Steadily tie read it all through while 
Joe watched him steadily to the end ; 
then he laid the paper down without a 
word, and sat quite still, looking into 
the fire. 

So this was what was being said of 
him ; this vile caricature was what had 
turned the doctor from him. It could 
not be possible ; it was so absurd that 
even in the midst of his anger it made 
him laugh almost. The people were 
armed, but that was a custom ; who 
would think of going unarmed in that 
wild country ? And there ivere threats 
against the workmen ; but the enormous 
falseness of his position as ungrateful 
and a mob-leader, was manifest must 
be manifest to the doctor. Then his face 
grew darker ; Paul held up as a model of 
manly firmness Paul, who on every oc 
casion quietly stood behind the doctor ! 

" Notwithstanding his immense inter 
ests " ah, that was the keynote ! Paul 
owned all that vast tract of land ; Paul 
would be master of immense wealth 
this was the keynote ; this was what 
made people call him manly, and brave, 
and calm! Money bought all these 
golden opinions money threw a halo 
around his boyhood s enemy ah, the 
power of this pitiful gold ! 

For a long time they sat silent ; Joe 
smoking slowly, and Jerry gazing into 
the fire with the bitterest of bitter 
thoughts surging through his brain, and 
a mass of hatred and anger gathering 
in his heart that would suffice to wreck 
his life. 

At last Paul had gotten the better of 
him. It made no difference that he had 
followed with unfaltering zeal every sug 
gestion that the doctor had ever made to 
him ; it made no difference that he had 
studied and worked beyond his strength 
sometimes ; it made no difference that 
he had admired and loved so faithfully ; 
all this made no difference ; Paul had 
won the day. 

There was some freemasonry among 
these well-born people ; a birth - mark 
that made them understand each other ; 
a class - brotherhood that made them 
stand by each other. He was one of 
the "common herd" and must stand 
back ; a duty had been done by him ; a 
life-long obligation laid on him that held 
him fast bound him hand and foot. 



They could push him to one side and go 
on their way ; but forever he must watch 
that no act of his crossed their paths or 
wishes. 

He hated himself he hated his posi 
tion almost he hated Joe because he 
had not left him to die on the roadside. 

"Well," Joe said, as he carefully picked 
out a suitable coal to light his pipe, " how 
does it suit youuns ? " 

"It is all a stupid lie," Jerry answered, 
with deliberate slowness, as if afraid to 
say too much. 

"Dan Burk says it s orl true," Joe 
went on, " an thet orl the country jest 
swars by youuns," rubbing his hands 
with much satisfaction, " an he says as 
youuns could make the people do any 
thing youuns likes." 

Jerry sat silent ; he was sore and hurt, 
and did not wish Joe to see how much 
he had been humiliated. 

" An it beats me," Joe went on, 
"why youuns don t jest tuck the people 
an make things go youuns way. I d 
jest tuck aholt of Durden s an play the 
devil alonger Eureky an thet Paul Hen 
ley ;" then with a chuckle "Dan allers 
names him Polly, he do." 

Still Jerry sat silent, and Joe could 
not read him ; but Joe s suggestion took 
hold of him with a sweeping grasp : 
why not take this power offered him 
the power of the people and match it 
against the power of money? why not 
take hold of the opportunity now before 
him, and make the first bold stroke for 
his fortune ? why not take the lead and 
be the people s man ? 

So he sat and brooded, while Joe 
smoked diligently and spoke occasional 
ly of the brilliant future that might be 
before Jerry. 

"An Durden s Mine is jest fuller 
gole " he said at last, as if to himself. 
There was something in the tone that 
made Jerry think Joe had unintention 
ally betrayed himself, and he looked up 
suddenly into Joe s eyes ; but after one 
little flicker of the eyelids they did not 
flinch. Steadily the men looked at each 
other, and many things surged into 
Jerry s mind steadily he looked with 
knowledge growing in his eyes and 
shining on Joe steadily, until Joe rose 
restlessly and knocked the ashes out of 
his pipe. 



296 



JERRY. 



" It s time to turn in," lie said, and 
left Jerry sitting in front of the dying 
fire. 

Long he sat there revolving many 
things : piecing together many tiny 
circumstances ; mere straws of cir 
cumstances that now pointed straight 
through the mystery he had not allowed 
himself to try to solve the mystery of 
Joe s money. He remembered quite dis 
tinctly the night Joe had first shown him 
a piece of gold, how he had heard other 
pieces jingle in his pocket ; he recalled 
the strange stories that were kept afloat 
as to the horrors of Durden s Mine, and 
he remembered that Joe had offered to 
buy land for him ; and yet Joe worked 
neither in Durden s nor in Eureka. 

Joe had never trusted him the doc 
tor had turned from him yes, he was 
alone. 

Slowly the cinders fell and were 
buried in the gray ashes; slowly the 
great logs burned through and broke, 
sending wild flurries of red sparkles up 
the broad chimney slowly the night 
waxed and waned. The long procession 
of his days passed before him and left 
him longing for a weary, ragged, silent 
woman with gentle eyes. He turned from 
this first real problem of his life that 
stood up and faced him so relentlessly, 
and almost he longed to return to the 
dense ignorance of his childhood, if so 
he might touch again the love that had 
died for him. He seemed to hear the 
thud of the blow that killed her, and his 
blood crept cold and tingling through 
his veins ! 

" Mammy mammy ! " he whispered, 
while the dead ashes piled in gray 
heaps, and the cold dawn crept under 
the door " Mammy mammy ! " with 
a death-like longing to hold the poor 
work-hardened hand in his. 

What were all the world without some 
love on which to base his life ? 



CHAPTEK VI. 

" Great Need, great Greed, and little Faculty." 

THE next morning the crowd was 
about the school-house door again, and 
the reporter standing in the shade scrib 
bling. Jerry regarded him now as a 



personal enemy ; for he must be the one 
who gave such false pictures of him and 
of Eureka to the world. And yet, 
should not he thank this creature who 
had swept away the film of imaginary 
friendship which had blinded him ? 
clearing his eyes that he might more 
fairly judge of this friend who, when he 
cried for bread, gave him a stone ? 

Jerry did not linger this morning, 
but kept up his long swinging stride 
until he reached the school-house door ; 
and when the people closed about him, 
he did not take his pistols out. 

" Well," he said, looking about him ; 
and the spokesman of the day before 
came to the front. 

" These fellers," he answered, point 
ing to the house where the doctor s 
workmen lodged, " these fellers gits two 
dollars an a half a day." 

" Do you pay it ? " Jerry asked. 

The man shook his head. 

"That ain t the question," he an 
swered ; " the rale thing is jest this- 
away : day in an day out we men have 
been a-pa} 7 in the doctor at the price of 
a dollar a day when we worked out a 
sickness ; " then pausing a moment, " I 
do How that there was never no charge 
for widders and orphins ; but I ain t no 
widder," with much animation, " an I ve 
worked for every blessed baby at a dollar 
a day ! " 

"An me!" 

" An me ! " came from many in the 
crowd. 

" And what work did you do for the 
doctor ? " Jerry asked, determined to be 
just, and feeling bitter enough to hu 
manity at large to keep to his deter 
mination. 

" We chopped wood." 

"Any negro could have done that." 

"An raked the yard," was called out. 

" Or that," Jerry added, scornfully. 

" An worked on the road." 

" And that did you as much good as 
it did the doctor," Jerry cried. 

" An hauled rock." 

" But did not get the rock out." 

"No," fiercely, " but I m a man, I am ; 
an if my work ain t wuth but a dollar a 
day, there ain t nairy a feller that is 
wuth more." 

" Very well," and Jerry put his hands 
in his pockets ; " it has taken me more 



JERRY. 



297 



than ten years to learn enough to teach 
this school, and do any of you pay me a 
dollar a day ? " looking around scornful 
ly " one dollar a month is what the 
richest man in Eureka pays me for 
teaching his child ; and when a man 
sends me two children, he pays me one 
dollar and a half a month to teach them 
both. Did it take you ten years of hard 
work to learn how to rake a yard, or to 
chop wood, or to haul stone? You 
know that it did not you know that 
there is no fool who can say it took him 
more than one day to learn these things ; 
and yet you claim a dollar a day. You 
say your time is worth that much, and 
you know that is a He ; for if you had 
not been working for the doctor, and 
paying him for curing your wives who 
support you, you would have been 
lounging about in Dan Burk s or Dave 
Morris s shop, and drinking up at least 
fifty cents a day. You are not worth a 
dollar a day, anyone of you, and you 
should pay the doctor for keeping you 
away from whiskey. Now I do not 
want to hear any nonsense about this 
land question ; I said it was a sin to 
speculate in land, and I say it still. But 
I say it is a blacker and more damnable 
sin to drink ; to starve your children ; 
to work your wives to skin and bone, 
and then to kill them in some drunken 
fury ! " his eyes flashed viciously on 
the crowd ; it was only a few hours ago 
that in the early dawn he had recalled 
the thud of his mother s death - blow. 
" Have none of you ever beaten your 
wives until they could not move ? Have 
none of you shed the blood of an unof 
fending fellow -man because you were 
crazy with bad whiskey ? I know you 
have : and there is not one man in this 
crowd whose wife is decently clothed 
this day, or his children decently fed. 

" These men who have come to work 
for the doctor are men who have paid 
much money to learn to work as they 
are working now, and they deserve 
what pay they get. You," with infinite 
scorn, " could no more do this work than 
your miserable cur dogs could, and you 
know it. I am not afraid of you, and I 
will tell you the truth if I have to kill 
you afterward, for my pistols are bet 
ter than yours, and I shoot equally 
well," putting his hand on his belt. 



" But this I say : you would be greater 
fools even than I take you to be if you 
attack the doctor or his men. You have 
lost this chance for making money, but 
I will see that another opportunity 
comes to you. Only save your money 
and do not sell what land you own ; 
promise me this and I will be your 
friend through all." 

"It s all blamed true," the spokesman 
acknowledged, " an if you ll watch for 
us we ll be satisfied eh, fellers ? " 

"There s been some damned hard 
words said," one man demurred. 

" But p isen true," another amended. 

" If you say much more, Jim Davis," 
Jerry cried, " I ll flog you like a dog ! " 
He was bitterly angry ; he hated his 
kind ; he would have liked to beat and 
beat, like a brute and cruelly hurt 
something. The words he had said 
helped him because they were so ven 
omously true. He scarcely knew him 
self, so vicious was the change that had 
come over him ; and he stood glaring at 
Jim Davis and almost longing to see 
him step into the ring that at his chal 
lenge the crowd had instantly formed. 

And the reporter across the road 
watched, and listened, and scribbled, 
and Jerry thought what a fine heading 
he was making. The least thing that 
could be said was that he was whipping 
the mob into his views. 

And at last, when Jim Davis backed 
down, Jerry longed to thrash the re 
porter. 

"Well," and he looked around the 
ring of disappointed faces, " you won t 
fight if I have said hard words ; I think 
you are sensible, although I will be hon 
est enough to say that I should like to 
beat somebody to-day." 

" Good for you ! " was called out. 

" I would," Jerry went on ; "I would 
like to whip that man over yonder who 
is writing lies about us to the Eastern 
papers." 

The crowd turned instantly, and as 
the clear voice reached him the reporter 
looked about anxiously for a place of 
retreat. 

" But none of you must touch him," 
Jerry went on " do not dare to touch 
him, for his lies are going to help us. 
I only want you men to keep sober ; to 
save your money, and to save your land ; 



298 



JERRY. 



and the day will come when we can 
show that Eureka and Durden s have 
men in them as good as can be brought 
here." 

" You bet, Mr. Wilkerson ! " and a 
cheer went up from the crowd. 

"And if the strangers determine to 
build up one town, we will build up the 
other, and if you will help me, I know 
the race will be an even one." 

Again the applause rose heartily, and 
the young man felt the thumping of his 
pulses and the surging of the blood in 
his veins. 

" But you must trust me," he went 
on, " and if the time of waiting seems 
long, you must not grow impatient. I 
will promise to watch and to work hon 
estly, for I long to see things change in 
these towns. I came here half dead, 
and one of your number took me in ; 
and the doctor saved my life as he has 
saved the lives of many of you. No man 
must touch him ; no man must dare to 
lift a finger against him or his, for I 
promise to kill the man who does," 
pausing while the crowd swayed uneas 
ily ; then more slowly, "and you know 
I am not afraid ? " looking about as if 
waiting for an answer an answer that 
did not come. "I have nobody in this 
world, and death means very little to 
me ; but while I live I shall try to help 
those about me. I am one of you ; I 
am as poor as you are ; I belong to the 
same class that you do, and ever since 
I have had sense enough to think, I de 
termined to do all in my power to help 
my own class." 

"An* we ll standby yer, Mr. Wilker 
son." 

" I hope you will," more slowly, " for 
if you will not help yourselves, I can 
not help you. I do not wish you to 
come here to the schoolhouse again, but 
I want you to work. Take work from 
anyone who will give it to you, and put 
up your money somewhere else than in 
the whiskey barrels. Now I must go to 
my work ; and remember, I do not get 
a dollar a day." 

He turned and went into the school- 
house with all the excitement gone from 
him, and a weariness creeping over him 
that made him long to lie down and 
die. 

What a fool he had been ! what a wild 



scheme this was that had laid its hold 
on him, and how could he dare to make 
any promises to these people ? 

He shook himself savagely ; his 
scheme was as good as many schemes of 
which he had read schemes that had suc 
ceeded. The doctor had taken Eureka 
as his hobby ; all of his and Paul s in 
vestments had been made there ; why 
should not Jerry take Durden s? It 
was only two miles away ; it had plenty 
of land about it that was still untouched ; 
it had gold ! 

Eureka would fill up rapidly and 
overflow ; these men who promised to 
stand by him must be made to buy the 
land about Durden s must be made 
gradually to sell their lots in Eureka. 
And some day if he could possibly with 
out ingratitude or treason he would 
open a grand new speculation that would 
make Durden shoot far ahead of Eureka ! 
He put his face down in his hands for 
the children had not come yet, and his 
scheme grew and grew before his cov 
ered eyes grew and glittered with ap 
plause and gold, and he saw himself a 
great financial and political success ! 

But behind the gilded picture a far- 
off memory came of a dull, gray even 
ing, when the ghastly snow-clouds hung 
low, and the wind cried up the gorges 
like a human creature ; of a wild leap 
ing stream that wailed as it fell, and 
wrung white, helpless hands ; of a 
child whose soul went out in dim, un- 
realizing sympathy for the water that 
came from the far sun-lighted heights 
to the gloom of the valley. Had it 
come to him then, some dim fore 
shadowing of his life ; some prescient 
dream of the failing from the high en 
deavor to die on the sandy plain ? The 
path roughened and the gorge darkened 
in the picture, and the blackness of des 
olation gathered about it and the water 
that dropped forever ! Never ceasing, 
never failing ; dropping on and on, and 
never making a stream dropping on 
the stillness like a sob or a sigh heavy, 
regular, slow. He could hear it now 
with the broad morning light all about 
him, and he tried to shake himself free 
from the vision of the drawn dead face 
that had so terrified him years ago. He 
was nervous from loss of sleep ; he was 
weakly superstitious ; he was a fool ! 



JERRY. 



299 



And he was glad when the children, 
trooping in, brought him back to the 
tiresome reality of his life. 

Maybe the gold and the success did 
lie down among the dead in the dark 
ness ; still it was more enticing, more 
worth than the narrow, high path of 
duty he had imagined himself travelling 
when he put his shoulder to this educa 
tional wheel. Who would ever realize 
the earnestness of his labor ? who among 
these careless, ignorant little beasts 
would ever look back on him as any 
thing more than the man who had 
taught them their letters? who would 
know the sublime truth of his endeavor, 
the great end he tried to put them in 
training for ? Among the hundreds of 
thousands of schoolmasters, how many 
had been even thanked or reverenced 
how many remembered ? 

So he reasoned from the gospel of 
Justice scarcely knowing the gospel of 
Love. 

CHAPTER VH. 

" Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely 

tried, 

May wreck itself without the pilot s guilt, 
Without the captain s knowledge." 

IT was a bold, wild scheme that he 
had thought out in his long night s 
vigil ; and one too rash for any but a 
young and practically ignorant man to 
have imagined. He had no realization 
of the difficulties that stood in his way ; 
he had no conception of the mass of 
work to be done, nor of the great con 
fidence he must not only inspire but re 
tain before he could make even a be 
ginning. 

He had no thought but of the bitter 
ness and anger that had sprung to life 
in his breast under the injustice of the 
doctor s treatment, and the insulting 
patronage of Paul s manner. He would 
succeed, he would obtain this power and 
hold it ; he would make these people, 
who scorned and distrusted him, at 
least remember him. 

But how should he begin ? 

The question was a momentous one ; 
one wrong move at the beginning and 
he could never recover himself. And 
yet he must begin at once ; he must 
take some steps to keep up the feeling 



he had inspired already. The people 
were in an excited state, and unless 
something were done to fix them, their 
energy, born of disappointed avarice, 
would disperse in a series of street rows. 

He must formulate his scheme at 
once, and make his first move. 

He taught absently, and dismissing 
his school earlier than usual, walked 
down to Dave Morris s shop. A little 
crowd of loungers were grouped about 
the door, and sitting on the counters ; 
the long, narrow room was dark and 
dirty, and pervaded by the mingled 
smells of rancid bacon, bad whiskey, 
and stale tobacco smoke ; and the floor 
almost could have been ploughed and 
planted, so dirty was it. 

Dave Morris s shop was, in truth, the 
most miserable specimen of a poor coun 
try store ; and its frequenters seemed 
to be among the lowest of the low. 

There were women there, too, loung 
ing and drinking as the men were ; and 
girls, and boys, and little children. In 
voluntarily Jerry paused on the thresh 
old ; it was the first time he had seen 
his class in one of its natural and favor 
ite lairs, and the sight was a shock to 
him. Joe and the doctor had kept him 
from even the sight of these things while 
a boy, and since he had been his" own 
master, he had never thought of inves 
tigating this place that had been but a 
name to him. He had read of such 
places, and had heard this special place 
discussed ; but he had not realized the 
degradation of his fellows. 

For a moment he felt ashamed of hav 
ing come there at all, or of having in 
any way associated himself with these 
people. Then the thought came back 
to him, that when first he had looked 
forth to his life in search of a worthy 
work, he had intended to help these peo 
ple. He had intended being a benefac 
tor ; now the scene had shifted his 
motives had changed, and he intended 
to be a master. Still this memory of 
his high motive comforted him a little. 
He had not begun his mission in the 
way he had at first dreamed of doing, 
and it was well that he had not ; for he 
found that to work for these people for 
love or for charity was simply to insure 
a loss of all their faith. They were in 
capable of understanding any such high 



300 



JERRY. 



motives, and what they did not under 
stand they would not trust. 

In all the years that the doctor had 
worked for them, they had come to look 
on him only as a person whose learning 
had had some strange effect on his brain. 
It had taken many years for them to 
learn to trust him ; and at the last, it 
was only because some leaders Eke Lije 
Milton and Dan Burk had stood up for 
him. 

It was hard to convince them that a 
man in his right mind would have done 
all he did for them for thanks only. 
They had never been brought firmly to 
believe it, and the last few months had 
made them know, to their own satisfac 
tion, that their distrust was not mis 
placed. Now they hated him ; while Jerry 
unconsciously had made himself A hero 
by taking his honest and uncompromis 
ing stand on the land question. They 
saw, too, that Jerry was not afraid of 
them ; he had not spared words, and if 
the occasion came, he would not spare 
bullets. 

He was the town s talk, and the peo 
ple s hero ! 

Jerry was not aware of this when he 
stood in the doorway of Dave Morris s 
shop ; but through all his reasoning 
and excuses he was aware that he 
had let go the only thing that could 
excuse his being in that low place he 
was lowered in his own sight, and felt 
penetratingly the disgrace of using such 
tools as these. And yet, though the 
moving motive of his schemes was no 
longer their elevation, yet the success 
of his scheme must elevate them. 

He paused a moment in the doorway, 
thinking angrily how ugly these men 
and women were. Seeing them one at a 
time in the sweet sunshine of the plains, 
or in the shadows of the mountains, they 
were not so revolting ; their surround 
ings were not fitted to them, and so in 
a manner mitigated their wretchedness. 
But here, where everything had been 
selected with a view to suiting their 
tastes where everything was an out 
growth of their own natures, the pict 
ure was horrid in its degradation and 
filthiness. 

" Mr. Wilkerson, you do me proud," 
and Dave Morris, the proprietor, stepped 
forward " what will you have, sir ? " 



" I want the latest paper you have," 
and Jerry laid a small coin on the coun 
ter. 

But Morris was not as yet, nor in small 
coin, to be paid by this rising man ; and 
he spun the little piece of money back 
to Jerry, and slapped the greasy paper 
down in front of him. 

" Hotter cent, Mr. Wilkerson ; not- 
ter cent, sir," he said, grandly, " I ll be 
damned if Dave Morris is the feller to 
take spons from the friend of the peo 
ple, sir ; no, sir ! " 

The little coin still rolled as he spoke, 
and Jerry with his hands in his pock 
ets watched it as it neared the edge of 
the counter and at last dropped on the 
floor at his feet ; then he looked up. 

"I came to buy a paper," he said, 
with a slow disgust that even these peo 
ple could see, " and not to beg one, nor 
to hear you swear at yourself," and he 
turned away, taking the paper up care 
fully because it was greasy, and leaving 
the money on the floor. 

In an instant Dave Morris was over 
the counter, and standing in front of 
his customer ; Jerry stopped and looked 
full in the bloated, brutal face, and the 
thought flashed through his mind that 
this was not the wise " first move " he 
had intended to make. But it was un 
avoidable, and if it ruined his influence 
in the towns? The thought was like a 
reprieve if it ruined his influence he 
could get out of this wretched position. 
" Well," he said ; and the crowd made a 
ring as if they had been drilled to it. 

" Do you think because you ve got a 
little damned learnin that I m agoin to 
take your impidence durn you ! 



vou 



There was one swift blow that scat 
tered the words which would have been 
spoken, and a heavy thud as Dave Mor 
ris measured his length on the floor, 
and Jerry dropping the paper stood 
with a pistol in either hand. 

" I want fair play," he said, looking 
round him in the dead, startled silence 
that followed his quick blow ; for the 
crowd was as much stunned almost as 
Morris. " You can help Mr. Morris up, 
if you like," Jerry went on, stepping 
back a little, " but I want all to under 
stand that I will take neither words nor 
favors." 



JERRY. 



301 



His words rang clear and angry, and 
the reporter in the doorway and the 
outsiders in the street paused to take 
in the meaning. " Take no favors ! " 
this man was crazy. But Jerry did not 
think of them as he stood over his fall 
en foe, who would not get up. Several 
moments he stood there ; then with a 
scornful smile he put away his pistols, 
and picking up the paper turned to the 
door. " I shall be in town all day to 
morrow," he said significantly ; and the 
crowd made way for him to pass. He 
felt more disgusted and angry with him 
self than ever ; he felt dirty and low, 
but he knew that the people were look 
ing at him from every hovel for the 
noise of the fray already had sped from 
lip to lip and that even in the midst of 
his self-contempt he must appear as if 
nothing had happened ; so he opened 
his paper. 

Involuntarily his step slackened as 
again he saw his words and his name 
heading a column. Fiery words that 
he had not written, vile actions that he 
had never contemplated committing* 

He read on and on, walking slowly, 
while his temper got up and his self- 
disgust died a natural death, and as in 
the morning he longed to beat some 
body ; almost he could have turned 
back and again attacked Dave Morris. 
His first feeling of relief in thinking 
that perhaps by striking Dave Morris 
he had destroyed his own growing in 
fluence, and so had freed him from the 
difficulties which were gathering about 
him, had vanished ; and the conscious 
ness that possibly he had done the 
most unwise thing that could have been 
done for his cause, in thus hopelessly 
offending one of Eureka s potentates, 
now added to his irritation. 

Dave Morris was a leader ; a man 
who held in his hands the fates of most 
of the people ; for as they were all in 
debt to him, they were all afraid of 
him. 

Through him Jerry could have 
swayed the town ; could have ruled 
even the whiskey trade, which was his 
greatest enemy. 

Surely he had made a dangerous first 
move. 

Once out of the town and away from 
the oversight of his kind, his pace 



slackened, and he trailed his paper at 
his side. A dangerous first move ; and 
if it ruined him, would it not be bet 
ter to live in peace and quiet up among 
the rocks, pursuing the literary life the 
doctor had trained him for ? live there 
quietly with his own thoughts and 
books for company ? 

Then the sudden recollection came 
to him that now that he could no longer 
go to the doctor s library, he had no 
books. The blood stole slowly up into 
his dark face : how much he owed that 
man ! how boundless was the debt of 
obligation ! 

He folded up the paper and his step 
became firmer ; his scheme must not 
fall through. Already he had changed 
too much, changed through learning 
and unlearning, ever to settle again into 
the still trustfulness of his past life ; 
and he began to review his latest ac 
tion more quietly. He had knocked 
Dave Morris down, thus making an 
enemy of the chief man of the town ; 
but also he remembered that Dave 
Morris had refused to get up ; and 
that the crowd had seen this ; would 
not this tell in his favor ? their chief 
lying prone before them, entirely con 
quered ? 

His eyes flashed a little ; perhaps, af 
ter all, it had been the best and wisest 
thing that could have happened ; and 
his step became more brisk. At all 
events he would tell Joe, and hear his 
judgment of the matter. He made the 
fire and cooked the supper as usual, 
and when Joe came in there was no ex 
tra excitement either in Jerry s voice or 
manner. 

" I had to knock Dave Morris down 
to-day," he began. 

Joe looked up slowly. 

" Dave Morris ?" he repeated. 

" Yes, Dave Morris," and Jerry poured 
out the coffee ; " he cursed me," he went 
on, " and I knocked him down. He was 
afraid to get up," he added, with a lit 
tle satisfaction creeping into his tone, 
" and I told his friends that I would be 
in town all day to-morrow." 

Joe took his cup of coffee. 

"I ll be thar too," he said, quietly ; 
" Dave knows me, an he knows thet no 
body pesters me ner mine, thout thar s 
a buryin ." 



302 



JERRY. 



" You must not take it up, Joe," and 
Jerry s voice had grown softer ; it had 
been so unexpected, this sympathy 
"me or mine " this man loved him. 
There was no duty nor expediency here. 
" I can manage him, Joe," he went on ; 
"you must not get into any difficulty 
for me, I am not worth the trouble." 

Joe cleared his throat. 

"Thet s orl right," he said, "an 
youuns makes me feel bad, Jerry ; 
makes me feel bad like I did when I 
picked youuns up out yander," pointing 
over his shoulder ; " youuns kep on a- 
cryin Mammy, I ain t got nobody ! an 
it jest knocked me orl to pieces, it did," 
pausing thoughtfully in his eating, but 
never raising his eyes to Jerry s face. 
" Youuns talked like me in them days, 
youuns did." 

"And I wish that I had never 
changed," and Jerry s slim, nervous 
hand clasped Joe s rough, work-hardened 
palm. He was tired and excited, and 
this unexpected championship, coming 
so quickly on the heels of the doctor s 
desertion, shook his self-control more 
than he would have thought possible. 
"I remember when I began to try to be 
like the doctor," he went on more rap 
idly, " and I made a mistake, Joe ; I 
would rather be like you." 

"Youuns do me proud, Jerry," was 
all Joe said, nor did he turn his hand 
to take Jerry s ; his class did not under 
stand this kind of sensitive demonstra 
tion ; they said few words and made few 
motions, and both words and motions 
were clumsy. But this man was true ; 
and Jerry felt it with a force and keen 
ness that became pain. This man had 
sheltered, and fed, and clothed him for 
all these years, and now was ready to 
fight his battles. 

A love that had done all, and had 
asked no return ; for the first time this 
fact flashed across Jerry s mind, and 
with it the pain that came with the 
knowledge that he could make no re 
turn. 

He did not love Joe, and never had ; 
from the first he had felt himself Joe s 
equal, and later on his superior ; but 
now the relation between them came 
home to him in a new light, and he re 
alized what it was that had made his 
life so smooth. And now love from 



him to Joe was not natural, and never 
had been cultivated. All these years 
he had loved the doctor, day and night 
his effort had been to please him ; but 
it had gone for nothing : this love had 
been shivered and broken into invisible 
poisoning fragments, and would wound 
him evermore. 

Love Joe ? The question was a new 
one, and he withdrew the hand Joe had 
not taken. He had been a fool to try 
to climb to any height did not height 
mean loneliness ? Why had he striven 
for any more than his class usually need 
ed : was it only because the doctor had 
led him on ? Must there not have been 
something in him that answered to the 
impulse : who knew what there was in 
his blood ? 

He finished his supper in silence, and 
when all was put away he spoke again. 

" There is no need that you should 
go to Eureka, Joe," he said. 

" Mebbe I knows morer about Dave 
Morris an you do, Jerry." 

" Well, he can but kill me," Jerry an 
swered. 

" That s orl," Joe granted, "an killin 
wouldn t mean nuthin to youuns, ner 
nuthin to me, rightly ; but," taking his 
pipe out of his mouth, "it d mean a 
heap if youuns wuz a-lyin har, an 
couldn t lif a eye ner a han when I 
come home," drawing a long breath, 
" it d make a heaper diffrunce," then a 
silence fell between them until Joe spoke 
again : " Ever sense youuns usen to 
squat over thar nigh the fire, an ax me, 
An what s a buryin , Joe? when 
youuns never knowed nuthin ceppen 
what I telled youuns ; ever sense then I 
ain t been satisfy to steddy bout doin 
thout youuns, Jerry, an I ain t agoin 
to be satisfy." 

Jerry rose, and stood looking down 
into the fire ; was it an abounding love 
that remembered the pitiful sayings of 
his childhood ; or was it that in a life 
as empty as Joe s, small things would 
be remembered as long as life lasted ? 
There was no rush of thought nor 
of feeling to raise the annihilating 
storms that sweep through lives that 
are educated and sensitive ; there never 
had been anything for Joe but the mo 
notonous living from day to day. Jer 
ry s train of reasoning failed him ab- 



JERRY. 



303 



ruptly, and all the unexplained things 
in Joe s life rose up before him. 

In this common life there was a mys 
tery he had guessed at only, how could 
he say what there had been ? What did 
he know of Joe s life ? 

He turned slowly. 

" Tell me all about your life, Joe," he 
said. 

For one instant Joe looked up, and 
there was a thrill in the voice that spoke 
to him, and a light in the eyes that 
looked down on him, that he did not un 
derstand, and that made him look away. 

He could not grasp the longing for 
companionship that was moving Jerry 
he thought only, " Jerry is cur us, 
sure ! " 

His life ? 

Joe had never summed it up had 
scarcely realized that he had had the 
spending of a life. 

"I lows as I don t jest onderstand 
youuns, Jerry," he said, slowly. 

Jerry walked across the floor, then 
back. 

"You have lived a long time," he said. 

" Moren sixty yeer," Joe answered ; 
" moren sixty yeer ; but I dunno right 
ly the day, not the rale day," and he 
wondered how this concerned Jerry. 

" And how have you managed to live 
all these years ? " Jerry went on, with a 
hopeless tone creeping into his voice. 

" I most allers had ernough to eat," 
was answered calmly. 

Enough to eat. 

Jerry walked to the door, and out 
along the little path that led to the trail. 
The stars glittered ; the wind that came 
so far seemed to speak to him ; and he 
thought, " Is the soul of Nature the only 
soul that mine can touch ? " 

Did he stand alone, in that he reached 
above the formula " enough to eat ? " 

Up he climbed, unheeding the rough 
nesses, unheading the fatigue ; up until 
he was above the billowy mist that hid 
the plain the flat, helpless plain that 
could not reach to any height. 

And for him, was it any use that he 
should reach up forever? The people 
he thought to raise, did they have any 
other wish in life than Joe had ; did they 
know or want any other answer to his 
question than " I have enough to eat ? " 

Long ago he had toiled, and jour 



neyed, and hoped, and at the end had 
found a barren height and the far plain 
glorified ! 

All about him, as he stood, the moon 
light fell broad and shining ; the ragged 
shadows lay clear-cut and black as ink ; 
the wind rose and fell ; the stars looked 
down like patient eyes, and at his feet 
the silent mist-waves gathered and broke, 
noiseless spirit-waves tearing themselves 
against the cliffs. 

Was it any use to leave the plain? 
Did not the light reach it as surely ; did 
not the streams reach it ; and from the 
heights what else did one see save only 
the plain glorified ? 

Money was all that was needed to 
glorify anything money. 

And up there in the darkness he 
seemed to see the bewildering glitter of 
gold ; he seemed to remember all the 
things done and sacrificed for gold since 
man was made ; since the world smiled 
in its beautiful youth. What caused this 
enchantment ? What had given gold this 
weird power that so enchained all the 
world ; that brought from men their 
bodies and hearts their lives, and honor, 
and souls ? 

Had God made all this fair world, and 
then in all the cracks and crannies put 
this snare this bewildering, shining 
ruin, that the poor souls he had created 
might destroy themselves for it ; delve 
and toil through all their lives for this 
one thing that in itself was nothing ? 

Why should not anything else have 
the same value ; or why should not the 
world find enough to surfeit poor hu 
manity, and make gold a drug in the 
market ? Think of all the vast sums that 
had been gathered and lost ; think of all 
that was in use : think of all that still lay 
hidden in the earth ! Why not gather it 
all together ; work it all out ; scatter it 
broadcast through the nations, and so 
destroy this devilish snare ? Scatter it 
until the world could spend and hoard 
no more, and it would be like the au 
tumnal leaves, or "like as when one 
heweth wood ; " like the poor chips that 
are not worth the gathering. 

How they would glitter and gleam in 
the sunlight, these piles that would be 
gathered for the nations ! How coldly 
they would shine when the moonlight 
fell upon them ! 



304 



JERRY. 



He shook himself. 

He was losing Ms mind. He must go 
home ; Joe would want to shut up the 
house ; and he turned and with deliber 
ate slowness retraced his steps. He had 
climbed a long, rough way without know 
ing it, and the return was very slow. 

He would carry out his scheme ; but 
first he must win the people entirely ; 
and then when all was ready he would 
tell Joe, and search into the worth of 
Durden s Mine. Money was needed for 
the scheme ; and it must be saved, or 
begged, or borrowed ; and to what ex 
tent would Joe help him ? 

It was wild and rash, maybe, this fight 
he was beginning against money and 
station ; but it would be a fair test of 
the stability and worth of the masses. 
Money would be entirely absent from 
their ranks, and the fight would have to 
be fought before any capital could be 
won. It was an interesting problem, 
and one he was beginning to long to 
work out. 

And after? 

He drew a long breath: and after 
would be the gold, and the luxury, and 
the power which would place him on a 
level with his rivals which would let 
him look the doctor in the face and say, 
" I am successful, and in my success I 
thank you, and say, I have been true to 
you always. " 

Success could humble itself and be 
called nobility failure could be servile 
only. 



CHAPTEK 



" We are men of ruined blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise, 
Fisli we are that love the mnd, 
Rising to no fancy flies." 

IT was a still, gray day, with an un 
healthy coolness and dampness in the air 
for August. The clouds hung low and 
heavy ; not a leaf stirred in the gloomy 
gorges, and on the spreading plains there 
was not a movement an unnatural, 
blank stillness, as if the world were dead. 

Jerry walked the long way with even, 
quiet steps ; Joe had gone away long ago, 
but whether to his usual work or to the 
town, Jerry had not asked. No words 
had passed between them as to the pos 
sibilities of the day, and Jerry thought 



it not unlikely that Joe had repented 
him of the rash and generous ardor of 
the night before. 

Slowly he pursued his way, his hat 
drawn down over his eyes, his pistols 
well at hand, and his eyes, and ears, and 
mind all alert for any sign of an enemy ; 
for if Dave Morris struck it would be in 
secret ; a shot from behind some tree or 
rock. 

And what difference would it make? 
If his life were taken, all this difficulty 
would pass away with one or two tri 
umphant shouts from the opposite camp, 
then he would be forgotten save by Joe, 
perhaps. Would be buried out in the 
rain-gullied graveyard, near Lije Milton, 
maybe, whose dead face had come to him 
in Durden s Mine. He remembered so 
well as he tramped along in the gray 
stillness, the terror and wonder of that 
time, and the signs that Joe had read in 
the circumstances. And the doctor s ex 
planations, that he well remembered ex 
plained nothing. The doctor had turned 
his mind away only ; had thrown on him 
the burden of an explanation. 

"Do you expect to buy Durden s 
Mine ? " he had asked, " else, why should 
Lije Milton come to you ? " Buy Dur 
den s Mine ? how strange it all seemed 
that now he should want to buy Durden s 
Mine and the question came up to him, 
how could he find out about it, and who 
owned it now ? 

The doctor would know, and perhaps 
Engineer Mills, but they were enemies ; 
could he ask Joe ? 

He paused a moment : he had had so 
many suspicions, would it be quite hon 
est to ask Joe ? Of course it would ; it 
showed a darker suspicion still for him 
to hesitate. If he knew where to find 
Joe he would go back at once and ask 
him. 

He walked on slowly ; his school 
would be waiting, and if he were not 
there Dave Morris would declare him a 
coward ; and all the unwise impatience 
which he had shown yesterday, and 
which he might at this juncture turn to 
good, would be used against him. 
Twenty-four hours would make no dif 
ference in his knowledge of Durden s 
Mine. 

At last the town was reached, and all 
was as quiet as if no creature had ever 



JERRY. 



305 



heard of a railway. The doctor s corps 
of workmen stood about the door of 
their house waiting to start to their 
work, and up and down the street 
Jerry could see the children loitering, 
waiting for the school-bell to ring. 

There was no sign of any excitement, 
and Jerry unlocked the door with a lit 
tle feeling of surprise that his orders 
should be obeyed so literally. 

Slowly the hours of the morning came 
and went, and at last the miners bell 
for dinner rang, and, the children dis 
persing to their homes, Jerry opened 
his dinner-bucket. 

He was provoked almost that he had 
heard nothing of his yesterday s broil ; 
he had expected certainly, before this 
hour, some threat or overture from 
Morris, and was a little disappointed at 
the quiet of the day. Later he would 
walk up the street and get another pa 
per ; the mail came in again this day, 
and he wanted to see the latest accounts 
of himself, and of the town. 

Would Morris sell a paper to him, he 
wondered ? A knock came at the outer 
door, a quiet, respectful knock as of one 
who hesitated to disturb him. 

" Come in ! " he called. 

And hat in hand, Dave Morris stood 
before him. 

" Good-mornin , Mr. Wilkerson." 

" Good-morning," and Jerry rose with 
his hand well round on his hip. 

" Hope you don t bear no malice, Mr. 
Wilkerson ? " Morris asked, leaning on 
the back of the chair Jerry had offered 
him. 

" I have no need to bear malice," Jerry 
answered, looking him over from head to 
foot. 

" Thet s true," slowly, not looking up, 
" the knock come from you ; " then sit 
ting down, " but I ve come for peace to 
day, durned if I ain t." 

" No cursing, please," and Jerry before 
he sat down laid a pistol on the table. 

Morris paused a moment, while a dull 
red heat crept up his face ; why did not 
he kill this young man ? But this ques 
tion found no utterance, and he began 
slowly : 

"I ve come to say, Mr. Wilkerson, 
thet if there s anything I kin do to help 
you on a bit, I m ready ; I m your friend, 
I am." 



Jerry gathered up the remains of his 
lunch and put them back into the bucket. 

" An if you want me to stop the fel 
lers from buyin whiskey," Morris went 
on, " I kin do it," looking up slowly ; 
"I heard you the mornin that you said 
for the fellers not to put up their money 
in my whiskey barr ls ; an I m agreed to 
it provided, "pausing and fixing his eyes 
on Jerry s eyes that looked at him so 
steadily " provided I know your idea," 
cautiously. 

" I have none," and Jerry cocked and 
uncocked his pistol carelessly. 

By some means whether fear, or 
hope of gain, Jerry could not decide 
this man had been made auxious to join 
him, and Jerry saw his advantage. 
Again the trigger of the pistol clicked 
sharply in the silence. 

Morris moved his chair uneasily ; a 
loaded pistol turned about recklessly in 
another man s hand is not a pleasant or 
reassuring sight. 

" You had ideas the mornin you talked 
to the fellers," Morris said at last. 

" And you heard them," Jerry an 
swered. 

"I did, but I think I d like to hear 
em again." 

There was a moment s pause, then 
Jerry answered : " I told them that I 
wanted them to take all the work they 
could get, never mind who gave it to 
them ; I told them I wanted them to 
keep whatever land they owned either 
in Eureka or in Durden s ; I told them 
that I would watch for them, and that 
whichever town the strangers built up, 
we would build up the other ; I told 
them that when the time came we 
should need money, and that they 
must save all they could." He ceased, 
and Dave Morris s small, bleared eyes 
watched him keenly. 

" An you ll build up a town without 
no money ? " he asked. 

" I have said we would need money," 
Jerry answered, curtly, "and that the 
people must save it." 

" Live at a dollar a day and save 
money ? " 

" It can be done easily." 

"An then what?" skeptically. 

Jerry looked up coldly. 

" I do not know why I should tell you 
my plans," he said. 



306 



JERRY. 



" You don t don t you ? " and Morris 
put a piece of tobacco in his mouth with 
a swaggering air. " I tell you I kin save 
more money far you in Eureky than all 
the men there." 

" Do it, then." 

Morris looked at him with distrust in 
his eyes ; no man who was not entirely 
independent would speak so shortly ; 
and he answered slowly : 

" Thet s right easy said, Mr. Wilker- 
son; but I don t know that I m goin 
to stop a good whiskey trade without 
knowin what s to do afterwards." 

Jerry was silent for a moment : what 
Morris said was true ; it would be use 
less to try to save the people s money as 
long as Morris sold them whiskey ; nor 
could he expect him to stop his chief 
trade without some prospect of compen 
sation ; yet to reveal his plans would be 
ruin ; and Jerry was puzzled. 

Dan Burk ! the name flashed into his 
mind like a beam of light. Burk was a 
higher type, and could manage Morris 
and Eureka too. 

" Very well," Jerry answered care 
lessly, while his plans formed themselves 
rapidly in his mind, "if you cannot 
trust me, you need not help me. Be 
sides, I think my work will lie in Dur- 
den s, and there are those there who will 
do as I wish and ask no questions;" 
then laying down his pistol, and cross 
ing his arms on the table, he looked 
straight into Morris s face. " I will give 
you a friendly warning," he said ; " your 
trade is going to fail you : the men who 
live here, soon will have no money to 
spend at your shop, for the new peo 
ple who come will rather employ the 
new men who come with them, and 
there will not be work enough for all. 
More than this, new people who know 
what decent things are will not trade 
with you, and you will be simply crowd 
ed out." 

Morris s face flamed with color ; he 
shuffled his feet restlessly, while his 
hand sought the leather belt about his 
waist. Jerry did not seem to heed him, 
and only changed his position sufficient 
ly to begin again his idle play with his 
pistol. 

" This place will be taken in hand by 
great capitalists," he went on quietly, 
" and the people here can expect to hold 



their own only a little while longer; 
then they must move further west, or 
retreat to Durden s. They have made 
enemies of two of the leading men, and 
must expect no favors." 

" An you done it for em ! " Morris 
broke in angrily. 

" And am glad that I did," was an 
swered coolly, " for now I can put them 
in a better condition than ever before ; 
and make money faster for them ; only 
they must trust me." 

Morris s whole expression changed, 
and he leaned forward eagerly. 

" Is Dan Burk the feller ? " he asked, 
"is he the feller you think of to help 
you?" 

Jerry laughed a little. 

" So long as you are not the man," he 
answered, " I do not know that any part 
of this scheme is your business." 

Morris rose hastily. 

" Damn " then his voice died away 
in his throat, for Jerry s pistol covered 
him, and its little mouth looked huge, 
and the shining hammer was drawn far 
back ! One moment he glared on the 
quiet, dark face opposite, then sat down 
slowly ; and Jerry, who had not moved, 
laid his pistol down and waited for 
Morris to speak. He had not long to 
wait, then Morris asked sullenly : 

"What ll you pay me to stop the 
whiskey trade ? " 

" Nothing." 

" An how s it goin to help me ? " an 
ger creeping into his voice again. 

"You will be a more honest man," 
Jerry answered, smiling, " and will al 
low other men to be more honest and 
decent, and you will be better in 
health." 

" An my fambly ll starve." 

"Not more than other families you 
have ruined." 

" Mr. Wilkerson " menacingly ; but 
the children began to come in, and 
Jerry rose. 

" I will be here this afternoon at five," 
he said, "and to-morrow at twelve if 
you wish to see me again." 

Baffled and angry, Morris rose. There 
was something in this young man that 
he could not grapple with ; he hated him 
bitterly for his insults and slights that 
would have cost any other man his life, 
but he was afraid of him. Morris had 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



307 



killed men for far less. But now he 
stood twisting his hat about in his hands, 
while Jerry watched him, and waited for 
his going watched and waited silently, 
with his eyes fixed on the ugly, sullen 
face. It was only a moment or two he 
had to wait, then the greasy old hat was 
donned, and Morris turned to the door. 
" I ll come to-morrer," he said, and made 
his way out through a group of chil 
dren. 

Jerry drew a long breath, partly of 
satisfaction, partly of doubt. Had he 
been wise to refuse so entirely this 
man s support and assistance, basing his 
plans on Dan Burk, to whom he had not 
as yet spoken on the subject? And 
would Morris come again to-morrow, or 
would he form a rival party ? 

The long, gray afternoon dragged 
its weary length ; the children droned 
through their lessons ; and in the 
pauses the crickets cried their ceaseless 
monotone. Nothing stirred in the 
clouded stillness ; and when the tasks 
were done and the children dismissed ; 
when the gray day showed its death by 



growing yet more gray and still, Jerry 
heard the bugle call rise soft and clear 
echoed back by the great mountains un 
til it died slowly from the world. 

There was an inexplicable pain to him 
in the sound of that horn, almost as if 
he had been called and could not an 
swer could not go. As if he had left 
all he cared for ; as if in some unwill 
ing way he had descended from his 
sphere and station. 

Then with a bitter scorn of self he 
would remember that he had been born 
to no station, as the meaning of the 
word was taken ; and the sphere he 
had moved in until it seemed his by 
right, had been opened to him through 
charity. He was only one of the " com 
mon herd " a favorite phrase of Paul s 
one who would have to make a name 
and place ; and who would have only 
such foothold in life as he cut for him 
self. 

He laughed a little bitterly. 

" A key of gold fits most locks," he 
said to himself as he went his way up 
the rough mountain path. 



(To be continued.) 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 

V. TO HIS OWN PEOPEETY. 

By James S. Norton. 



IT is quite beyond the purpose of this 
article to discuss the origin or devel 
opment of the idea of property, or 
the history of the various concessions 
which the individual owner has been com 
pelled to make to the public necessity. 
From time to time within the history of 
the Common Law, the people have secur 
ed for themselves safeguards against the 
exactions of the government, until it has 
become the maxim of modern civilization 
that no citizen shall be deprived of life, 
liberty, or property, without due pro 
cess of law ; and from time to time the 
exigencies of society have compelled 
the surrender of individual preferences, 
privileges, and rights, to the needs of 
the government; or the community, un 



til the citizen holds his property subject 
to the requirements of the State, and 
may not devote it to any use prejudicial 
to the interests of the public, or, within 
certain limits, tending to the injury of 
his neighbor. 

Thus, he may own a city lot, in that 
he may sell it and appropriate the pro 
ceeds to his own use, or give it to aid 
some benevolent object, or devise it to 
his family or friends, or build upon it 
some structure in which he may reside 
or conduct his business without pay 
ment of rent ; but if he sell or devise, 
he must conform to laws regulating con 
veyances or wills, framed for the protec 
tion of titles ; if he build he must observe 
municipal ordinances designed to pro- 



308 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



mote the public safety ; if lie occupy it 
he must regard the health, comfort, and 
property rights of his neighbors. He 
may claim protection by the law in the 
proper and peaceable enjoyment of his 
property ; but his property must pay its 
ratable share of the expense of maintain 
ing order, and providing the conveni 
ences of urban life, under penalty of 
confiscation. The State cannot arbitra 
rily dispossess him and bestow his land 
upon another without compensation ; 
but it may seize his property and apply 
it to the payment of his debts ; it may 
destroy his house to save others, or ap 
propriate his land to public uses, upon 
payment of compensation to be deter 
mined by its legal machinery. 

At the present day it would be diffi 
cult to specify any class of property held 
by the private citizen, wholly exempt 
from the claims of the public as repre 
sented by the State. On the other hand, 
it would be painful to contemplate social 
conditions under which absolute rights 
of individuals could be maintained. The 
power to tax the citizen and his property 
is one which is granted of necessity to 
every state by its citizens, and is based 
upon theories of public necessity and 
the equitable distribution of the expenses 
of government. So long as it is exer 
cised for a public purpose and with uni 
formity, according to the value of prop 
erty, this power is limited only by the 
discretion of the legislature. The only se 
curity against wanton abuse of it is found 
in our representative form of govern 
ment. Those who are chosen for their 
special fitness to represent the common 
interests of all ; who must suffer in their 
own estates the penalty of unwise or ex 
travagant taxation ; who are responsible 
to their constituents for every derelic 
tion of their sacred trust, and whose fair 
fame is, of course, dearer to them than 
the possible gains of official corruption 
such men will hardly abuse this tre 
mendous power for personal advantage. 

This is the theory of our government 
that legislators and local officers will 
be inspired by zeal for the public wel 
fare ; and there is here and there an 
optimist who finds circumstantial evi 
dence of this inspiration in the history 
of his own time and party. In theory, 
as it is stated by eminent authority, " the 



legislature cannot, in the form of a tax, 
take the money of the citizens and give 
it to an individual, the public interest 
or welfare being in no way connected 
with the transaction." So, in theory, 
justices of the peace cannot grant di 
vorces ; but a Western justice punctured 
this theory recently by the remark that 
he knew better as he had granted sev 
eral himself. 

This power with which the State is so 
liberally endowed is by it delegated, in 
part to the municipal and quasi munici 
pal corporations created for the admin 
istration of local government ; though in 
some States the power of such corpora 
tions to raise money by general taxation 
is limited to a certain percentage of the 
assessed value of property within the 
district of taxation ; but special assess 
ments of property for local public im 
provements, which may be considered 
as a form of taxation, may be carried to 
such extent as may be required by 
public necessity or the local spirit of en 
terprise ; provided only that the pro 
posed improvement shall be of a public 
character, and that the cost thereof shall 
be levied on lands according to the es 
timated benefit to be conferred, or, in 
some States, in cases of street improve 
ment, according to frontage on the 
street. The legal machinery by means 
of which this power of taxation is exer 
cised, is too complex for description 
here, even with reference to a single 
state ; but it may be said in general 
terms that it involves the assessment of 
values or special benefits, as the case 
may be, by an officer or board elected 
for that purpose ; and that there is, in 
most states and cities, great scope for 
injustice by means of excessive and un 
equal assessments, as well as by extrav 
agant and unnecessary expenditure of 
public money. 

When the extent of this power is 
considered, in connection with the op 
portunities for its abuse by incompe 
tent or corrupt officers, it will be seen 
that the citizen s right to his "own" 
property falls somewhat short of abso 
lute dominion. 

In addition to this power of taxation, 
there is inherent in every sovereignty 
the power to take, damage, or destroy 
the property of the citizen, in the in- 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



309 



terest of the public, by the exercise of 
that superior right of property known 
as the Eminent Domain. 

This power may be invoked for 
various objects, as for the construction 
of railroads, canals, public streets, roads 
and bridges, parks, water-works, ferries, 
drains, school-houses, cemeteries, mills 
in some states and other works of 
public necessity or convenience, upon 
condition that compensation shall be 
awarded and paid to the owner. In 
certain states it is provided by statute 
that the proper compensation shall be 
determined by a jury, and paid by the 
state, or corporation seeking condem 
nation of property, before taking pos 
session, but this rule is not uniform, or 
essential to the protection of the cit 
izen. In several states the assessment 
or award is made by commissioners 
appointed for the purpose, and pay 
ment of compensation is not a condi 
tion precedent to taking possession, the 
owner being remitted to his legal action 
to enforce payment. 

Thus the citizen must consider his 
property at all times as for sale to the 
city, if needed for streets or public 
grounds or buildings ; to a railroad 
company if required for its purposes, 
or to such other of the several public 
corporations, permitted by the State to 
exercise the right of Eminent Domain, 
as may find it necessary or convenient ; 
and at a price, to be fixed by a jury or 
commission, which is limited to the 
actual market value of the property in 
cash : and in case of the interruption or 
destruction of his business, he may be 
awarded compensation for injuries re 
sulting directly from the condemnation, 
but not for others perhaps quite as real 
and serious, but not clearly demon 
strable under the rules of evidence. 

Or, if his property be applied to any 
use, or occupied in any manner, declared 
by the legislature or the courts to be 
prejudicial to the public welfare, the 
"nuisance" so created may be abated 
by summary means and without com 
pensation, even though it involve the 
destruction of buildings or render the 
property practically worthless by pro 
hibition of the only use to which it is 
adapted. 

This "Police Power" of the State, as 
VOL. vni. 29 



it is termed, is one of vast scope, and 
its limitations may not be readily de 
fined. Indeed, certain recent opinions, 
emanating from courts of high author 
ity, seem to warrant the definition of 
this power as the general authority of 
the legislature to supervise and control 
all business transacted within the State 
to such extent as it may deem expedient 
for the public good. 

In the year 1876 this question was 
presented to the Supreme Court of the 
United States, in various forms, by a 
series of appeals from state courts in 
what are known as the " Granger Cases ;" 
and we have but to examine the opin 
ions filed in those cases, and certain later 
adjudications by the same court, if we 
would escape the popular fallacy that a 
man really owns his own property. 

In 1871 the legislature of Dlinois de 
fined and classified public warehouses, 
and fixed a maximum rate to be charged 
for storage of grain. Certain private 
citizens of Chicago, who had erected 
extensive elevator buildings and were 
engaged as copartners in carrying on 
the business of receiving and storing 
grain therein at the time of the enact 
ment in question, failed to take out a li 
cense under the new law, or to comply 
with its provisions relating to rates of 
storage, and were prosecuted. This case 
necessarily presented certain questions 
of great importance touching the right 
of the individual to the use and control 
of his own property. It was not the 
case of a corporation, to which had been 
given extraordinary powers to equip it 
for public service, and which was there 
fore subject to control by the public ; 
nor did it present any of those questions 
relating to the public health, safety, or 
morals, which would clearly justify the 
intervention of the police power of the 
State. The Supreme Court of Illinois, 
by a bare majority, held the law to be 
valid, although it was argued with great 
force on behalf of the warehousemen 
that it was unconstitutional, in that it 
operated to* deprive them of their prop 
erty without due process of law. The 
Supreme Court of the United States af 
firmed this decision by a majority opin 
ion in which it is expressly stated that 
the case has received long and careful 
consideration "on account of the vast 



310 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



importance of the questions involved." 
In that case the court concluded from 
the facts of record, that the proprietors 
of elevators in Chicago enjoyed a "virt 
ual monopoly " of a business which was 
of general interest and public character, 
and stated the law as applicable to the 
case in these words: "Property does 
become clothed with a public interest 
when used in a manner to make it of 
public consequence, and affect the com 
munity at large. When, therefore, one 
devotes his property to a use in which the 
public has an interest, he, in effect, grants 
to the public an interest in that use, 
and must submit to be controlled by 
the public for the common good, to the 
extent of the interest he has thus cre 
ated." 

This language has been severely 
criticised by lawyers and judges, and 
by none more severely than by the dis 
senting members of the Supreme Court. 
Mr. Justice Field says, in the same 
case : "If this be sound law, if there 
be no protection either in the principles 
upon which our republican government 
is founded, or in the prohibitions of the 
Constitution against such invasion of 
private rights, all property and all busi 
ness in the State are held at the mercy 
of a majority of its legislature. The 
public has no greater interest in the 
use of buildings for the storage of grain 
than it has in the use of buildings for 
the residences of families, nor, indeed, 
anything like so great an interest ; and 
according to the doctrine announced, 
the legislature may fix the rent of all 
tenements used for residences, without 
reference to the cost of their erection. 
If the owner does not like the rates 
prescribed he may cease renting his 
houses." 

In a series of railroad cases decided 
after the warehouse case, and in which 
the court held that the legislatures of 
the several states might regulate the 
rates to be charged by railroads for 
transportation of passengers and freight, 
and that, although the roacls were en 
titled to reasonable compensation, the 
legislature alone could determine what 
was " reasonable," Mr. Justice Field, 
in a dissenting opinion on behalf of 
himself and Mr. Justice Strong, remarks 
with reference to the warehouse case, 



which the court had followed as a pre 
cedent, that " that decision, in its wide 
sweep, practically destroys all the gua 
ranties of the Constitution and of the 
Common Law invoked by counsel for 
the protection of the rights of the rail 
road companies ; " and again : " that 
decision will justify the legislature in 
fixing the price of all articles and the 
compensation for all services. It sanc 
tions intermeddling with all business 
and pursuits and property in the com 
munity, leaving the use and enjoyment 
of property and the compensation for its 
use to the discretion of the legislature." 
It may be argued, of course, that the 
declaration of the court in the ware 
house case, so far as it applies to other 
classes of property than that directly in 
controversy in that case, may be regard 
ed as a mere dictum ; but as it is a care 
fully considered statement of the gen 
eral principle on which the decision is 
based, and as the same court has not 
seen fit to modify it materially in any 
of the later cases in which it has been 
discussed and criticised, it must be 
taken as the deliberate exposition, by 
our highest tribunal, of the relative 
rights of the public and the individual 
citizen to that which the latter is accus 
tomed to call his own property. 

If it be the law of the land that the 
citizen who " devotes his property to a 
use in which the public has an interest," 
or enjoys a " virtual monopoly," must 
submit to be controlled by the public to 
the extent of its interest therein, and if 
even his right to a reasonable compen 
sation for the use of his property or his 
services in connection therewith means 
nothing more than the right to receive 
whatever the legislature shall arbitrarily 
declare to be a reasonable compensation, 
it is but a step if at all further to the 
doctrine that the public may also deter 
mine for itself, and finally, when prop 
erty is " used in a manner to make it of 
public consequence and affect the com 
munity at large," or in other words, 
when it, the public, " has an interest " 
therein ; and then it may be said, in 
general terms, that a man s right to his 
property depends upon the will of the 
legislative majority. When we con 
sider the infinite subdivision of labor, 
the interdependence of trades, profes- 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



311 



sions, and all the business classes, and 
the complicated and delicately adjusted 
mechanism of that great modern engine 
called Commerce, it is really not easy to 
say what legitimate, well managed, and 
successful business may not be consid 
ered to be of " public consequence," or 
to " affect the community at large," and 
therefore to be subject to public con 
trol. 

It is possible, of course, that the Su 
preme Court has gone no further than 
would be consistent with a proper the 
ory of society, based upon modern con 
ditions. On that question I shall vent 
ure no opinion. But tested by the 
principles and precedents by which it 
professes to be guided, its language in 
this case seems to be singularly inaccu 
rate a fault not often to be found in 
its opinions and must inevitably tend 
to encourage usurpation by legislative 
majorities. There is indeed some indi 
cation of late that the court perceives 
this, and is disposed to qualify its for 
mer doctrine. In a recent case, decided 
in March, 1890, a statute of Minnesota, 
enacted in 1887, creating a railroad and 
warehouse commission, and providing 
that all charges for transportation "shall 
be equal and reasonable," and empower 
ing the commission to compel a carrier 
to adopt such rates as the commission 
" shall declare to be equal and reason 
able," without providing for any hearing 
before the commission, was held to be 
unconstitutional, as depriving carriers of 
their property without due process of 
law. The question of the reasonable 
ness of the rate charged is said by the 
court to be " eminently a question for 
judicial investigation, requiring due pro 
cess of law for its determination." This 
is clearly a modification of the doctrine 
laid down in the warehouse case and the 
"Granger cases" already referred to 
so clearly that Mr. Justice Bradley, in a 
dissenting opinion, declares that it 
"practically overrules" those cases, in 
which, he says, the governing principle 
was that the regulation of such rates, 
and the determination of their reason 
ableness, is strictly a legislative prerog 
ative, and not a judicial one. In this 
case, moreover, the court appears to 
modify somewhat its former views as to 
what constitutes the " property " of the 



citizen and the "deprivation " which is 
prohibited by the Constitution except 
upon compensation and by due process 
of law ; but it has not greatly changed 
its doctrine concerning the "Police 
Power" of the State. It leaves wide 
open still the question as to what busi 
ness may be subject to public control be 
cause of general interest to the commun 
ity. Indeed, in a still later case, now 
popularly known as the " Original Pack 
age case," three of the Associate Jus 
tices unite in declaring that "the Police 
Power includes all measures for the pro 
tection of the life, the health, the prop 
erty, and the welfare of the inhabitants, 
and for the promotion of good order 
and the public morals." 

Giving full force to the very compre 
hensive terms used by the Supreme 
Court, it would be safe to say that the 
property of the citizen is subject to such 
control by the public as the latter may 
be interested to exercise, but hazardous 
to attempt to define the classes of pri 
vate property which are or may be 
clothed with such a public interest as to 
justify interference by the government. 
But for the fact that the Supreme Court 
must be presumed to understand the 
language of the country, in both its 
technical and ordinary acceptation, one 
might guess with some reason that it 
had been careless in stating the doctrine 
in question, and that its opinion in the 
warehouse case ought not to be taken as 
a precedent, except in cases where prop 
erty is devoted to a public service. 
Within this limitation the doctrine has 
since been extended to "grist" mills 
and water- works. In the " Civil Rights 
cases " it was said by Mr. Justice Har- 
lan to be applicable to places of public 
amusement, since they are used in a 
manner to make them of public conse 
quence and affect the community at 
large ; but I am not advised of any case 
in which it has been applied to cler 
gymen, undertakers, or certain others 
whose services affect the community. 

As to corporate property, courts and 
legislatures have left small room for dis 
cussion. If any stockholder needs to be 
further admonished of the fact that cor 
porations are but creatures of the peo 
ple, let him await the next judicial ut 
terance on the subject. It will not be 



312 



THE RIGHTS OF THE CITIZEN. 



long delayed ; for just now the excellent 
doctrine of corporate subjection is in 
the prime of life and asserts itself with 
frequency and vigor. The president of 
a well-known railway company recently 
published an article advocating the pur 
chase and operation of railroads by the 
government. It was regarded by many 
as a grim jest ; but inasmuch as the 
government has already assumed so 
largely the control of their operation, 
the proposition of the stockholders, that 
the public should assume also the risk 
and expense of operating them, is not so 
obvious a joke as to pass without chal 
lenge. It should be observed, however, 
that the inconsistencies and excesses of 
the public, in its treatment of this sub 
ject, do not necessarily condemn the 
whole procedure. The old doctrine of 
the vested rights and sacred charters of 
corporations was founded on error, and 
came to be recognized as dangerous to 
interests far more important than the 
gains of stockholders. It was time for 
government to realize that it had no 
right to abdicate its trust that it had 
no power to grant irrevocable privileges, 
as against the general welfare of the 
people. At present this newly awakened 
solicitude for the public weal seems likely 
to carry us beyond the bounds of tem 
perate action ; but it cannot be that we, 
as a people, shall long ignore the folly 
of discouraging enterprise, and intimi 
dating capital, by petty restrictions and 
unjust discriminations. We shall soon 
cease to regard corporations as the nat 
ural foes of good government. We may 
even come to regard the prevailing hos 
tility to these agents of government as 
an oblique menace to the State itself 
especially when expressed by combina 
tions formed and maintained at the ex 
pense of the public. 

At the time when these words are 
written, the operations of a great West 
ern railway are suspended because of a 
" strike ; " and this concerted action of 
an army of employees is based upon the 
refusal of the railway company to dismiss 
an efficient but unpopular superintend 
ent. The public, which has been so 
eager to curb the rights of stockholders, 
who draw dividends from the business 
conducted on their capital, is indifferent 
to the action of these employees who 



draw wages for their labor in the same 
business. If the corporation is held to 
strict performance of its duty as a public 
servant, should not its agents, who live 
upon its business, be held to some ac 
count at least for combinations made 
to obstruct a public service as a means 
to satisfy the personal grudge of a few 
individuals ? 

There remains but one other right of 
the citizen, concerning his own property, 
to be considered. He is permitted to 
give it away, under certain restrictions. 
During his lifetime he may bestow it 
gratis, except that he may not thereby 
impair the rights of his wife or creditors, 
or divest it of the burden imposed by 
the public ; and dying, he may dispose 
of it by will, subject to similar charges, 
and, in some states, certain statutory 
rights of children, and succession taxes. 
Observing these proper conditions, the 
citizen may give away his property ad 
libitum ; and it has long been a matter of 
surprise and regret at least to the im 
pecunious philosopher that so few avail 
themselves of this privilege during their 
lifetime. The records of our courts teem 
with cases in which the intentions of 
testators have been defeated by legal 
technicalities invoked by greedy heirs ; 
and it would seem that this constantly 
recurring spectacle ought to deter men 
from confiding their property exclusive 
ly to courts for distribution. 

One may excuse the merchant who ac 
cumulates to gratify a commercial am 
bition, and uses his millions as fuel for 
legitimate enterprise, or the man of any 
class who seeks to assure the comfort of 
those dependent upon him ; but for 
those men not a few who by inheri 
tance or otherwise have acquired wealth 
far in excess of their proper need or the 
need of those to whom they owe the 
debts of kinship, and cling to it for the 
mere satisfaction of seeing it increase 
and feeling the sense of ownership, there 
ought to be no forgiveness on earth. 
At such men is aimed the last sugges 
tion of this paper that the right, with 
reference to his own property, in which 
the citizen is least restrained, is the 
right to give it away ; and that this 
right is of all the most precious, to 
him who sees the just relation of prop 
erty to human happiness. 




Mantel in the Wister House, Germantown, Pa. 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 

By Donald G. Mitchell. 



ERST of all, in broaching the topic 
assigned me, I must venture upon 
a little preliminary talk about what 
is really meant by the term Country 
House. There are those in these times 
who would persuade us that all country 
houses as implying country homes are 
going clean out of date. It was only a few 
weeks back that I fell upon the reading 
of a three-column article in a great met 
ropolitan journal, which set forth the 
notion that no sensible, well-cultured 
person ought in future to entertain any 
purpose of living in the country, or of 
going there in any domiciliary way, ex 
cept for a brief outing in the heats of 
summer ; and this " able " writer blew 
such a cloud of logical dust in one s eyes 
as caused the trees and the fields to take 
on a blurred look, and made an old-fash 
ioned man s love for them seem quite 
-disreputable. 

Nevertheless, I count it not altogether 
VOL. VIII. 30 



presumptuous to suppose, and even con 
fidently to believe, that people of consid 
erable parts will continue to establish 
themselves and their homes in the coun 
try, and to wrestle with its disadvan 
tages, through longer or shorter series 
of years. 

It is not of those suburban dwellers 
that I speak now, who come to the coun 
try for their sleepings and their Sun 
days, but whose interests and engage 
ments hold all their energies to task 
work between the w r alls of city houses. 
I can understand how these people, who 
are shot in grooves back and forth be 
tween their city working-places and those 
outside harbors where they anchor at 
nightfall, should equip these harbors of 
refuge with a great many of the coquet 
ries of architecture, and lavish upon 
them much goodly spoil of horticulture ; 
but it is not of these suburban rests 
(I had almost said roosts) that I am 



314 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



to speak, but rather of those houses, home, as we understand it, may be 
inland, which make more determinate counted this ever-ready openness fires 
homes, and which involve an acquaint- that do not go out, portraits of our 




Rock Hall, near Rockaway, Long Island. 



ance with the summer noonings as well 
as the summer nights. 

Again, it is needful to exclude from 
present discussion those architectural 
retreats of the mountains, or by the 
shore, which are only known to the hold 
ers, and only enjoyed during August and 
September heats ; and so whatever 
dances may enliven them, or whatever 
dinners or guests make them gay nev 
er get the qualities of a country family 
homestead. 

I know very many of these summer 
ing places are, in these latter years, 
specially taking on an importance and 
a fulness of equipment that may even 
match the city homes of their owners ; 
but if they get every autumn a double 
fastening of the cupboards, and a pad 
locking of the gates, and such dispersion 
of all servitors as forbids any blue pen 
non drifting from the chimney-tops in 
winter, and any welcoming bound of the 
house-dog (if the owner pays visit), they 
belong only to that category of half- 
homes with which we are not now con 
cerned. Among the qualities which mark 
and differentiate the country house and 



grandfathers and mothers (if we have 
them) upon the wall, and gardens that 
get their belaboring with the spade 
as surely as every spring comes. A man 
may indeed divide his honors, if he have 
enough, and, like Queen Victoria, equip 
one home with Tudor ancestors, and 
sanctify another with the Hanoverian 
portraits ; but barred gates and a sum 
mer rioting of weeds on house-paths 
make a desertion in which a sturdy 
home sentiment, that ought to lurk in 
all country houses, cannot grow. 

Again, it does not appear to me that 
the good countryish qualities of house 
and home are to be measured exactly 
by distance from cities. Garden sanc 
tities and charms may thrive in the very 
shadow of town steeples ; and I can im 
agine that the wiser ones of the Fox 
family took infinite satisfaction in the 
pretty bosky covers of Holland House 
long after the tide of London brick and 
mortar flowed clamorously around its 
garden walls. Many of the most en 
gaging types of our American country 
houses were planted on roads that be 
came the streets of bustling towns or of 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



315 



cities. I recall in this connection that 
old Longworth homestead which for so 
many years held its dignified rural quie 
tudes of trees and garden in the midst of 
the noisy growth of Cincinnati ; again, 
there is the John Bart ram house, on the 
Schuylkill, retaining its country charms 
of vines and flowers its birds even 
long after city sounds had drowned their 
songs. I recall also many a quiet old 
town along the shores of Long Island 
Sound, or of the Connecticut River, 
where broad-faced trim houses of a col 
onial type, with airy halls and balus 
trades upon their roofs, are still full of a 
rural invitingness which is made good 
by their great gardens in the rear, and 
by their alleys of boxwood in the front. 
The interjection on the village street of 
butcher shops and of telegraph offices 
does not kill the high country qualities 
of such homes. 

Having thus by this prefatory pro 
cess of exclusion put out of present 
range the watering-place houses and 
those suburban retreats from which oc 
cupants change from year to year, we 
narrow our outlook to those houses, of 
large or small importance, which make 



his alluring city sign-boards so thickly 
in those days. There are lingerers from 
that old date to be seen everywhere in 
our Eastern and Middle States. Who 
does not know those little, one-story, un- 
unpainted, cube-shaped, wooden houses 
scattered all along New England shores, 
from Marblehead to Guilford, on sandy 
knolls, on the flank of hills any site 
was good, if a woodchuck could dig his 
hole there without being drowned out in 
storms ; the big stone chimney in the 
middle, cumbrous and mighty with its 
crude masonry, gave space abreast of it 
for front " entry " way ; on one side a 
bedroom, on the other the " keeping " 
room, with a musty smell about it ; and 
behind the chimney the great common 
room, kitchen, what-not, with its pan 
try at one end, and possible cramped 
stair to a loft under the " half-pitch " 
roof where a helper in harvesting, and 
by proper partitioning girls in their 
teens, might get a " shake - down " of 
straw mattress. 

There are lordly men in our history, 
growing in honors year by year, who 
have had their rearing in such quarters. 
The shape was sensible, because it was 




Example of Old House in Interior of Connecticut. 



permanent homes, and rally best one s ru- of the simplest, and met all the necessi- 
ral instincts. There was no lack of these ties of the case (can there be a better 
in our early times. Satan had not set up rule in any architecture ?). The cover- 



316 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 




Rhode Island and Connecticut Shore House. 



ing was of riven shingles, which in the 
progress of years and storms gave us 
that delightful tint of weather - worn 
wood, which the painters cannot match, 
nor, I am afraid, the engravers. 

Following upon the simplest type came 
the lift of the roof into that gambrel 
shape [above] which was token of more 
room and consequence, and which so 
fa.r as my observation has reached 
seems to have developed specially on 
the immediate seaboard ; perhaps be 



cause its lines were more ship-shape and 
gave to the roof a faint semblance to a 
vessel s bottom. A Dutch modification 
of this form [below] is to be found on 
Long Island and in New Jersey ; while 
a modernization of the same with fan 
tastic array of bowlder work is to be 
seen in the "Falmouth" cottage [p. 317]. 
To the original type there came in the 
early days a jutting out rearward of 
pantries, milk-rooms, summer-kitchens, 
spare bedrooms, which involved a stretch 




Specimen of Early Dutch Architecture, Long Island, N. Y. 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



317 



of roof : and of this stretch of roof was 
very likely legitimately begotten that 
form of homestead so well known along 
all the older-settled portions of the val 
ley of the Connecticut, with long slop 
ing roof in the rear, and narrower roof 
covering the two stories in the front, 
[p. 318]. And this was eminently a com- 



den and in the rear the great kitchen, 
possibly flanked by back - stairs open 
ing on the wainscot, and certainly with a 
great wealth of closets. Nay, there was 
hardly one of them, of whatever propor 
tions, but came ultimately to have its ex 
tension hipped upon the northern an 
gle, for further exploitation of the home 




Residence of Joseph Hopkins Smith, Falmouth, Me. 

(John Calvin Stevens, Architect.) 



mon-sense type of house, giving recog 
nition to the fact, that though a man 
might need two stories in front, a single 
one would serve him in the rear, demon 
strating also the fact that uniformity of 
roof and of roof -pitch on both sides 
were not essential to good effect. In 
deed this association of long roof slope 
and other forms is showing itself with 
great piquancy in many modern country 
houses. 

As for interior arrangements, there 
was here a great central stack of chim 
neys, showing good gray gneiss or sand 
stone at the tops ; the stairs zigzagged 
up abreast of it before the front door, 
giving space for a table or a cupboard 
under them ; right and left two front 
rooms the southerly one having, most 
times, door opening upon yard or gar- 



laboratory for milk, wood, shelter over 
the well, and for making grateful lee at 
the back entrance against fierce " North 
ers. " And there was a delightful honesty 
in this architectural confession of small 
home wants not to be found in many 
modern houses. In our electric age 
there is disposition to ignore such needs 
and to do away with "backdoors;" 
hence comes that over-nicety in coun 
try-house surroundings, amid which a 
visitor must look long and drearily for 
a place where he can knock the ashes 
from his pipe. 

Thereafter came swiftly, abundant 
modifications of this form : an overjut- 
ting of second story, and again of the 
loft floor, with supporting beams, mak 
ing crude machicolations, types of which 
abound in the Famiington (Conn.) Val- 



318 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



ley. The Avery house [p. 320], built in 
1656, a few miles eastward of New Lon 
don, and still stanch in its timbers, is 
notable for its quaintness and for having 
sheltered eight successive generations of 
the same family. Some thirty years af- 



closed in by doors ; then came the open 
balusters and the half climb to a great 
landing, set off with round-topped win 
dow at the end of the hall ; and as this 
hah 1 gained in width and importance, 
heavy wooden cornices adorned it, a 




Characteristic New England House, especially in towns along the Connecticut River. 



ter its erection the proprietor bought a 
condemned church in a near town and 
spliced it upon his homestead ; and 
there, in Revolutionary times, when the 
Avery head of the house had become 
an urgent "Separatist," public psalm- 
singing and preaching were heard again. 
Another curious agglomeration of house 
roofs, and addenda of even date, but of 
more importance, is that of the famous 
Wentworth mansion at Little Harbor. 
The old " Fairbanks " homestead at 
Dedham [p. 321] may be named in this 
connection. 

When the central stack of chimneys 
was divided increased size of fortune 
or family demanding more fires there 
came about the long central hall divid 
ing the house, through which in August 
came that refreshing play of the winds 
which so many old people remember 
with joy. Many early houses with two 
gaunt gray chimneys show stair-ways 
cloven into the side walls of the hall, and 



great archway divided it, oaken panel- 
work grew upon the side-walls, and a 
great flood of light from the big window 
on the landing showed marvellous land 
scapes from the Dutch paper-hangers 
between the wainscot and cornice. Or 
maybe there was some quiet monotone 
of color upon the walls, on which hung 
family portraits by Copley, or Smybert, 
or the Earles, with a tah 1 clock ticking 
on the stair-landing or within the arch 
way : very cold straits of passage in win 
ter these great halls made between the 
blazing firesides in the rooms flanking 
them, till Nott s stoves and the cellar 
furnaces came in ; but in summer what 
delightful affluence of breezes, with their 
flavors of lilies or of locust bloom ! 

To this fashion of houses belong those 
so-called colonial mansions which give 
dignity to so many outlying towns 
around Massachusetts Bay ; great pilas 
ters, may be, at their angles, and marking 
the interior partitions ; frontons of clas- 



r p__ ra i 

: ff 

\r jS 1 I L Immmesmswa _ 







320 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



sic treatment, with central ornamented there is a Piazza all round the dwelling ; 
window ; balustrades ; perhaps some the widow is chearful and comely in- 
lifted room at the apex of the hipped clines to be Plump." 




Old House of Peter Avery, Pequonnoc, Conn., built in 1656. 



roof (as in the Fisher house of Dorches 
ter or the Hazard house of Newport [p. 
322] ; possibly a labored cutting of the 
wooden angles into the semblance of 
stone quoins (as in the Deming House, 
of Colchester). A great many of these 
features were repeated in country houses 
that grew up along the heights of New 
York Island among them the Apthorp 
mansion, now made dreary by neglect. 
Of a less imposing house in the same 
region, I come upon this pleasant men 
tion in an old letter * of the time, from 
Mrs. Thomson, wife of the Secretary of 
Congress (1786). She is commending 
a rich widow, with 10,000 in her own 
right, to a gentleman friend in Philadel 
phia. She says : " Her house is pleas 
antly situated ; the front has a view of 
the North River, and from the back you 
can see the East River. The house is 
one story high, with attick chambers ; 

* Brought to light in that agreeable reservoir of colo 
nial data, the Pennsylvania Magazine of History. 



Farther up the Hudson (Yonkers) was 
that interesting Phillipse manor-house, 
now if standing at all given over to 
civic uses ; again, and specially noticeable 
as exhibiting the classic architectural fer 
vors of the latter half of the last century 
was the Montgomery Place, at Barry- 
town, still maintaining its dignities amid 
its encompassing wood. The well-known 
Patroon house, of Albany (of latter part 
of seventeenth century), was less classic, 
but palatial in extent, and understood 
to repeat the features of the Dutch home 
stead of the Van Rensselaers in Holland. 
Along that valley of the Mohawk where 
the readers of SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE have 
of late pleasantly followed Mr. Fred 
eric s war-tale are still standing many 
notable country houses of the last cen 
tury ; among them, the home of Sir 
William Johnson [p. 325] (near to Johns 
town), with central round-topped win 
dow setting off its upper story, hipped 
roof, and its two flanking buildings, 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



321 



standing apart for offices and bachelor 
quarters ; the old Herkimer house, where 
the hero of Oriskany died, is yet inhab 
ited ; and another noble homestead, 
simple, grand, and stately (built by Jan 
Linklaen, in the last century), maintains 
its dignity and its air of high hospital 
ities amid the leafy charms of Cazenovia 
[p. 323]. 

Farther westward, in the valley of 
the Genesee, widely known for its 
beauty and its fertilities, there came as 
settler, in the closing years of the last 
century, a Connecticut man (from Dur 
ham), who had a keen eye for good land 
and for good landscape, and who before 
his death (1844) made the Wadsworth 
estate known for its great reach, and its 
abounding productiveness ; and made 
himself known by quiet and large phi 
lanthropies. The homestead that grew 
up there under the fostering care of a 
son who found an honored death at 
the head of his brigade in the battle of 



ated upon a slope of those gently rising, 
broad-surfaced hills from which there is 
wide valley outlook over groups of for 
est trees and fertile meadows. It is not 
specially noticeable for its architectural 
lines, except that a great profusion of 
them, in shape of oriels, gables, porches, 
chimneys, give promise of comfort ; the 
stretch of fields and of trees make the 
divorce from city and suburban things 
complete. Even a meeting of the 
hounds there does not tempt the deri 
sive smile which is provoked by the 
artificialities of a " hunt " at Newport. 

Reverting again to earlier phases of 
American country life, I am tempted to 
speak of that great estate which, in pre- 
Revolutionary days, William Alexander 
known as Lord Stirling equipped, at 
prodigious cost, near to Basking Ridge, in 
New Jersey. There was a huge mansion, 
with imposing drawing-room and ban- 
queting-hall, with stuccoed ceiling ; a 
long array of offices, with coach-houses, 




Fairbanks House at Dedham, Mass., built in 1636. 



the Wilderness is more essentially a 
country home than the others we have 
brought to view [pp. 328-9J. It is situ- 



bake- houses, brew -houses; all these 
skirting a paved quadrangle, and show 
ing gilded vanes disporting over the 



322 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



cupolas. Judge Jones, the loyalist and 
historian (who had himself a great 
country house near South Bay, L. L, 
still held by the Floyd-Joneses), says 
that Stirling "cut a splendid figure, 
having brought with him from England 
horses, carriages, a coachman, valet, but 
ler, cook, steward, hairdresser, and a 
mistress." This Lord Stirling, however, 



is said that the beautiful Miss Bingham 
lost her heart carrying therewith a 
great slice of her father s landed estate 
to Lord Ashburton. The ground plan 
shows lack of all lesser offices, which 
w r ere established in octagonal buildings 
flanking the main house, but slightly in 
the rear, and connected with it, origin 
ally, by corridors [p. 324]. Magnificent 




Hazard House, Newport, R. I. 



fought bravely on the patriot side, and 
held Washington s esteem ; but the war, 
his absence, and lack of trading shrewd 
ness, brought his fortune to wreck, and 
before the end of the century the Basking 
Eidge establishment was in ruins. Ah 1 
the aspects of this, in its palmy days, 
and its management, must have been 
rather foreign than American. The 
same is also true of the country estate 
near Bordentown, one while occupied 
and improved by Joseph Bonaparte. 

Another New Jersey country establish 
ment of a more strictly American type, 
and still showing its hugely timbered 
barns of American pattern, is the so- 
called Bingham House in Oceanic. At 
a dance in its great banqueting-hall it 



trees still belong to the site, and a great 
lawn (cut athwart by a ha-ha, beyond 
which cattle feed) sweeps from its front 
to a shore where some leafless remnants 
of old forest bear up ospreys nests, and 
the ocean beats and thunders. 

The great simplicity of the ground 
floor, with no kitchen involvements, was 
characteristic of most Southern country 
homes, to which dinners came in steam 
ing from without. The Stratford (Lee) 
house [p. 326], with its low roofs and curi 
ously grouped chimneys, is an example 
of this, dating from about the middle of 
the last century. Another notable Vir 
ginia house, Mount Vernon, all the world 
knows of ; and the tall, massive colonnade 
supporting the extension of its long roof 



324 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



had its replicas in climates not so well 
suited to such defence against the sun 
beams. Thus General Huntington 
Washington s Collector of Customs in 
New London built there a commodi 
ous house, upon a gentle height, then 
outside the town, with massive brick 
columns of quaint form supporting the 
overreach of roof upon three sides. 
It has been well preserved, save that 
within a few years a bay window and an 
oriel of modern demonstrative carpen 
try has been thrust across the Mount 
Vernon extension of roof, showing 
how bumptious common-sensical no 
tions about light and air will cut clean 
through and destroy the charms of tra 
ditionary form. 

Early country houses in lower Vir 
ginia, between the York and James Riv 
ers, were built more after accredited 
English forms, and the materials for 
them were largely imported. The same 
is true of early houses in South Caro 
lina ; and there are roof-tiles covering 
outbuildings and stables in Charles 
ton, still in good condition, which were 



which escaped the scathing times of the 
war, is also of British origin. It is with 
out cellar, and for sanitary reasons like 
most country houses in the lower Caro- 
linas is lifted high above the ground, 
and amid a lusty overgrowth of vines 
and shrubs shows a dignified front and 
a hospitable amplitude. 

The inland "up-country" homesteads 
even of those who planted largely 
were generally of much more modest 
pretentious, the original and humblest 
type being the log -house perhaps 
doubled, with an airy, roofed corridor 
between the couple. The coupling might 
run to three or four ; and these, when 
built with care, and weather-boarded 
and painted with roofs stretching over 
into long verandas with a near white 
washed group of servants quarters, and 
here and there a guest s cottage, or that 
of the doctor or of the chaplain, upon 
a neighboring wooded knoll were not 
without their invitingness and impor 
tance. Instances of extraordinary ex 
penditure upon some of the upland 
places were not unknown. Thus the late 
Governor Man- 



/" ^\ 




1 

-\.,, 

v y 


ning built, and 
equipped luxu 
riously, a great 
establishment, 
" Milford," in 
central South 
Carolina. It 
was a grand 
surprise for a 
visitor after 
toiling through 
silent stretches 
of pine woods 


V / 


g C9 





^ 




1 


*. 


** 


=E 


<fC 










a great fronton 
of imposing 
Greek col- 

r. Ehrick Parmly. UmUS, pOnder- 

ous doors of 


Plan of Bingham House at Oceanic, N. J 


, owned by D 



brought, more than a century ago, from 
Holland. So were the bricks and Port 
land stone which went to the making of 
the Alston house (known for its vaulted 
drawing-room), and to the walls that 
hemmed in the great garden where it 
was planted. The material in Drayton 
Hall, built in the middle of the last cen 
tury (1747), and almost the only impor 
tant homestead along the Ashley Eiver 



rosewood, lofty frescoed ceilings, silken 
bell-pulls, and Parisian bric-a-brac. Yet 
the dreaded "country fever" compelled 
the abandonment of all this, by both 
master and guest, so soon as the May 
sun smote hotly the spongy surface of 
the near cypress swamps. 

Country houses in the Southwest, 
upon the river banks above New Orleans, 
formed a type of their own great ve- 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



325 




Johnson Hall, Johnstown, N. Y., built in 1764 by Sir William Johnson. 



randas with blooming things scram 
bling over them making part ; so did the 
magnolias and pecan-trees. There was a 
large grouping of outside offices some 
times also of school and chapel, in con 
nection with neatly organized quarters 
which together made a little hamlet. 

The English quadrangle system of 
country - house establishments never 
came to great vogue in America. It be 
longed to a medievalism that has left 
its musty odors only about some of our 
educational buildings. Even the " wall 
ing in " cumbrously of courts or gardens 
is rarely seen. Our hot suns of summer 
do not favor the use of such protection ; 
wall-fruit is not the success here that it 
is in England ; even in the case of open 
espaliers (always associated with old 
British country houses) there is need 
for keeping a leaner growth than is ad 
missible under the leaden skies of the 
Old Country. 

There must be opportunity for some 
quite new and rare development of ru 
ral buildings under the conditions be 
longing to life on the great ranches of 
Colorado and California. The family of 



the reel-woods furnishes rare material, 
if the old adobe be not brought to noble 
uses ; and no setting for whatever roofs, 
cupolas, cattle-pens, barracks, olive - 
presses, can be imagined finer than the 
snow-tipped mountains of Colorado, or 
the verdurous ones of southern Cali 
fornia. 

The question of site for a country 
home, is an important one, East or 
West ; and involves other and quite dif 
ferent conditions from those to be con 
sidered on a suburban street. The 
vagaries of our climate within the last 
half dozen years have somewhat dis 
turbed the old notions about shelter 
from northwesters ; but I think there 
will be general agreement that the flank 
of a hill is better for site than the ex 
treme summit ; and the opinion is well 
supported that a southwestern exposure 
(and slope for ground) is, of all, the best, 
and cheeriest, and kindliest, whether for 
house or gardens. The perfect drainage 
which every wise man will seek for in a 
country house, is, of course, more easily 
secured by elevated site ; and the old 
closed cesspool is giving way to one 



326 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



which shall serve as the distributing 
reservoir for a system of subsurface til 
ing. The distribution may be secured 
at short periods by the action of a 
siphon, or by flushing the reservoir 
from the rain conduits. 

Of the material for the construction 
of a country house there are divers 
opinions and practices ; but there is a 
growing (and wise) disposition to use 
homely material, nearest at hand, if 
sound and effective. The old bugbear 
that stones made a damp house is dis 
proved by those who build, with such 
" furring off" of inner walls as insures 
dryness as well as warmth in winter, and 
best protection of all against fierce sun- 
beats. If house walls are not wholly of 
stone, multitudes show that bold use of 
it in the ground-story which has gone 
perhaps to make it too popular ; by this I 



together like child s work ; and again 
by undue care to give all stones the 
same form, or same lack of form ; both 
these methods being bad, and defeating 
that sensible purpose simple as it is 
sensible to make a stanch wall, wholly 
sufficient, and without those affectations 
of petit maitre-ism, in quality or tone, 
which defeat every aim of honesty and 
all heroic simplicities. An exaggerated 
rudeness specially in use of rude ma 
terial is as bad as an exaggerated 
finesse ; and is it not an overstrain of 
plain bowlder work to lay it up in col 
umns with Pelasgic hugeness for the 
support of a veranda, or mere umbrage 
roof of whatever sort ? 

Not least among the advantages of this 
use of stone for the ground story is its 
invitingness for vine growth. I know 
there are some sticklers for the old no- 




Stratford House, Westmoreland County, Va. 

(Built in the eighteenth century, of brick sent over from England, for Colonel Thomas 
Lee, great-grandfather of General Robert E. Lee. This house is the birthplace of Gen 
eral Lee.) 



mean that its opportunities tempt finical tion that such growth promotes damp- 
littlenesses of treatment. I have seen ness ; but the shelter of the leaves, and 
this effect by use of oversmall stones, per- the evaporation from them of such moist- 
haps, of regularly recurring sizes, nestled ure as the little rootlets have taken up 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



327 



from the stone and mortar go far to dis 
prove the old belief, if long and actual 
test had not shown contrary result. 



ticut-River type of a long slope in the 
rear roof, and of overreach, with show 
of supporting timbers of the upper floor, 




Chew House, Germantown, Pa. 



Shingles have been latterly put to 
greatly increased uses in covering walls 
as well as roofs of country houses, and 
with the variety of good stains now avail 
able have excellent effect ; but it is a 
questionable, and, architecturally, inde 
fensible use which puts them to the cov 
er of supporting columns to a porch, or 
to the dressing of an arch in carpentry. 
Among the stains that have come into 
use appears a very clever counterfeit (as 
respects color) of those delicate gray- 
green lichens which age puts upon many 
old houses ; but shall an honest country 
home carry even so pretty a falsehood as 
this upon its roof ? 

Of course the selection of material 
for country building will be largely gov 
erned by the general outline and style ; 
those imposing, dignified, half classic, 
colonial houses, of which we spoke, and 
which have some rare qualities for com 
fort, would not admit of a jumble of 
stones and timber, or of any tricks for 
the picturesque ; yet that old Connec- 



would sit very well upon a good honest 
ground story of stone-work, incorpor 
ated with some massive chimneys piling 
up to the height of the ridge. And that 
upper story could be happily married 
to the ground by a heavy timber porch 
at its door, with its inviting seats ; or, 
if need were, some more closely wrought 
lee against northers for the visitor in 
waiting. Every country house demands 
a porch of some sort ; dignity and hos 
pitality both demand it ; but the porte- 
cochere is of more doubtful necessity ; 
it may be made to take abundance of 
picturesque attitudes indeed, but is very 
apt save under quite exceptional treat 
ment to put unwelcome shadows and 
gloom about an entrance, suggestive of 
lingering damp at the step, or of long 
unmelting annoyances of ice. Cheer, 
warmth, sunshine ought to be flung with 
full hands about the grand and chief- 
est opening to a home. Twere well, 
therefore, to relegate this coach shelter 
ing (and a country coach ought to brave 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE, 



329 



a good deal of honest, hard weather) 
to a secondary and side door, where the 
shadows of its long overreach will not 
tell harmfully. 



wants ; but I have seen one of the great 
piazzas flanking a country house of the 
Re volution a*ry type, which, having taken 
on its winter (movable) wall of glazing, 




Staircase in Wadsworth House, Geneseo. 



As for the windows of a country house, 
the demand should be for largeness, and, 
again largeness ; indeed some corridor 
with walls of glass is not a bad accom 
paniment for a flank or angle. Our 
sanitarians are getting, at last, to un 
derstand the glory and the goodness of 
a winter s sunshine, and that it is no 
way needful to journey to the tropics 
for it. Whether the large glazing which 
will insure a good sun-bath can be as 
sociated with good flower - growth is 
more doubtful ; succulent plants, at 
least, for their fullest growth require 
a humidity of air not good for human 
VOL. VIII. 31 



giving shelter to certain tough bits of 
green such as a rampant ivy, or a group 
of aspedistas, or some tall fellow of the 
palm family in his tub make an uncom 
monly welcome place for an after-dinner 
smoke, or a booklet (in the hammock), 
or an idle listening to the canary which 
swung out of Tabby s reach, and sung 
the snows to shame. 

What now shall be said of the hall of 
a country house, except that it should 
make good the welcome of the porch 
and of the sunny windows and of the 
chimney-tops ? For this it should never 



330 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



* 



be cramped : that is a pinch at the 
very vitals of a home. And yet fair 
proportions must be guarded : it 
offers tempting place for an archi 
tect to lavish his skill ; but neither 
its extent nor appointments should 
dwarf the house ; as if a host were 
to spend his forces in an unctuous 
shaking of hands, without any lar 
der to back up his welcome ! 

Shall there be fireplace in the 
hall ? If never to be used, and set 
there in however piquant dress of 
oak and brazen trappings only as 
a symbol of a warmth which never 
shows tongue of flame, emphatically 
no. Doubtful even if the lighting 
only on far apart festal days could 
justify it ; but if the logs are to 
glow or smoulder on that altar (as 
weather may bid) from the ides of 
November to those of April, or if 
its flames are to light the mornings 
of a belated spring, or warm the 
nightfalls of a frosty October, it is 
an unmatchable glory of a country- 
house ; unless indeed the rollick 
ing blaze play of a library lire or 
of a breakfast room matches it. A 
country house without its fire 
places, or something with a blaze 
in them, is like a man groping for 
treasure with eyes put out. As for 
smoky chimneys, there is no rea 
sonable excuse for them ; the main 
points are a narrow throat, and a 
good cushioning of air behind it 
for any sudden down draught : to 
this end a slant forward of the rear 
wall is best, and a good splaying 
of the jambs. 

Of course there may be exterior 
reasons for bad draught in pres 
ence of a near overtopping build 
ing, or dense wood, or sudden rise 
of hill which causes of trouble are 
oftenest circumvented by an em 
branchment of chimney - tops, as 
pleasantly explained and justified 
by M. Viollet le Due, in his agree 
able " Story of a House." 

Next, stairs. To many a poor 
woman who has toiled a half life out 
upon an eight-inch "rise" of stair, 
a lessening of the height by two 
inches (six and one-eighth inches 
is best) will seem like putting 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



331 



step on the road to Beulah. A steep 
stair everywhere, and everyhow except 
in a ship s steerage is an offence and 
a blight and a curse. But for an easy, 
hospitable, broad, cheery, inviting stair 
way flanking a country hall, or en 
grossing one end of it, or dominating 
it by a great swing of its galleries or 
landing, what a noble chance is given 
to the architect ! What woody rioting 
there may be in balusters in screens 
lifting up to the support of great beams 
in the ceiling, in arches disguising the 
changing levels, in flashes from mosaic 
windows, pouring glories on the floor ! 
We might fill our pages with pretty il 
lustrations thereanent ; but from all 
we should very likely come back to a 
quickened love for those old simplicities 
which associate perfect ease with sever 
est of lines. 

As for collocation of rooms in coun 
try houses, there is happily no occasion 
for all those Chinese puzzlings and 
dove-tailings of parts which city archi 
tects find it needful to study. There 
is, or should be, space to thrust out a 
room or a bay or an L, where we need 
it ; and as for the sun, windows may be 
set to welcome it. The morning sun, 
by all means, should come to the family 
room, to the children s room, and to 
the breakfast-room ; as for the after 
noon sun, let it strike where it will. In 
all our latitudes, south or north, the 
southwest angle of a house is, I think, 
the treasured angle most to be coveted 
for chambers, for work-room, for (if it 
must be) sick-room. The sun stays 
there longest ; the blues vanish fastest. 

The wants of children, too, must hot 
be left out of sight, unless we deter 
mine to legislate them away, and make 
Mr. Malthus our saint. There s no in 
door romping-ground for a child like a 
great garret, with dormers to let in sun 
light like a deluge. The quaint, big old 
houses, we have shown, had them ; and 
a healthy child, without chance for rainy- 
day forays in such, must grow up with 
a large domestic element of its nature 
undeveloped. Home ties of those young 
folk grapple to a bare roof-tree in the 
top of the house very clingingly. And 
if country life is not to be subverted 
altogether, and turned adrift on the 



wastes of cities, it must be the cling 
ing child-love, weakening in manhood, 
and re-awakening in age, which is to 
insure and ennoble its best develop 
ment. 

By the same ruling there must be 
out-of-door regalement and comforters 
of the child-age. " Out-of-doors " is a 
very large part of a well-balanced coun 
try house ; this is an Irishism, maybe ; 
but it is a wholesome one to consider 
and act upon. " Out-of-doors " in cities 
does not tie to the dwelling ; it lacks 
privacy ; it lacks consecration ; it is 
every man s ; and so no man s. There 
should be tennis-ground ; there should 
be coasting hill ; there should be skat- 
ing-pond , snow forts, and fortresses of 
stone ; cabins for cooking for pic- 
nicing, for learning the ductilities that 
belong to the offices of hostess. Home 
is the word ; to give great quickening 
sense to it, to ennoble it, to endear it, 
to justify it ; this is, or ought to be, 
the aim where roof-trees are planted in 
the open of God s country. One of the 
greatest of lacks, as appears to me, in 
the pretty Bellamy programmes of social 
fixtures, is that they disjoint and fling 
apart all old and relishable ideas of 
home, leaving no place for their devel 
opment. Such schemes legislate away 
need for it : for, what is home without 
its tea-pot singing on the hearth, with 
out its rallying-place at the fireside for 
family seclusion ; without its " table- 
round," where books, games, singing, 
talk unhampered by over-critical ears 
fill up the eventide ; without, maybe, 
its household mishaps of kitchen or 
larder, bewraying the management and 
compelling virtues of self-denial of 
gracious reticence of quiet, brave re 
concilement with the accidents of life ? 

Gardens, too ; what is your country 
house without a garden ? And by garden 
I mean all those encompassing or out 
lying things of green which need coax 
ing, and training, and loving, for their 
development. There need be no great 
trail of such no sheltering quadrangu 
lar courts. But surely no mistress can 
wear so beautiful and so cheap an adorn 
ment as a flower. Timid ones need not 
be frightened with bugbear stories of 

how B raises tomatoes at cost of a 

dollar each, and his chrysanthemums at 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



333 



cost of his wife s ostrich plumes. A it), shows an ancient shaky trellis for a 

1 i i -i ~t j 1 "1J 1 _ 1 * _ 1 ~1 ___/ . * J_ J_ 1 r<r ~TX 11 5 



little care and sympathy, and two hours 
of a morning will do the needful. There 



big-leaved vine (is it the " Dutchman s 
Pipe"?); old-time herbaceous flowers, 



is no need for any rioting with moneys ; such as the Fraxinella, white and red, 



and a flower that blooms responsive to 
one s training and care carries double 



are there ; so are lilies of the valley, and 
tall blue-bells gone astray in grass, and 




*- "?f " , -i-- J 



McAlpin House, Sing Sing, N. Y. 
(Hapgood, Architect.) 



perfume ; and the fruit a man picks from 
his own " grafting" has subtle flavors 
that trace back through all the gardens 
in books. 

I do not believe a man can be proper 
aesthetic master of what belongs to a 
country house to its amplitudes or 
proportions, or harmonies (pace, Mr. 
Architect) except he see his way to 
them through alleys of green. Great 
reach and tale of acres upon acres are 
not essential. I do not know but the 
rural instincts are more deeply and cer 
tainly stirred by some old half-country 
half-town house, where the village road 
brings its carryall in shower -time- 
nearness to the door. I have such an 
one very plainly in my mind s eye, as 
I write ; the low ceilings (which would 
make modern fine builders stand 
aghast), couple cosily with the old-time 
chairs ; the sun is shining through vases 
that carry dainty blossoms in southern 
windows ; the great sweep of fifty-year- 
old Norway spruces (which some livers 
by the sea opinionate can never become 
great, lusty trees), put their dark fringes 
of boughs wooingly to the shaven green ; 
the little terraced bit of old garden (a 
Brobdignag handkerchief would cover 



giving out perfume like the breath of 
babes ; masses of moss-pink, too, spread 
ing rosy bloom, and hedges of box, with 
strange mystic scent from their stirred 
leaves odors of dead years. 

It is only a week since that I came 
upon record in the pleasant London 
Garden of a Gloucestershire parson, 
who wrote with unction and zeal and 
knowledge of his miniature vicarage 
ground, and of his rockwork. " Six feet 
by eight, with twenty-one different spe 
cies of plants growing in it, and all thriv 
ing ; " and he goes on to detail other hor 
ticultural triumphs, pleasant, fine, and 
positive, though only himself and a "fag 
of all work " keep the exterior machin 
ery of the modest country home he lived 
in on the move and on the make. Not 
money-making, to be sure ; that reck 
oning were a dishonest way of estimat 
ing the subtle pleasures of those who, 
like the Gloucestershire parson, enwrap 
themselves spring-time and autumn 
in the delights of a rural home. That fig 
ure of the factotum, too, has its coun 
try sufficiencies, and touches of familiar 
regalement for a good many of us who 
have conspired with sympathetic archi 
tects for a home in the country : tis not 



334 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE. 



a de Coverley picture, this factotum ; 
lean and slight ; cocking his eye with a 
knowing upturn to read all promises of 
weather ; not pinning his beliefs to 
newspaper probabilities ; scanning the 
roses, and the beans, and the carrots, 
with a serener faith in their growing 
powers than comes of books ; doubled- 
up, odd whiles, with agues ; but slouch 
ing to his rainy-day plantings under a 
great cover of draggled clothes ; too old 
to be taught ; crowding down your finer 
knowledges with Solomon-like sayings, 
and enforcing their wisdom with a sharp 
catarrhal discharge between thumb and 
forefinger ; honest as the day, and with 
a humorso me joy shimmering in his face 
when he sees long-doubted seeds of his 
saving breaking the ground, and stays 
his hoe for a new lighting of his brier 
pipe ; old and rheumatic, but finding 
compensation in his mastery of the 
ground and the seasons. 

If I were to search in a wide New 
England neighborhood for one who en 
joyed most, and made the most of a 
country home because of its country- 



beans, and cares as tenderly for every 
shrub and blooming thing as for the 
kittens that frolic at the door. 

These addenda, these surroundings, 
are to be considered in any estimate of 
the forms which a country house should 
take, and for the conditions which it 
should most wisely fulfil. No country 
house which does not mate with " all- 
round " country laws can be architectu 
rally good. Strip the vines and the 
grouped masses of foliage from that old 
Bartram house, of which we spoke in an 
earlier page, and there is left only a 
coarse, bare hulk of wall. Shear away 
those piles of foliage those bristling 
points of firs which approach and en 
viron it, and by proper occasions of 
retreat leave embayments of sunny turf 
around the great Genesee house, which 
was figured upon an earlier page, and 
we should fatally misjudge it. That 
modest country house so well known 
of Sunnyside, which was for so long, and 
worthily, a quickener of rural instincts, 
owes no small proportion of its charm to 
its entourage of foliage and the great 




Lodge Gate, Hyde Hall. 



ish elements I do not think I should 
consider the great show places ; but the 
rather some modest house, half sunk 
upon a hill-side ; its basement windows 
fronting the morning ; greensward com 
ing to the door ; the conservatory a win 
dow shelf ; every slip of a new plant 
cherished ; every spring some modest 
extension of the flower-patch ; a little 
orchard flanking and protecting the 
garden where the mistress walks proudly 
among her nasturtiums and her scarlet 



vine that enwraps its principal outbuild 
ing. Modest as it is, and inexpensive in 
its details, it is still a good exemplar of 
what may be done with homely material. 
Mr. Irving certainly had the rural in 
stincts strongly developed ; long, and 
very tenderly that image of Wolfert s 
Roost (his charming home) lay near to 
his thought, and brooded there through 
years of Continental travel brooded 
there always till the trees were planted, 
the duck-pond set to its flow, and the 



AFRICAN RIYER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 



335 



old Dutch weather-vane put to its spin 
ning over the crow-foot gable that rose 
above his southern porch. The dogs, 
the kittens, the doves, the cows, even the 
pigs of his country home, were all com 
panionable with him ; and he loved the 
things of the garden : not the flowers 
only, and the little trap of a green-house 
he had improvised in a corner, but the 



trim rows of vegetables as well. With 
what a rare gusto (if I may play the re 
porter upon the weaknesses of a host) 
he looked upon the yellowing melons, 
bathing in the sunshine, and on the 
purple glories of the egg-plants ! " Not 
like them ! (with a wondering lift of the 
eyebrows) why, a broiled slice of one is 
richer than a rasher of bacon." 



AFRICAN RIVER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 

By Thomas Stevens. 



ASSUMING that a shower of rain, 
extending over a few hundred 
square miles of territory in the 
region immediately southwest of the Al 
bert Nyanza, central Africa, fell when 
this magazine went to press, such of the 
rainfall as was not absorbed by the soil 
is now hurrying ocean ward in three op 
posite directions. Part will reach the 
Mediterranean by way of the Nile ; some 
will join the Zambezi and the Shire to 
the Indian Ocean ; and the remainder 
will help swell the volume of the Congo, 
which pours a mighty stream six miles 
wide into the Atlantic. In the light 
of Mr. Henry M. Stanley s recent geo 
graphical discoveries in connection with 
the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition, it 
seems not unlikely that the area of this 
shower might even be restricted to a 
very small compass about the head 
waters of the newly discovered Semliki 
River. 

The marvellous scope of these African 
waterways has been thrust upon our 
notice of late, with other features of 
African geography, by the interest in 
the development of the Dark Continent 
that has been intensified by the rescue 
of Emin, and the scramble for territory 
by the European powers. 

When the writer left Zanzibar in 
December, 1889, after meeting Stanley, 
the European colony there were discus 
sing an interesting item of news that 
had been received by cable from Mozam 
bique. Two Frenchmen, accompanied 
by about half a dozen natives of the 



West Coast, had crossed Africa almost 
entirely b} r water. These intrepid voya- 
geurs, according to the cablegram, had 
journeyed up the Congo to its head 
waters, and thence down Lake Nyassa, 
the Shire, and Zambezi to Quilliane. 
They had performed the journey in 
something less than a year ; had met 
Avith no hostility worth mentioning from 
the natives, and had done no very dif 
ficult overland marching. About the 
time that these travellers were setting 
out on their journey, Stanley was mak 
ing a note of the fact that one could al 
most cast a stone from the head- waters 
of the Aruwimi into the Albert Nyanza, 
-practically, the Nile. And if that 
stone were buoyant as cork, there would 
be nothing to prevent it floating to the 
Mediterranean. "Ten minutes march 
took us from the head of the stream 
draining toward the Ituri (Aruwimi), to 
the spot where we saw the Nyanza at our 
feet," are Mr. Stanley s words. 

A month after leaving Zanzibar I was 
in Cairo talking about African trade 
routes with Mason Bey, who with Prout 
explored the White Nile and the Albert 
Nyanza for the Egyptian Government 
in 1877. We were discussing the best 
routes into the interior, and Mason stat 
ed that it was possible to travel from 
Cairo to Kavalli, the point on Lake 
Albert where Stanley met Emin. in fifty 
days by steamer up the Nile, including 
portage around the cataracts. At the 
same time people at home were reading 
from Stanlev that the new Semliki River 



336 



AFRICAN RIPER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 




Map of African River and Lake Systems. 



connects the Albert Nyanza with the 
southern Muta Nzige, thus carrying the 
ever-elusive source of the Nile a hun 
dred and fifty miles farther south. An 
extension of the Victoria Nyanza to the 
southwest was also discovered, which 
gives that great inland sea an area of 
twenty-seven thousand square miles, and 
carries it to " within a hundred and fifty- 
five miles of Tanganyika." 

These several interesting problems of 
the great waterways of Africa being 
prominently brought to my notice w r ith- 
in a short space of time, suggested this 
brief paper. 

Africa is being discussed and gos- 
sipped about in these days from many 
points of view. Philanthropists desire 
to abolish the slave-trade ; missionaries 



to convert the negroes ; commercial 
companies, colonization societies, and 
governments, to develop trade, found 
colonies, and acquire large portions of 
its territory. Nor has it escaped us that 
Africa is ramified by a system of water 
courses of great volume, vast length, 
and extension. Inland seas, second only 
in extent to the Great Lakes of North 
America, grow still larger under the 
impulse of closer investigation, and such 
rivers as the Aruwimi, 800 miles long 
and 400 feet wide at the distance of 700 
miles from the parent stream, are un 
folded to our vision and called but trib 
utaries in the vast riverine system of this 
New World of the nineteenth century. 

Were all these rivers navigable by 
steamers from the seas, vessels from the 



AFRICAN RIVER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 



337 



three sides of the triangular African con 
tinent might steam inland from river- 
mouths 4,000 miles apart and almost 
bump noses in the centre. Yet, with 
this magnificent system of waterways 
Africa has remained an undiscovered 
world until the latter half of the present 
century. With one of the oldest and 
most brilliant civilizations of the ancient 
world flourishing in its northeast cor 
ner, the rest of a vast and fascinating 
continent has lain in a dormant and sav 
age state from the beginning of hu 
man records. Spasmodic efforts have 
been made to penetrate its secrets from 
time to time, but it seems to have been 
left until, the problems of all other parts 
of the world being solved, the surplus 
energy of civilized nations could be 
centred on the task of its subjection. 
Hitherto little has been done beyond 
knocking at the doors of the African 
fortress, but the assault has now begun 
in earnest and breaches are being made 
in many directions. 

The secret of Africa s isolation from 
the benefits and blessings of civilization 
and light that have fallen on the rest of 
the world, is to be found in the cata 
racts of her big rivers, and in a lesser 
degree in the inhospitableness of the 
climate. The cataracts of the Congo, 
the Niger, and the Zambezi, however, 
and the cataracts and sudd of the 
Nile, have been and are the real obstruc 
tions. Were the Congo as navigable 
as the Mississippi, and the Nile as free 
from obstructions to vessels as the Dan 
ube or the Yang - tse - Kiang, Uganda 
would now be sending us silk-stuffs and 
calico instead of ivory, and globe-trot 
ters would be picnicing and wintering 
on the islands of the Victoria Nyanza. 

That there would have been a civiliza 
tion on the shores of the central African 
lakes as old, if not so advanced, as the 
civilization of Britain, had the Nile been 
as open a road to the colonizers of an 
cient Rome as the way to England was, 
there is every reason to believe. Eigh 
teen centuries ago the Emperor Nero 
caught the fever of African exploration, 
and despatched a military expedition 
that navigated the Nile to a point 500 
miles south of Khartoum, or three- 
fourths of the way to Emin Pasha s late 
Equatorial Province. The same difficul- 
VOL. VIII. 32 



ties that have often baffled the modern 
explorer, stayed the progress of Nero s 
expedition. After successfully over 
coming the cataracts between Assouan 
and Khartoum, they were turned back 
by the mass of sudd that periodically 
blocks the Nile between the Sobat and 
the Bahr-el-Zeraf ; the same treacher 
ous masses of floating vegetation that in 
1881 caught in their pestiferous embrace 
Gordon s lieutenant, the gallant Gessi, 
and held him captive to his doom. 

This sudd region is a sluggish reach 
of the Nile where it meanders through 
a low swampy region, favorable to the 
rank growth of reeds and aquatic veg 
etation. Vast masses of this swamp- 
growth encroach on the channel of the 
river, become detached, and float lazily 
down stream like great ice-floes on north 
ern waters in the spring. These float 
ing islands sometimes wedge together 
and form an obstruction to navigation. 
The water finds its way through the ad 
jacent morasses and under the sudd 
to its destination ; but the obstruction 
grows and is added to by other masses 
floating down from above, until the 
river, aided by exceptionally heavy rains, 
forces the mass to give way. Some 
times the Nile is open through the sudd 
district for many years at a stretch. In 
1870, however, Baker s expedition for 
the suppression of the slave trade in the 
Bahr-el-Ghazel, experienced the same 
difficulties that discouraged Nero s ex 
plorers, and eight years later a sudd 
obstruction was formed that lasted, in 
an intermittent way, three years. 

In proceeding up the Nile from Egypt 
proper, for the first thousand miles the 
river may be considered good naviga 
ble water for river steamers of medium 
draught. The first cataract is encoun 
tered at Assouan, but though difficult of 
ascent in the dry season, steamers readi 
ly pass in time of flood, and may be got 
through at any time. Between Assouan 
and Khartoum are five other cataracts 
more or less obstructive to navigation. 
The most formidable is at Wady Haifa, 
known as the Second Cataract, through 
which steamers may be dragged only at 
high water. For the greater paa*t of the 
year the Wady Haifa cataracts form an 
insurmountable barrier to river naviga 
tion. 



338 



AFRICAN RIYER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 



From Wady Haifa, Sir Samuel Ba 
ker s steamers and stores had to be 
conveyed 400 miles across the Nubian 
desert by camels, to be launched again 
near Berber, 200 miles north of Khar 
toum. The Ismailia, his 251-ton steamer, 
taken to pieces, together with stores, 
required a force of 6,000 camels for 
transport. From Berber the river is 
navigable, so far as cataracts are con 
cerned, to Gondokoro, 3,000 miles from 
Alexandria, and steamers have actually 
ascended to that point the whole dis 
tance by water. But midway between 
Khartoum and Gondokoro begins the 
terrible sudd. For 700 miles the Nile 
winds through a flat country of inter 
minable marshes, and it is here that 
the greatest problem of Nile navigation 
must be solved. The 400 miles of the 
Nubian desert may be solved by a rail 
way, or easier still, perhaps, by a rail 
way from Suakim to Berber, a distance 
of 275 miles. But it is thought by ex 
perts that the only way to conquer the 
sudd would be to establish a permanent 
system of patrol boats for the duty of 
keeping open a passage, as ice-boats are 
used to keep ice from forming in canals. 

In 1870, Baker, with a force of 1,000 
men, spent thirteen days in forcing his 
way through twelve miles of the sudd, 
and after toiling for fifty-one days, and 
losing many men from the effects of the 
deadly miasma, was compelled to retreat. 
In August of the same year, proceeding 
up-stream again on the autumn flood, 
he found matters in no sense improved. 
He says, " The great river Nile was en 
tirely lost, and had become a swamp." 

Various minor cataracts occur between 
Gondokoro, or Lado, and Labore, one 
of Emin Pasha s evacuated stations. 
General Gordon spent two years getting 
the steamer Khedive (on which it will be 
remembered Emin proceeded to Kavalli 
to meet Stanley) from Gondokoro to 
Labore. Just south of Labore is a con 
siderable waterfall that bars all further 
progress. The Khedive, and Emin s 
other steamer the Pioneer, had to be 
taken to pieces at Labore, and carried 
twelve miles around the cataracts to be 
relaunched. From Labore the way is 
open to the Albert Nyanza, and possibly 
on up the Semliki River, which Stanley 
describes as a "powerful stream from 



80 to 100 yards wide, averaging a depth 
of nine feet from side to side, with a 
current of from three to four knots per 
hour." 

Of the Nile tributaries, the Blue Nile, 
which joins the main stream at Khar 
toum, is navigable for ordinary river 
steamers for 200 miles. The Sobat was 
ascended by Junker in an Egyptian 
Government steamer, in 1876, 190 miles 
to the frontier station of Nassen. This 
point is only accessible with steamers of 
six-feet draught during the rainy sea 
son, from June to November. 

From the foregoing observations it 
will be seen that the Nile, with its an 
cient history and its 4,000 miles of 
waterway presents, after the first quarter 
of its length, barrier after barrier to the 
advance of civilization and commerce. 
More than a dozen cataracts, and a 
most formidable area of riverine ob 
struction, pestilential, poisonous, and 
deadly beyond power to describe, in the 
shape of the sudd, bar the way. Mason 
Bey s estimate of fifty days from Cairo to 
Kavalli, must certainly have been based 
on the supposition of future improve 
ments, including the Wady Haifa-Ber 
ber Railway, and a patrolled channel 
through the sudd. 

For our knowledge of the dimensions 
and navigable lengths of the Congo, the 
largest, and, next to the Nile, the long 
est African river, the world is indebted 
almost entirely to Mr. Stanley, its dis 
coverer, and the founder of the great 
Free State within its basin. According 
to Mr. Stanley, the Congo is more than 
3,000 miles long ; and in size and volume 
the second river of the world, the first 
being presumably the Amazon. Like the 
Nile, the Congo has one stretch of unin 
terrupted navigation 1,000 miles long, 
between Stanley Pool and Stanley Falls. 
Unfortunately for commerce, however, 
this magnificent stretch of water is sepa 
rated from the sea by a series of insur 
mountable cataracts that compel a port 
age of 235 miles, or two portages of 85 
and 50 miles and many transfers. The 
largest of all African rivers, and prob 
ably the most valuable from a commer 
cial point of view, more promptly and 
more emphatically than any of the others 
forbids the upward progress of the 
steamer. At 110 miles from the ocean 



AFRICAN RI^ER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 



339 



occur the lower series of the Livingstone 
Falls. For purposes of commerce and 
development it is proposed to overcome 
this difficulty by building a railway 235 
miles long to Leopoldville, at the lower 
end of the long navigable reach of 1,000 
miles. The capital for this undertaking 
is now believed to be all subscribed, and 
the work of construction is under way. 

From Stanley Falls cataracts occur at 
intervals, but with navigable stretches 
of several hundred miles between. A 
reach of 327 miles, no inconsiderable 
stream on its own merits, extends with 
out an obstruction from Stanley Falls to 
Nyangive Falls. Another unobstructed 
section of about 600 miles extends to 
the rapids near Merwa Lake. Under 
the name of the Chambeze, which was 
crossed by Livingstone, the Congo is 
still found to be a river from 400 to 600 
yards wide, and with a depth of six 
fathoms, at a point some 2,500 miles 
from its mouth. 

Into the mighty Congo, all along its 
3,000 miles of length, pour a system of 
tributary streams, themselves navigable 
for distances varying from 20 to 800 
miles. The estimate is given of 5,250 
miles of uninterrupted navigable water 
in the thousand-mile reach of the Congo 
between Leopoldville and Stanley Falls 
and the tributaries of that section alone. 
Mr. Stanley s estimates of the navigable 
lengths and character of the tributaries 
were based on his own records of the 
brief runs aboard his little steamer, 
while engaged in founding the Congo 
State. That they are more likely to 
have been under- than over-estimated 
seems probable in the light of more re 
cent and extended explorations of some 
of the principal streams. 

Three years after these estimates were 
published, an expedition in charge of 
Captain Van Gele and Lieutenant Lie- 
nart, of the Congo Free State service, 
explored the Mobangi, which, under the 
head of " Ubangi Eiver and its Afflu 
ents," Stanley credits with 350 miles of 
navigation. Captain Van Gele s official 
report says that the first rapids they 
came to were 450 miles from the junc 
tion with the Congo. Three weeks were 
then required to overcome a series of 
five rapids, extending over thirty miles 
only two of which, however, were im 



passable by water. Above these rapids 
was a broad, majestic stream, which for 
two hundred miles offered no note 
worthy obstruction to navigation, and 
which for long stretches was over a mile 
wide. The Mobangi is also known as 
the Welle-Makua, and is said by Van 
Gele to pour a stream of water into the 
Congo of larger volume than any Euro 
pean river empties into the sea. Rather 
a sweeping statement, from which the 
Danube, at least, might perhaps be ex- 
cepted. 

Stanley gives the total estimated length 
of the tributaries flowing into this sec 
tion of the Congo under consideration 
as 13,865 ; another probable under-esti- 
mation, since he credits the Ubangi with 
500, while it has since been ascertained 
to be no less than 1,500 miles in length. 

In addition to the navigable waters 
of this Leopoldville - Stanley Falls sec 
tion, the Lualaba section, above Stanley 
FaUs, with tributaries, gives 1,100 miles, 
and the Chambeze section 400. Then 
the Tanganyika system contributes 
about the same, which, altogether, in 
cluding the 110 miles between Boma 
Station and the sea, gives an aggregate 
of 7,350 miles of uninterrupted navi 
gable waterway in the Congo River and 
its affluents. 

While dealing with the waterways of 
the west coast, it will contribute to the 
scope of the subject to glance briefly at 
a few of the more important of the lesser 
streams on that side of the continent. 
The most important and the largest of 
these is the Niger, which is to be called 
a lesser stream only in comparison with 
the truly African Amazon of the fore 
going astonishing estimates. The Niger 
is near 3,000 miles long, and is one of 
the great rivers of the world, the third 
in length in Africa. Its mouth was 
known to Herodotus and the ancient 
geographers, who believed it to be a 
branch of the Nile. It was on the 
Niger that Mungo Park was supposed 
to have been drowned or murdered in 
1805, while attempting to trace it to the 
sea in a canoe. The question of its 
outlet was not settled till 1830, when 
the brothers Lander marched over 
land from the coast to the upper Niger, 
and on the autumn floods successfully 
floated down in canoes to its mouth. 



340 



AFRICAN RIYER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 



The British Government and several 
commercial companies then attempted 
to establish plantations, colonies, and 
factories up the river as far as the con 
fluence of the Binne, but the climate 
was found to be so deadly to Europeans 
that the projects were abandoned. Com 
mercial activity was revived, however, in 
1852, when the African Steamship Com 
pany was organized and several factories 
established up the river. Since then 
the Niger Company have entered the 
field, and at present there is a regular 
service of river and coast steamers that 
ply up to the Binne confluence, 200 miles 
from its mouth. This may be consid 
ered the truly navigable limits of the 
Niger, though in the time of flood, in 
October and November, steamers may, 
and do, proceed some distance farther. 

Were the Niger deep in proportion to 
its length, it would be navigable for 
2,000 miles instead of 200, when it would 
probably rival the Nile in importance. 
It flows through a country of remarkable 
richness, and along its length are many 
towns and cities with populations of 
from 20,000 to 50,000 people. The 
people are semi-civilized ; and at 1,000 
miles up the Niger the traveller is as 
tonished to find imposing mosques, and 
to hear at sunset the melodious voices 
of the muezzins calling the faithful to 
prayers. Merchants are found in these 
cities whose paper is good in Cairo or 
Tunis for as much as a quarter of a 
million dollars. Timbuctoo, which may 
fairly be called the African Nijni Nov 
gorod, is on the upper Niger. 

The Gambia River, though a minor 
stream in comparison of entire length, is 
navigable for 300 miles from its mouth, 
to Barrakunda Rapids. Several trading 
posts have been established on it for 
many years, the largest on an island 
about half-way along its navigable 
length. The Volta, which forms the 
eastern boundary of Ashantee, is navi 
gable without obstruction for about 100 
miles, when the Labelle Rapids inter 
pose with an obstacle that is usually in 
surmountable in ten months of the year. 
In 700 yards there is a fall of near 
thirty feet ; but in September and Oc 
tober there is a rise of fifty feet in the 
level of the river, when steamers may 
proceed for another hundred miles. On 



the Gambia is the famous negro city of 
Paraha, one of the great marts of the 
West Coast of Africa. 

These West Coast streams are of con 
siderable importance commercially, not 
withstanding the limited lengths of their 
navigable waters ; much more so, in 
fact, than any of the larger rivers, propor 
tionately considered. In this connection, 
however, some allowance is to be made 
for the different character of the natives, 
as the people along the Niger, the Gam 
bia, and the Volta are much more ad 
vanced in the science of production and 
commerce than the natives of the Congo 
basin, the Zambezi, or the upper Nile. 

Other streams that may fairly be con 
sidered in the navigable category on the 
West Coast are the Coanza and the 
Senegal. The former is the water-road 
of Angola, and is navigable for 140 
miles from its mouth. The Senegal is 
in some respects the most serviceable 
stream on the coast from a marine point 
of view, particularly in the rainy season, 
when steamers of twelve feet draught 
may ascend for 500 miles. During the 
rest of the year it is navigable for about 
the same distance as the Coanza. The 
Orange River is the last large stream on 
the West Coast, but though more than 
1,000 miles long, and of considerable vol 
ume in the rainy season, it contains no 
navigable stretch beyond about twenty- 
five miles, and for that very light draught 
vessels are required. 

On the East Coast the rivers are 
smaller than on the West, and make a 
less favorable showing as to navigable 
lengths, as well as present and pro 
spective commercial importance. The 
chief East Coast river is, of course, the 
Zambezi, with which the name and dis 
coveries of Livingstone are inseparably 
connected. It is the fourth river in 
size in Africa, ranking next to the Niger. 

The Zambezi is continuously navi 
gable for 320 miles, as far as the Portu 
guese settlement of Tette. It has a 
delta with many mouths, the outermost 
of which are a hundred miles apart 
Bars are continually forming at the 
mouths which present troublesome ob 
stacles to navigation, but beyond the 
delta the Zambezi is a noble stream, 
averaging a mile in width up to Tette. 
Beyond that point a number of con- 



AFRICAN RlfER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 



341 



siderable obstructions occur, notably the 
narrow gorge of the Lupata Hills, the 
falls of Kansala and Makabele, and the 
pass of Kariba, and at length the ma 
jestic Victoria Falls, three hundred and 
fifty feet high. 

The Zambezi s great tributary, the 
Shire, gives us a farther navigable 
stretch of 150 miles to the foot of the 
Murchison Cataracts, and from above 
the falls is navigable again into Lake 
Nyassa. Here is a portage of forty 
miles around the Murchison Cataracts, 
along which has been made a very good 
road, known as the Stewart Road. The 
remaining hundred miles or so to the 
lake is a stretch of still, deep water with 
scarcely any current, which the natives 
regard as a narrow arm of the lake it 
self. In 1878 was organized in England 
" The African Lakes Company," who 
now have a flotilla of trading steamers 
on the Zambezi, the Shire, and Lake 
Nyassa. They have a number of regu 
larly established trading stations, plan 
tations, and other improvements, so that 
it is now possible to proceed up the 
Zambezi, the Shire, and to the northern 
limits of Lake Nyassa in a comfortable 
and speedy way. From the head of 
Lake Nyassa there has been opened the 
Stevenson Road, by which Tanganyika 
may be reached without difficulty or 
discomfort worth mentioning. It was 
probably down this route the French 
travellers, mentioned at the beginning 
of this paper, finished their long journey 
from the Congo mouth. 

The Limpopo is the second largest 
stream that flows into the Indian Ocean, 
and is navigable for about sixty miles 
by vessels of 200 tons burthen. There 
are several other streams along the 
Swahili and Galla-land coasts of lesser 
dimension throughout, but some of 
them with longer stretches of navigable 
way than the Limpopo. The Rovuma 
is a considerable stream, which Living 
stone in 1861 found navigable for thirty 
miles from the mouth, and which has 
been ascended since to some distance 
beyond that point. The Taua, which 
reaches the coast at Lamoo, and has its 
source in the snows of Mount Kenia, has 
been navigated for fifty miles, and when 
the writer was in Zanzibar the officials 
of the Imperial British East African 



Company were talking of building a 
light-draught stern-wheel steamer with 
which they thought it would be possi 
ble to ascend for 200 miles. The Sa- 
baki, which flows down from the re 
gion of Kilimanjaro to near Mombasa, is 
navigable for forty miles with a light 
steamer. The Wami is thought to be 
accessible by very light steamers for 150 
miles, and higher up the coast the Juba, 
which flows through Galla-land, was ex 
plored by Van der Decken, who found it 
navigable for 180 miles. 

Other streams navigable for short dis 
tances, such as the Rufer and the King- 
ani, might be mentioned, but the list of 
African rivers fairly deserving the name 
of navigable begins with the Nile, and, 
proceeding round the coast to the west 
and south and up the east, ends with the 
Juba. The mouth of the Juba is on the 
line of the equator, and for the thirty 
degrees of latitude between that and the 
mouth of the Nile, the African coast pre 
sents not a mile of navigable river, and, 
with a few very insignificant exceptions, 
no rivers at all. 

With a brief mention of the lake sys 
tem, and a summary of the whole, the 
hydrography of the Dark Continent, as 
revealed to us up to date, may be dis 
missed, in so far as the scope and in 
tentions of this paper are concerned. 
Stanley estimates the area of the lakes 
in the Congo Basin, which includes Tan 
ganyika, Bangweolo, the southern Muta 
Nzige, as distinguished from the Albert 
Nyanza, and which he renames Albert 
Edward Nyanza, and several smaller 
lakes, at 31,690 square miles. Lake 
Victoria is, with the newly discovered 
extension, estimated at 27,000, and the 
Albert Nyanza is, according to Stanley s 
latest observations, somewhere near 
1,500 square miles in extent. Of the 
Albert Edward Nyanza too little is 
known to attempt to fix its area. 

Lake Nyassa has an area of about 
13,000 square miles, and an average 
depth of one hundred fathoms. In North 
Africa, Lake Tchad presents an area of 
40,000 square miles in the rainy season, 
but dwindles to a fourth of that size in 
the driest part of the year. It is fed by 
a number of streams, the Shari from the 
east, and the Komadugu reaching it from 
the west. 



342 



AFRICAN Rll/ER AND LAKE SYSTEMS. 



Of minor lakes, the Tzama, in Abys 
sinia, the reservoir of the Blue Nile, 
gives an area of 700 square miles, be 
sides which Baringo, Navaisha, and the 
salt lakes of Ngami, Assal, and Schott 
Kebir deserve mention ; also the Ru 
dolf See and Stephanie See, discovered 
by Count Teleki in the country of El- 
gumi, north of Mount Kenia, a couple 
of years ago. Some of these lesser lakes 
might fairly be termed navigable, but 
others, like Schott Kebir, which is a 
body of water 100 miles long in the wet 
season, but a mere salt-marsh in the dry, 
would not come under that head. Assal 
Lake, in Abyssinia, is the Dead Sea of 
Africa, being extremely salt, and 600 
feet below the level of the Red Sea. 

From the foregoing we obtain a total 
of but 3,375 miles of uninterrupted river 
navigation, in all Africa, accessible from 
the sea. The Mississippi system of 
navigable waters alone gives a total of 
more than twice this distance. But it 
is in inland waters, on the elevated table 
land within the coast-line mountains and 
hills, that Africa makes the best showing 
of commercial waterways. Above and 
between the various cataracts that have 
been alluded to in the foregoing pages, 
are a grand total of more than 12,000 
miles of navigable rivers, without includ 
ing such considerable streams as the 
Shari, and the upper waters of many 
large tributaries of the main rivers, 



which have not yet been explored with 
sufficient care to justify estimates of this 
nature. The lacustrine system of Africa 
gives a grand total of about 97,000 square 
miles of navigable waters, about the same 
as the lake-area of North America. 

To make the great system of inland 
waterways easily accessible to commer 
cial exploitation from without would re 
quire a system of railways aggregating, 
perhaps, 2,000 miles in length. The 
chief lines would be around the Living 
stone cataracts, on the Congo, from Vivi 
to Stanley Pool ; a line from the coast 
to the upper Niger ; the long-talked-of 
line from Suakim to Berber, and a line 
500 miles long from Mombasa to the 
Victoria Nyanza. These four lines would 
absorb about 1,400 miles of the 2,000 
estimate. Minor lines would connect 
Lakes Nyassa and Tanganyika, take the 
place of the Stewart Road around the 
Murchison Cataracts, on the Shire, and 
overcome the difficulties at such points 
as Stanley Falls, and the cataracts of the 
upper Nile system. A length of forty 
miles would be required on the Shire, a 
dozen miles at Lahore, and at various 
points lengths of railway varying from 
near 200 miles between Nyassa and 
Tanganyika to a couple of miles around 
some of the lesser cataracts. The esti 
mated cost of this comprehensive system 
of small, isolated railways is, roughly, 
50,000,000. 




THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 

By T. R. Sullivan. 



THE FKETFUL ELEMENTS. 




thirty miles 
from the sea, on 
the shore of a great 
New-England river, 
stands the Martin 
gale house, in the 
centre of its wide 
domain, which has 
been held intact by the family through 
varying fortunes. The dwelling itself, 
of brick, with a high gambrel roof and 
tower-like chimneys rising above the 
trees, dates from the latter half of the 
eighteenth century, and still bears that 
day s dignity upon all its architectural 
features. The first colonial Martingale, 
cut off in his prime, never occupied, 
even for an hour, the home he had built 
so carefully to live and die in ; but his 
son survived him long, and from him 
the place passed to the eldest son, then 
to the oldest grandson, until this right 
of primogeniture became a family tradi 
tion ; and so descending, the estate was 
at length inherited, in a day not yet for 
gotten, by William Martingale, Esquire, 
better known as " Old Billy Martingale," 
then the last of his race and name. 

He was not old at all as years go, for 
he had but just turned fifty ; yet the 
adjective seemed as properly a part of 
him as if he had been christened by it. 
An only child, brought up in the country, 
he had always lacked the mirth-inspir 
ing influence of other children. This, 
aided by a temperament the reverse of 
sanguine, had given him that peculiar 
demeanor known as " old-fashioned " in 



the language of the nursery, and all 
who could remember his childhood de 
clared he was born old. Later experi 
ence of the world at school and college, 
together with prolonged foreign travel, 
did much to qualify these traits ; yet 
when in the natural course of events Old 
Billy entered upon a colorless and lonely 
life under the ancestral roof-tree, his was 
certainly not a romantic figure. Neither 
mentally nor physically heroic, shy in his 
manner toward strangers, he produced 
a first impression of eminent respect 
ability unvexed by any of the grander 
passions. The people of the neighbor 
ing town, three miles off, learned, how 
ever, that familiarity, far from breed 
ing contempt, tended rather to heighten 
their instinctive regard for him. He 
never indulged in confidences, and be 
yond a certain point of intimacy he 
never passed. The more one knew, the 
more one desired to know, and the 
more likely was he to shrink into impene 
trable reserve. As every effect must 
have its cause, and as a disposition to 
supply missing causes springs, like hope, 
eternal in the human breast, a web of 
romance, vague and impalpable, slowly 
wove itself about this good man, with 
out his help and without his knowledge. 
Earlier in life it was said he had been 
crushed by a great sorrow. The details 
did not matter, but of course there was a 
woman concerned in it ; So-and-so knew 
that. If some inquiring mind wondered 
where this woman could be found, the 
answer came readily : " Abroad ! " That 
he had lived abroad was not to be gain 
said ; that his time there had been spent 
in love-making was, as lago says, probal 
to thinking. So, like a snail, the baffled 



344 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



questioner withdrew into himself, pon 
dering and embellishing the rumor, to 
reproduce it as a fact which every fe 
male neighbor firmly believed. 

Among these same townspeople Old 
Billy had formed, years before, one close 
friendship the exception to his rule 
with a man of his own age whom other 
wise he resembled as little as the night 
the day. When this friend married the 
two drifted somewhat apart ; the loss of 
the wife brought them together again, 
but only for a season. Shortly after 
ward the widower died, leaving one son, 
who had married, in his turn, an ami 
able, intelligent girl, extremely pretty, 
but poor. The father left no fortune ; 
and that Jack Hampton and his wife, 
with their growing family, found it hard 
to make both ends meet, was an open 
secret of the town. He had chosen the 
legal profession, and had made some 
success at it ; his income increased 
slowly, but by no means in proportion to 
his needs. His wife, a good manager, did 
her best to keep his spirits up and his 
expenses down ; but she could not keep 
the lines of care from coming in his 
face. 

Adequately to benefit poor gentility 
is a difficult problem in social ethics, 
and Hampton little knew with what la 
bor his father s friend strove for its solu 
tion. Directly and indirectly Old Billy 
did him many little kindnesses. He 
added a codicil to his will, and sighed 
to think Hampton could not divine that 
the dim future, at least, would be the 
brighter for it. The young man s anx 
ious face became a perpetual reproach 
to him. He racked his brains to devise 
something of immediate advantage pos 
sible for the one to give and the other 
to take, without offence to the finer feel 
ings of either. Suddenly there flashed 
into his mind a scheme so simple that 
not to have thought of it before seemed 
almost criminal. He lost no time in 
working out its accomplishment. 

By this scheme the lawyer s household 
transferred itself to the Martingale es 
tate, of which the capable Mrs. Hamp 
ton was put in charge, on probation, as 
she stipulated. Her consent to this was 
not won too easily. In obtaining it Old 
Billy dwelt with great tact upon the 
loneliness of his declining years and the 



forlorn aspect of the half-closed house, 
through which he wandered like a 
troubled spirit. Her husband s father, 
as he reminded her, had been his lifelong 
friend ; where else, in his hour of need, 
should he turn for the sympathy and 
help he had almost the right to demand 
of her ? Yet her coming he should al 
ways consider an act of charity to him. 
By subtle touches of this sort he over 
came her scruples, and the two families 
were made one long before the year s 
trial ended. Of their own accord her 
children took to calling the kind old 
bachelor " Uncle Billy." They brought 
more sunshine to the house than that 
streaming in through its wide-open 
shutters. The light and warmth agreed 
with him, and he grew happier and 
younger. To change these conditions 
voluntarily would have been an act of 
cruelty that never once suggested itself. 
In the first summer of this new order 
of things Mrs. Hampton s young unmar 
ried sister made her a short visit, and 
late in the second autumn she came again 
for a longer and more memorable one. 
Miss Flora Halloweh 1 had been admired 
in New York for four seasons. Her 
beauty was remarkable, not limited to 
mere regularity of feature, but reveal 
ing some fresh charm with each change 
of its expression. In coloring neither 
blonde nor brunette, she occupied that 
vantage-ground between to which all 
colors are becoming, and for which no 
descriptive term has been invented. 
Her gray eyes, large and clear, had a 
simple, straightforward look that, to tell 
the truth, belied her. For great per 
sonal beauty is a doubtful blessing that 
subjects its fortunate and unfortunate 
possessor to numerous small tempta 
tions unknown, to the rest of us. Even 
with the old and wise, eternal admiration 
is a severe strain upon the character. 
How much harder the test when applied 
to an inexperienced girl, suddenly given 
the freedom of a very complex world to 
lose her rosy illusions of it one by one ! 
Miss Hallowell, though naturally kind at 
heart, had the defect of vanity ; she was 
thoughtless, capricious, and somewhat 
spoiled by attention. To enjoy the pres 
ent hour unfettered seemed her chief 
aim in life, and this, perhaps, accounted 
for the merciless indifference shown to- 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



345 



ward her suitors, of whom she was 
known to have rejected many. " Flora, 
how could you ? " demanded her mother 
time and again. "Mamma, I did not 
love him," was her quiet answer ; " one 
cannot reason in such matters." And 
upon being assured, in return, that she 
would live to die an old maid, the wilful 
little beauty always declined to view the 
impending danger seriously. 

Margaret Hampton could not be 
brought to share in this gloomy fore 
boding of her sister s destiny. She had 
a blind adoration for Flora, who must 
be, she thought, the most beautiful of 
all earth s creatures. That this para 
gon, whom she had nicknamed " the 
Princess Eoyal," would ever fail to cap 
tivate the eye of man appeared to her 
preposterous ; equally so was the thought 
of forcing her into what the French call 
a marriage of reason. Love, when it 
came, could not be controlled, and Flora 
would surely discover that sooner or 
later. Meanwhile there was no hurry. 
Flora was far too sensible, she believed, 
to choose unwisely ; if not, only harm 
would result from interference. Grant 
ing marriage to be, as the cynics said, 
a leap in the dark, love s torch still re 
mained the safest guide to follow. These 
were not precisely her mother s views, 
Margaret knew, and fearing the counter- 
current she urged this visit upon Flora, 
for whom the suggestion of country-life 
in the depth of winter had the charm of 
novelty. It promised rest, too, from the 
dull round of artificiality in which she 
was whirled along. Flora knew the 
whole thing by heart. One winter in 
town was indistinguishable from anoth 
er. She could tell what any given man 
was likely to say before he opened his 
lips. In the country there would be 
fresher air to breathe, with fresher ways 
of breathing it. There would be men, 
of course, but men less formal whose 
formulae she had not learned. She made 
a mischievous resolve to turn all their 
heads before the winter was over ; they 
must be a rude tribe of barbarians if 
she could not accomplish that. 

There was but one of all the tribe ex 
cluded from her field of conquest. Her 
host, the friend of the household, " Un 
cle Billy," as with the children she in 
sisted upon calling him, escaped solely 



on account of his advanced age. Tow 
ard him her irrepressible coquetry went 
no farther than a kind of merry warfare 
wherein he always got the worst of it. 
In her former visit she had perplexed 
and distracted him, and upon her return 
these old relations were at once resumed. 
"Harum-scarum " he pronounced her un 
der his breath. She retaliated openly 
with a new title, which flattered him at 
first, but which, through repetition, he 
grew to find exasperating ; this title was 
the "Clerk of the Weather." 

It had long been Mr. Martingale s 
custom to observe scientifically all at 
mospheric phenomena of his region ; 
and as he had lately become a corre 
spondent of the Smithsonian Institute at 
Washington, the habit was now devel 
oped into a solemn duty on no pretence 
whatever to be neglected. In one win 
dow of his study, carefully sheltered by 
a screen of blinds, hung the wet and dry 
bulb, the hygrometer, and other instru 
ments of observation, their record be 
ing noted thrice daily in a leather-cov 
ered folio. From this Mr. Martingale 
compiled a weekly report, which went 
by the first post to Washington every 
Monday morning. The children, who 
rarely ventured into the study, regarded 
its darkened window with wholesome 
awe ; as for the folio, which they had 
been warned never to touch, they be 
lieved that magic lurked within its 
leaves, and when the wind howled at 
night a little louder than was pleasant 
they listened with a vague fear that the 
book and Uncle Billy were somehow re 
sponsible for it. The okl man, discov 
ering this, amused himself sometimes by 
predicting climatic changes sufficient 
ly in advance to startle the credulous 
youngsters when his word came true. 
In consequence, John, the son and heir 
of the Hampton family, aged six, turned 
upon him one morning with a strange 
question. 

" Uncle Billy, where is the broom you 
make the weather with ? " 

They were at the breakfast-table, and 
when the general joy at this had sub 
sided, all listened for his reply. 

"So you think I keep a broom, do 
you ? " he inquired, soberly. 

"I know," returned the boy. " There 
has to be one always. Nurse told me." 



346 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



And in the broken accents of babyhood 
he quoted : 

1 There was an old woman tossed up in a 

basket 

Seventeen times as high as the moon ; 
And what she did there I could not but ask 

it, 

For in her hand she carried a broom. 
Old woman, old woman, old woman, said I, 
O whither, O whither, O whither so high? 
To sweep the cobwebs from the sky, 
And I ll be back again by and by ! 

Please, Uncle Billy, mayn t I see the 
broom ? " 

"But I haven t one," said Mr. Mar 
tingale, smiling. "It is the old woman 
who does my sweeping for me." 

The boy stared doubtfully, unwilling 
to believe that his good friend was mak 
ing game of him. 

"I have never seen her," said he. 

Thereupon Flora undertook to clear 
up the mystery. " Why, don t you 
know," she asked in a serious tone, 
" that the old lady is Uncle Billy s wife ? " 

But the victim shook his head, de 
clining to submit to further imposition. 
"No," he said, slowly; "if Uncle Billy 
had a wife, I know he would have shown 
her to me." 

A shade of annoyance passed over Mr. 
Martingale s face. " It s all a joke, my 
boy;" he explained. "You must not 
believe what naughty people tell you." 
Then he rose abruptly and left the room. 

A day or two afterward Miss Hallo- 
well for the first time provoked the old 
bachelor into a display of ill -temper. 
Something called him to town, and, de 
parting, he begged Mrs. Hampton to 
make the all-important noon record in 
his absence. She, in her turn sum 
moned away, deputed her sister to per 
form the office. Flora made the obser 
vations with great care, entering them 
correctly enough, but in flippant terms, 
entirely at variance with the spirit of 
the ponderous book. She conceived the 
joke to be nothing if not harmless, and 
gave it no further thought. "When Mr. 
Martingale drove up that afternoon she 
stood at the hall window in new attire 
so becoming that she felt it should be 
noticed. But the sky had grown sud 
denly overcast, and the weather came 
between them. Passing her by without 
a word, he rushed into his study, whence, 



after an exclamation half inaudible that 
sounded uncommonly like an oath, he 
returned with a look of intense vexa 
tion. 

"Who did that? "he asked. 

"It was only a joke," she stammered ; 
" I thought it would do no harm." 

" What right had you to think so ? " 
he replied, angrily ; and without waiting 
for an answer he went back into his 
room and slammed the door. 

Flora s cheek flushed crimson as she 
assured herself that Uncle Billy was a 
brute. Bight, indeed ! What right had 
he to treat her so ? She would let him 
see that she was not a subject for such 
discourtesy. Making no mention of the 
incident, throughout that evening she 
wore her sunniest smile and forced her 
self into the highest spirits all without 
a glance at him or any acknowledgment 
of his existence. This course was ren 
dered possible by the fact that he kept 
more than usually silent and never once 
addressed her ; thus defeating in part 
her design, which included a degree of 
coldness in meeting any advance he 
might make. As none came, she could 
only fall back upon the consciousness 
that she was looking her very best, and 
that her tones were all of angelic sweet 
ness even when the talk took a turn 
which enabled her concisely to express 
the saving grace in a sense of humor. 
Men who lacked that, she stated with her 
lovely eyes fixed on vacancy, were quite 
unfit to live. No one disputed her, and 
having made her point most amiably, 
she did not pursue the subject. At 
bedtime she vouchsafed a general good 
night to whom it might concern. All 
was well with her, and she wished no 
harm to any one, however ill-natured he 
had proved himself to be. 

The next day, finding her alone, Uncle 
Billy was injudicious enough to hint that 
she should make him an apology. But 
Flora was much too clever to place her 
self at such a disadvantage. She looked 
upon him as the aggressor, and told him 
so. He asked, with a smile, if she thought 
the self - accusation should come from 
him ; to which she replied that this, in 
truth, would be most becoming. Though 
provokingly good-humored, he declined 
to humble himself so far as that ; and 
there the matter rested without apology 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



347 



on either side. But Flora was seized 
with a new access of indignation at dis 
covering, a few days later, that her en 
try had been cut from the record and 
replaced by a new one in Mr. Martin 
gale s hand. Their former footing of 
cordiality had been restored, and upon 
reflection the Princess Koyal decided 
that she could only bide her time. This 
she did, privately determining to tame 
the rebellious subject some day, by one 
means or another. 



n. 



A RISING BAROMETER. 

FLORA, taking an active part in all the 
country merry-making, became immense 
ly popular. The girls looked upon her 
as a rare exotic, of whom it would be 
folly to grow jealous, even though their 
brothers and cousins were charmed by 
her, much as she had foreseen. She 
contrived to keep on equal terms of 
good-fellowship with all the men, and 
yet to keep them all at bay ; so that 
even the boldest stopped to consider 
what he had to offer her in exchange for 
the manifold city life she had always 
known. True, her sister had abandoned 
it for the asking. But these two were 
as unlike as sisters can be. It was safe 
to conclude that Flora never would be 
stow her fastidious little hand upon a 
country lawyer. 

The conclusion emphasized itself when 
one of Hampton s classmates arrived to 
pass the Christmas holidays. This was 
Captain Hubert Wise, who had left college 
during the War of the Kebellion to enter 
the Northern arrny as private in a volun 
teer corps, and had risen to the rank 
which, against his wish, still clung to 
him ; but he looked like a soldier, and 
was tired of protesting that he had seen 
in all but two years service. Captain 
Wise, therefore, he would always be. 
The end of the war had come too soon, 
leaving him restless and dissatisfied. He 
had since accomplished little beyond the 
acquisition of a handsome inheritance, 
which turned him into a dilettante, dab 
bling in all the arts, and excelling in 
none. In person he was a fine fellow, 
bearing the scar of a sabre-cut that 



proved a distinction rather than a dis 
figurement. " Here is the very man ! " 
sighed more than one of Flora s new 
admirers ; and he, having long admired 
her, was already inclined to think so 
too. 

Uncle Billy, who liked him, made pre 
cisely the same reflection one morning, 
when he found them alone together in 
the long drawing-room, busy with some 
scheme of pleasure in which he was not 
likely to share. His age would have ac 
counted for that, even had he not been 
at this time peculiarly devoted to a new 
hobby an almanac for the coming year. 
This he had agreed to edit, and the 
final proofs were passing through his 
hands, which now held a great roll of 
them that must be pored over in his 
study for many hours. He crossed the 
room, looking at Miss Hallowell and her 
companion just long enough for the pro 
phetic thought to flash into his mind ; 
they were intent upon an open book 
held up between them. He noted that, 
and went on without speaking. 

"Uncle Billy," Flora caUed, "come 
back ; we want you." 

He stopped and obeyed her with a 
doubtful smile. 

" What mischief now ? " he asked. 

" How suspicious you are ! It is only 
for your good and ours. We want you 
to help us." 

He held up the roll of proof in mock 
distress. " I am so busy," he pleaded. 

"Oh, not now not to-day nor to 
morrow. Don t say no ; you must." 

"Then there is no escape," said he, 
laughing. " What am I to do, when am 
I to do it, and where ? " 

"Here next week, in our tableaux. 
We want to make a picture of you." 

" Bless my soul ! " he cried, with a 
start. "My dear child, I am too old 
and too ugly." 

" You are very young and very beauti 
ful," returned Flora, gravely ; "and you 
will make a lovely Rembrandt. Captain 
Wise is to pose us, and he says so. 
Didn t you, Captain ? " 

" Yes," answered this high authority, 
with a laugh. " I used those very 
words." 

"Then it s all settled," said Flora, 
turning back to the volume of prints 
they were considering. " Uncle Billy is 



348 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



as good as he is beautiful, and the Rem 
brandt will be our great success." 

The subject of these timely compli 
ments went away with a wistful look be 
hind him. "It is good to be young," 
he thought aloud, while he unrolled the 
proofs upon his study-desk a quaint 
piece of furniture that had come down 
to him with other heirlooms. "And 
Wise is a good fellow," he added men 
tally. Then a line of printed matter 
caught his eye, and he knit his brows 
over it. In a moment more the work 
had absorbed him. Two hours later, 
when the noon mail arrived, he was still 
busy with his corrections, making them 
slowly and carefully in a fine, clear hand. 
A knock at the door interrupted this 
labor ; it was only one of the servants 
bringing in a letter. 

The envelope bore a foreign postmark 
with which Mr. Martingale appeared to 
have associations that were not agree 
able. His face flushed angrily, and he 
assured himself that he was alone before 
breaking the seal. He read one line, 
then dropped all, with a faint cry of 
surprise, and, sinking back in his chair, 
covered his face. After a time, leaving 
the letter where it fell, he rose to pace 
the room nervously. At length he 
turned to the window and stood still, 
looking out. The sky was clear, but 
there had been a storm in the night. 
Fresh snow lay over all the landscape 
on the frozen river, in the clefts of the 
old elm-trees at the bottom of the lawn. 
Through these gray arches he could see 
a hill-top, miles away, glistening in the 
sunshine. There the peaceful prospect 
ended ; but his thoughts flew far beyond 
it, leading him into other scenes and 
other lands. All familiar objects of the 
present melted away in a mist of tears, 
and the window where he stood looked 
only upon the past. A sound brought 
him back ; it was merely an icicle rat 
tling down from the eaves in shining 
fragments. This reminded him of the 
hour and of his record, which he pro 
ceeded to make and enter methodically 
with the usual observations. When that 
was done he returned to his desk, and, 
sighing, picked up the foreign letter 
with a trembling hand. 

As he did not appear at luncheon- 
time, Mrs. Hampton sent to say that the 



household waited for him. The servant 
brought back his excuses ; he was so 
busy that, with her permission, he would 
eat luncheon in his study. " Something 
must be wrong with the weather," sug 
gested Flora. " Is the sky falling ? " 

"I hope the sky will keep in place a 
day longer," said Hampton. "We are 
going out to-morrow after foxes. The 
snow-shoeing is superb." 

"But Captain Wise cannot walk on 
snow-shoes," said Flora. 

" No ; but he can learn." 

" Between now and to-morrow mom- 
ing?" 

" Why not ? " asked the soldier. " I 
will learn to walk in two hours. A pair 
of gloves that I do ! " he added, as Flora 
smiled incredulously. 

She took up the gauntlet, and when 
luncheon was over he went off to the 
stable-yard, where Hampton shod him 
with the huge rackets, four feet in 
length, and put him through his first 
paces ; then, driving away to town, as 
sured him that he was in a fair way to 
win the bet, since all he needed was a 
little practice. 

But snow-shoeing is a knack not to 
be mastered in an instant. Left to 
himself in his shady corner, the gallant 
captain stumbled and slipped down 
time and time again, until he grew 
heated, angry, and profane over his awk 
wardness. The long swinging gait, that 
is neither walk nor run nor slide, but 
that partakes of all three, would not 
hold its own for ten steps together. 
His feet seemed to be all toes and heels, 
with these extremities in perpetual con 
flict. At the end of an hour he was des 
perate, and perching himself upon an an 
gle of the fence he took a long rest, stared 
defeat in the face, and smoked a gloomy 
pipe of consolation. Then, in a final 
spurt, all suddenly came right ; he strode 
off gloriously round and round the yard, 
out into the drive-way, across the lawn. 
He looked at his watch ; five minutes of 
his time were left, and he could walk 
with all the confidence of an Indian. 
Turning back he saw Mr. Martingale at 
work in the study, his hostess and her 
sister reading in the drawing-room win 
dow. The sun had been lying here all 
day, and his feet sank deeper ; never 
theless he pushed on with a triumphant 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



349 



war-whoop, coming up to the house in 
splendid form. Uncle Billy dropped 
his pen to admire him ; Flora applauded 
in amazement. He put his best foot 
foremost, tried in vain to get it back, 
plunged forward wildly, floundered, and 
fell in a helpless tangle with his face 
buried in the snow. 

He could hear their screams of laugh 
ter as he made ineffectual struggles to 
get up. His position from being ab 
surd began to grow serious, for he was 
half smothered, when a strong hand 
grasped his and pulled him to his feet. 
It was Uncle Billy, rosy, radiant, and 
trying hard not to smile. The captain 
sputtered out his incoherent thanks ; 
then shook his fist at the rest of his au 
dience within, now applauding him de 
risively, and retreated in disorder to the 
stable-yard again. He had lost his bet, 
and made a fool of himself into the bar 
gain. It took him another hour s hard 
practice to recover his gait and his equa 
nimity. 

" What has happened to Uncle BiUy ? " 
asked Mrs. Hampton, as the rescuer and 
the rescued retired briskly in opposite 
directions. " Has he renewed his 
youth?" 

"Upon my word I believe so," said 
Flora ; " he is certainly the younger man 
of the two." 

nx 

STORM-SIGNALS. 

FLORA abated nothing from the extrav 
agance of this statement upon discover 
ing at dinner that Uncle Billy meant to 
take part in the fox-hunt of the morrow 
that is, to tramp all day after the 
hounds over hill and dale, rail fence and 
stone wall, through swamp and under 
brush, with a gun upon his shoulder and 
snow-shoes upon his feet ; for in this 
native manner only could the mask and 
brush be won. " The old phoenix ! " she 
thought, while his face betrayed keen 
joy in the primitive sport he was de 
scribing to the captain. " Yesterday I 
should have called him the last man in 
the world to scour the wilderness for 
the whisk of a fox s tail. How his eyes 
light up ! After all, why shouldn t they ? 
he isn t superannuated." Then she fell 



to conjecturing his actual age, but failed 
to satisfy herself about it. 

The men passed into Mr. Martingale s 
study for their cigars, and to their 
hearty laughter the women, consigned 
to the drawing-room, listened for some 
time without speaking ; the old bache 
lor s voice could be distinguished even 
above the others. Flora sighed uncon 
sciously, and letting her hands fall into 
her lap, stared at the fire as if she found 
strange omens in it. Her sister offered 
a penny for her thoughts. 

" What was I thinking ? Dear me ! 
I hardly know nothing worth a price. 
How old do you suppose Uncle Billy 
is?" 

" Yesterday I should have guessed a 
hundred. To-day, I really don t know. 
We must look in the family Bible." 

"Is there one?" 

"Of course. On the lower shelf in 
the library." 

Flora immediately lighted a candle 
and went to look for the book, which, 
however, was not to be found. When 
she reported this, Mrs. Hampton re 
membered that its place was in the study, 
after all. Nothing could be done about 
it then, and they turned to other sub 
jects until the men reappeared bringing 
their eternal fox-hunt with them. All 
gave way to that, and because of it bed 
time was called much earlier than usual. 

As a natural consequence Flora awoke 
at sunrise. The day promised to be 
clear and fine ; a jingling of sleigh-bells 
announced to her that the three men 
had just started for the distant farm 
house where they were to meet the 
hounds. She watched the merry party 
glide off down the avenue, along the 
road, out upon the shining surface of 
the river, and gave an envious sigh when 
they were gone. " It s of no use," she 
thought ; " try as hard as we may, we 
can t enjoy ourselves as men do ; they 
never miss us, but we are poor creatures 
without them." The reflection was an 
irritating one. Why need they thus 
have asserted their superiority by plan 
ning an all-day enterprise in which she 
could not share? Was she not a dis 
tinguished guest to whom more than 
common deference should be paid? 
The house seemed very still and dull 
that morning ; it might as well have 



350 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



been a boarding-school, for all the ex 
hilaration she could find in it. The ele 
ments of mischief were at war within 
her, and when she went to the study in 
search of the family Bible, she felt a 
vague desire to play some prank that 
should stir society to its foundations. 
The oppressive order of the room filled 
her with contempt for the pettiness of 
man. Precision reigned supreme there, 
and all things stood at right angles as 
if arrayed for a military inspection. On 
the desk lay the proofs of Mr. Martin 
gale s famous almanac, neatly folded, with 
a paper-weight securing them. Flora 
looked scornfully at the printed leaves 
defaced by strange hieroglyphics, among 
which sundry words and phrases were 
minutely interlined. April May June 
evidently these months had received 
their final revision before return to the 
printer. A wicked impulse took pos 
session of her. She caught up the pen, 
and at the head of the June page, imi 
tating cleverly the author s hand and 
stretching the phrase out along the col 
umn, she wrote : 



About 



this 



time 



expect 



snow. 



" Poor Uncle Billy ! " thought she, with 
a shade of compunction for the deed 
when it was done. "How surprised he 
will be to read that in print ! " But she 
quieted her conscience, and let the in 
credible prediction stand. 

On a shelf just over the desk she 
found the Bible a fine old folio bound 
in red leather, so heavy that it was not 
easily taken down. The title-page bore 
an Oxford imprint of the year 1762, and 
quaint initial letters attracted her as she 
turned through the text to one fly-leaf, 
where the family history lay enshrined 
in a chronicle of dead names, all un 
known except the last, William Martin 
gale. The line looked fresh, as if writ 
ten yesterday, but the hand had trem 
bled in writing it, perhaps on the very 
day that he was born fifty-three years 
ago! He was really more than twice 
her age ; even now she could scarcely 
believe it, yet that was not so very old 
for a man ; a long time to live alone, 
though ! How could men be content to 



make hermits of themselves ? She closed 
the covers impatiently, lifting the Bible 
with both hands to replace it. But its 
weight was more than she had counted 
upon. The book slipped and fell, strik 
ing the desk violently, missing the ink 
stand by a hair s-breadth, escaping seri 
ous injury, as it seemed, by a miracle. 
When she had fully assured herself of 
this, and after another effort had put 
the volume back where it belonged, 
Flora turned to the desk again, still 
trembling at the thought of all the harm 
that might have happened. There was 
not even a scratch, but in the upper 
wood-work a small drawer had sprung 
open no doubt at the jar of the falling 
book. This drawer, as Flora could not 
help seeing, contained a letter with a 
foreign postmark and the miniature of 
a woman so pretty that she was tempted 
to examine it closely. What objection 
could there be? Since chance had re 
vealed so much, curiosity might surely 
make one step more without offending. 
To resist would be to neglect her ad 
vantages in a most unwomanly way. 
She took up the picture, and in so doing 
touched the edge of the drawer, which 
immediately closed with a snap, as if 
worked by a spring. It had shrunk into 
itself leaving no trace behind, and to 
her dismay the trick of it was not to be 
discovered, though she tapped here, 
there, everywhere all in vain ; the de 
lusive mechanism, having betrayed its 
trust, now, with double treachery, refused 
to undo the work. The secret, or at 
least an important portion of it, re 
mained in Flora s hands. 

The miniature, delicately painted and 
beyond question a portrait, proved to 
be the half-length figure of a girl, 
simply but quaintly dressed after no 
fashion that Flora knew. The features 
had a foreign look ; they were regular 
and fine, but Flora instantly detected a 
certain hardness in them, for which, it 
appeared to her, the painter was not 
altogether responsible. That this mote 
might be in her own eye, since one 
pretty woman s estimate of another is 
rarely impartial, never occurred to her. 
She accepted the impression, wonder 
ing who the creature was, and turning 
the likeness over for further develop 
ments. Across the back, written in a 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



351 



strange hand, now almost illegible, she 
found a name Antonia. That had an 
unfamiliar foreign sound, well suited to 
the face. Who could she be ? How 
came this painting of her to be treasured 
here? What was Antonia to this re 
cluse, or he to Antonia ? Flora asked 
herself these questions with a feeling of 
displeasure, which she would have been 
at a loss to explain. The indeterminate 
gossip about Uncle Billy s past had 
never reached her ears, and she now 
reflected for the first time that he had a 
past of which she knew nothing. " What 
a lover he would have made ! " she 
thought. Uncle Billy a lover ? Her 
fancy refused to lend itself to this im 
possible flight. Yet here was a sus 
picious interest in her sex apparently 
established by this precious bit of cir 
cumstantial evidence. It was an awk 
ward thing to keep, but for the moment 
that seemed the only course to pursue. 
She put the trinket into her pocket, and 
retiring to her room considered it again 
more carefully. That the face was un 
commonly pretty she could not but 
admit ; then, in sudden bitterness, she 
wondered if it could by any possibility 
be called prettier than hers, and before 
the glass compared the two solemnly, 
as if she were a disinterested third 
person whose judgment would be ac 
cepted as final. The result was un 
satisfactory. "It s in the hair," she 
decided ; " I wonder if I can put mine 
up so." Taking time, as it were, by the 
forelock, in the end she accomplished 
this, exactly reproducing the foreign 
coiffure in her own, and wearing it down 
to luncheon triumphantly. Mrs. Hamp 
ton held up her hands in amazement. 

"Why, Flora, what have you done to 
your head ? " 

"The very latest thing, Margaret 
dear, to which we are all coming. And 
how do you like it ? " 

Margaret, by no means sure that she 
liked it at all, felt much relief at finding 
that the very latest thing was to be 
modified before the men came home. 
As the hour of their return drew near, 
Flora crept down to the study in a 
guilty frame of mind. She had deter 
mined not to keep the miniature, and 
after another fruitless search for the 
spring she thrust her small encum 



brance out of sight under some papers 
in a dusty pigeon-hole where Uncle 
Billy must discover it some day if he 
looked long enough. But out of sight 
was by no means out of mind in this in 
stance. The bit of knowledge she had 
gained still vexed her unaccountably ; 
and by a strange process of reasoning 
she argued that knowing a little entitled 
her to know all. 

Meanwhile the sportsmen were hav 
ing the best of days and the worst of 
luck. The snow-crust was in fine con 
dition, the pure air of the hills most ex 
hilarating ; but the hounds found one 
scent after another only to lose it again, 
and at last got lost themselves. Hamp 
ton, after whistling for some time in 
effectually, started off in pursuit of them, 
leaving the others to await his return in 
a clump of hemlocks on the edge of a 
wide clearing with a brook running 
through it. When he was gone Cap 
tain Wise and Uncle Billy seated them 
selves upon the trunk of a fallen tree to 
talk the matter over, keeping on the 
alert for any fresh sound or sign. The 
wind had died away, and only Hamp 
ton s whistle, more and more remote, 
broke the restful silence of the woods, 
which gradually subdued them both. 
Their pauses grew longer and more fre 
quent. Mr. Martingale lighted a cigar, 
and the captain, pulling out a tobacco- 
pouch, filled his pipe to an old waltz- 
tune, hummed softly at first, then a 
little louder as his own thoughts en 
gaged him. Suddenly Uncle Billy 
cocked his head like a bird and listened 
intently. 

" Hark ! " he cried, raising his hand 
with a warning gesture. " The hounds ! " 

The captain held his breath and heard 
them too. " In full cry ! " he whis 
pered. 

" Ah, that s music ! " returned his 
companion. " They are coming nearer. 
Your gun quick that way. I ll wait 
here." An instant had convinced him 
that the fox was making toward the 
clearing to enter it on the farther side. 
The generous resolve to give his guest 
the shot followed as a matter of course, 
and he sent the captain forward to the 
point he would have chosen. 

As he turned for his own gun he saw 
a gleam in the snow just at the place 



352 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



where the captain had been sitting ; 
the object, whatever it was, must belong 
to him. It proved to be nothing more 
valuable than the beaded ornament of a 
woman s dress Flora s ; an odd thing. 
Uncle Billy had noticed a row of 
similar ones on her sleeve the day be 
fore. He looked at this gravely, then 
put it into his pocket, and the trifling 
distraction lost him the game. 

In that half minute the fox, with the 
hounds close behind him, had dashed 
into the open field. Headed at first 
directly for the captain s ambush, he 
had doubled well out of range, and turn 
ing into a totally different course had 
given the shot to Mr. Martingale, who 
fired a second too late. 

The men rushed in simultaneously, 
the captain laughing, Uncle Billy much 
chagrined. There were the tracks and 
the sweep of the brush upon the snow ; 
but the fox had escaped, leaving the 
hounds to run this way and that with 
hopeless indecision. 

" He has taken to the brook," said 
Mr. Martingale. " We have lost him." 
And so it proved. When Hampton 
came back, he found them still beating 
about the bush for the lost scent. The 
day was far advanced, and they had far 
to go ; they took counsel, and turned 
home empty-handed. 

Hampton devoted himself to the dogs 
at first, and the two others dropped be 
hind him. After a long silence Uncle 
Billy suddenly produced the trifle that 
had brought about the day s discomfit 
ure. 

"I found this under the hemlocks," 
said he ; " it belongs to you." 

"Yes that is, no," replied the cap 
tain, in confusion. 

" It was in your pocket." 

"Yes," admitted Wise, as he put it 
back there. " I see you know whose it 
really is." 

" Yes," said Uncle Billy ; " and I don t 
know that it s a thing to be ashamed 
of." 

"No, it s not that," the captain an 
swered, slowly ; then, after an awkward 
pause, he added : "do you think there 
is any chance for me ? " 

" I know of nothing to the contrary." 

"You, at least, would not oppose it, 
then?" 



"I?" demanded Uncle Billy, with a 
smile. " I have no right to oppose Miss 
Hallo well in anything." 

" No ; but your approval or disap 
proval would have great influence with 
her." 

" I do not think so," said Mr. Martin 
gale, gravely., There was another awk 
ward moment of silence, after which, he 
went on in the same tone, "If a word 
from me will help you, when the time 
comes, you shall have it." 

" Thank you ; it s immensely good of 
you to say that. And the time will 
come at least I fear so." 

Then Hampton dropped back and 
joined them. 

IV. 

STRESS OP WEATHER. 

.IN spite of a severe snow-storm half 
the town drove out to the Martingale 
place on the night of the tableaux. It 
was understood that Captain Wise had 
them in charge, and that his taste in 
such matters was faultless. The youths 
and maidens whom he had invited to 
take part confirmed the rumor ; in con 
sequence there assembled in the draw 
ing-room an eager audience, fluttering 
its programmes and eying curiously a 
gilt frame set up in the doorway leading 
to the library. "Rather small, isn t 
it ? " whispered a rival manager, who, 
having won honors in this field, regarded 
the captain s invasive action with a jaun 
diced eye. "They can t be going to 
show many figures. And look at the 
names on the list Kembrandt, Titian, 
Terburgh, Raphael nothing very new 
there." Then the room was darkened, 
and in the voice of Captain Wise came 
the first announcement. " Number One : 
The Burgomaster, by Rembrandt." A 
curtain slipped aside, showing the por 
trait of an old man, more than half in 
shadow, so deep that it was hard to tell 
where the dark folds of his cloak end 
ed and the background began. Light 
slanted in upon one cheek, just touch 
ing the golden chain that glimmered 
upon his breast. The figure was motion 
less, and breathless too, to all intents 
and purposes, with gauze before it so 
cunningly arranged in different degrees 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



353 



of thickness that the man looked more 
like a work of art than a human being. 
Murmurs of delight spread through the 
room. " How fine ! Can that be Mr. 
Martingale ? Beautiful ! " And in the 
burst of applause that followed Captain 
Wise s rival joined instinctively, even 
while he whispered to his neighbor : 
" Not light enough ; I couldn t half see 
it." But this bit of self-assertion was 
in reality his confession of defeat. 

Mr. Martingale had made a first and 
last appearance. After retiring to change 
his costume, he came quietly down and 
took his stand at the back of the draw- 
in g-roo in, where he would be in no 
one s way and yet would see admirably. 
As he went in, Titian s "Alfonso and 
Xiaura " was announced and displayed 
the woman, one of the prettiest in 
town, the man, Captain Wise himself, 
dimly seen, holding a mirror behind her 
lovely shoulders. Remarkably skilful, 
Uncle Billy thought it, and wondered if 
he had posed as well as that. "What 
comes next ? " somebody asked just in 
front of him. He started at the an 
swer ; there was a strange mistake ; 
that could not be possible. Looking 
about, he found a programme, which 
filled him with amazement ; and im 
mediately confirming it came the cap 
tain s voice: "Antonia painter un 
known." 

For once there were no shadows. 
She was one glow of light and color ; 
she lived and breathed, with the spirit 
of mischief trembling on her lips, flash 
ing in her eyes. Every small detail of 
the old miniature had been copied with 
absolute fidelity, so that this looked fear 
fully and wonderfully like it. Yet this 
was only Flora after all. His startled 
cry was drowned by their shout of rec 
ognition, in the midst of which he 
turned away. 

When supper was served he came 
back, and devoted himself to the com 
fort of others, with all his usual cour 
tesy. But he carefully avoided Flora, 
who sat at the end of the room holding 
her small court of admirers and smiling 
upon all alike. She still wore the radi 
ant costume of the portrait, which gave 
rise to much searching inquiry. What 
had suggested it to her? Where was 
the lovely original she had copied ? She 
VOL. VIIL 33 



parried their questions artfully with 
many small jests, committing herself to 
nothing. But her animation had a false 
note and thinly veiled an unusual ner 
vousness, due in part to her own mis 
chievous audacity, in part to another 
annoying incident for which she was not 
to blame. 

The crush being over in the supper- 
room, Mr. Martingale returned to it on 
his own account. He had hardly taken 
his first bite when the touch of a hand 
upon his shoulder interrupted him. It 
was the officer of the evening, Captain 
Wise, with a very sober expression on 
his face. 

"Take a glass of wine, my dear fel 
low ; you look tired." 

No, thank you. It s all up with me," 
sa d the captain, gloomily. 
What do you mean ? " 

1 1 have spoken to her that s all." 
When?" 
Just now behind the scenes." 

And she " 

She wouldn t hear of it. I might 
have known she wouldn t. There is 
nothing more to be said. I am going 
away to-morrow morning. A letfer 
sudden business of importance you 
understand." 

" I am very sorry began Uncle 
Billy. He would have said much more, 
but that other men came in and forced 
the captain to drink with them in spite 
of himself. 

The storm led to an early breaking 
up of the party, and the guests, as they 
took leave, repeatedly assured Mrs. 
Hampton of its success in cordial terms. 
Even the local manager informed her 
that all had been "extremely good 
though quite different from ours last 
winter, you know ; we used the head 
light of an engine." When all were 
gone she and her husband made merry 
over this significant speech, while Flora 
listened to them with a languid smile. 
Uncle Billy had vanished, no one knew 
where ; and the captain was already 
packing for the early morning train. 
Jack and his wife regretted this, and 
said so ; it appeared that a letter, re 
ceived that afternoon, left him no choice. 
Thereupon Flora complained of fatigue, 
and bade them good-night. 

On her table she found a three-cor- 



354 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



nered note addressed to her in a familiar 
cramped handwriting. 

"Please come down to the study as 
soon as the house is quiet for one mo 
ment. I have a word to say that must 
be said to-night. W. M." 

Her cheeks burned. She deserved a 
scolding, she knew. She was ashamed 
of the trick already. He resented it, of 
course ; he had avoided her all the even 
ing. But could not his reproaches wait 
one night this one of all others, when 
she had so much else upon her mind? 
She would not go down ; she would not 
humor him. Let him speak out if he 
chose, to-morrow, and tell the whole 
family what she had done. What was it, 
after aU ? 

That question proved an impossible 
one to answer. The mysterious Antonia 
must have figured in some remote pas 
sage of Uncle Billy s life, of which he 
had been suddenly reminded. Just what 
the passage was Flora could not guess. 
She had appeared to him in that likeness 
partly for the love of mischief, partly 
moved by the half-admitted hope of 
pushing him to an explanation. She 
was forced to admit the hope completely 
now ; her desire to fulfil it became irre 
sistible. Since an explanation of some 
sort awaited her, why should she post 
pone it a day, an hour ? Since her con 
science would compel her to beg his 
pardon, the sooner it was done the bet 
ter. How humiliating the pass to which 
her sense of humor had brought itself ! 
But that could not be helped. She would 
go down. 

Opening her door softly, she watched 
there a moment to make sure that no 
one was stirring. The lights were out, 
and nothing could be heard but the click 
of the snow against the window-panes, 
as gliding by them in the dark she 
tapped gently at the study-door. Mr. 
Martingale made no answer, but rose 
and admitted her with a calm face. He 
did not look so very angry. The thought 
gave her a moment s relief, which the 
remembrance of her fantastic costume 
quickly overcame. Why had she not 
taken pains to change it ? This last in 
fliction, at least, she might have saved 
him. 



"Thank you for coming," he said, 
moving a chair for her a little nearer to 
the fire. She took it silently, waiting for 
him to go on. But he waited too, pull 
ing his moustache with a thoughtful air, 
as if the next word were very hard to 
find. Flora leaned forward, and pre 
tended to warm her hand at the flame. 
" You wanted to see me," she suggested. 

"Yes. The fact is Captain Wise 
goes to-morrow morning." 

Flora started. " So this is what he 
wants," she thought. He had not watched 
for her movement, which was too slight 
to be detected otherwise. " Yes, he is 
called home unexpectedly," she said 
aloud. 

" No/ replied Mr. Martingale, look 
ing at her sharply now. " That is not 
the reason." 

" He has told you," she returned, cold 
ly, with a scornful toss of her head that 
told fatally against the captain. But 
though his cause was lost his champion 
would not yet abandon it. 

" He does not know of this. I speak 
of my own accord. Wise is a good fel 
low, a fine fellow. I like him, and 

" But he has spoken for him self, "broke 
in Flora, with uncontrollable annoyance, 
" and I have answered him." 

"Definitely?" 

" Definitely in one word." 

" That is very abrupt. If you were to 
take time to consider " 

" It would do no good. One cannot 
reason in these matters. I like him, that 
is all and that is not enough." 

"No," said Uncle Billy, with a sigh; 
"but if " 

" But, if you please," she urged impa 
tiently, " we will say no more about it. * 

" I have no more to say." 

She had more to say to him, but 
now, wilfully neglecting it, she rose and 
walked to the door, where he detained 
her by another word of his. 

" One moment ; will you give back the 
picture you borrowed of me ? " 

" Give back the picture ? " she repeat 
ed, " I left it here under those papers ; 
there, just at your hand." 

He drew out the miniature with a look 
so reproachful that it brought a flood of 
color to her face. 

" The drawer opened by accident," she 
faltered. 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



355 



"And what you did to-night was 
that an accident ? " 

"No ; it was a piece of impertinence, 
foolish, unjustifiable cruel too, perhaps. 
I don t know why I did it. I don t know 
who she is ; I don t care. I only know I 
hate myself for grieving you." 

Mr. Martingale held up the foreign 
letter. 

"Had you read this," said he, "at 
least you would have known what you 
were doing." 

" Had I read your letter ; what do you 
mean ? " 

" It would not have been strictly hon 
orable. But it would have spared me 
the pain of seeing you in that dress. 
You are the last one in the world who 
ought to wear it ; and you wear it all 
all, even to the color of her roses." 

With a sudden impulse Flora snatched 
the flowers from her hair which uncoiled 
itself and trailed down upon her shoul 
ders. She paid no heed to this, but 
flung the roses into the fire, and as their 
petals curled and shrivelled a fierce joy 
came into her eyes. 

" I am not like her any more," said 
she. 

"You could not be like her if you 
would," he answered, " for reasons 
which I cannot even hint to you. We 
do not speak ill of the dead, and of her 
death this letter has informed me. 
What she did was all a faint remem 
brance, until you called it up like a 
ghost out of the grave." 

" Oh, what have I done," said Flora, 
in a broken voice. " After this, how can 
you endure the sight of me ? " 

" After this you will never allude to 
it again. I forbid you to think of it. 
As for myself, I shall put it out of sight 
and out of mind, as I put these." 

He tossed the letter and the portrait 
where the roses had gone before them. 
The flame leaped up and left them in 
another moment a heap of glowing 
ashes. He looked at her, and smiled. 
She tried to speak, but the words would 
not come ; even her eyes failed her in a 
blinding rush of tears. 

He took her hand in both of his and 
stroked it gently. " Don t ! " said he. 

" I thought you meant to scold me," 
she sobbed. "And you are always so 
kind so very kind." 



" That is all gone and forgotten," he 
insisted. " My dear child, we must not 
distress ourselves a moment longer. 
Good-night." 

" Good-night," was all she found to 
say. With an old-time gracefulness, 
gentler even than his words, he stooped 
to kiss her hand ; tears fell upon it, and 
she knew they were not hers. 



V. 



NATUKES JEST-BOOK. 

LATE in the following spring word 
came from New York that Flora looked 
pale and thin and needed a change of 
air. " Send for her at once," said Mr. 
Martingale, when Margaret quoted this 
from her mother s letter at the break 
fast-table. "By all means," added Jack, 
who was busy with his own letters. 
Then he opened the last one and gave a 
long, low whistle. 

"What is the matter?" asked his 
wife. 

" It s from Wise. He is engaged to 
Miss Packenham, the heiress, of Chicago. 
An odd coincidence, isn t it? Do you 
suppose that can have anything to do 
with " 

" I suppose nothing of the kind," said 
Margaret, sharply. 

" Oh, very well ; only I can t help 
thinking that Flora 

" You have no right to think at all ; 
Uncle Billy, please stop him." 

Mr. Martingale laughed. " You hear, 
sir. Another thought, and you are a 
dead man." 

" Of course I may be wrong ; but " 

"You are wrong, and that settles 
it," declared Mr. Martingale. " If you 
doubt us, ask Miss Hallowell when she 
comes." 

Instead of doing that, Jack, after 
Flora s arrival, very properly fought shy 
of the subject which the others avoid 
ed with equal care. No reference was 
made to the new engagement for several 
days, during which Miss Hallowell, who 
had at first looked worn and tired, be 
gan to recover her wonted spirits ; at 
last she took occasion to speak of it her 
self. One June afternoon, in making 
the round of the place Mr. Martingale 



356 



THE CLERK OF THE WEATHER. 



found Flora under an elm-tree reading 
to her small favorite, John Hampton. 
At Uncle Billy s request they all went 
on together for a look at the garden. A 
turn in the path brought into sight a 
wide reach of the river flowing silent 
ly toward the sunset between thickly 
wooded hills. Far along it a great stur 
geon leaped high into the air and fell 
back in a shower of foam. 

" How beautiful this is ! " said Flora. 
" Why are any of us content to live in 
cities ? " 

"You like the country, then," said 
Mr. Martingale. 

" That word is not strong enough," 
she answered. " I have learned to love 
it while I am here, to long for it per 
sistently while I am away." 

Mr. Martingale made no reply, and 
they walked on for some time in silence. 
Then, apropos of nothing, she asked if 
he knew that Captain Wise was to be 
married. 

" Yes," said he ; "I am disappointed 
in him." 

" Disappointed ; why ? " 

"Because I thought I could not 
help thinking that 

" Did you think that I should change 
my mind ? " 

*" Perhaps." 

Her eyes flashed, but she bit her lip 
and did not speak just then. After a 
moment or two she inquired carelessly 
if the weather of the following day was 
likely to be fine. 

" No," he said ; " I think not. There 
is a storm on the way." 

"You are wondrous wise," she re 
plied, satirically, " in weather. Nature is 
an open book to you. It is a pity that 
your observation does not go a little 
farther and take in human nature too." 

" Women, for instance," said he, smil 
ing. 

" Women yes, women ; of whom it 
appears you know next to nothing." 

"I am not so sure of that," he retort 
ed. " In spite of what you say I am 
not sure, even now, that you don t re 
gret il 

" Uncle Billy, you are blind ! " she 
cried, angrily, and darting off like an ar 
row, left him to pursue his walk alone. 

The boy had gone on impatiently to 
the garden, and in much perplexity Un 



cle Billy followed him. " Where s Aunt 
Flora ? " he demanded. 

" She went back to the house, my boy. 
Let us sit down for a minute or two. 
What book are you reading ? " 

"I can t read myself. It was Aunt 
Flora who was reading." 

The book opened at some verses, and 
in their second line Uncle Billy s glance 
fell upon two words which Flora had 
that moment used. He read on, went 
back to the beginning, and when he 
came to the end, laughing as though the 
fable had for him some hidden applica 
tion, he read it through once more. 

" There was a man in our town, 

And he was wondrous wise ; 
He jumped into a bramble-bush, 

And scratched out both his eyes. 
But when he saw his eyes were out, 

With all his might and main, 
He jumped into another bush, 

And scratched them in again." 

" Uncle Billy, what are you laughing 
at ? " asked the child. 

" At this funny book of yours. Has 
Aunt Flora really gone ? Then let us 
go too." 

With an invalid s privilege she kept 
her room tliat night, and he saw her 
neither then nor in the early morning, 
which was stormy, as he had predicted. 
He retired to his study, for what pur 
pose was not apparent ; since he only 
paced it aimlessly, sighing from time to 
time or shaking his head over some 
grave doubt that occupied his mind. 
All at once he stopped short before the 
window in utter astonishment. 

"Upon my soul, it has come true !" 
he cried. 

What he saw was a light flurry of snow, 
melting as it fell, to be sure, but still 
snow most unseasonable, even in that 
northern latitude. With a loud laugh 
he rushed to his desk and took up a 
book his almanac ; but as he opened 
it a sharp knock at the door interrupted 
him. " Come in," he called ; and Flora, 
all excitement, burst into the room. 

" The snow, the snow ! Uncle Billy, 
do you see?" 

" Yes," he said, still laughing heartily. 

" And I did it I did it," she contin 
ued. 

"You did it? What! Are you the 
Clerk of the Weather ? " 



WHERE SHE COMES. 



357 



" Don t tell me that you never found 
it in the almanac the snow in June." 

"On the contrary, I found nothing 
else. And I should have murdered the 
printer in cold blood if he hadn t shown 
it to me in my own handwriting. It was 
a strange blunder. Who could have 
ventured to hope the fiend would lie like 
truth?" 

It was now Flora s turn to laugh until 
the tears came. " Oh, Uncle Billy, you 
are blind ! Your own handwriting ! I 
forged it, and you never knew ! " 

" You? Is it possible ? Here it is in 
the book, almost to a day. It was writ 
ten, then, that you should be my guar 
dian angel." 

She laughed no longer, but looked 
out at the snow which was still falling. 
"It is the strangest thing in all this 
world," said she. 



"Nature plays strange tricks with us," 
he answered. "In her book nothing is 
so strange that it may not come true. 
Snow in midsummer green grass at 
Christmas time ; it is all one to her. 
Old hearts grow young if she thinks 
best. She gives eyes even to the blind." 

Flora turned and faced him, clasping 
and unclasping her hands nervously ; 
but she did not speak. 

" You have learned to love the coun 
try," he continued. " Do you think you 
could learn to live in it, if I should ask 
you ? " 

Still she said nothing, but only trem 
bled, pale and red by turns. As he took 
her hand to draw her toward him gently,, 
she hid her face upon his shoulder. 

" And will you tell me now about An- 
tonia?" said she. 




WHERE SHE COMES. 

By Charles B. Going. 



WITH heavy elders overhung, 

Half hid in clover masses, 
An old fence rambles on, among 

The tangled meadow-grasses. 
It makes a shade for lady-fern 

Which nestles close beside it ; 
While clematis, at every turn, 

And roses almost hide it. 



The sunlight slants across the fence, 

Where lichens gray it over, 
And stirs a hundred dreamy scents 

From fern, and mint, and clover ; 
But though the air is sweet to-day, 

I know of something sweeter : 
That she can only come this way, 

And I am sure to meet her ! 



In shade of overhanging sprays 

And down a sunny hollow, 
By hazel-copse, and woodland ways, 

The winding fence I follow ; 
By rose, and thorn, and fragrant dew 

In search of something sweeter 
The orchard-gap, where she comes 
through, 

And I go down to meet her ! 
VOL. VIII. 34 



And so, while chipmunks run a match 

To tell the wrens who s coming, 
And all across the brier-patch 

There sounds a drowsy humming 
The hum of honey-seeking bees 

I seek for something sweeter : 
A gap, amongst the apple-trees, 

Where I am going to meet her ! 




THE SHEKH ABDALLAH. 

By Clinton Scolliinl. 



WHAT does the Shekh Abdallali do 
In the long dull time of the Ramadan ? 
Why, he rises and says his prayers, and then 
He sleeps till the prayer-hour comes again ; 
And thus through the length of the weary day 
Does he sleep and pray, and sleep and pray. 
Whenever the swart muezzin calls 
From the crescent-guarded minaret walls, 
Up he leaps and bows his turbaned brows 
Toward Mecca, this valiant and holy man, 
The Shekh Abdallah praise be to Allah ! 
In the long dull time of the Ramadan. 




What does the Shekh Abdallah do 

In the long dull time of the Ramadan ? 

Why, he fasts and fasts without reprieve 

From the blush of morn till the blush of eve. 

Never so much as a sip takes he 

Of the fragrant juice of the Yemen berry ; 

He shakes no fruit from the citron-tree, 

Nor plucks the pomegranate, nor tastes the cherry. 

His sandal beads seem to tell of deeds 

That were wrought by the hand of the holy man, 

The Shekh Abdallah praise be to Allah ! 

In the long dull time of the Ramadan. 



THE SHEKH ABD ALLAH. 

What does the Sliekli Abdallah do 

In the long dull time of the Ramadan ? 

Why, he calls his servants, and just as soon 

As in the copses the night-birds croon, 

A roasted kid is brought steaming in, 

And then does the glorious feast begin ; 

Smyrna figs and nectarines fine, 

Golden flasks of Lebanon wine, 

Sherbet of rose and pistachios, 

All are spread for the holy man, 

The Shekh Abdallah praise be to Allah ! 

In the long dull time of the Ramadan. 



359 




What does the Shekh Abdallah do 

In the long dull time of the Ramadan ? 

Why, when the cloying feast is o er, 

Dancers foot it along the floor ; 

Night-long to the sound of lute and viol 

There is wine-mad mirth and the lilt of song, 

And loving looks that brook no denial 

From a radiant, rapturous throng. 

" Morn calls to prayers, now away with cares ! " 

He cries (this faithful and lioly man !), 

The Shekli Abdallah praise be to Allah ! 

In the long dull time of the Ramadan. 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 

FIRST PAPER. 

By N. S. Sbaler. 




INTRODUCTORY. 

HE advance which has 
been made in natural 
science during the last 
century has led to a 
great change in our 
conception as to the 
relations of mankind 
to the earth. Of old, 
men looked upon 
themselves as accidents upon this sphere. 
In the light of modern science, we re 
gard our species as the product of ter 
restrial conditions. We conceive man 
as the summit and crown of the long- 
continued progressive changes which 
have led his bodily structure up from 
the dust to its present elevated estate. 

In the progress of organic adA 7 ance 
which has led through inconceivably 
numerous stages of existence from the 
primal base of life to the estate of man, 
the dependence of beings on the con 
ditions which surrounded them has 
always been very close. The lowliest 
organism is influenced by the tempera 
ture in air or water, by the conditions 
of the soil or sea-bottom, or the circum 
stances which serve to bring it the 
needful food. With each advance of 
intellectual power the dependence on 
environment becomes more and more 
intimate, for with that intelligence the 
creature seeks beyond itself for oppor 
tunities to gratify its desires. It chases 
its prey, flees from pursuers, herds with 
its kind, and is thereby educated to a 
sympathetic life. 

When the human state is attained, 
when the progressive desires of man are 
aroused, the relations of life to the ge 
ography and other conditions of envi 
ronment increase in a wonderfully rapid 
way. When the tool-making stage is 
won, the savage must become, in a cer 
tain way, a geologist. He learns per 
force to seek for particular kinds of 
stone with which he may point his ar 
rows and spears, to make the mortars 



and pestles with which to grind his corn 
or the clay of his pottery. The next 
stage, that of agriculture, yet further 
increases the measure of dependence on 
the character of the earth. As soon as 
the rude combats of the earlier man de 
velop into the military art, the work of 
attack and defence leads to a close re 
lation of the developing savage to the 
topographic conditions which he en 
counters. When commerce arises, the 
dependence of man on the shape of the 
earth becomes yet more intimate. With 
the growth of each of these elements of 
civilization, the arts of the household, of 
war, and of trade, the chains which bind 
men to the earth about them is mani 
folded. 

It is impossible to depict in an ade 
quate way the measure of dependence 
of our modern civilized man upon the 
world about him. All the functions of 
his body and mind depend curiously on 
objects from the ends of the earth. 
Thus our meals commonly mean many 
thousand miles of transit to bring the 
food together ; the clothing of our bod 
ies brings the wool of Australia, the 
cotton of the Carolinas, the silk of Italy 
or China, the gold of California, the 
leather of Paraguay, the arts of hands 
and brains in a dozen different peoples 
together. Our daily thoughts take hold 
on the ends of the earth. 

The relation of our modern states 
upon the conditions of the earth is in 
conceivably greater than that of the an 
cient tribe. In the wonderful state of 
Britain the national life functions with 
reference to the topography of high 
Asia, the climate and surface of Africa, 
and other countries, until almost every 
storm and every drought reacts upon 
the national life. Ministers, and with 
them the purposes of the state, are 
changed by the chance of some battle 
field at the antipodes. A drought in the 
plains of the upper Mississippi means 
dear bread in England, fewer marriages, 
and shorter lives; in other words, it 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



361 



produces an effect on the whole social 
status of the country. A disturbance 
such as our Civil War, which arrests the 
cotton export of the United States, 
starves Manchester and sets the rulers 
of Britain against the cause of freedom 
in America. 

It is, indeed, difficult to present an 
adequate picture of the physiographical 
reactions which civilized man experi 
ences through the geographic condition 
of the earth s surface, for such a picture 
would have to disclose the infinitely 
complicated machinery of our society. 
I must beg my readers to aid me by im 
agining their own position in relation 
to the earth s features. 

There is, however, one aspect of the 
increasing dependence of man on nature 
which comes about through advancing 
civilization, a feature so new and so im 
portant that we should notice it at least 
in a passing way. The largest element 
of this growth is found in the gain in 
the sympathetical motives which have 
arisen from a larger understanding of 
the world and a closer application of the 
human mind to its phenomena. It is a 
curious feature in the culture of Greece 
that it never seems to have been sympa 
thetically cpncerned with the people be 
yond the limits of the native state. The 
Greek thought of most things which we 
think about, but this matter, which now 
much occupies our mind, did not con 
cern him. 

It appears to me that the modern 
sympathy of man with the world about 
him which manifests itself in the love of 
the unseen savage, in the love of the 
beautiful, in the love of scientific inqui 
ry for the sake of knowledge alone, is 
the last product of those vast interac 
tions which have come from the exten 
sion of the contacts of man with nature, 
first through commerce and afterward 
through less economic motives. This 
interaction is dependent on peculiarities 
of the earth s surface, on diversities of 
the lands and seas, and the consequent 
almost infinite variety in the subjects 
for curious and profitable inquiry which 
the world affords. 

Although on each land mass the phys 
iographic influences are of the utmost 
importance with reference to the devel 
opment of man, we can only glance at 
VOL. VIII. 35 



certain interesting features depend 
on the structure of the lands of 3 
and North America, giving most of our 
attention to the conditions of <grfr own 
continent. North America is iftst in 
teresting to us because it is theBseat of 
our own life. Europe concerns us al 
most as much because it is the cradle 
of our people, the place of nurture 
where our race came by its motives and 
learned how to act its parts in the new 
theatre of the western world. 

The continent of Europe differs from 
the other great land masses in the fact 
that it is a singular aggregation of pen 
insulas, and islands, originating in sep 
arate centres of mountain growth, and 
of inclosed valleys walled about from 
the outer world by elevated summits. 
Other continents are somewhat penin- 
sulated ; Asia approaches Europe in that 
respect ; North America has a few great 
dependencies in its larger islands and 
considerable promontories ; but Africa, 
South America, and Australia are sin 
gularly united lands. 

The highly divided state of Europe 
has greatly favored the development 
within its area of isolated fields, each 
fitted for the growth of a separate state, 
adapted even in this day for local life, 
although commerce in our time binds 
lands together in a way which it did not 
of old. These separated areas were 
marvellously suited to be the cradles of 
peoples ; and if we look over the map of 
Europe we readily note the geographic 
insulations which that vastly varied land 
affords. 

Beginning with the eastern Medi 
terranean, we have the peninsula on 
which Constantinople stands, a region 
only partly protected from assault by 
its geographic peculiarities ; and yet 
it owes to its partial separation from 
the mainlands on either side a large 
measure of local historic development. 
Next we have Greece and its associated 
islands, which, a safe stronghold for cen 
turies, permitted the nurture of the most 
marvellous life the world has ever known. 
Farther to the west the Italian penin 
sula, where for three thousand years the 
protecting envelope of the sea and the 
walls of Alps and Apennines have en 
abled a score of states to attain a devel 
opment ; where the Roman nation, ab- 



362 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



sorbing, with its singular power of taking 
in other life, a number of primitive cen 
tres of civilization, grew to power which 
made it dominant in the ancient world. 
Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, have each pro 
fited by their isolation of ancient days, 
have bred diverse qualities in man, and 
contributed motives which have inter 
acted in the earth s history. Again, in 
Spain we have a singular cradle of great 
people ; to its geographic position it 
owed the fact that it became the seat of 
the most cultivated Mohammedanism 
the world has ever known. To the Pyr 
enees, the mountain wall of the north, 
we owe in good part the limitation of 
that Mussulman invasion and the pro 
tection of central Europe from its for 
ward movement, until luxury and half- 
faith had sapped its energies. Going 
northward, we find in the region of 
Normandy the place of growth of that 
fierce but strong people, the ancient 
Scandinavians, who transplanted there, 
held their ground, and grew until they 
were strong enough to conquer Britain 
and give it a large share of the quality 
which belongs to our own state. 

To a trifling geographic accident we 
owe the isolation of Great Britain from 
the European continent ; and all the mar 
vellous history of the English folk, as 
we all know, hangs upon the existence 
of that slender strip of sea between the 
Devon coast and the kindred lowlands 
of northern France. 

The isolation of Great Britain de 
pends upon such peculiar and inter 
esting circumstances that we may turn 
aside a moment from the thread of our 
narrative to see how this strip of silver 
sea came to be a fortress ditch between 
the continent and the island. The Brit 
ish Channel is due, in the first place, to 
the peculiar strength of the tides in the 
North Atlantic. The energy of these 
tides is due to the fact that the North 
Atlantic is a somewhat wedge-shaped 
basin pointing up between the conti 
nents, owing its shape to the fact that 
the continents are rudely triangular 
masses pointing south. The tidal wave 
heaps up in this great re-entrant, as it 
heaps up in the narrow re-entrant of the 
Bay of Fundy, Port Royal Sound, Bos 
ton Harbor, or any other wedge-shaped 
passage leading in to the land. Next 



we note the fact that in the British 
Channel the tides have a rise of about 
twenty-five feet, as they sweep through 
its open waters from the Atlantic tow 
ard the North Sea ; while in the neigh 
boring bay of Bristol, or the Severn 
Channel, as it is sometimes caUed, where 
the re-entrant is closed at its head, the 
tides rise to about fifty feet in height. 
Going back to the last geological period, 
we are able by divers facts to ascertain 
that there was a broad isthmus connect 
ing Great Britain with the French coast, 
perhaps extending seaward as far as the 
limits of Belgium ; there was a bay on 
the east and a bay on the west. In this 
state we may make sure that the tides 
running directly into the Norman Bay, 
as we may call it, on the west, and the 
Belgian Bay on the east, were consid 
erably higher than they are at pres 
ent. Now, the cutting energy of the 
tide depends upon the swiftness of the 
streams of water which its movement 
brings about, and the swiftness of these 
streams is proportionate in a high de 
gree to the altitude the tidal waters at 
tain in their quick successive rise and 
fall. No sooner was the geographic 
condition we have described in existence 
than the tides began their work of driv 
ing their way through the rocks by cut 
ting out and scouring off into the deeper 
sea the materials composing the shores. 
In a short time, in a geological sense, 
this work was accomplished. The Nor 
man Bay broke through into the Bel 
gian Bay, and the waters had a free run 
through the channel, which we may pre 
sume at first to have been narrow. Al 
though the tides then, when the land was 
severed, lost a considerable part of their 
height, they were still, as they are at the 
present time, powerful agents in scour 
ing the shores, operating to work back 
the coasts at a rate which, in a geologi 
cal sense, is very rapid. 

East of Britain lie two peninsulas 
which have been the cradle of very im 
portant peoples that of Sweden and 
Norway is the result of mountain devel 
opment ; that of Denmark appears to be 
in the main the product of glacial ero 
sion, differing in its non-mountainous 
origin from all the other peninsulas 
and islands of the European border. 
Thus on the periphery of Europe we 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



363 



have at least a dozen geographical iso 
lated areas, sufficiently large and well 
separated from the rest of the world to 
make them the seats of independent so 
cial life. The interior of the country 
has several similarly, though less per 
fectly, detached areas. Of these the 
most important lie fenced within the 
highlands of the Alps. In that exten 
sive system of mountain disturbances 
we have the geographical conditions 
which most favor the development of 
peculiar divisions of men, and which 
guard such cradled peoples from the 
destruction which so often awaits them 
on the plains. Thus, while the folk of 
the European lowlands have been over 
run by the successive tides of invasion, 
their qualities confused, and their suc 
cession of social life interrupted, Swit 
zerland has, to a great extent, by its 
mountain walls, protected its people 
from the troubles to which their low 
land neighbors have been subjected. 
The result is that within an area not 
twice as large as Massachusetts, we find 
a marvellous diversity of folk, as is 
shown by the variety in physical aspect, 
moral quality, language, and creed in 
the several important valleys and other 
divisions of that complicated topogra 
phy. 

The fact that Switzerland has main 
tained its local life comparatively undis 
turbed by the powerful states about it 
for more than a thousand years, is due 
altogether to the peculiar geographic 
conditions which environ its people. 

The result of the much-divided ge 
ography of Europe has been that the 
continent has become a natural cradle 
of strong peoples. Almost everywhere 
the sea is near by ; save in Switzerland, 
all the important centres of population 
have had contact with the deep and 
the peculiar enlargement which it alone 
can afford to man. This nearness to 
the sea insures also a tolerably large 
amount of rainfall, which affords the 
basis of a varied industry and gives 
the lands a measure of fertility which 
makes it possible to have a considerable 
population on a small area. Comparing 
the conditions of Europe with those of 
Asia, we find that in that greater conti 
nent the isolation of areas is less com 
plete, and the detached masses of land, 



such as Arabia, Hindoostan, Malacca, 
Kamschatka, etc., are not well placed to 
be the cradle of several great races. They 
are either in or near the tropics, as are 
the three first - named peninsulas ; in 
high latitudes, as Kamschatka, or made 
deserts by their circumstances, as in the 
case of Arabia. The highland valleys of 
central Asia are sterilized either by cold 
or drought. The industries of these 
uplands are so far limited that varied 
culture is impossible to the folk who 
occupy them. Only in the peninsula 
of Anatolia, or Asia Minor, do we find 
the conditions for the culture of primi 
tive peoples approaching the perfection 
of those afforded by Europe, and it is 
only in that section of Asia that we find 
the natural cradles of peoples such as 
abound on the European continent. 

To see the importance of these condi 
tions to the early races and states, we 
must conceive the state of primitive hu 
man life ; we must picture to ourselves 
conditions very different from those 
prevailing in the present day. In order 
to make a people, to elevate a primitive 
folk to the state where they possess na 
tional motives and distinct moral char 
acter, and a culture which develops and 
fits that character, we must give it a 
seat where varied industries are possi 
ble, a station which it may hold against 
the destructive effect of foreign con 
quest for centuries, if not thousands of 
years, while its qualities are undergoing 
development. These qualities, which for 
the want of a better word we term na 
tional, being developed in a people, the 
movement of migration derived from 
the growth of population brings the 
separate communities into contention 
with each other. 

The curious diversities of European 
and Asiatic folk in the centuries imme 
diately before and after the birth of 
Christ were the result of that prepara 
tion which had come about through the 
long isolation of the diverse groups of 
men in their several cradles. Culture 
in the arts of war and peace, and in 
crease of numbers, had brought these 
separate aggregations of men into a 
state of unstable equilibrium. They 
were ready to move ; one movement of 
conquest led to another, until in time 
these peoples were all in motion, after 



364 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



the fashion in which the organic as 
semblages of animals and plants move 
when the topography and the climate 
of a continent are disturbed. This pro 
cess of movement led to the vast con 
tention which brought about the over 
throw of the Roman power, and made an 
end of the dominancy which the Medi 
terranean states had previously main 
tained. 

It is now the opinion of those best 
versed in this complicated question, 
that the Aryan people, long supposed 
to have been cradled in central Asia, 
are really the children of Europe ; that 
they were developed in the Scandina 
vian peninsulas, a field which seems to 
have been the seat of the strongest men 
of the world for thousands of years. 
This view is more satisfactory to the 
naturalist than the older opinion, which 
placed the cradle of the Aryans in north 
ern or central Asia. It seemed an 
anomaly that the most vigorous, and at 
the same time the most plastic, of the 
world peoples should have developed 
amid the limited opportunities afforded 
by high Asia, where the chance of edu 
cation in arts and in commerce is very 
small compared to what it is in Scandi 
navia, or indeed in any of the European 
peninsulas. If on a priori considera 
tions the naturalist were compelled to 
pick the natural seat in which our race 
obtained its qualities, there is no other 
site which would so satisfactorily meet 
his needs as the peninsulated district 
about the Baltic ; there, better than 
anywhere else, men may find a hardy, 
though not so strenuous climate as to 
diminish the vitality or send all the en 
ergies to immediate needs. There the 
variation in the seasons, the variety of 
soil, the contacts with the sea, are all 
best suited for the training of a folk. 
From that great nursery of vigor we 
can well conceive the Aryan people, pro 
tected in their infancy by the isolation 
of their birthplace, going forth in their 
strength to dominate the world from 
eastern India to the Atlantic. Thence 
again, in the Danish Northmen days, 
went forth a second tide of strength. 
We look indeed with satisfaction, from 
the naturalist s point of view, on the fact 
that in the peninsulas of Scandinavia 
and in the islands of the British archi 



pelago, we find the point of origin of 
the dominant people in the world, for 
there more perfectly than anywhere else 
is the environment adapted to making 
strong races. 

After a race has been formed and 
been bred to certain qualities within a 
limited field, after it has come to possess 
a certain body of characteristics which 
gives it its quality, the importance of the 
original cradle passes away. There is 
something very curious in the perma 
nence of race conditions after they have 
been fixed for a thousand years or so 
in a people. When the assemblage of 
physical and mental motives are com 
bined in a body of country folk, they 
may endure under circumstances in which 
they could not have originated ; thus, 
even in our domesticated animals and 
plants, we find that varieties created 
under favorable conditions, obtaining 
their stamp in suitable conditions, may 
then flourish in many conditions of en 
vironment in which they could not by 
any chance have originated. The barn 
yard creatures of Europe, with their es 
tablished qualities, may be taken to 
Australia and there retain their nature 
for many generations ; even where the 
form falls away from the parent stock, 
the decline is generally slow and may 
not for a great time become apparent. 

This fixity of race characteristics has 
enabled the several national varieties of 
men to go forth from their nurseries, 
carrying the qualities bred in their earlier 
conditions through centuries of life in 
other climes. The Gothic blood of Italy 
and of Spain still keeps much of its parent 
quality ; the Aryan blood of India, though 
a world apart in its conditions from those 
which gave it character in its cradle, is 
still, in many of its qualities, distinctly 
akin to the home people. Moor, Hun, 
and Turk, all the numerous folk we find 
in the present condition of the world so 
far from their cradle lands, are still to a 
great extent what their primitive nur 
ture made them. On this rigidity which 
comes to mature races in the lower life, 
as well as in man, depends the vigor 
with which they do their appointed 
work. 

These considerations will be of the 
utmost importance to us in our study of 
the effect of physiographic conditions 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



365 



found in North America upon the folk 
derived from other lands, which are to 
work out their history upon its surface. 
The Americas, Africa, and Australia have 
shown by their human products that 
they are unfitted to be the cradle places 
of great peoples. Vast as has been the 
development of human life upon them, 
these continents have never from their 
own blood built a race that has risen 
above barbarism. 

Northern Africa early became the 
seat of Asiatic and European folk, sep 
arated from the body of that continent 
by a region of deserts. The southern 
shore of the Mediterranean afforded 
fair opportunities for the independent 
development of peoples, the result of 
which is expressed in its history ; but 
the national motives of Egypt, of Car 
thage, and of Moorish civilization which 
grew up in northern Africa, are all ex 
otic. These states all represent the de 
velopment of peoples who were cradled 
elsewhere. So, too, the semi-civilized 
condition of Abyssinia is due to the im 
planting there of peoples not of African 
origin. 

In Australia there has never been an 
elevation of the people above the grade 
of savagery. In the Americas, the only 
movement which elevated the folk above 
the lowest grades of barbarism is that 
which took place at certain points in the 
Cordilleran chain, where mountain dis 
tricts afforded a measure of isolation and 
protection such as is necessary for the 
dawn of any culture whatsoever. All the 
rest of these continents, so far as we can 
interpret their human history, have been 
characterized by the endless disturbed 
wanderings of savages, tribe set against 
tribe, making life so precarious that 
culture was impossible. 

A glance at the geographic conditions 
of North America will show the observer, 
especially if he will compare the condi 
tions with those of Europe, how unfitted 
is this continent to be the cradle-place 
of peoples. North America is in the 
main a geographic unit. The detached 
masses which border it are, by the cir 
cumstances of climate or of surface, un 
fitted to give the isolation necessary for 
the nurture of people. This will be evi 
dent on a brief review of the continental 
geography. 



Beginning with the southern extremity 
of North America, we find in that region 
a limited measure of isolation by moun 
tain barriers. Central America and 
Mexico are to a certain extent protected 
by such natural defences, but in this 
region the climate is not suited to the 
best conditions of man. Although our 
species came from tropical creatures 
the anthropoid apes men need the 
stress of high latitudes, the moral and 
physical tonic effect of cold, to drive 
them into those interactions of activity 
which constitute civilization. Going up 
the eastward face of North America, we 
find in the Antilles an assemblage of 
lands which, but for their tropical cli 
mate, might have favored the growth of 
civilization. Next we come to Florida, 
a geographic unit of considerable im 
portance. This area has, however, a 
subtropical climate, and a surface by no 
means favorable to primitive agricult 
ure. It demands the resources of the 
modern farmer to win crops from the 
soil. Moreover, there are no barriers 
save those of swamps and forests to this 
field. Every part of the surface could 
be ranged over by nomads. 

From Florida to eastern Nova Scotia 
and Newfoundland there are no welL 
isolated fields on the coast line of North 
America. Cape Breton and Newfound 
land, the island of Anticosti and that of 
Prince Edwards, have something of the 
geographic unity which belongs to the 
cradle-lands of Europe and Asia ; but in 
the aboriginal days of North America 
these regions were too far north for 
agricultural industries. Maize, the prin 
cipal agricultural plant with the Indians, 
would hardly develop there. The bar 
barous folk were therefore retained in 
the state of hunters or fishermen, condi 
tions which do not permit peoples to 
emerge from the grade of savagery. 
Needs cannot advance in those lowly 
states of existence ; there is no basis for 
commerce, no foundation for the prog 
ress of the desires on which all high 
culture depends. The man is what he 
seeks, what he desires, and must obtain. 
All civilization is the outgrowth of striv 
ings which go beyond momentary physi 
cal needs, and, therefore, until agricul 
ture affords a firm foundation for sub 
sistence, until life is by the soil made 



366 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



something more than a struggle for 
momentary support, the foundations of 
culture cannot -be obtained. North of 
Newfoundland and through all the part 
of the continent which faces the ice 
bound seas, the conditions are too rigor 
ous to permit the development of agri 
culture, and therefore the geographic 
environment could not secure the crad 
ling of well-developed races. The same 
is true of the region of Alaska. Maize 
culture is impossible until we advance 
southward on the Pacific coast, to the 
region which is beyond the peninsulated 
district of eastern America. The coast 
is rather uniform in its physical and 
climatic character, until we come to the 
i^ast promontory of southern Califor 
nia. This latter district is in form 
not unlike that of the Scandinavian 
peninsula, but it is an arid country, af 
fording no basis of agriculture, remain 
ing to this day essentially an unknown 
desert. From lower California to the 
isthmus, the shore is again without iso 
lated areas of land. 

The interior of North America is even 
more undivided than its shore -line. 
Along the eastern coast extends the great 
mountain system of the Appalachians, 
the highest point of which rises to about 
six thousand five hundred feet above 
the sea, but the structure of the ranges 
is such as to make no inclosures of well- 
defined mountain-walled basins. Every 
part of the Appalachians is open to the 
free movements of savage men ; the 
best protected valleys would^ offer no 
immunity to a nascent civilization in its 
struggle with more barbarous folk. We 
see something of the unfitness of this 
shore-line of our continent for the crad 
ling of great races in the history of 
European settlements on this shore. 
Every colony which was planted in 
North America had to enter into combat 
with a host of savages. There were no 
natural strongholds, such as abound on 
the coast of Europe, and such as afforded 
the foundation of the Greek colonies all 
along the coast of the Mediterranean, or 
to the Northmen all the way from their 
own land around to the shores of Sicily. 
So the European colonists, until they 
came to gain strength by numbers, were, 
despite their superior arts and arms, 
their stronger morale and training in 



the art of statecraft and war, in jeopardy 
for generations after their coming to 
the massive continent. The valley of 
the Mississippi, the great central trough 
of the continent, is unbroken by barriers 
from the Arctic Circle to the Southern 
sea. 

The Kocky Mountains, by their great 
er height and certain peculiarities in 
their construction, afford a good many 
inclosed valleys which under more favor 
able circumstances might have become 
the seat of a vigorous life. Unfortunately 
this region is excessively arid. There can 
practically be no tillage within its limits 
except by devices of an engineering 
sort, by which water is led from scanty 
streams upon the land ; and even with 
this resource the population cannot 
readily attain to the numbers which are 
necessary for the development of cult 
ure. 

It seems to me that it is rather to the 
physical conditions of North America 
than to any primal incapacity on the part 
of its indigenous peoples to take on civ 
ilization, that w r e must attribute the fail 
ure of indigenous man within its limits 
to advance beyond the lowest grades of 
barbarism. The Indian shows us in 
many ways that he is an able person. 
We may judge any folk by their greater 
men, and there can be no doubt that 
the ablest of our American savages rank 
high in the intellectual scale. It is, it 
seems to me, to the ceaseless disturbances 
of nascent civilization that we owe the 
failure of this folk to attain to a higher 
grade. Each tribe which retained its 
primitive savage impulse of migration 
became, as did the Shawnees, a kind of 
Hun, to sweep away in their foragings 
the beginnings of the higher state to 
which other folk might have attained. 
As long as a race is purely savage, dwell 
ing in isolated communities, it does not 
seem endowed with any considerable 
mobility. When by the arts which con 
stitute the next advance, and bring the 
people to the state of barbarism, they 
become dangerous to their neighbors, 
their motives are stronger, and they are 
commonly numerous enough to make 
war successfully. Not tied by system 
atic agriculture or by architecture to 
any particular piece of ground, they prey 
upon their better - provided neighbor 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



367 



and so break up their incipient states. 
Little as we know of the tribal move 
ments in America, we have yet learned 
enough concerning them to see how cer 
tain bands of barbarians swept to and 
fro, sometimes in the course of a cen 
tury, making marches comparable to 
those of Goths and Huns of the old 
world, and bringing equal destruction in 
their path. The Goths and Huns were 
perhaps abler people than our American 
Indians in their best estate ; moreover, 
they devastated states which were so 
strong as to not be utterly destroyed by 
their movements ; the first effect of their 
coming was in good part to overwhelm 
society, but there was enough left, as we 
ah 1 know, to subdue the savages by the 
arts of peace ; but if southern Europe 
had been struck by the northern inva 
sion a thousand years before the tide 
broke upon them, the Goths would have 
had to invent their own civilization in 
place of appropriating and being appro 
priated by the earlier culture. 

If the problem before our race on this 
continent were that of cradling civiliza 
tions, we should have no right to draw a 
bright picture as to the future of Amer 
ican life. Fortunately, however, the 
question is that of disseminating race 
characteristics bred elsewhere, of bring 
ing those characteristics into interac 
tion on a field favorable for their best 
development. For this purpose the sur 
face of North America affords peculiar 
advantages. The nature and limita 
tions of these conditions w r e shall now 
have to consider. 



I. 



IN considering the physiographic con 
ditions of any area, with reference to 
the development of organic life upon it, 
the life of man as well as of lower beings, 
we have to note not only the circum 
stances of the given field, its soils, cli 
mate, and shape of the surface, but also 
the relations of the area to the neighbor 
ing districts, which in the process of 
geographical change, brought about by 
the development of mountains and con 
tinents, may send contributions to its 
inhabitants. We must therefore now 
turn our attention to the relations of 



contact between the continent of North 
America and the other land masses of 
the world, particularly those of the 
northern hemisphere. 

A glance at the map shows us that 
North America is geographically related 
to the old world, both on the east and 
west. Geological history tells us that 
from time to time the measure of this 
relation of our country to the lands of 
Europe and Asia has varied greatly, the 
present condition being only one state 
of those connections. In the preceding 
geological ages, although we cannot as 
yet construct the ancient geography 
with any accuracy, we can still discern 
that the relations of the continent, as 
regards the freedom of its organic inter 
course with Europe and Asia and South 
America, have varied much. 

The American continents seem, from 
the record of the rocks, to have been 
better constituted for the nurture of 
plant than of animal life. A good meas 
ure of this difference may be had from 
the contribution which America has 
made to the animals and plants which 
are domesticated by man. It needs no 
argument to show that in order to meet 
the requirements of man s uses, animals 
and plants must be highly specialized, 
having peculiarities of strength as in our 
horses and elephants, a tamable nature 
as in almost all our domesticated ani 
mals, highly organized fruits, seeds or 
fibres as in the most of our cultivated 
plants ; in other words, it is in general 
from the highest members of each or 
ganic series that m^.: selects the forms 
which he is to domesticate in his barn 
yard or his tilled fields. With this 
point in mind, it is interesting to note 
that North and South America and Aus 
tralia, though they have about as many 
species of vertebrates as the old world, 
have contributed but one animal to the 
domestic uses of civilized man, namely, 
the wild turkey ; while the old world 
has given more than a score to such ser 
vice. On the other hand, the contribu 
tion of plants to domestication from the 
Americas has been most important. In 
deed, we may say that the plants which 
the new world has afforded have been 
sufficient to make something like a rev 
olution in the economic conditions of 
our civilization. The potato and Indian 



368 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



corn have profoundly altered the agri 
culture of Europe. Tobacco has changed 
the habits of men throughout a large 
part of the world. The species of cin 
chona, whence comes quinine, have been 
of an invaluable advantage to human 
life, and a score of other American spe 
cies, such as the tomato, have come to 
play a more or less important part in 
human economy. All these species of 
plants are highly elaborated forms, and 
the number of *them which have been 
contributed to man s needs from the new 
world shows the relatively high differ 
entiation of plant life in the American 
continents. 

The geographic conditions which de 
termine the relations of America to the 
centres of human development in the 
old world are determined by the posi 
tion of the lands and the currents of the 
sea. By both these sets of circum 
stances, North America is more clearly 
related to Asia than it is to Europe. 

Since the coming of man upon the 
earth the geographic relations of this 
continent have pretty certainly been 
more intimate with the Asiatic land 
mass than with that of Europe. It is 
possible that during the glacial period 
the region about Behring s Strait was 
lowered beneath the sea, but the subsid 
ence was probably of a temporary nature. 
We may reckon that the continents have 
generally, at least since the beginning 
of the tertiary period, been nearer to 
gether in the northern Pacific than in 
the northern Atlantic. The great depth 
of the ocean basin Between the coasts of 
America and those of Europe points to 
the conclusion that the great lands in 
that part of the world have long been 
widely separated. Moreover, the ocean 
currents of the northern Pacific favor 
the movement of man as well as the mi 
gration of animals which may float on 
chance rafts from the region of China 
and Japan to western North America, 
while they oppose the westward move 
ment of peoples from Europe to the 
American shore ; the set of the atmos 
pheric currents operates to the same end. 
It is a well-known fact that the sail 
ing voyage, even to our modern ships, 
requires ven r much longer time from 
western Europe to eastern America than 
in the direct passage from this country. 



In the earlier states of the navigator s 
art, before the invention of the keel, it 
was well-nigh impossible for the primi 
tive craft to find their way across the 
northern Atlantic to the European coast, 
while the chance of currents in ocean 
and air tended to bring vessels from 
the eastern shores of Asia to the west 
ern coasts of North America ; hence, it 
came about that the first men planted 
on the American continent were prob 
ably Asiatic in their origin, and these 
peoples remained for many centuries 
unaffected by the higher races bred in 
the more favorable conditions of Eu 
rope. This point, however, is disputed 
by some recent writers, but the posi 
tion still seems tenable. 

It is barely possible that some chance 
drifting of ships containing people blown 
away from about the mouth of the Med 
iterranean may have found a lodgement 
on the coast of South America, to which 
they were brought by the equatorial 
stream. The distance is, however, so 
great, and the time of the journey so 
long, that it is improbable that a ship 
scantily provisioned as were the vessels 
of old, should have borne living voyagers 
across this wide field of waters. The 
Peruvian traditions appear to point to 
the coming of their royal house from the 
East. It has been conjectured by fanci 
ful interpreters of those myths, that this 
race was of European origin. It ap 
pears on inquiry that there is nothing 
which may be called evidence to support 
this opinion. 

It is easily seen that, in the case of 
the lower animals, chance wanderers 
to any land would have great difficulty 
in establishing themselves on the new 
found shore. Difficulties arising from 
the lack of reconciliation with the en 
vironment, the unaccustomedness of the 
food, the unfitness of organization and 
habit to withstand the attacks of na 
tive enemies, would, in most cases, lead 
to their destruction. The history of 
North America shows very clearly how 
this principle holds in the case of hu 
man settlement as well as that of the 
lower animals. The first European col 
onies to be planted in North America, 
though reasonably well provided with 
the resources necessary for the colonist, 
had a hard battle to fight with their 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



369 



new conditions. Disease and native en 
emies brought many of these settle 
ments to destruction. Chance voyagers, 
in drifting ships, cast upon the shore 
without provision for their immediate 
needs, would have a yet more arduous 
battle before them. Therefore, though 
we may have had accidental immigra 
tion of European men to our Amer 
ican shores, we need not be surprised 
that none of these accidents led to the 
establishment of the higher races of the 
Old World on this continent. 

As long as North America was unoc 
cupied by man, its settlement from Asia 
would have been relatively easy. As 
soon as it had been filled with the descen 
dants of Asiatic peoples to the point 
where the population was as dense as 
savagery permits, any further settlement 
would have been difficult, for the same 
reason that it was hard for the Euro 
peans to make good their lodgement on 
the Atlantic shore. History makes us 
familiar with the fact that the colonies 
which came to the Atlantic coast from the 
Old World, except certain settlements 
in Pennsylvania and some of the early 
Erench establishments, found themselves 
in immediate hostile contact with the 
aborigines. The struggle for existence 
between the two kinds of men would in 
all cases have led to the extinction of 
the new-comers, were it not that their 
ranks were fed by continuous reinforce 
ments from the Old World. Thus, as soon 
as the continent was peopled from Asia, 
it stood out against further settlements, 
whether they came by chance or by de 
sign. In this way we may account for 
the failure of Asiatic colonies represent 
ing the higher life of Japan and China 
to establish themselves on the Pacific 
coast. It is almost certain that America 
was peopled before those civilizations 
were developed, and so there were tribes 
of savages ready to oppose the occu 
pation of the country by the higher 
life, which in time grew up in the west 
ern part of the Indo-European conti 
nent. 

We now come to the effect of the ge 
ography of North America on its savage 
tribes. 

The effect of the physiographic con 
ditions of North America upon the de 
velopment of the aboriginal peoples is so 



obscure as not to warrant much more 
discussion than we have given to it. 
There are, however, certain points which 
repay inquiry. W T e have already noticed 
the fact that the massive geographic 
form of North America did not favor 
the creation of those divisions between 
people which are such a striking feat 
ure in Europe and Asia. The several 
tribes, developing evidently from the 
family relation, could only attain a limit 
ed measure of separate growth. If any of 
these ancient peoples could have found 
shelter such as a Swiss valley or a Scan 
dinavian peninsula affords, the original 
differentiation dependent on the family 
tie would have readily extended into the 
larger bond of the state, but from the 
lack of geographic isolation, war, and va 
rious other accidents naturally arising 
in this massive and undivided continent, 
led quickly to a limitation in the meas 
ure of tribal development. In Mexico 
and in certain other sequestered parts of 
the Cordilleran region, where the people 
were in part protected by natural de 
fences, the folk: advanced to a somewhat 
higher grade of civilization than that 
which generally characterized our Amer 
ican savages ; but even in these regions 
the protection was incomplete and the 
folk were at all times liable to destruc 
tive incursions from neighboring less 
civilized tribes. 

It appears from certain fragments of 
evidence, that some of our American Ind 
ians, a few centuries before the coming 
of the whites to the shores of the conti 
nent, were in a rather higher state of 
advance than that in which they were 
found by the first Europeans. Thus in 
the Mississippi Valley the people wer 
evidently more sedentary, some ti 
about a thousand years ago, than they 
were when their conditions first became 
a matter of historic record. This is 
shown by the fact that the people had 
attained to a point where they construct 
ed extensive earthworks both for the 
purpose of defence and to indulge them 
selves in the expression of certain rel 
igious ideas. The Ohio and the up 
per Mississippi valleys abound in the 
tumuli and fortifications which appar 
ently indicate that the people had been 
more numerous than they were when 
our race first knew them ; they depend- 



370 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



ed more upon agriculture and less upon 
the chase. 

For a long time these aboriginal mon 
uments were esteemed sufficient evi 
dence to prove that the country had 
been inhabited by a peculiar race, to 
which the name of "Mound-Builders" 
was given. We now know that these 
works were constructed by the imme 
diate ancestors of our American Indians, 
and that, indeed, in the more southern 
parts of the Mississippi Valley, as for in 
stance in northern Mississippi, the 
people had not quite abandoned the 
mound-building habit when they came 
in contact with the whites. The cause 
of this decadence is interesting. The 
explanation seems to be as follows : In 
the state of savagery men depend alto 
gether upon the products of the chase, 
or upon the untilled resources of the 
vegetation about them. As the popula 
tion increases the game becomes less 
abundant and the folk are gradually 
driven to tillage. They become seden 
tary ; they exercise the forethought which 
agriculture requires, and so advance to 
the next higher stage in development, 
where they depend in the main upon the 
resources which the soil affords. Each 
further increase in the population di 
minishes the relative value of the hunt 
er s art and tends to separate the peo 
ple from the vagarious and ensavaging 
habits of their ancestors, who lived by 
the chace. 

In the higher state of development, 
such great constructions as Fort An 
cient or the Picture Mounds of the up 
per Mississippi and the Ohio valleys 
become possible, and to this state the 
peoples of the Ohio and neighboring val 
leys appear to have arrived some cen 
turies before the advent of Europeans. 
Then came a peculiar biological accident 
which shows us how dependent man is 
upon the other living tenants of the 
earth he inhabits. In the pre-Euro- 
pean state of the country, probably down 
to some time after the year 1000, the 
American bison or buffalo appears to 
have been absent from all the region 
east of the Mississippi. It is doubtful 
if the creature existed for any distance 
east of the Rocky Mountains. There 
had been an earlier and less plentiful 
species of bison in this country, but he 



appears to have disappeared many 
thousands of years ago, perhaps before 
the coming of man to this continent. 
Our well-known species probably was 
developed in some region far to the west 
of the Mississippi, whence it gradually 
spread to the eastward. The Mound- 
Builders apparently did not know the 
creature. We determine this point by 
the fact that we do not find bison bones 
about the old kitchen fires, and we fail 
to find any picture of the beast in the 
abundant delineations of animals made 
by these ancient people. They figured 
all the other important forms of land 
animals, including birds, snakes, and 
also many of those from the far-off 
waters of the Atlantic and the Gulf of 
Mexico ; but they have given us no re 
presentation of this, which would have 
been to them the king of beasts. We 
therefore justly conclude that it was un 
known to them. 

When in his westward movement the 
buffalo came to the semi-civilized in 
habitants of the Mississippi system of 
valleys, he brought a great plenty of 
animal food to the people, who had 
long been in a good measure destitute 
of such resources, for they had no other 
domesticated animals save the dog. Not 
yet firmly fixed in the agricultural art, 
these tribes appear, after the coming of 
the buffalo, to have lapsed into the pure 
savagery which hunting brings. To 
favor the pasturage of these wild herds, 
the Indians adopted the habit of burn 
ing the prairies. These fires spread to 
the forests on the east, killing the 
young trees which afforded the succes 
sion of wood, gradually extending the 
pasturage area of the wild herds until 
the larger portions of the western plains 
eastward to central Ohio and Kentucky, 
probably even into the Carolinas, and 
southward to the Tennessee River, had 
been stripped of their original forests, 
making way for the vast throngs of these 
creatures which ranged the country at 
the time when we first knew it. With 
the rehabilitation of the hunter s habit, 
and with the nomadic conditions which 
this habit necessarily brings, came more 
frequent contests between tribes and 
the gradual decadence of the slight 
civilization which the people had ac 
quired. 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



371 



Thus the deforested condition of our 
prairies, which gives a very peculiar 
physiographic condition to the central 
basin of the. continent, is probably to be 
accounted for by the interference of 
man. It is an effect, though unintended, 
of the savage s action in relation to an 
important wild beast. If the advent of 
European folk in the Mississippi Valley 
had been delayed for another five cen 
turies, the prairie country would doubt 
less have been made very much more 
extensive. Thus in western Kentucky 
a territory of about 5,000 square miles 
in area had recently been brought to the 
state of open land by the burning of the 
forests. All around the margin of this 
area there were only old trees scarred 
by the successive fires, there being no 
young of their species to take the place 
as they fell. It is probable that with 
another five hundred years of such con 
ditions the prairie region would have 
extended up to the base of our Alle- 
ghanies, and in time all the great Ap 
palachian woods, at least as far as the 
plain land was concerned, would prob 
ably have vanished in the same process. 

In the region south of the Tennessee 
the Indians long maintained agricultural 
habits in a measure not common with 
their northern kindred. Indeed, when 
the settlements of the Creeks and the 
allied tribes about the Gulf were de 
stroyed by the advancing tide of Euro 
pean life, the sedentary condition of the 
population which prevailed perhaps in 
a higher state of development at one 
time in the Ohio Valley, had not been de 
stroyed by the invasion of the buffalo. 

In general, north of the great lakes 
and the St. Lawrence the climate is such 
as to make the development of people 
beyond the stage of savagery quite im 
possible, for the reason that agricult 
ure is not possible in that country. 
We therefore find in the considerable 
Indian and Esquimo population of the 
high north of our continent much less 
trace of advance than in the south 
ern section. We may say, indeed, that 
the possibilities of culture are in a de 
scending scale from the subtropical dis 
tricts of Mexico to the northern fields of 
the continent ; the measure of advance 
depending on the ratio between the pro 
portion of food-supply derived or de 



rivable from hunting and from tillage. 
Still further we note on this continent, 
a feature better shown in the old world, 
that the stronger and more militant peo 
ple develop in tolerably northern sta 
tions between the tropic heat and cir- 
cumpolar cold. The conquering tribes 
among the Indians were those which 
lived south of the great lakes and north 
of the Ohio River. In that district 
some agriculture was possible indeed 
it was imperatively demanded in any 
considerable aggregations of people 
in order to meet the trials of the win 
ter. The rigor of climate tends to breed 
vigorous, somewhat forethoughtful men ; 
such races as the Iroquois, or Six Na 
tions, the Normans of America, appear 
to have acquired their soldierly qualities 
in these northern climates, as the con 
quering folk of Europe were bred in 
winter lands. 

In a general way it is true that the 
North American aborigines, through the 
lack of geographical isolation, never at 
tained the state when the physiography 
of the region they inhabited would do 
the most to develop the original tribal 
groups into states. The natural divis 
ions of the continent did not come to 
have much importance in relation to 
man until North America became the 
seat of European settlements. We shall 
therefore, without further consideration 
of the aboriginal peoples, give our atten 
tion to the history of European immi 
grants on this continent. 

The history of the earlier settlements 
of Europeans in North America is one 
of the most interesting chapters in the 
records of man. The discovery and the 
Europeanization of America depended 
in the first place upon the ancient com 
merce of Europe with the far East. This 
trade, which began in very ancient days, 
had attained to considerable importance 
before the growth of the Mohammedan 
religion. The development of this faith 
in the eighth century and the conse 
quent combats between the Christians 
and the followers of Mohammed, made 
the intercourse of Europe with the Ori 
ent soon more difficult and costly than 
it had been in earlier times. The com 
mercial men of Europe as well as the 
statesmen were anxious to find a new way 



372 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



to the great, though somewhat fabulous, 
wealth of southern and western Asia. 
Then came the important scientific con 
clusion familiar to the ancients, but new 
to modern people, that the earth was a 
sphere, and with it naturally appeared 
the project of attaining to the Orient by 
sailing around by the west, so escaping 
the barrier which Mohammedanism in 
terposed to the path of commerce. Nei 
ther of these conditions would have been 
sufficient to push the explorers across 
the Atlantic, but for the great advance 
in the art of navigation which the Nor 
mans had brought to southern Europe. 
The classic ships of the Mediterranean, 
or their imitations in other parts of Eu 
rope save Scandinavia, were probably all 
flat-bottomed. They had to go with 
the wind. The Northmen had invented 
the keel, which alone makes navigation 
something better than waiting for the 
chances afforded by variable winds. 
Taking advantage of the trade-winds, 
even a Roman ship could have sailed to 
America, but it is doubtful if any ves 
sel without a keel could have compassed 
the return voyage seve by the rare op 
portunity of continued westerly winds, 
which blow only in the North Atlantic. 
Moreover, in Roman times, water was 
conveyed with difficulty. The vessels 
were the skins of animals, or for water- 
carriage earthen jars, necessarily frail 
and generally of small size. The inven 
tion of the cask, one of the most consid 
erable elements in the establishment of 
the economic conditions on which civil 
ization rests, came in relatively modern 
times. The cask as well as the keel was, 
it seems to me, a device of northern Eu 
rope, and the two together did more to 
make long distance navigation possible 
than any other inventions. 

After the middle ages there was a 
rapid increase of population in Europe, 
due to the consolidation of states and a 
consequent steadfaster condition of the 
conditions of life. With this increase 
in numbers the commercial spirit became 
stronger. The conflicts with Mohamme 
danism developed a measure of mission 
ary ardor which, combined with the com 
mercial motive, supplied the strong in 
centive which pushed European peoples 
on the ways of western discovery. 

It is not surprising that the first of 



these movements, save the accidental 
voyages of the Scandinavians to the 
northern coasts, came from the Spanish 
peoples. The reconquest of Spain to 
Christianity had served to develop the 
military motives of that people. A part 
of the conquering population of Spain 
was of Gothic blood, holding something 
of the seafaring impulse of the North 
men ; furthermore, Spain is near the 
parallels of the trade-winds. As soon as 
a vessel is a little way from its shores, 
it feels that great western-setting breath 
which will carry a ship straight forward 
to the Antilles. If Columbus had sailed 
from the British Channel, the conditions 
of the " roaring forties " would probably 
have insured the failure of his advent 
urous voyage. The trade-winds deter 
mined, in a way that was most fortunate 
for our race, the fact that the Spaniards 
came to the tropical districts of Amer 
ica. These regions they possessed be 
fore the more northern peoples of Eu 
rope began to have an interest in the 
western empire. When the French and 
English entered into the scramble for 
the new lands of the west, Spain had al 
ready lain its strong hand upon about 
all the countries south of the straits of 
Florida and north of the Equator. The 
English and French were fended from 
the tropical parts of America by the pre 
emption of those lands by Spain, whose 
claim was fortified by the decisions of 
the Pope, and even more effectively ex 
cluded from them by the currents of the 
air and sea. The Gulf Stream makes a 
strong opposition to the mariner seek 
ing to find his way to the Gulf of Mex 
ico by cruising down the coast of the 
continent. To the slow-sailing ships of 
the colonial days, vessels which under 
the most favorable conditions did not 
generally make more than five or six 
miles an hour, this stream was a consid 
erable barrier to the southward move 
ment along the shore of North Amer 
ica. The only easy way to the lands 
about the Caribbean and the Gulf of 
Mexico was one pretty thoroughly guard 
ed by the Spaniards ; hence the French 
and English were practically limited to 
the country north of the Straits of Flor 
ida. Thus we see the fact that the trade- 
winds and their current, which led Co 
lumbus to America, helped to bar the 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



373 



French and English from the tropical 
portions of that country. 

We must now note that the French, 
owing to their geographic position, 
shared with the Spanish in the mission 
ary motive which was so large an ele 
ment in continental Europe at the time 
of American discovery. The French at 
first and mainly sought America, not as 
a territory in which to plant their race, 
but as the Spaniards sought it, as a 
place of commercial dominance and of 
spiritual domain. It is sometimes the 
fashion of Protestants to contemn the 
spiritual element of the Latin colonists 
in America, and to consider that the 
missionary portion of the enterprise was 
hypocritical, and that the commercial 
and national supremacy was the only end 
sought. History as well as a fair respect 
for human motives opposes this inter 
pretation. We must regard the mis 
sionary element of these enterprises as 
of great value in directing the westward 
movement of the Spanish and French 
empires. In England, owing to circum 
stances which we cannot discuss, the 
Crusade motive was never as strong as 
on the continent, the divisions in the 
church already rife, had led to a loss 
of such proselyting spirit as may once 
have existed. In this period England, 
though much less peopled than at the 
present time, already felt the stress 
of over-population ; moreover, the much 
regretted loss of her continental posses 
sions had given the people a desire to 
secure new lands. The commercial and 
colonizing motives, unaffected by the 
spirit of religious proselytism, were also 
stronger than on the continent. The 
result was that the English colonies in 
the new world were planted with a very 
different motive from those of France 
and Spain. They consisted of people 
who came to stay, to breed upon the 
ground, and to found New Englands 
on the foreign shore. Though in part 
led by religious convictions, seeking a 
haven for peculiar creeds, they were on 
the whole commercially minded, true 
colonists in their intent as were the 
Greeks in their time, or their ruder im 
itators, the Northmen, in a later age. 

The conditions which determined the 
first seats of French and English settle 
ments on the coast of North America 



may be termed accidental ; or, in other 
words, we cannot perceive that physi 
ographic conditions in any distinct way 
affected the location of the colonies. It 
came, however, to pass that the French 
obtained control of the region about the 
mouth of the St. Lawrence, and thence 
they extended their settlements up that 
wonderful valley, the great eastern gate 
way of the continent. At the same 
time the region about the mouth of the 
Mississippi was held by the other Latin 
people, the Spaniards, through the fact 
that they possessed the gateways which 
led to the Caribbean and the strength to 
maintain that empire of waters against 
intruders. The English and their kin 
dred folk, the neighboring Dutch, found 
their way to the shore and founded set 
tlements from the Bay of Maine south 
ward to and beyond Cape Hatteras. 

It is difficult, in the present state of 
our control over this continent, to con 
ceive the importance which lies in the 
facts concerning the original sites of the 
French and English settlements on the 
American shore. We now traverse this 
land in every direction with perfect ease ; 
as for the mountain barriers of the Ap 
palachians, with their great forests and 
unnavigable streams, they now demand 
but a ton or two of coal to carry in one rail 
way train a greater population than was 
ever at one time imported to our coast 
before the beginning of the eighteenth 
century. In those old days the Appa 
lachian system of mountains constituted 
a really impassable zone extending from 
Georgia to the far north, broken only 
at one point by a navigable water-way 
and the great valley it occupies, the 
St. Lawrence basin and river. It is 
true that the Hudson in its principal 
tributary, the Mohawk, in a fashion di 
vides the Appalachian axis, but it opens 
no pathway into the Mississippi Valley. 
The Mohawk is unnavigable, and the 
region about its head-waters contained 
perhaps the densest part of the Indian 
population north of the Ohio, composed 
of very vigorous and combative tribes. 

Although the Appalachians have 
peaks of no great height, their ranges 
are singularly continuous, and the passes 
formed by the streams in the numerous 
wall-like ridges afforded in early days 
no natural ways whatever. From Maine 



374 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



to Alabama the woods were unbroken 
and impassable. This great Appalachian 
forest was in primitive days an exceed 
ingly dense tangle. At a few points the 
aborigines had worn narrow footways 
through it : but these trails were not 
adapted to pack-animals, the original 
means of transportation brought by the 
Europeans, but for the use of men who 
journeyed on foot, and could thus climb 
steeps inaccessible to a burdened beast. 
A large part of the district from central 
Pennsylvania northward was bowlder- 
strewn, affording no footing for horses. 
Even in the present state of New Eng 
land, where the superficial layer of gla 
cial erratics has been to a great extent 
cleared away, it is easy to conceive how 
impassable the surface must have been 
in early times. It required a century of 
enterprising, unrecorded labor to open 
the paths across the stony and swampy 
fields of New England to the valley of the 
Hudson. The undergrowth of this for 
est country is far more dense than that 
which is commonly found in European 
lands. The shrubby plants, and the 
species of smilax or green briar and 
other creeping vines, make the most of 
our Appalachian forests very nearly im 
passable, even at the present day. Only 
once during the civil war, viz., in the re 
treat of George H. Morgan s army in 
1862, from Cumberland Gap to the 
Ohio, did any considerable body of 
troops make an extended inarch through 
our trackless forests, and this redoubta 
ble enterprise was accomplished in a 
portion of the Alleghany district where 
the woods are far more open than they 
are in the more eastern part of the 
country. Although this march extend 
ed for only two hundred miles, and was 
partly over roads, it wore out the army. 
The Appalachian barrier of forest and 
mountain was to civilized men almost 
as impassable as the Alps. It had a 
width of about three hundred miles ; it 
was long before its geography was 
known, and therefore we need not be 
surprised that nearly a century and a 
half of growth had to take place in the 
English settlements before they fairly 
broke their way through it and obtained 
access to the Mississippi Valley; and 
then another fifty years passed before 
the central settlements were closely 



united with the sea-port by ways which 
trade could traverse. 

It fell to the lot of the French to secure 
in the St. Lawrence River possession of 
the only practical access to the fruitful 
interior of North America. Although 
there are some difficulties of navigation 
in the St. Lawrence system of waters, 
as in its rapids and in Niagara Falls, 
that channel affords, for more than half 
the year, by far the most natural way 
into the heart of the continent. Along 
this path the French extended their set 
tlements and their influence over the 
aborigines into the Mississippi Valley, 
before the English colonists or those of 
the Hollanders had penetrated beyond 
the lowlands of the Atlantic shore. 

At the beginning of the eighteenth 
century, the historian, in making a sur 
vey of the conditions existing in North 
America, would have most likely de 
clared that the Latin folk had vastly the 
advantage over the English in their con 
trol over the continent. On the south 
the Spanish possessed all that portion 
of the continent which was blessed with 
what is commonly esteemed a fortunate 
climate. On the north and west the 
French, by their control of the St. Law 
rence and Mississippi Valleys, over which 
they claimed and in a fashion exercised 
dominion up to the western base of the 
Appalachians, had apparently secured a 
hold upon all the fairest fields of the 
country. The British and the Holland 
ers, on the other hand, occupied a nar 
row strip of shore lands which were only 
moderately fertile. Back of them lay 
an almost impassable barrier, separat 
ing them from the heart of the conti 
nent. On the north and west they were 
wrapped around by the French. On the 
south they were hemmed in by the Span 
ish possessions. 

A closer view would have shown the 
investigator that there were certain con 
ditions affecting these diverse peoples 
which were destined in the end to give 
dominance to the English folk. In the 
first place, the British settlements of 
the Atlantic coast were tolerably ready 
of access at all times of the year to the 
old world. It was only about five weeks 
voyage from Great Britain to any part 
of the coast, while it was a six month s 
journey from France to the outposts of 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



375 



the French settlements along the upper 
great lakes or in the Mississippi Val 
ley. Moreover, the northern way, that 
by the St. Lawrence, was closed for 
nearly half of the year, while the Mis 
sissippi, even after its channel was well 
known, was a difficult path for ascend 
ing navigation. The French settlements 
in the valley of the St. Lawrence were 
ill placed for a successful agriculture. 
Their crops were scanty and won with 
much labor. As before remarked, the 
continental peoples never seriously pro 
posed to transfer a large body of their 
population to the new world, making 
there the homogeneous equivalent of 
the European state. Their scheme was 
more of a missionary nature ; they pro 
posed to incorporate the native people 
into the state after the fashion of the 
Roman colonists. This idea of obtain 
ing control over the native population 
appears to have had some small share in 
the plans of the earlier English settlers. 
The scheme was however quickly aban 
doned. The settlers soon came to the 
plan of exterminating rather than domes 
ticating the savages. The results were 
that the Latin settlements became in 
general the seats of a mongrel race, 
neither savage nor civilized, while the 
English and Dutch settlements were de 
veloped as true off-shoots of the parent 
folk. 

There was a certain advantage arising 
from the hemming in of the British col 
onies in North America by the Appal 
achian boundary. In place of the de 
tached settlements which characterized 
the Spanish, and more particularly the 
French, colonies, the British colonial es 
tablishments were by their geographical 
conditions compelled to develop in a 
more connected way. It was possible 
in 1700 to ride from Portland, Me., to 
southern Virginia, sleeping each night 
in some considerable village. If our an 
cestors on the continent had secured a 
ready access to the interior, it is likely 
that a hundred years would have gone 
by before the colonies became sufficient 
ly dense in population to permit the in 
teractive life which prepared the way for 
the American revolution. 

Although the Atlantic coast presents 
no very great diversity in its psychical 
conditions, its range in climate is suf 



ficient to afford a considerable variety in 
agricultural products, and the geograph 
ic divisions serve in a measure to in 
tensify certain regional differences of 
character in such a measure that the in 
habitants of the several British colonies 
on this coast became tolerably distinct in 
their character. This process was aided 
by the fact that most of the earlier set 
tlements were composed of somewhat 
diverse peoples, each of the colonies 
coming to the possession of individual 
motives either through peculiarities of 
religious faith, peculiar social habits, 
or other original varieties in the parent 
stock. The long-continued absence of 
any political association between the 
separate colonies kept them in a good 
measure apart, and thus served to foster 
the development of diverse character in 
different sections ; so there came about 
a state of society in which the New Eng 
land er, the Hollander of New York, the 
Quakers of Pennsylvania, the Catholics 
of Maryland, and the churchmen of Vir 
ginia were somewhat different from each 
other. 

These characteristic differences be 
tween the several peoples of the Atlan 
tic coast were due in part to physiograph 
ic circumstances of their environment. 
The development of the American colo 
nies, their rapid growth in the century 
preceding the American revolution, de 
pended in a large measure on a botani 
cal accident, viz., on the introduction of 
tobacco into the commerce of the world. 
No contribution from newly discovered 
lands has ever been so welcomed as this 
so-called noxious weed. No new faith 
has ever travelled so fast and far among 
men as the habit of smoking. In scarce 
a century from the first introduction of 
the plant in Europe, its use had spread 
to nearly half the peoples of the old 
world. The eastern coast of America, 
from the Hudson southward to South 
Carolina, is peculiarly well suited for 
the growth of the tobacco plant, and 
the rapid extension of the British colo 
nies in America, which brought their 
population at the time of the Revolution 
to a point where they numbered about 
one-sixth part of the English people, was 
largely due to the commerce which rest 
ed upon the use of this plant. It was a 
source of a vast income in the tobacco 



376 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



growing states, and in a secondary way 
it served greatly to promote the growth 
of New England and New York. It is 
true it in good part laid the foundations 
of the American slave trade, on which 
the culture of cotton built a vast struct 
ure, but at the same time it served to 
promote the growth of our race on this 
continent in a very important way, for 
it provided the means for an extended 
trade with the old world, and thus gave 
a degree of wealth to the new. 

The effect of the Appalachian axis on 
the development of the English people 
might also be traced in the protection 
which it afforded against the more pow 
erful bodies of the aborigines. The 
tribes which originally dwelt between 
the sea and the mountains were relative 
ly weak ; although they held some inter 
course with their western kinsmen, they 
were so far separated from them that at 
no time did the eastern peoples, save in 
the valley of the Mohawk, have to meet 
any considerable body of warriors who 
were bred in the inland parts of the 
continent. Hence the struggles of the 
earlier settlers on the Atlantic coast with 
the savages was a relatively unimpor 
tant matter ; though it more than once 
brought the feeble colonies into great 
jeopardy. But for the Appalachian bar 
rier, the English, owing to their rude 
ways of contact with the savages, would 
necessarily have met the hostility of a 
vastly greater body of warriors. A Pon- 
tiac or a Tecumseh would have effected 
what the feebler King Philip vainly essay 
ed. It may well be doubted whether the 
Puritans of New England or any other of 
the settlements, except perhaps the Quak 
ers, could have held their own against the 
aboriginal folk of this country, but for 
the protection this barrier afforded. 

It is in good part to the commercial 
growth of the British colonies in Amer 
ica that we owe the speedy overthrow of 
the French empire, which at the begin 
ning of the eighteenth century seemed 
likely to control North America. The 
New England settlements developed 



rapidly and were pushed up toward the 
north, and from them as a base it was 
easy to capture the strongholds of the 
St. Lawrence Valley, and thus make the 
great scheme of France impossible. 

The settlement of the Mississippi Val 
ley by the English people was first ac 
complished through Virginia and its 
western extension beyond the mountains 
in the then district of Kentucky. It is at 
this part of the Appalachian system that 
we find the most practicable path for a 
wagon road from the coast to the navi 
gable waters of the Ohio. Following up 
the great valley of Virginia, that known 
as the Shenandoah, thence to the broad 
open basin of the upper Tennessee, 
thence over the low gap in the Cumber 
land Mountain to the westernmost of the 
Alleghanies, it was easy to take pack ani 
mals, and with a very little labor to make 
a wagon road from the Virginia settle 
ments to the most fertile portion of the 
Mississippi district. The process was 
easy because this country is south of 
the glacial belt, and thereby not encum 
bered with bowlders, and also because a 
succession of breaks in the mountains 
make a natural way, the sole moderately 
easy passage from the Virginia district 
to the centre of the continent. Thus it 
came about that the first settlement in 
the Mississippi Valley, the settlement 
which gave character to a large part of 
that basin, came from Virginia and took 
with it the institution of slavery into the 
Mississippi Valley, establishing the black 
line on the banks of the Ohio. If the con 
ditions had been slightly different, if the 
way from the Hudson or from Pennsyl 
vania to the west had been as easy to 
traverse as that from Virginia to the 
Ohio Valley, the fertile fields of Kentucky 
and Tennessee might well have been oc 
cupied by people from New England and 
New York ; in which case the boundaries 
of the slave-holding States would have 
been drawn much further south, if in 
deed the institution had ever obtained 
a firm foothold in the southern portion 
of the Mississippi Valley. 




A Bird s-eye View of Heligoland. 



A CROWN JEWEL. 

HELIGOLAND. 
By C. Emma Cheney. 

" This happy breed of men, this little world, 
This precious stone set in the silver sea." 



IN the very thoroughfare of summer 
travel there is a snug little island, 
until recently unknown to fame, 
which is unique in physical conforma 
tion, rich in tradition, admirable in mo 
rale, tenacious of individuality, and in 
patriotism without a peer. 

Not far from where the rivers Elbe, 
Weser, and Eider pour their waters 
into the North Sea yet invisible from 
any coast the island of Heligoland 
looms boldly up, to the vertical height 
of two hundred feet. So small is it 
that a sentry might walk around its 
natural battlements, and take no longer 
than forty-five minutes to complete his 
beat. But three-fourths of a mile in 
extent, and of no great use to any 
country, this bare, red rock a little 
Frisian captive in German water s has 
belonged to the English for more than 
eighty years. 

VOL. VIII. 36 



It is not much of a possession after 
all, its very existence, probably, being 
unknown to half the realm until in June 
last it was proposed by the British Gov 
ernment to cede it to Germany in ex 
change for concessions in Africa. Still, 
if there had been need, the whole Brit 
ish navy would have been ordered to its 
defence. 

Heligoland may be reached on a sum 
mer s day, with time to spare, from 
Hamburg or Bremen. Both lines of 
steamers touch at Cuxhaven, which has 
also railway communication with Ham 
burg. The sail down the ever- widening 
Elbe is by far the prettiest route. 
Hamburg s busy harbor, with its thicket 
of sail from the four corners of the 
globe, affords a fine view of the city 
itself, and we catch a glimpse across the 
river of its military neighbor, Altona. 
Further on the north bank is rather 



378 



A CROWN ]EWEL. 



tame, but the south shore presents 
many vistas of gentle landscape and 
villa-crowned, wooded heights. Cux- 
haven, a pleasant watering-place near 
the river s mouth, whose ancient castle 
is distinctly seen, is the last port on 
the mainland. Only the island of Neu- 
werk and a few light-ships now lie be 
tween us and our Mecca. 

The Freia is staunch and steady, so 
the North Sea s fretful temper need 
not be dreaded in the thirty-six miles 
which lie between the island and the 
main a journey usually accomplished 
in two and a-half hours. Scarcely is 
the last painted buoy passed when an 
eager look-out begins. Glasses sweep 
the horizon until a speck appears on the 
throbbing bosom of the ocean. Hardly 
larger than a fisherman s dory at first, 
it grows with every moment. Even 
without a glass its form and colors are 
discernible soon after it appears in sight. 
As each new feature is disclosed one 
feels a growing sense of proprietorship 
in the little rock, and when it finally 
comes out in bold silhouette against its 
blue background, it becomes the very 
" substance of things hoped for." 

Shaped like an inverted flat-iron the 
broad end toward us its sheer red 
walls are crowned with tender green. 
At its base a white line of narrow, 
sandy beach widens at the point near 
est us to a considerable area, which is 



called the " Unterland," and is crowded 
with white houses, whose red-tiled roofs 
are the color of the cliffs behind them. 
Here is the only landing-place. An 
other village, sociably huddled around 
the church and light-house, looks down 
from the " Oberland ; " and can only 
be reached by a flight of stairs called 
the " Treppe," or by a " lift " of ample 
proportions. Half a mile to the east 
ward lies the Dime, a sister islet, upon 
which one sees a cluster of houses, a 
pavilion, and a little orchard of green 
bathing-machines, such as are used at 
English watering-places. 

Heligoland has no harbor, and scarce 
ly had the Freia cast anchor on the lee 
side of a spit of sand that serves the 
purpose of a breakwater, when she was 
surrounded by a swarm of large open 
boats, each flying the island s flag, and 
manned by eight men. On each boat 
was plainly marked the number of 
persons it was authorized to carry. 
A landsman needs a dash of courage 
to be transferred to such small craft 
in a boiling sea ; but these stalwart 
oarsmen accomplish the feat with 
wonderful dexterity, and we were soon 
handed up a flight of stairs to a long 
pier, called, for obvious reasons, "Mis 
ery Walk," to encounter the jeering 
scrutiny of a staring throng, who per 
haps seek the company which misery 
loves. When a face of especial pallor 








The Unterland. 



A CROWN JEWEL. 



379 



betrayed the roughness of the voyage, 
one was heard to proffer service as a 
guide to the apothecary. The jest was 
condoned, however, in the grim reflec 
tion that its perpetrator must himself 
cross that same water again ; 
for there were few natives [~ 
in this harmless gantlet. 

Picturesque, rosy-brown 
sailors relieved us of our 
hand-baggage, and carried 
our trunks on their broad 
shoulders with perfect ease. 
Horses and carts there are 
none. The w r heel-barrow 
constitutes the only rolling- 
stock of the island. Follow 
ing our guide, we threaded 
our way through narrow, 
well-paved streets, past neat 
cottage - restaurants, the 
Post Office, shop-w T indows 
filled with feather - wares 
and colored maps of the 
island, the Conversation 
House, the chemist s, the 
bookstore, and, refusing the 
lift with many a backward 
glance we mounted the 
winding steps of the 
Treppe. 

Our first impression was 
a consciousness of color. 
Everything suggests the 
Heligolandish motto : 



" Green is the Land, 
Red is the Rock, 
White is the Strand ; 
These are the colors of Heligo 
land." 



up for caulking. Myriads of boats are 
darting about in the bay. Now and 
then, in the offing, a red sail crosses the 
foam-flecked blue. It is a pretty picture, 
Venetian in coloring, with wider than 




The Lift, and 



Clean white houses, red-roofed and 
trimmed at door and casement with vivid 
green, repeat the colors of the island. 
Gay flags of green and red and white, 
fly from mast and flag-staff. The seats 
at the angles of the Treppe are the more 
inviting for their coat of patriotic paint. 

Once on the Oberland, w r e linger on 
the Falm, or narrow street which runs 
along its edge, for a long look across 
the roofs below, past beach and pier, 
beyond the Dime, to the vast, unbroken 
stretch of sea. Even the water near the 
strand is tinged with the all-pervading 
Pompeian red. Here and there the 
shore is dotted with black hulks, drawn 



Venetian scope. Turn where w r e will, as 
far as the eye can reach on every hand 
is water. 

The plateau of the Oberland gently 
slopes from west to east. A mile in 
length, it is but a quarter of a mile at 
its widest part. It is said that the slight 
irregularities of surface, unobserved by 
one not " to the manner born," are real 
hills and valleys known by their proper 
names to the Heligolander, who loves 
every foot of the soil. The upper ham 
let is perched on the brink of the cliff, 
and the houses below are nestled close 
to its foot. There are no straggling 
cottages on the Oberland. All the land 



380 



A CROWN JEWEL. 



outside the town is used for pasturage well-furnished military stronghold. The 

for two hundred tethered sheep, or for crabbed rock is a miniature Gibraltar, 

the cultivation of cabbages and potatoes, able to assure its own defence in peace- 

Indeed, the lonely walk from the South ful times. 




Interior of St. Nicholas Kirche, built in the Seventeenth Century. 



Horn, past the light-house to the fog- 
station at the northern extremity of the 
island, is called "Kartoffel Allee," or 
"Potato Walk." The fog-station has 
neither bell nor steam-whistle to indi 
cate, in case of necessity, the position of 
the island ; but instead, rockets are sent 
up, as often as once in ten minutes, while 
the fog lasts. Close to the edge of the 
cliff, a wire fence girdles the entire pla 
teau. The only residence of any preten 
sion in Heligoland is the Government 
House. In a battery and its powder 
magazine there is just a hint of a once 



Although the light-house is one hun 
dred feet in height, and stands upon its 
rocky base two hundred feet above the 
sea, many a winter s storm dashes spray 
and sea-weed against the lantern. And 
yet the cold is less extreme here than 
elsewhere in the vicinity. There is a 
saying that when water freezes in Heli 
goland, the Elbe is frozen over. 

There are no native trees, but even on 
the Oberland a few have been, with true 
Frisian persistency, forced to survive 
the storms. In the parsonage garden 
there is a mulberry - tree, whose fruit 



382 



A CROWN JEWEL. 



ripens. In the Unterland, trees grow 
with less resistance. Some limes at the 
foot of the Treppe, and a cherished 
elm, are the pride of the Heligolandish 
heart. In summer, however, plants and 
flowers thrive in every possible nook and 
crevice, with the smallest encourage 
ment. Heligoland roses have few peers 
in fragrance and beauty. 

Fresh water was formerly supplied by 
cisterns, but within a decade several wells 
have been bored. A few cows are kept 
here during the season. At its close, to 
save keeping, they are usually converted 
into beef. For a prolonged visit, how 
ever, it is not uncommon for guests to 
bring their own cows, and take them 
away again. So great a luxury is cow s 
milk considered that it is sold by the 
apothecary. 

Although but two kinds of birds build 
on the island, at the time of migration 





Heligolander in Costume of the Island. 

it swarms with every variety of feather 
ed fowl. Attracted by the light-house 
the poor little bewildered things come 
and go, beating their wings against the 



lantern in drifting clouds. " On some 
nights," says Mr. Seebohm, " as many 
as fifteen thousand sky -larks have been 
taken on the island." It is a fine time 
for the study of ornithology, and the 
natives are sure of an annual feast of 
the daintiest food. 

Hotels are few, but every cottage has 
its guest, who depends for refreshment 
upon excellent cafes, in both Obeiiand 
and Unterland. From July to Octo 
ber, the entire visiting population are 
"roomers and mealers ;" spending the 
day on sea, or Dime, or Unterland, and 
seeking the quiet of the Oberland for 
sleep at night. Heligoland is then one 
vast pic-nic ground. The Unterland 
is especially bright. Its shops and 
restaurants are always full. At inter 
vals during the day the orchestra plays 
in the pavilion on the beach, and in 
the evening in the Conversation House. 
There is a small theatre under the im 
mediate supervision of the governor, 
and there are numerous dancing-halls, 
principally patronized by Heligolanders, 
but where the presence of a stranger is 
by no means resented. Although early 
hours are kept, by day and night the 
streets are echoing to the merry laugh 
or song. There are no rich ; none are 
very poor. There is a house on the 
Oberland, known as the "Long La 
ment," which was intended for a poor- 
house, but has rarely had an occupant. 
Drunkenness, beggary, and crime are 
scarcely heard of. 

English domination has been chiefly 
manifest in the names by which the 
alley-like streets are called. It strikes a 
stranger oddly to see " Princes Street," 
"Victoria Street," and " George Street," 
and never to hear a w y ord of English 
from the lips of those who live in them. 
Sometimes houses are fancifully named, 
as the " Villa Louise," but oftener 
they are known by the owner s name, 
as, "Hanson s," or " Janssen s-by-the- 
Church." No cottage is too mean to 
have its clean white curtain and its 
window-garden, or, where there is room, 
its flower-plot. Many a door-yard has 
its clothes-line hung with small fish to 
dry, instead of the family washing. 
Both schollen and haddock are thus 
preserved for the winter use. Indeed, 
a seafaring Heligolander is more likely 



A CROWN JEWEL. 



383 




The North Horn of Heligoland. 



to put a dried fish in his pocket for 
luncheon, than a bit of bread. Hospi 
tality is a common virtue among the 
poor. People who shrink from the en 
tertainment of a friend are usually high 
enough in the social scale to foresee 
the preparation it involves, and selfishly 
shirk the trouble or the expense. These 
simple folk ungrudgingly share the loaf 
and sup with one another. They are 



frank to ask, glad to give, and grateful 
for what they receive. When the day s 
work is done, the Heligolander raises 
his " sou wester " and prays, " Thank 
God for this day, to-morrow more." 

Sunday begins with the sunset of 
Saturday. In winter everybody goes 
to church. In summer perhaps from 
the necessity of serving their guests 
the natives leave the visitor to do duty 




The Dune, or Sand Island one thousand feet by fifty once a part of Heligoland. 



384 



A CROWN JEWEL. 



for both. The St. Nicholas Kirche 
may well boast its claim of long descent, 
dating, as it does, from the seventeenth 
century, and even then erected on the 
ruins of a church still older. It is built 
of brick, faded now, but not dingy. 
Within and without it is in perfect 
harmony with the place, as it stands 
among the dead of past centuries. 
Wide - spreading buttresses reach tap 
ering to its very eaves, giving it the 
look of a mother-hen brooding over her 
young. A loyal Heligolander rebuilt 
the tower at his own cost, in the eighty- 
seventh year of his age so the tablet 




A Woman of Heligoland in the island Costume. 

reads and " in the twenty-fourth year 
of her gracious majesty, Queen Vic 
toria." The whole church is queer and 



quaint, with a flavor of the sea about 
it. Its arched and ceiled roof is painted 
in conventional design, and in the cen 
tre the Danish shield, from which de 
pends a full-rigged ship the gift of a 
former governor of the island. Great 
transverse beams support the roof. 
Across the sides and rear a gallery 
runs, and in panels entirely surround 
ing its base may be seen the pictured 
story of the Bible, from Genesis to the 
Gospels, painted in an emphatic and 
realistic style by Andrew Amelink, in 
colors that have defied the ravages of 
two hundred years. To one subject, 
especially, is the stranger s atten 
tion directed, in which the devil s 
cloven foot is represented by a 
" peg-leg," which would have been 
the envy of Silas Wegg. At the 
eastern end of the church a shal 
low chancel rises a step above the 
floor, and is flanked by two glass- 
covered box pews, set apart for 
the use of the government offi 
cials. Behind the altar, with its 
crucifix and candles, and above it, 
there is a tall wooden structure 
like a screen, from the centre of 
which juts out a small curved and 
highly polished pulpit, which the 
pastor enters by parting the cur 
tains, as he ascends unseen from 
the robing-room in the rear. A 
fine portrait of Martin Luther sur 
mounts one of the state pews, and 
a small ship spreads every sail 
over its neighbor. Other por 
traits occupy the spaces between 
the windows and such windows ! 
Beginning with a Gothic inten 
tion, they terminate abruptly in 
an arch ; adding to the squat ef 
fect of the church, and giving it 
a nautical appearance when seen 
from within. 

The pews are divided into sev 
eral sittings, each painted to suit 
the individual owner, and marked 
with his name, which is an equit 
able arrangement, since it is reck 
oned as part of his personal effects, 
and may be transmitted like other 
property. A sitting, with the right 
to entail, may be purchased for five 
pounds. Three or four colors are seen 
in many a pew, but the softest tones are 



-A CROVN ]EWEL. 



385 



invariably chosen. In some cases, upon 
the book-board in front, beside the name 
and date, is placed in large, black let 
ters, a text of Scripture, or a verse of 
some hymn, to fix the wandering thought 
perhaps, or to serve as an aid to devo 
tion. Ancient dates bear witness to a 
long succession of the faithful followers 
of Luther. 

The service is usually rendered in 
German, although an English Sunday 
comes once in the month ; the same pastor 
being equal to both occasions. A choir 
of fresh young voices leads the congre 
gation in singing time-honored hymns. 

The Dime, or sand island one thou 
sand feet in length by fifty feet in breadth 
was once a part of Heligoland. Upon 
discovering that the wall which united 
them could be quarried, little by little 
it was so sacrificed that the sea came 
in one night and claimed its own. So 
only a shifting sand-heap, that has been 
the woe of many a ship, is left to tell the 
story. 

The islanders are chiefly pilots, and 
the best of sailors. The lad who aspires 
to the profession must pass examination 
by four pilots and two councilmen, who 
must also have been pilots. A pretty 
penny is also made by lobster-pot, and 
seine, and hook. Since 1826, however, 
when a wide-awake Heligolander started 
a very primitive bathing establishment 
on the Dtine, the income of the island 
has grown larger with every year, until 
the bathing is now reckoned its chief 
source of revenue. 

There is an actual population of two 
thousand, and the average number of 
guests annually entertained is now es 
timated at twelve thousand. During the 
season, Heligoland is on pleasure bent. 
Every morning all the world migrates 
to the Dtine, to enjoy its unrivalled 
bathing. Indeed, by the Germans, who 
are the principal patrons of the island, 
this stimulating sea-bath is thought to 
surpass all others in Europe. The high 
temperature of the water in this north 
ern latitude is remarkable. Travers 
ing, as it does, a wide area of sub 
merged sand, it loses its chill before 
it comes bounding in to enfold the 
bather in its embrace. How salt it 
is, and how sparkling ! The pulse leaps 
at its touch, the palest cheek glows 
VOL. VHL 37 



with its kiss. How soft and warm is the 
yellow sand ! for the " Sonnebad " goes 
with the dip in the sea, as naturally as 

The shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs." 

How blue the sky above us bent ! and 
yet that same sky sometimes wears a far 
different complexion. Sudden storms 
are common in the North Sea. Happily, 
however, the boat-service is regulated by 
law ; no stranger being permitted to sail 
by himself on this dangerous coast. 

Many years ago, a party of girls were 
overtaken on the Dime by a sudden 
squall. It was easy to find shelter, and 
a morsel to appease hunger ; but the air 
grew dark, and the storm rose to a tem 
pest. All day long they waited for the 
boats that dared not venture out to them. 
Night fell, and deepened, and wore away. 
By morning their supply of food was 
exhausted. Cold and hungry no doubt 
well scared they passed a second anx 
ious day, and only at night-fall, bedrag 
gled and half-famished, did they reach 
the rock in safety. 

There is a curious contrivance used 
here, serving the purpose of a pier for 
small boats, which consists of a series 
of wheels, fastened by a long reach, and 
furnished with a plank or bridge, upon 
which one can walk dry-shod when the 
apparatus is pushed out into the water. 

A tariff of four marks each week is 
imposed upon all strangers, reduced in 
proportion to the size of the visitor s 
family ; and is remitted to physicians 
and their families, and to those who stay 
less than three days, or longer than four 
weeks. The use of bathing-machines is 
also positively required. The law takes 
cognizance of these simple folk almost 
as completely as the Austrian govern 
ment watches over the city of Vienna. 
All tariffs have been under the supervis 
ion of the English government. A tax for 
public improvements is levied on boats 
and houses. While the summer-visitor 
has become a recognized means of profit, 
no unfair advantage is taken of him, as 
every service has its prescribed price 
" trinkgelt " being unknown. 

The people are hardy, frank, honest, 
independent, and friendly. The veteran 
native could ask no better description 
of himself than Longfellow s picture of 



386 



A CROWN JEWEL. 



the " old sea captain who dwelt in Heli 
goland : " 

" Hearty and hale was Othere, 
His cheek had the color of oak, 
With a kind of laugh in his speech 
Like the sea-tide on a beach " 

With no conception of the caste-idea, 
the Heligolanders treat comrade and 
stranger upon a free and equal footing, 
and believe in the principle as heartily 
as did the framers of our Declaration 
of Independence. The Heligolander s 
love of country is strong. Its customs 
and legends are dear to his heart. To 
Mm no tropic verdure is so fair as the 
scraggy trees reared in great tribula 
tion on Heligoland. He loves the bare, 
red rock with a mother s love. No tints 
compare with the colors of the Heligo- 
landish flag. Even the English govern 
ment has graciously respected the senti 
ment of patriotism by employing them 
on postage-stamps ; and local enterprise 
has produced cards bearing a tiny view 
of the tiny island, in green and red and 
white, which only lack a stamp to make 
them legitimate postal-cards. 

There are many theories concerning 
the derivation of the word Heligoland. 
The fact that it was a place of pilgrim 
age to the temple of the goddess Hertha, 
gives color to the belief that it was orig 
inally named Holy Island, for that reason. 
Professor Hallier traces it directly to its 
etymolog} 7 ", from Hallig a sand-island, 
and Lunn, meaning the land, or rock, 
thus comprehending both Dime and 
rock, before their separation. However 
interesting such speculation may be, we 
only know that heathenism dominated 
Heligoland in the reign of King Eadbod, 
the Dane, when St. Willibrod, "the 
Apostle to the Frisians," began to preach 
Christianity there. This was in the sev 
enth century ; and before and after that 
it was fought for by sea-rovers, chang 
ing hands very often. Sometimes it be 
longed to Denmark, oftener it was in 
pawn to the city of Hamburg for the 
debts of Schleswig or Holstein. 

In the fifteenth century, owing to the 
value of its fisheries, and the influence 
of its powerful Hanseatic allies, the isl 
and acquired a fictitious political im 
portance. As long as the herring stayed 



Heligoland " waxed fat and kicked ; " but 
the little fish that had been its making 
became its undoing. The legend goes 
that one unhappy spring, according to 
their custom, the Heligolanders had 
begun "the procession of the Cross" 
around the island, to insure a successful 
fishing season, when the fish appeared, 
and the procession was impiously aban 
doned; so for penalty the herring left 
the coast. 

For the next two hundred years Heli 
goland was a shuttlecock between its old 
masters. In 1807 it happened to be 
long to Denmark ; and as she took the 
part of France in the Napoleonic war, 
England seized it as lawful prey. The 
island was lighted, fortified, and garri 
soned. It soon became one vast store 
house for English goods, and for seven 
years was a half-way house where smug 
glers carried on a thriving business. In 
the "Treaty of Peace," however, the 
commercial prosperity of Heligoland re 
ceived a death-blow. Once more traders 
turned their backs upon it. The gar 
rison was recalled, and fortifications dis 
mantled. The people, who had hitherto 
been too busy to resent the lack of inter 
est manifested by foreign governors un 
able even to speak the Frisian tongue, 
now refused to obey laws which they 
had no hand in making, and which the 
new government had not the means to 
enforce. It was natural that after tread 
ing such a royal road to wealth, the isl 
anders found their old pursuits irksome ; 
besides, many of their fishing - smacks 
were gone ; so they turned their atten 
tion to wrecking. It is said that within 
the memory of the " oldest inhabitant," 
a pastor of the little church has been 
heard to pray that the wind might strew 
the coast with wrecks, which, by euphem 
ism, were called " Gifts of the Sea." 

Unhappy as was this state of affairs, 
there seemed to be no remedy until a 
new constitution placed Heligoland on 
the footing with any other British col 
ony, amenable to a governor and the 
counsellors whom he chose to appoint. 
Indeed, the governor has been practical 
ly an absolute monarch here, making his 
own laws, and with his single voice able 
to annul any act of either council. In 
the present emergency Sir Henry Maxse 
proved himself equal to the situation. 



A CROWN JEWEL. 



387 



Despite opposition, many changes were 
made and reforms instituted. Light 
houses, both on the island and at the 
mouth of the Elbe, made navigation less 
perilous, and the introduction of the 
life-saying service still further dimin 
ished the power to profit by the places 
where danger lurked. So, by degrees, 
the trade of wrecking was abandoned. 

It was at this crisis that the bathing 
began to grow in popularity. It is cu 
rious to notice that every recurrence of 
prosperity in this small island has been 
the result of the development of its own 
natural resources. The fisheries, the 
geographical advantage of its position, 
and finally, its peculiar superiority as a 
watering-place, have been providential 
ly employed to avert the misfortunes 
which have threatened its ruin. 

The latest English governor, His Ex 
cellency Arthur C. G. Barkly, Esq., has 
had the reputation of being friendly, hon 
est, and conciliatory. The position is not, 
however, one to be coveted, receiving but 
half-hearted allegiance from a reluctant 
people, in a country cut off from the 
outside world for nine months in the 
year ; for in winter, Heligoland is only 
accessible when the weather is propi 
tious, twice a week. There are no Eng 
lish residents ; few go there even in 
summer. To an American, it sounded 
oddly to hear a white-haired English 
tourist exclaim : " It has been the dream 
of my life to see Heligoland." We could 
not understand why he had so long put 
off the realization of his dream, when 
to us who had come so far the island 
seemed very near its foster-mother. 

The " Court " language, in which de 
bates in council are carried on, is Hel- 
igolandish-Frisian. Every North Sea 
island has its own peculiar variation of 
the Frisian dialect, which in this case 
has also been modified by the English 
and German languages, and bears a 
similarity to both. 

There were three ancient festivals 
common to all the Frisian islands that 
of Weda, which marked the end of 
winter and the beginning of the fishing 
season ; of Thor, the god of the harvest ; 
and of Yule, or the new year, sacred to 
the lovers goddess, Freia, which was 
and still is the time for marrying. 



December 6th is the festival of St. Nich 
olas, the patron saint of fishermen ; 
when presents are universally exchanged 
among the children. 

Once every summer the rocky coast 
of Heligoland is illuminated. Preceded 
by the band, and those in authority, the 
entire available population make the cir 
cuit in a procession of open boats. It 
is a curious voyage by day ; by night, it 
is weird and wonderful. The wave-worn 
cliffs, now ablaze with lurid fires, are 
quenched in blackness only to glow 
again in ghastly opalescence. If the 
spectacle chances to fall upon a night 
when the water is phosphorescent, every 
drop seems a grain of luminous gold, 
scintillating at the touch of oar or prow. 
We approach the North Horn, salute its 
ghostly sentinel, shuddering at the un 
canny shapes that writhe in the agony 
of their fiery ordeal ; and we follow the 
western shore, past Monk and Nun, back 
again to the starting-point, where " God 
Save the Queen " appears in burning let 
ters, and the band plays it with a hearty 
goodwill. 

The national costume is not yet dis 
carded in this Arcadian isle, but it is 
generally reserved for holidays and Sun 
day. Women look demure in red petti 
coats fringed with yellow, dark jackets, 
aprons of snowy white, and black poke- 
bonnets. As a fact, however, the bonnet 
is seldom seen except on dowagers, 
the head-gear of young women being a 
light colored shawl, worn Spanish fash 
ion. The men wear top boots, blue 
trousers, white linen " jumpers," and 
sou wester hats. But even they are seen 
more often in a quiet, conventional dress 
of some serviceable stuff. A bride s 
toilet is surpassingly strange, the chief 
feature being a tall hat or crown, elabo 
rately ornamented with pins, and from 
which falls a fringed mantle. Even her 
personal finery, however, is secondary 
to the trappings of the bed, which is 
decked by herself and her friends in the 
bridegroom s house. The whitest of 
linen, plenty of lace, and doubtless a 
mountain of feathers, go to make it 
sumptuous. Guests are bidden by the 
lovers together, in person. After the 
marriage ceremony in the church, the 
party repair to the new home, and par 
take of a national cake, eaten with a 



388 



PITY, O GOD! 



sauce of syrup and melted butter. 
When the merry-making is over, the 
whole party go in procession over every 
street on the island. More eating and 
drinking and dancing, and at last home. 

Women in Heligoland do not reach 
their majority until the age of twenty- 
one ; while the law recognizes a man 
at twenty years. A daughter s share in 
an estate is only one-half the portion of 
a son. 

When an islander dies, the body is 
wrapped in white linen embellished with 
black bows. If the grief of the surviv 
ors was not excessive, a grim play used 
to be enacted, called " The Game of 
Death." To be invited to carry a coffin 
or to lend assistance at the grave-dig 
ging, is esteemed an honor. When a 
man has presumably perished at sea, 
for the space of a month, prayers are of 
fered for his return ; and should he not 
then appear, the funeral takes place, de 
prived of none of its mournful acces 
sories. There is a small plot of ground 
on the Dime reserved for the burial 
of shipwrecked strangers a drowned 
mariner s snug-harbor, "environed with 
a wilderness of sea." 



In connection with the rite of infant 
baptism, there is a time-honored cere 
mony peculiar to Heligoland. At the 
proper point in the morning service, a 
procession of children enters the church 
during the singing of a hymn, each 
bringing a mug of water and pouring it 
in turn into the ancient font at which 
the child is to receive admission into 
Christ s flock. Who shall say that the 
child who thus takes part in this ordi 
nance is not kept in mind of the solemn 
vow, promise, and profession, made in 
his own behalf ? Just such little strands 
as this make the cable which binds this 
people so closely together. 

In Heligoland, exhausted nerves find 
the most favorable conditions. A week 
here is like an ocean voyage deprived 
of every drawback. Nowhere else is it 
possible to combine such perfection of 
neatness, such cheeriness and simplicity, 
such freedom, such quiet, such sweet 
air, such fresh sea-food, such luxurious 
salt baths, such vistas of sea and sky, 
such healthful exercise to those who 
need it, such a lazy life for those who 
want repose, such a sense of friendship 
with Nature, and such nearness to God. 



PITY, O GOD ! 

By Grace Ellery Channing. 



I. 

PITY thy deaf, O God ! thy helpless deaf, 
Only whose ears perceive the music s birth ; 
The fair, glad, mirthful melodies of earth 
Or sea, or wind-kissed trees in forests dim ; 
Life s morning anthem, nature s vesper hymn, 
The hum of bees about a bursting flower ; 
The blithe down-patter of a summer shower ; 
The lull of water and the lisp of wave ; 
The rush of sea-foam from a sea-bound cave ; 
The wafted breeze whose airs .ZEolian 
Murmurously rise and murmurous die again ; 
The tender cry of bird which shuns the light 

For joy, not dole ! 
Or the Beloved s voice on moonlit night 

Whereat dead hearts rise whole ! 
Who hear these sounds, but only with the ear, 
Whose souls are deaf make them, O God, to hear! 



PITY, O GOD! 

II. 

Pity thy blind, O God ! thy sightless ones, 

Unseeing ! whose purblind eyes alone left free 

Behold the limitless and changing sea ; 

The heaven of stars, the power in beauty furled ; 

The sun-illumined and cloud-shadowed world ; 

The night adorned and day magnificent ; 

The meadows with a million flowers besprent ; 

The fields all warmed, caressed, and played upon 

By the great, glowing, lavish lover-sun 

Bathed in drenched clouds, swept by the airs of heaven 

Evening to morn and morning unto even ; 

The dim sweet gardens where the languorous roses 

To swoon begin ; 
Or the Beloved s face when twilight closes 

And shuts sweet Love within ! 
Who see these only with the eye s dull light, 
Whose souls are blind O God, give them their sight ! 

III. 

Pity thy dumb ones, God! thy speechless ones, 

Only whose tongues free and unfettered are ! 

Whose lips the secret of the morning star 

Shall ne er unlock, no winged word of fire, 

No fancy and no freedom, no desire 

Thrill from the throat in song, steal from the fingers 

In subtler speech which burns and glows and lingers 

Through thousand forms wherein divinely wrought 

Into divinest life divinest thought 

Stands fashioned ; whom the Pentecostal flame 

Hath never touched ; in whom nor joy nor shame 

Nor Liberty, nor truth s self clearest shown 

Hath utterance stirred ! 
Nor the Beloved s heart upon their own 

Wooed forth one whispered word ! 

Speechless ! whose tongues speak only make them whole 
O God ! unseal the dumb lips of their soul ! 

IV. 

Pity thy poor, O God ! thine outcast poor 
Thy poor who only are not poor of gold 
Who have no part in all the stores untold, 
The largesse which a liberal past hath lent, 
No wealth of power, no riches of content ; 
No jewelled thoughts riven from the rarest mine ; 
No pleasure palaces of fancy fine ; 
No gardens fair where sweet caprice may wander 
No lavish hoard of happiness to squander ; 
No halls of hope ; no peaceful green domains ; 
No brooks of joy and golden-memoried plains ; 
No holy temple guarding its white portal 

For one beloved guest ; 
No consecrated feast whose cup immortal 

Love s lip hath prest ; 

Who have but gold dear God, how poor they be ! 
The beggared souls ! succor their poverty ! 



MILLET AND RECENT CRITICISM. 

By Walter Cranston Larned. 



MILLET stands forth perhaps 
more clearly than any other 
modern artist as an idealist in 
painting. The power of his pictures is 
undoubted. Their great influence upon 
the world of art is not questioned, but 
they are criticised because this power is 
said to be of a literary quality, and not 
what is properly called artistic. 

Undoubtedly the subjects chosen by 
Millet have had much to do with the 
value and permanence of his works, be 
cause they were noble, dignified, and 
poetic ; but choice of a worthy subject 
seerns to be unnecessary according to 
the teaching of the modern critics. If 
it be true that the subject has no value 
which is essentially artistic, then it 
matters little whether an artist paints 
a Madonna or a bunch of carrots ; for 
in either case the only question of con 
sequence, from the artist s point of view, 
is, whether the technique is good or bad 
in itself. The question is an old, but, 
after all, a vital one : is technical facil 
ity valuable in itself as an end, or is its 
worth to be measured by its power of 
expressing something which appeals to 
man s mental or emotional side ? Is a 
picture good enough if the eye of an 
animal would recognize the imitative 
truth, or is it better if the spirit of man 
finds in it something congenial ? 

The need of technical skill is not to 
be disputed. As well decry the value 
of style to a poet. But does the art of 
painting differ from literature just in 
this way, that ability to paint is enough 
in the one case, whereas ability to write 
correct sentences is not enough in the 
other ? If the subject has no part or 



lot at all in the artistic value of the 
picture, the parallel would seem not 
unfair ; but even the most radical real 
ist would hardly take such a position. 
He would say, perhaps, "paint anything 
in nature as faithfully as you can just 
as the eye sees it, so far as art permits 
such reproduction. Do this so that 
beautiful harmonies of color and form 
result, and you wiU have achieved all 
that a true artist can hope to accom 
plish." But the idealist would go 
further, and contend that reproduction 
of surfaces and shapes is not enough, 
no matter how harmonious or charming 
to the eye. There must be something 
in the picture which does more than 
tickle the sense of sight. It must ap 
peal to the mind, the heart, the soul, 
besides pleasing the eye, if it is to be 
called a really great work of art. And 
if the idealist is right, the choice of 
subject becomes of an importance akin 
to what it has in literature. 

Millet s choice of subjects was one of 
the most potent elements, and in a 
strictly artistic sense, that joined with 
other and more technical qualities to 
give his pictures their peculiar charm. 
Looked at from the stand-point of a 
technical realist it may be said that 
the figures in " The Angelus " have not 
their proper envelope of air, and that 
the landscape is "laid in heavily and 
without that observation of the effect 
of air on distances, and of those delicate 
photometric phenomena which have oc 
cupied the attention of the great land- 
scapists from Claude Lorraine, down to 
Theodore Rousseau and the moderns." 
But the idealist would say Millet was 



MILLET AND RECENT CRITICISM. 



391 



seeking to paint prayer rather than air. 
Why complain of the lack of an air en 
velope and photometric phenomena, if 
the artist has successfully embodied the 
spirit of prayer, which is the task he set 
for himself ? What picture, ancient or 
modern, presents to the mind more 
truly and powerfully than " The Ange- 
lus " the very spirit and meaning of 
prayer? The whole canvas fairly pul 
sates with the emotion of supplication. 
Before the picture was even named, when 
Sensier saw it in Millet s studio, he said 
" I hear the tones of the Angelus bell." 
Before he could have painted this pict 
ure Millet must have entered into deep 
communion with one of the grandest 
ideas which can come from human life 
the eternal nobleness of humble labor 
brightened and made cheerful by the 
spirit of faith and hope. In treating 
his subject he has emphasized what 
ever would make his meaning clear. 
He places in strong relief the attitude 
of prayer. He emphasizes that which 
goes to show the deep need of an un 
seen blessing, a help from a higher 
power the toil - stiffened limbs, the 
bodies made angular and unlovely to 
the eye by unremitting labor. He har 
monizes the environment with the fig 
ures, making his sky softly, but tender 
ly radiant, not with brilliant tints but 
with colors subdued in brightness, rest 
ful, yet suggestive of the clear light of 
heaven, while the earth, whose fields 
exact so stern a toil from these peasants, 
sinks into deep shadow, giving the chief 
place in the picture s exquisite harmony 
to the heavenly light, with its promise 
of rest and peace beyond. The power 
of such a picture must endure so long 
as men know what prayer means. It 
can only pass away when that spirit 
prevails, whose exponent is Mr. Saun- 
ders in "The New Kepublic," when he 
says, " I know that in their last analy 
sis a pig and a martyr, a prayer and a 
beefsteak, are just the same atoms, 
and atomic movement." Surely art can 
not be denied such an appeal to the im 
material in man, nor can it be inartis 
tic to use the technique of painting for 
such ends. Nor is the value of "The 
Angelus " of a literary quality only. The 
technique must be artistic, or the effect 
could not be produced. If there were 



any falsity in the conventions employed 
the critic would have just right to com 
plain. But this is not what is said. 
The complaint is, that qualities purely 
technical are not elaborate enough 
that the drawing is too abbreviated and 
the coloring too summary. 

It is possible that Millet could not 
paint in the purely scientific manner of 
some modern artists. It is probable that 
he would not have done so if he could, 
when the end and aim of his art are taken 
into consideration. It is certain that the 
technique he did adopt was admirably 
adapted to make his meaning clear. 

The necessity of selection in applying 
an artist s technical resources must be 
admitted. It is impossible to depict 
nature exactly as she is, for the scale of 
the artist s palette is not commensurate 
with nature s scale. Indeed Hamerton 
says that from deepest black to most 
dazzling white on the artist s palette may 
be represented by the number forty, 
while the same interval of color in nat 
ure is represented by one hundred. In 
color, then, no artist can compass the 
half of nature s facts, and the argument 
of the realist falls to the ground when 
he says, " Depict nature as she is, and 
whatever of the ideal or the poetic she 
has to suggest in reality will also be 
suggested by the picture." Since it is 
impossible to do this, the only remain 
ing question is whether it is better to 
aim simply at the closest accuracy in 
surface reproduction which is possible, 
or whether an artist may choose for em 
phasis such natural facts as best help 
express his poetic or ideal meaning. If 
Millet, when painting " The Angelus," 
had sought primarily to envelope his 
figures correctly in an air envelope, and 
accurately to measure the photometric 
gradations of his landscape, it is not 
unlikely that his supreme ideal might 
have been missed ; for he would have 
been obliged to lay such emphasis upon 
the material details of his subject that 
the limits of pictorial art would not 
have permitted a sufficiently stronger 
emphasis upon the immaterial, ideal, and 
poetic elements. As it is, his landscape 
and his figures are not untrue in the 
deepest sense, though a critic may claim 
that they are insufficient in surface rep 
resentation. They are broad and ex- 



392 



MILLET AND RECENT CRITICISM. 



pressive, bringing out such facts of nat 
ure as are needed with artistic power 
and beauty. To the eye of a poet the 
picture is deeply true in every part. To 
the eye of a man like Manet, who fails to 
see anything below the surface, whether 
in art or life, it is incomprehensible, and 
therefore he laughs and calls it " La 
benediction des pommes de terre" 

Lessing in his Laocoon says of the 
Greek : " His painter painted nothing 
but the beautiful, even the common 
type of the beautiful, the beautiful of an 
inferior kind was to him only an acci 
dental object for the exercise of his 
practice and for his recreation. The 
perfection of the object itself must be 
the thing which enraptures him ; he was 
too great to require of those who con 
templated him that they should be con 
tent with the cold satisfaction arising 
from the successful resemblance or from 
reflection upon the skill of the artist 
producing it ; to his art nothing was 
dearer, nothing seemed to him nobler 
than the object and end of art itself." 
Nor was Lessing speaking only of that 
merely sensuous beauty which appeals 
to the eye alone. He meant also the 
beauty of dignity and poetry which 
the Greek too, with all his love of that 
which is only beautiful to the senses, did 
not fail to appreciate. 

In an article in SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE, 
on "Eealism and the Art of Fiction," 
Mr. Arlo Bates, in speaking of the ideal 
in art, quoted Mr. Alfred Stevens s say 
ing, " Painting which produces an illu 
sion of reality is an artistic lie," and 
added : " The reason is obvious such 
painting would mean no more than the 
reality it duplicated." " The mission of 
art," said William M. Hunt, " is to rep 
resent nature ; not to imitate her," and 
he might have added that it pictures 
nature not for the sake of nature, but 
for the sake of the emotions which are 
aroused by the message of which such 
representation is the vehicle. Fromen- 
tin said : "It would be idle to be a lofty 



spirit and a grand painter if one did not 
put into his work something which the 
reality has not. It is in this that man 
is more intelligent than the sun, and I 
thank God for it." 

It is idle to talk about the lofty and 
the ideal in an art unless the subjects 
upon which that art is exercised are 
worthy. There must be a subject which 
demands the artist s best powers for its 
expression, the treatment of the subject 
must be in a measure governed by the 
emphasis laid upon its poetic elements, 
and the artist himself must have that 
seer s insight which reveals to him the 
deeper meanings in all that his art is 
exercised upon. 

It is said that Millet imposed upon 
himself a " mission ; " that he felt im 
pelled by strong convictions of duty to 
paint the sadness and dignity of agri 
cultural life ; that he read his Bible 
nightly and believed what he read. 
That a man should paint under the in 
fluence of such impulses, and paint pict 
ures of striking power, seems to a tech 
nical critic not only distasteful but 
incomprehensible. Indeed, one of the 
modern critics, in despair at such a phe 
nomenon in the French art-world, is 
driven to express his opinion that this 
peasant with his Bible-readings, his con 
victions, his love of the laborer, and his 
wooden sabots, must have been a good 
deal of a charlatan, and all these things 
a kind of pose. But if Millet had a 
" mission," let us hope that more artists 
will be inspired in the same way. There 
are none too many prophets willing to 
go into the wilderness and endure hard 
ship for the truth s sake. The world 
needs such in art to protest against 
mere cunning imitation, and to insist 
upon offering to man s love of the beau 
tiful something better than sensuous 
beauty, something which is not only 
beautiful to the eye, but lovely to the 
thought, inspiring to the imagination, 
charming to the fancy, and uplifting to 
the spirit. 




THE POINT OF VIEW. 



MR. COVENTRY PATMORE has recently lent 
the weight of his fastidiousness to the well- 
known theory that there is something an 
tagonistic between democracy and distinc 
tion, that they are mutually exclusive. The 
question is essentially perhaps one of defi 
nition, and Mr. Patmore, to be sure, defines 
neither democracy nor distinction for us. 
This may be, after all, a detail, and we may 
need a definition of neither term because 
we all understand exactly what is meant by 
each. But the ground would be cleared a 
little if Mr. Patmore and those who think, 
or rather feel, with him would recognize 
that what they mean by " democracy " is 
that political, which secures a social system, 
innocent of artificial distinctions ; and what 
they mean by " distinction " is a synthesis 
of qualities rare enough to be sharply dis 
tinguished from the mass, to secure salience 
from the environment. If this were done 
the discussion would not include the dis 
pute whether democracy is or is not con 
ducive to general good manners. Too much 
is made of this subordinate division of the 
discussion as a matter of fact. It obscur- 
ingly obsesses the minds of all who sustain 
Mr. Patmore s side of the general question. 

But even if it be admitted that in general, 
in the mass, democratic manners are the 
worst in the world and that the circum 
stance is not half readily enough recognized 
or half deeply enough deplored by those 
most interested it must equally be admit 
ted that this is so because under a democ 
racy so many people have bad manners who 
in an aristocratic society do not count at 
all. There may be just as many people in 
VOL. VIII. 38 



a given number of Americans, for example, 
whose deportment is irreproachable, as in 
the same number belonging to an aristo 
cratic society, and yet the total impression 
be inferior owing to the evident and ob 
streperous activities of the mass in the for 
mer case, whereas in the latter the mass is 
in the state of absolute effacement to which, 
in aristocratic societies, it notoriously is 
reduced. In other words, saying that a 
democratic society is, in point of fact, less 
sensuously agreeable, on the whole, to a 
person of taste, than an aristocratic society, 
is quite another thing from saying that 
democracy is unfavorable to good manners. 
People who, like Mr. Coventry Patmore, ar 
gue these matters a priori should be re 
minded that as Mr. Henry James has as 
tutely remarked, an aristocracy is bad 
manners organized ; " or, if they ever incline 
to the a posteriori method, they may be re 
ferred to his portraits of the English " rem 
nant," which, in respect of manners, no 
one, not even Thackeray, has exhibited in 
so searching a light. 

Manners in general aside, however, is 
democracy unfavorable to the evolution of 
individual distinction ? Is distinction any 
where else admired so much, and therefore, 
by natural selection, developed so quickly ? 
We admire everything in America so cor 
dially, so eagerly, so intemperately that we 
do not even exclude distinction. Is not 
traditional distinction a contradiction in 
terms ? Is there not an inherent opposition 
between true distinction and artificial dis 
tinctions ? Is it not true that in distinction, 
as in other things, la carriers can only be 



394 



THE POINT OF YIEW. 



ouverte au talent under democratic auspices ? 
The "whole question is here. A fellow- 
countryman of Mr. Patmore, and a poet of 
equal distinction, though of incontestably 
less fastidiousness, long ago remarked that 
" what man desirith gentil for to be " must 
"alle his wittes dresse." And surely un 
conscious distinction must be distinction of 
an order only to be found in fairy-land 
that esoteric country peopled by the jaded 
imaginations of poets whose muse is mainly 
occupied in kicking against the pricks of 
life and reality. To cite Chaucer again : 

Vyce may welle bee heyre to olde richesse, 
But there may no man, as ye may welle see, 
Byquethe his sone his vertuous noblesse ; 
That is approperid into noo degree. 

Would an American of anything like Mr. 
Coventry Patmore s distinction " permit 
himself to write of England in the same 
vein of naive, vague, and wholly factitious 
exacerbation as that in which, confusing 
distinction with daintiness, he writes of us ? 
We are certainly more responsible, less 
whimsical, "nearer the ground" of fact, 
more in key with Chaucer, for example. 
Distinction surely consists in rising above, 
not in sinking below, the " rationality " 
which Mr. Patmore s querulous sestheticism 
reprobates, and of which having never 
heard of Valley Forge, perhaps he calls 
Washington the insipid personification. It 
would be interesting, by the way, to have the 
opinion, say, of Marie Jean Paul Koch Yves 
Gilbert Motier, Marquis de La Fayette 
an excellent judge, of necessity, according 
to Mr. Patmore s hypothesis as to the 
"bumps" of an aesthetic poet who found 
Washington lacking in " distinction." 

ONE of the standing complaints of Ameri 
can practitioners of any of the fine arts is 
the lack of a public sensitive to art impres 
sions. This is a grievance which they are 
wont to cherish with more jealous care even 
than the lack of artistic material, for which 
they hold our utilitarian and unpicturesque 
civilization responsible. Both complaints 
are very likely well founded. Our artists 
and our sestheticians who outnumber 
them, alas! are undoubtedly rubbed the 
wrong way too often, too constantly, indeed, 
for their own and for our good. They do 
not meet with the sympathy they seek and 
need, the sympathy that is stimulating and 



sustaining. But they may be reminded, by 
way of consolation, of an effect they do pro 
duce, a kind of recognition they do meet 
w r ith, which is a score of times more disas 
trous to them, to us, and to art itself, than 
they seem, in their innocence, to be aware of. 
It is this, that in common with all other 
persons and phenomena they are the vic 
tims of invincible American tolerance and 
good-nature. The public may not be acute 
ly sympathetic in an intelligent sense, but 
it is certainly more than any public to 
which artists have ever appealed and on 
which they have ever depended for suste 
nance and inspiration indulgent. And to 
artists indulgence notoriously means appre 
ciation. 

A very striking attestation of this was 
furnished by the now universally discredit 
ed, but on the part of some people sincere, 
attempt to produce American artists by 
protective tariff which has for some years 
made us an object of derision and dislike to 
foreign peoples. But it is, of course, not 
this sort of extravagance to which reference 
is here made. It is the immediate, sponta 
neous, and enthusiastic recognition which 
awaits every American artist painter or 
litterateur, sculptor, architect, or poet who 
does anything at all, who shows any signs 
whatever of possessing a temperament, who 
exhibits industry, even. No one who oc 
cupies himself at all with such things can 
have failed to note how instant, when an 
accomplishment of any merit whatever is 
in question, is the comparison of the Amer 
ican executant with Donatello, with Velas 
quez, with the very greatest poets, painters, 
romancers, architects. It is the fashion to 
abuse the National Academy of Design, but 
it is doubtful if any body of painters w r as 
ever " appreciated" like the Society of Am 
erican Artists; any sculpture admired as 
naively as the occasional meritorious ac 
cents among the mass of mediocrity which 
distinguishes our parks and squares ; any 
architecture so eulogized as that imitative 
and purely " tasteful " genre of which lat 
terly we are supposed to have discovered 
the secret ; or any novel, any poetry, any 
criticism, any short-story is elsewhere as 
sure of its effect. 

On the whole, however and this is the 
justification for directing attention to the 
matter the artists and litterateurs are essen- 



THE POINT OF YIEW. 



395 



tially, though not perhaps very sapiently, 
right in complaining of the way in which 
they are treated, and, in the actual situation, 
there is less consolation than may be imag 
ined for their condition. Just appreciation 
is, in the first place, more profitable in a doz 
en ways than mere enthusiasm ; and, in the 
second place, what art of all kinds, in this 
country as elsewhere, must depend upon is 
a proper notion on the part of the general 
public of the ideal. Nothing is really so 
hostile to the interests of art, and therefore, 
in the long run, to artists, as the loss, on the 
part of the public, through good-nature or 
otherwise, of the sentiment of what is really 
and absolutely fine, of a standard, of a 
measure. If, out of a desire really to be 
lieve American artists the equal of French, 
Dutch, English, or German artists, or even 
merely to brace them up and fill them with 
self-respect, the American public should 
come to have a factitious, a misleading, a 
false notion of what art and beauty are, an 
eccentric conception of the ideal, in a word, 
it would be the artists themselves, would it 
not, who would finally suffer ? "When one 
sees as it is impossible to avoid seeing on 
every hand pictures, statues, books, and 
even " articles " praised out of all propor 
tion merely because they are American, it 
is difficult if one have the interests of 
American art and letters at heart at all to 
avoid reflecting that the first requisite to 
excellence in any department of the fine 
arts is absolute independence of such " ap 
preciation " as greets pure experimentation 
in them, because such good-nature as this 
implies also a perfect lack of feeling for the 
very thing with which, solely, art of any 
kind is concerned, namely, in some or 
other of its manifestations, the ideal. The 
best thing, in short, which our artists could 
in their own interest ask of our public 
is, that it should think more constantly and 
closely of the standard and less exclusively 
of inadequate approximations to it, whether 
American or foreign. 

" WHAT shall I say to my partner?" ask 
ed a very young woman, the other evening, 
on her way to make the summer night 
more lovely by dancing out a part of it un 
der the glimpses of the moon. One who 
heard her found himself recalling the 
unconscious sharpness of humor with which 



the Gordian knot was cut, years ago, by an 
old acquaintance a man of science, famous 
in his day. He lived habitually so much 
apart from the world that he had no prac 
tical knowledge of its tricks and its man 
ners ; and, being drawn forth into it on 
some supreme occasion, he stood mute as a 
school-boy before the first young girl he 
met. She, in awe of his mighty presence, 
not unnaturally waited for him to speak 
first, until their embarrassed silence had 
been painfully prolonged. Then the in 
stinct of self -retirement overmastered him, 
and he fled from her with these memorable 
words : " Finding that you have no facts to 
communicate, I will bid you good evening, 
madam." Poor, unwilling victim ! The 
grass of many summers has grown over his 
head ; the world is better for vast discover 
ies by which he will be long remembered ; 
but this one problem he left precisely where 
he found it. The need of an invisible 
prompter, ever on the alert to bridge over 
possible lapses in our graceful small talk, 
is as apparent in our day as it was in his. 

If there were only some clever little book 
to be studied in the inevitable hour appoint 
ed for Greek to join Greek or, better still, 
to be carried into the heat of contest, hid 
den away in the palm of one s hand ! The 
letter-writer has fallen into disuse, but new 
books on etiquette still keep us abreast of 
the times more or less profitably. A guide 
stored with communicable facts would have 
to all the charm of novelty, and would be 
hailed with joy by young and old alike. 
Furnished with this mental compactus " 
the dullest of our sons and daughters 
might be made to shine. We should find 
that group of aimless and anxious youth 
which always hangs about the doorway 
much diminished ; and to the blank spaces 
of the room fewer wall -flowers would cling. 
Our hostess would no longer be compelled 
to accumulate rare orchids and unique em 
broideries by way of subject-matter for us 
when our minds refuse to work. She might 
receive us in a barn-chamber, should the 
fancy please her ; we should enter it fore 
armed if not forewarned. Who knows? 
In the end, we might even conquer the 
dreary tendency to personal reminiscence 
into which, sooner or later, all our talk now 
declines. We could make up our brains as 
skilfully as actors do their faces, and go on 



396 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



playing leading juvenile with them for any 
number of years. 

The fact that the proposed work need 
only concern itself with headings makes the 
scheme entirely practicable. One of Bal 
zac s delightful phrases describes the in 
clination of Anglo-Saxons to mechanize 
themselves in their pleasures. The main 
thing is to set the mechanism going ; after 
that it is a poor contrivance that will not 
take care of itself. We all know how hard 
it is to begin agreeably when the duty of 
beginning is suddenly thrust upon us at a 
five o clock tea, for instance. For a mo 
ment, the leaf of our intelligence becomes 
a blank. Could we but turn it down at a 
classified list of ideas, all those meteorolog 
ical prefaces that now afflict us might be 
omitted once for all. Under W our author 
surely would set down nothing about the 
Weather. Why will not some amiable writ 
er reap his reward from this suggestion ? 
He who collects our thoughts for us in ad 
vance will confer a priceless blessing upon 
mankind. 



A CURIOUS outgrowth of the rivalries of 
American cities, is the practice that obtains 
so generally of offering bonuses and pecun 
iary inducements to manufacturers to move 
their plant. After a fire that burned down 
part of a sewing-machine factory the other 
day, the owners received so many proposals 
from aspiring cities that wanted to take 
them in, that they were obliged to publish 
a notice to the effect that only a small part 
of their works had been burned, and that 
they were not open to proposals for adop 
tion. Any factory or established business 
employing labor can have its choice, nowa 
days, from a long list of cities, new and old, 
any one of which will give it a site for a 
factory, pay the expenses of moving, and 
perhaps contribute substantially toward the 
construction of a new building. People 
who own land, or are engaged in business 



in cities, realize that it pays them to have 
their cities grow, and they are willing to 
hire desirable inhabitants to come to them. 
They rely upon getting their money back 
in the increased value of land, or the 
general increase in business. The result is 
that the migratory disposition already so 
pronounced in these days is intensified, and 
it has become a familiar thing not merely 
for individuals to move, but for great ag 
gregations of working-men to shift the scene 
of their activities from one city to another, 
sometimes thousands of miles away. 

Time was when where the average man 
found himself living, there he continued to 
live, unless circumstances of exceptional 
urgency impelled him to change his resi 
dence. It is different now. Transportation 
has become so cheap, and travel so easy, 
that the ties of locality sit very lightly on 
the average American, and the fact that you 
find him settled this year in New York or 
Pennsylvania, affords you a very uncertain 
basis for expecting to find him next year in 
the same place. When you hear of him 
again, if he hasn t moved to Texas, or Ta- 
coma, or southern California, or Maine, or 
North Dakota, you feel that he must have 
had some exceptionally good reasons for 
staying at home. Men used to wag their 
heads, and croak about the inability of 
rolling stones to gather moss. We have 
changed all that. Moss is at a discount, 
and there is a premium upon rolling. 

There are disadvantages about this way ; 
but on the other hand it tends to destroy sec 
tionalism, and helps toward the evolution 
of a homogeneous American population. It 
is a passing phase. The country is big, but 
it will become settled after a while. Travel 
will go on increasing, but it will be the sort 
of travel that includes a return ticket. Peo 
ple will go away, but they will come back 
again ; the advantages of continuous resi 
dence somewhere will reassert themselves, 
and ccelum non animum will again be re 
membered as a sound sentiment. 



., _ 




, 



. 




SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. VHI. 



OCTOBEB, 1890. 



No. 4. 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 

By Herbert Laws Web}}. 



IN these days of rapid development 
iu new fields of electrical science and 
their commercial application, it is easy 
to overlook the magnitude of the work 
accomplished in the laying of deep-sea 
cables. According to the latest report 
of the International Bureau of Telegraph 
Administrations,, the submarine tele 
graph system of the world consists of 
120,070 nautical miles of cable. Govern 
ment administrations own 12,524 miles, 
while 107,546 are the property of private 
companies. The total cost of these 
cables is in the neighborhood of two 
hundred million dollars. The largest 
owner of submarine cables is the East 
ern Telegraph Company, whose system 
covers the ground from England to In 
dia, and comprises 21,860 miles of cable. 
The Eastern Extension, which exploits 
the far East, has 12,958 miles more. 
Early in last year the system of West 
African cables, which started from Cadiz 
only six years ago, was completed to 
Cape Town, so that the dark continent 
is now completely encircled by submarine 
telegraph, touching at numerous points 
along the coast. More than 17,000 
miles of cable have been required to do 
this, and several companies, with more 
or less aid from the British, French, 
Spanish, and Portuguese governments, 
have participated in carrying out the 
work. 

The North Atlantic is spanned by no 
less than eleven cables, all laid since 
1870, though I think not all are working 
at the present time ; five companies are 
engaged in forwarding telegrams be 




tween North America and Europe, and 
the total length of the cables owned 
by them, including coast connections, is 
over 30,000 nautical miles. 

The cable fleet of the world numbers 
thirty-seven vessels, of an aggregate gross 
tonnage of about 54,600 tons. Ten ships 
belong to the construction companies, 
their aggregate gross tonnage being 
about half that of the entire fleet ; the 
other twenty-seven are repairing steam 
ers belonging to the different govern 
ment and telegraph companies ; they are 
stationed in ports all over the world, 
keeping a watchful eye on the condition 
of its submarine nerves, and doctoring 
them up whenever they need atten 
tion. The Silvertown and the Faraday 
head the list of cable ships in point of 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



400 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



size, the former being 4,935 tons, and 
the latter 4,916 tons; while the Scotia 
(an old Cunarder) is a close third with 
4,667. The Faraday has laid several 
of the Atlantic cables, and the Silver- 
town has done a great deal of work on 



many ramifications of submarine ca 
bles which radiate from the Newfound 
land and Canadian coasts in working 
order. 

The life on one of these cable-vessels 
is unique and most interesting, combin- 




Paying Out Gear. From Chart House. 



both coasts of South America and on 
the west coast of Africa. This ship 
has exceptional capacity for carrying 
cable, her main tank being fifty-three 
feet in diameter and thirty feet deep, 
large enough to stow a good-sized 
house in. On one expedition she car 
ried 2,370 knots of cable, weighing 
4,881 tons, the whole length being coiled 
on board in 22 days, or at the rate of 
over 100 knots a day. Better still, she 
laid the whole length without a single 
hitch, much of it being paid out at the 
high speed of nine knots an hour. 

Among the repairing ships the best 
known is the Minia, the Anglo-Ameri 
can Telegraph Company s steamer, which 
patrols the North Atlantic, keeping the 



ing the adventures of voyaging with 
operations demanding the highest scien 
tific skill and knowledge, and with the 
most ingenious mechanical work. The 
men brought together are, of course, of 
widely varied experience and accom 
plishments, each in his way an expert 
in some branch of electrical or mechan 
ical engineering. It was the writer s 
good fortune, in 1883, to be connected 
with the technical staff of such a vessel 
the cable-ship Dalmatia and he 
hopes that this narrative of his experi 
ences will give a pleasant insight into 
the work of constructing the costliest 
and most wonderful half of Puck s girdle 
round the world. 

In the summer of that year the Span- 




* & 
f , 


*4- 




^ 





dfftl 









402 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



ish Government decided to establish 
telegraphic communication between the 
group of Atlantic islands known as the 
Canary Islands, and the Spanish Penin 
sula, by means of a submarine cable, 
and also to connect various of the prin 
cipal islands of the group with each 
other by the same method. This im 
portant work was intrusted to a leading 
English cable manufacturing company 
with a very long name, commonly called 
for short, " The Argentville Company," 
from the name of the place where 
the company s works are situated. It 
was for the purpose of laying these 
cables that the Dalmatia and Cosmo- 



mous factory on the banks of the Thames, 
a few miles below London. Here the 
birth of the cable may be traced through 
shop after shop, machine after machine. 
The foundation of all is the conductor, 
a strand of seven fine copper wires. 
This slender copper cord is first hauled 
through a mass of sticky, black com 
pound, which causes the thin coating of 
gutta - percha applied by the next ma 
chine to adhere to it perfectly, and pre 
vents the retention of any bubbles of air 
in the interstices between the strands, or 
between the conductor and the gutta- 
percha envelope. One envelope is not 
sufficient, however, but the full thick- 




Paying Out Gear. From Stern Baulks. 



politan made the voyage which I shall ness of insulating material has to be at- 
describe. tained by four more alternate coatings 

of sticky compound and plastic gutta- 

Let us first see what a submarine percha. The conductor is now insulated, 
cable is, and how it is made. To do and has developed into " core." Before 
this a visit must be made to the enor- going any further the core is coiled into 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



403 



tanks filled with water, and tested in possible, is applied a covering of stout 



order to ascertain whether it is electric 
ally perfect, i.e., that there is no undue 
leakage of electricity through the gutta- 
percha insulating envelope. 



canvas tape thoroughly impregnated 
with a pitch-like compound, and some 
times the iron wires composing the 
armor are separately covered with Rus- 




Sounding Machine. 



These tests are made from the testing- 
room, replete with beautiful and elab 
orate apparatus,* by which measure 
ments finer and more accurate than 
those even of the most delicate chemical 
balance may be made. Every foot of 
core is tested with these instruments, 
both before and after being made up 
into cable, and careful records are pre 
served of the results. 

After the core has been all tested and 
passed, the manufacture of the cable 
goes on. The core travels through 
another set of machines, which first 
wrap it with a thick serving of tarred 
jute, and then with a compact armoring 
of iron or steel wires, of varying thick 
ness according to the depth of water in 
which the cable is intended to be laid. 
Above the armoring, in order to pre 
serve the iron from rust as long as 

*A set of testing instruments for submarine-cable 
work, somewhat less elaborate than iised in a cable 
factory, was illustrated on page 17 of SCRIBNER S MAGA 
ZINE for July, 1889. 



sian hemp as an additional preservative 
against corrosion. 

The completed cable is coiled into 
large circular store-tanks, where it is 
kept for some time submerged in water 
and again subjected to an exhaustive 
series of electrical tests. These tests 
form, so to speak, the baptismal record 
of the cable ; by them it is ascertained 
whether the specifications have been 
complied with in respect to the maxi 
mum conductor resistance and the mini 
mum insulation resistance which the 
cable is to have ; in other words, whether 
the limits set by the purchasers of the 
cable on the amount of resistance in the 
conductor to the flow of the current, and 
the amount of leakage through the in 
sulating envelope, have been exceeded or 
not. 

The shipment of the cable next claims 
attention. The cable-steamer is lying 
at her moorings some distance out in 



404 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



the river, taking in her priceless cargo ; 
and it is safe to say that the loading of 
no other ship presents such a curious 
and interesting scene. The cable is 
undulating in the air like an enormous 
eel as it emerges from the factory on 
the river-bank and travels over guides 
mounted on tall floating frames until it 
reaches the ship s side, over which it 
glides and immediately dives down into 



objects on the street to every New- 
Yorker), to connect the landing-places 
of the submarine line with the town 
offices, galvanized iron cable-huts to be 
erected for the reception of shore-ends 
and instruments at these landing-places, 
tools of every description, huge iron 
buoys, coils of rope and heavy chain, 
grappling-irons and mushroom-anchors, 
cases of instruments, and formidable 








Cable-hut at Shore-end. 



the dark recesses of the hold, where a 
gang of men are busy coiling it away, at 
the rate of four or five miles an hour, 
into one of the four iron tanks with 
which the ship is provided. 

On board the ship there is a scene of 
confusion. The deck is strewn with 
packing-cases galore ; stores of every 
description, some for use on board, 
others comprising complete equipments 
from heavy furniture down to buckets 
and brooms for the telegraph stations 
which the cable is presently to call into 
existence, coils of wire, huge spools or 
drums of underground cable (similar to 
those which have lately become familiar 



looking trays of electric batteries ; all 
these myriad objects many of them 
labelled with queer-sounding Spanish 
names indicating their ultimate destina 
tion surround one on all sides, as the 
work goes on of taking them on board 
and stowing them away in their proper 
places ; there to remain until the hour 
arrives when they shall be called into 
action or unloaded in distant ports, to 
undergo stern and critical examination 
at the hands of grave and dignified, or 
perhaps fussy and exacting, Iberian 
custom-house officials. 

The cable, which, after all, is the 
principal character in this varied scene, 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



405 



is being dragged on board by steam 
machinery in a sluggish, hesitating sort 
of manner. Perhaps it is being coiled 
away into one of the tanks somewhat 
distant from the engine which is haul 
ing it on board ; in which case it is 
guided to the hatchway above the tank 
by means of grooved pulleys and long 
wooden troughs provided with little 
iron rollers, over which it rattles and 
whirrs merrily. 

In order to see the most important 
passenger that the ship is to carry in 
stalled in the depths of the dark, capa 
cious state-room provided for its ac 
commodation, it is necessary to take a 
peep between decks, and find one s way 
to " tank square," as the square opening 
on the main deck above the tank is 
called. Arrived at the tank in action, 
and standing at its edge, one can peer 
down into the gloomy depths ; over 
head a large grooved wheel, fixed above 
the centre of the tank, guides the cable 
so that it hangs clear and in a position 
to be easily manipulated by the gang of 
men, who gradually appear visible below 
as one becomes accustomed to the dim 
light shed by a few ship s lanterns hung 
around the sides of the tank. In the 
centre of the tank is a large iron trun 
cated cone, which forms the eye of the 
coil of cable, and which, being hollow, 
also serves as a receptacle for perish 
able stores or fresh water for the con 
sumption of the ship s company. The 
cable is arranged in flat coils occupying 
the whole space between the cone and 
the side of the tank ; each coil is tech 
nically known as a "flake." In order to 
prevent one turn of the cable adhering 
to either of its neighbors, and thus pro 
ducing a " foul," or a skein of several 
turns of cable coming up together when 
paying out, the cable is freely treated 
with whitewash to counteract the nat 
ural stickiness of the pitch-like exterior 
compound ; as an additional precaution, 
boards are placed at intervals over each 
completed flake, thus obviating the risk 
of a " foul flake." 

The whole scene, to an unaccustomed 
observer, possesses a weird, uncanny 
air ; the gloomy cavernous tank, the 
lithe black cable, writhing and swishing 
around with a ceaseless serpentine mo 
tion, the ghostly figures of the men, who, 
VOL. VIII. 40 



viewed by the dim and fitful yellow light 
below, seem like creatures of another 
world ; and to heighten the unearthly 
effect, a sort of gruff incantation, echo 
ing and reverberating as it ascends from 
the gigantic caldron, assails the ear and 
accentuates the general resemblance to 
some seance of the black arts on a large 
scale ; until, by listening intently, the 
mysterious notes are found to resolve 
themselves into a chorus in vogue with 
sailors all the world over, but peculiarly 
appropriate among such surroundings* 

Heiglio ! Roll the man down ! " 
" Heigho ! Roll the man down ! " 
" Give a man time to roll the man down ! " 

The ships were loaded, the cable was 
all coiled snugly down in the tanks, 
batteries, instruments, and stores were 
all stowed away, and on the date ap 
pointed for sailing, which turned out to 
be a glorious September day % we sped 
through the green fields of " the garden 
of England," down to Greenhithe, where 
the two ships composing the expedition 
were lying at anchor, only awaiting the 
final operation of " swinging ship," and 
the arrival of the numerous staff of en 
gineers and electricians, who generally 
join the ships at the last moment. Our 
train discharged quite a number of fel 
low-voyagers, some of them accompanied 
by their friends. A turn of the road 
brought the river in view, and right be 
fore us w r ere the two good ships in which 
our principal interests were to centre for 
the next few weeks. They were looking 
their very best ; yards squared, rigging 
taut and trim, bunting flying gayly in 
the autumn breeze ; the blue peter at the 
fore, a few whiffs of steam escaping 
from the waste-pipe, and a thin haze of 
smoke ascending from the smoke-stacks, 
indicated that all was in readiness for de 
parture. At the landing-stage we found 
the ship s gig awaiting us and in a few 
moments we were standing on the deck 
of the Dalmatia, the flag- ship of the 
expedition, as indicated by the swallow- 
tailed house-flag flying at the main, 
which signified that we carried the com 
modore of the squadron, in the person of 
the engineer-in-chief of the expedition. 

The ship was in spick and span order, 
the deck clean and white, brass-work 
shining like gold, ropes coiled neatly 



406 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



away, wood and iron redolent of fresh 
paint and varnish ; and, were it not for 
the absence of guns and the very evi 
dent presence of the cable machinery 
which on all sides arrests the attention, 
we might have fancied ourselves on 
board some man-of-war commanded by a 
strict martinet. 

The operation of " swinging ship " 
was concluded, the boats were hoisted 
up to the davits, the accommodation- 
ladder hauled up and lashed securely 
to the rigging ; the steam winch was 
working heavily, and in a few minutes the 
anchor was weighed and we were steam 
ing down the river. When we had the 
ship to ourselves, all the visitors having 
departed, the first thing to be done 
was to make a tour of inspection and 
gain some insight into the functions 
of the masses of heavy machinery which 
occupied the greater part of the deck 
from stem to stern. Starting from 
the bow we first observed the "bow 
sheave," a large iron pulley, deeply 
grooved, which projects out over the 
cutwater and serves to guide the cable 
in-board when the ship is engaged in 
" picking-up," a term which explains it 
self. The next prominent object was 
the dynamometer, a large iron sheave or 
pulley mounted on a frame, arranged so 
as to slide up and down, with a range of 
several feet, in a tall iron support ; the 
wheel being balanced by weights, when 
the cable or a grappling-rope is passed 
underneath, it indicates, by means of 
a pointer which passes in front of a 
graduated scale on the face of the iron 
support, the strain upon the rope or 
cable. Next we inspected the picking- 
up gear, consisting of a huge iron drum 
some six feet in diameter, worked by 
a powerful horizontal engine. Passing 
aft, we came to the paying-out gear, al 
most a replica of what we had already 
seen, except that the engines connected 
with the paying-out drum were of a 
lighter type than those forward, and 
that there were more appliances for 
holding the cable when it should be ne 
cessary, for any reason, to stop paying 
out [pp. 400-402]. 

The life on board a cable-ship is, as I 
have said, a thing of itself, differing 
widely from that of any other of the 
floating homes which at all moments are 



ploughing the seas. This we soon found 
out as we commenced to settle down 
and become familiar with our surround 
ings. We were not on board a pas 
senger steamer, because there were no 
passengers of either sex ; neither were 
we on a man-of-war we had no big 
guns and no stern discipline. This lat 
ter element, however, was not entirely 
absent on the Dalmatia ; every man on 
board had a certain position and cer 
tain work to do, and all the members 
of the staff wore uniforms similar to 
those of the ship s officers, the rank of 
each one being denoted by the number of 
stripes on his sleeve. The engineer-in- 
chief was the head of the whole expedi 
tion, and had entire charge of all the 
operations, and the ships were navigated 
according to his instructions. Imme 
diately after him ranked the captain of 
the ship, and the engineers and electri 
cians of the cable staff, and the ship s 
officers and engineers followed in due 
order, according to their functions and 
standing in the company s service. 
Our party in the saloon also comprised 
two Spanish officials, who represented 
their government at all the operations 
of the expedition. 

Cable engineers are naturally great 
travellers, and among our party of some 
twenty odd, a large proportion had 
visited almost every part of the world, 
and could relate many a good story of 
their varied experiences and give us 
much interesting information about for 
eign lands. Conversation in the saloon 
was carried on in at least three lan 
guages English, French, and Spanish. 

As our voyage was to be a very short 
one before we reached the port where 
we were to commence operations, little 
time was devoted to the amusements 
which while away the long hours on an 
extended trip. Everybody on board was 
busy preparing for the work in perspec 
tive. Here was a group of engineers 
conning over charts, studying the pro 
posed track for the cable, and discuss 
ing the knotty point of selecting a suit 
able spot for landing the shore-end. A 
little further on, the paymaster, sur 
rounded by papers, writing up his "log," 
and nearby the hydrographer, preparing 
a large chart which takes in all the 
ground to be covered by the entire sys- 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



407 



tern of cables. In the testing-room, 
the electrician would explain the func 
tions of the glittering instruments of 
ebonite and brass with which he was 
making a test on the cable in the tanks 
below. The only visible demonstration 
of what was being done was to be found 
in the movements of a little spot of light, 
which would be deflected from zero on a 
horizontal scale, and finally come to rest 
several hundred degrees to one side, as 
the assistant allowed the electric current 
to pass through the reflecting galvano 
meter. If the spot of light were to make 
sudden kicks or fly off the scale, the ex 
istence of something wrong would be 
revealed, perhaps a fault in the cable. 
But faults rarely develop on board ship, 
because the cable is perfect when it 
leaves the factory. In the ship s tanks 
it is kept cool by being always sub 
merged in water, and as yet it has been 
subjected to no severe strain. When 
the time comes for paying-out, and the 
cable is straightened and has to bear a 
strain of several tons as it leaves the 
ship s stern, then any slight imperfec 
tion will be revealed ; and although it 
may consist merely of a minute bubble 
of air which has burst and made a punc 
ture in the gutta-percha into which you 
could not introduce a fine hair ; although 
it may be only a crack so imperceptible 
that it would not admit of the inser 
tion of the corner of a cigarette-paper, 
yet the current would escape, and, like 
the insignificant stream which trickles 
over a dam, would gradually widen the 
breach until the cable was electrically 
" broken down," and entirely useless for 
communication. 

Pondering over the watchful skill 
which manufactures hundreds, and even 
thousands, of miles of this slender cord 
with such widely different materials as 
iron, steel, hemp, gutta-percha, and cop 
per, and triumphantly attains a degree 
of perfection which necessitates the ex 
clusion of even such minute flaws and 
imperfections as would pass unnoticed 
in almost any other branch of industry, 
we dived down below to the main deck 
and spent an instructive half-hour in 
specting the huge iron buoys, grappling- 
ropes and irons, mooring-chains and 
anchors, and other paraphernalia which 
the cable hands were busily painting, 



splicing, and overhauling generally in 
order to prepare them for use. On 
deck the same activity was to be seen ; 
the heavy cable machinery was being ex 
amined and tried, to insure all being fit 
for action, and at the stern a small ma 
chine was being fitted up and got into 
place ; this was the sounding machine, 
with which we shall shortly become 
more intimately acquainted. 

The dreaded Bay of Biscay was crossed 
without undue pitching and tossing ; 
for once its troublous waters were com 
paratively calm. In due course, one 
fine September morning, we steamed 
into Cadiz Bay. The scene is a beauti 
ful one. On one side the bright, clean- 
looking little town almost entirely sur 
rounded by the sea ; on the other, some 
eight miles across the bay, the old town 
of Puerto Santa Maria. We were de 
layed a few days while the necessary 
formalities as to landing instruments 
and stores, and other kindred questions, 
were gone through. Some difficulty 
was also found in selecting a suitable 
landing-place for the cable. Cadiz is 
surrounded by rocks, and also by cur 
rents. Rocks are undesirable in the 
vicinity of a cable under any circum 
stances, but rocks and currents com 
bined arouse a feeling of unconquerable 
horror and aversion in the mind of an 
experienced cable engineer. Finally, 
one afternoon, when we had been at 
anchor in Cadiz Bay some three or four 
days, orders were given for both ships 
to weigh anchor, and we found that it 
had been decided to land the shore-end 
on a sandy beach at the far side of the 
bay, near Puerto Santa Maria ; the con 
nection with Cadiz town to be after 
ward made by means of a short cable 
skirting the anchorage in the bay. Thus 
the main cable would be safe from dam 
age by rocks and currents, or by ships 
anchors, and if the bay cable should be 
broken at any time by either of these 
causes, communication could always be 
maintained from the landing-place of 
the main line. 

We steamed off and anchored as near 
in-shore as we could get, opposite the spot 
intended for the landing-place [p. 401]. 
All was now activity on board. No 
sooner were we at anchor than a couple 
of boats were despatched for the beach, 



408 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



with a party of men and the necessary 
tools and implements for use on shore. 
On board, both picking-up and paying- 
out gear were being made ready for ac 
tion, as they both played their part in 
landing the shore-end ; huge coils of 
rope and a number of collapsed air-bal 
loons made their appearance from be 
low. These balloons were inflated with 
air to their full diameter of some three 
or four feet, and the quarter-deck of the 
Dalmatia began to assume the appear 
ance of a giant s toy-shop. Meanwhile 
the shore party had firmly anchored to 
the beach two large " spider-sheaves," 
or skeleton iron pulleys. These were 
placed some two or three hundred yards 
apart, forming two angles of a parallelo 
gram, of which the bow and stern sheaves 
of the ship made the other two. A rope 
was now carried from the stern of the 
ship to the shore, and, passing round 
both spider-sheaves, brought back to 
the ship and taken over the bow sheave 
to the picking-up gear. The cable was 
made fast to the rope and paid out 
slowly over the stern, the picking-up 
gear meanwhile heaving-in on the other 
end of the rope, and so hauling the cable 
gradually ashore. The rope was wound 
four or five times round the big drum 
of the picking-up gear, steam was turned 
on, and the drum, rumbling and reverber 
ating, hauled the rope in ; aft, the cable 
was wound four or five times round 
the paying-out drum, also revolved by 
steam in order to ease the strain, 
which, with about a mile of rope out 
between the ship s stern and her bow, 
is something considerable. As the 
cable leaves the stern, the raison d etre 
of the air-balloons becomes apparent. 
At intervals of about fifteen or sixteen 
yards one is securely lashed to the cable, 
and in this way the cable is floated from 
the ship to the shore, and not dragged 
along the bottom to run the risk of be 
ing damaged by rocks. Another advan 
tage is that, if the cable is sagged by a 
cross current or tide, it can readily be 
straightened by stopping the paying- 
out, and heaving-in at the bows. 

So far all had gone swimmingly, and 
our first bit of cable was over the stern 
and fairly in the water, and we felt that 
the work of the expedition was begun in 
earnest. 



However, interruption came from an 
unexpected quarter. The Spanish littoral 
is dotted around with coast-guard sta 
tions, the special mission of whose occu 
pants (who are called carabineros) is the 
prevention of smuggling. We had no 
permission to land tools of any sort, 
much less a cable, and as we happened 
to pitch upon a spot close to a coast 
guard station, the carabineros, alarmed 
at the sight of so many strange imple 
ments, came off in hot haste to order us 
to put a stop to our unlawful proceed 
ings. It was explained to them that the 
cable was for the Spanish Government, 
and that everything had been arranged 
with the authorities in Cadiz ; but they 
were obdurate, and, having received no 
instructions, were bent upon vindicating 
their authority. Your true Spanish 
official is nothing if he is not dictatorial, 
and the lower his rank the more author 
itative he becomes. Diplomacy was then 
resorted to, and proved successful. The 
carabineros were assured that their de 
mands should be complied with, and one 
of our best Spanish scholars was deputed 
to show them over the ship, down below. 
While they were being thus entertained 
(the contents of the chief-steward s bar 
formed no unattractive feature of the 
entertainment, and served to prolong it 
considerably), operations were continued, 
and by the time the carabineros came on 
deck again, a long line of balloons could 
be seen bobbing gayly on the water, all 
the way from the ship to the shore, and 
the end of the cable was safely on the 
beach. During the operation of landing 
the shore-end, communication was main 
tained between the party on shore and 
those on board by means of flag-signal 
ling, a small hand-flag being employed 
to send messages in the Morse code. 
As soon as there was enough cable on 
the beach to reach to the site selected 
for the cable-hut, "Enough cable on 
shore " was signalled to the ship, and 
paying-out was at once stopped. The 
long rope was detached from the cable 
and rapidly hauled on board by the 
picking-up gear, boats were despatched 
to remove the balloon buoys from the 
cable and bring them back to the ship, 
while the shore party busied themselves 
in burying the cable on the beach and 
collecting the tools. 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



409 



By this time it was nearly dark and 
flag signalling had to be exchanged for 
flash-lamps, by which the Dalmatia sig 
nalled to the shore party to take all 
gear to the Cosmopolitan, as she was 
about to start paying-out seaward. All 
being made fast on shore and the last 
balloon buoy having been removed, we 
weighed anchor and moved on slowly 
toward the open sea. 

The cable now needed no steam power 
to help it out of the ship ; on the con 
trary, it ran out freely of its own accord, 
and it was necessary to apply the brakes 
to the paying-out drum to prevent the 
cable running out too fast. It was as 
tonishing to see the great heavy iron- 
bound cable, a single yard of which 
would weigh over ten pounds, come 
swishing round the tank, up on deck and 
over pulleys and guides, take four or 
five turns round a drum six feet in di 
ameter, bob under the dynamometer, and 
up over the stern-sheave, and finally dive 
into the water with all the ease, grace, 
and pliability with which a silken cord 
might go through the same perform 
ance. 

One striking thing in cable operations 
is the hearty will with which everyone 
works, and the extreme anxiety evidenced 
on all sides for the welfare and safety of 
the cable. I have seen the engineer-in- 
chief, during the landing of a shore-end, 
up to his waist in the surf, cutting the 
lashings which secure the balloon-buoys 
to the cable ; and on another occasion, 
when, the ship being hove-to, the cable 
had got foul of the propeller, the chief 
of the expedition, after passing word to 
the ship s engineers not to move the en 
gines, took a header into the water, and, 
holding on to a blade of the propeller, 
succeeded in freeing the cable, to the 
great relief of everybody on board, as 
all efforts from above had failed to dis 
lodge it and a rupture seemed unavoid 
able. 

During paying-out a test is always kept 
on the cable from the electricians head 
quarters, the testing-room. Before the 
cable left the ship the end was care 
fully sealed by softening the gutta-percha 
and drawing it over the copper con 
ductor ; the cable was then charged with 
an electric current through the end on 
board, the current also passing through 



the galvanometer. We paid a visit to 
the testing-room and found by the 
steady deflection of the spot of light on 
the scale that the cable was sound and 
perfect. 

The scene on deck is novel and inter 
esting. The quarter-deck is brilliant 
ly illuminated by electric light, which 
throws the mass of moving machinery 
and the figures of the men into bold 
relief ; the big drum rumbles, and the 
pulleys and sheaves whir as the cable 
swishes over them, scattering whitewash 
in all directions. Every now and then 
a voice rings out announcing the num 
ber of revolutions of the drum, or word 
is passed up from the tank, couched in 
strange terms, which we are only just be 
ginning to understand. We have been 
paying-out for about two hours, when 
warning comes from the tank that only 
forty-five turns remain of the piece of 
cable which it was decided to pay out ; 
the ship s engines are slowed down, and 
a few minutes later stopped altogether. 
A huge red iron buoy is in readiness, 
lashed to the mizzen rigging ; paying- 
out is stopped and the cable made fast 
close to the stern sheave, the turns are 
taken off the drum, the cable is cut, 
and the extremity of the core sealed ; 
the cable end is then secured to the 
moorings of the buoy, which consist 
of two heavy mushroom-anchors at 
tached to the buoy by a length of stout 
iron chain. The lashings which hold 
the cable at the stern sheave are then 
removed, and the cable end is dropped 
overboard with the buoy-moorings ; 
the chain rattles out with an appall 
ing noise, above which a stentorian 
" Let go " is heard, whereupon the buoy 
is released, and, dropping with a splash 
into the water, floats gayly off, dancing 
in the rays of the electric light. There 
the buoy will remain securely anchored 
by its moorings, until the Dalmatia 
returns from the Canaries paying-out 
the main cable ; the end of the piece 
we have just buoyed will then be brought 
on board and spliced on to the main 
cable, thus making it complete. 

As we set on full speed for our an 
chorage, everyone on board felt that the 
work of the expedition had been suc 
cessfully begun. An air of contentment 
prevailed on all sides ; at dinner the 



410 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



health of the cable was drunk with due 
solemnity, and afterward an impromptu 
smoking-concert was held on deck. 

On the following day, our business at 
Cadiz having been completed for the 
present, the expedition put to sea en 
route for the Canaries. The Cosmo 
politan steamed out first, saluting the 
Dalmatia as she passed by dipping 
her ensign, to which we responded with 
three cheers, and a few hours later we 
followed suit. 

The programme to be carried out by 
the two vessels was as follows : The 
Cosmopolitan was to make a zigzag 
course to the Canaries, taking short 
slants east and west of the proposed 
route of the cable, and sounding at in 
tervals ; the Dalmatia was to proceed 
in the same manner, except that her zig 
zags were to be longer and at a different 
angle to those of the Cosmopolitan. In 
this way it was hoped that a thorough 
survey would be made of the ocean depths 
between Cadiz and the Canaries, and a 
safe route selected for the cable. At 
Cadiz our scientific staff had been aug 
mented by the arrival on board of a 
distinguished chemist and naturalist, 
who accompanied the famous Challenger 
expedition, and w r ho, therefore, was an 
authority on the subject of ocean sur 
veys, and took a vast interest in all such 
matters. This gentleman was prepared 
to analyze and tell us all about the con 
stitution and properties of as many 
samples of " bottom " as we could obtain 
for him, and he has since produced some 
remarkably interesting papers of high 
scientific value, embodying the results 
of the immense amount of work per 
formed by the expedition. 

By the time we got clear of Cadiz 
harbor the Cosmopolitan was "hull 
down," and we saw no more of her till 
we met in Grand Canary. The course 
of the Dalmatia was shaped for the 
Straits of Gibraltar, and soon after 
leaving Cadiz we took our first sound 
ing. The little machine which then 
came into action, and played a promi 
nent part in the work of the next few 
weeks, is worthy of a little attention, 
both on account of its simplicity and 
because of the amount of good work that 
it performs in a rapid and trustworthy 
manner. The sounding machine [p. 403] 



consists mainly of a light iron drum or 
spool, upon which are wound several 
thousand fathoms of steel pianoforte 
wire ; to the wire is attached a sinker 
which is provided with a receptacle at 
the lower extremity for securing a speci 
men of the bottom. When the wire is 
being paid out the drum projects over 
the ship s stern, and for hauling-in it 
is run in-board a few feet and connected 
to a small steam engine, which makes 
short work of winding up the wire 
and bringing the sinker to the surface. 
Besides the ordinary sinker there is a 
whole battery of other apparatus, such as 
sinkers with weights which are detached 
automatically on reaching the bottom, 
leaving only the tube to be brought up ; 
thermometers which register the tem 
perature of the water at different depths ; 
tubes constructed to obtain samples of 
water from the bottom, and so on ad 
infinitum. 

Our first piece of scientific work was 
a survey of the "Gut," as the entrance 
to the Straits of Gibraltar is commonly 
called by mariners. This was slightly 
out of our strict programme, but served 
to get our hands in for more important 
operations to follow. 

Having spent nearly three days in 
this interesting work, during which time 
we obtained a quantity of new and valu 
able information as to the formation of 
the bank at the entrance to the Medi 
terranean, we started out seaward, and 
rapidly got into deep water. Here 
the sounding machine showed to great 
advantage. In olden times, when hemp 
lines were used for sounding, it was ne 
cessary to employ a weight of about 
four hundred and fifty pounds to keep 
the line vertical, and about three hours 
w r ere occupied in taking a sounding 
in a depth of two thousand fathoms. 
With steel wire we used a sinker of 
only fifty pounds, which in twenty-two 
minutes reached bottom at a depth of 
a little over two thousand fathoms ; 
there was a delay of a few minutes in 
detaching the weight and in connecting 
the drum to the engine to wind-in. The 
weight was detached automatically, the 
wire by which it was suspended to the 
tube being cut through by a hinged 
knife on the head of the tube at the mo 
ment when strain was applied to wind- 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



411 



in ; the weight was thus left on the bot 
tom and the tube alone brought to the 
surface. In this way there is very little 
strain on the wire, and consequently 
but slight risk of breakage. The little 
engine commenced to buzz away, and in 
forty-eight minutes from the time of let 
ting go the tube was on board again, 
and the ship proceeded on her course. 
We all crowded round to examine the 
little instrument which had made its 
venturesome descent through some two 
and a half miles of blue water. Gen 
eral satisfaction was caused by the fact 
that the specimen obtained was one of 
globigerina ooze, which consists of myri 
ads of tiny shells of carbonate of lime. 
The existence of this ooze denotes the 
entire absence of currents, and the ooze 
itself forms a soft, yielding bed into 
which the cable would sink luxuriously, 
and might rest undisturbed to the end 
of time. 

About every four hours we stopped 
to take a sounding, and the results were 
almost invariably satisfactory. Occa 
sionally a sounding was spoiled by the 
wire kinking and breaking, the conse 
quence being the loss of the tube and a 
certain amount of wire ; but so carefully 
were the operations conducted that this 
was a very rare occurrence. Deep-sea 
sounding is very interesting work, but 
it is a trifle annoying sometimes to hear 
the engine-room gong sound, and have 
to leave a good hand at cards and rush 
up on deck, especially if the weather 
is rough, when the whole sounding par 
ty stands a chance of getting a good 
drenching from a " poop sea." 

One night we were astonished by the 
sinker stopping at about one thousand 
two hundred fathoms, when it ought to 
have gone nearly twice as deep. It was 
at once suspected that we were in the 
neighborhood of a bank. A sounding was 
taken three miles further on and showed 
deeper water, so we retraced our course 
eight miles ; here we got only eight hun 
dred fathoms. Expectancy then ran 
high, and it was fully justified when, two 
miles further back, the sinker stopped 
at four hundred and fourteen fathoms ; 
but the crowning event occurred at the 
next dip, after another run of two miles. 
Here, to our surprise and delight, the 
sinker brought up at sixty-six fathoms ! 



There was immense excitement on board, 
as it was obvious that we had pitched 
upon a bank, or rather a mountain, of 
startling proportions, perhaps the lost 
island of Atlantis itself. As this sub 
marine mountain lay close to the pro 
posed line of the cable, it was necessary 
to make a thorough survey, and two 
days were spent in doing this. A mark- 
buoy was put down to work by, and 
numerous soundings were taken in all 
directions so as to clearly define the 
Emits of the bank. The shoalest water 
found was forty-nine fathoms, and half 
a mile distant two hundred and thirty 
fathoms were obtained, showing a steep 
slope. When the buoy, which was 
moored in one hundred and seventy-five 
fathoms, was taken up, the mooring rope 
was found to be nearly chafed through 
seventy-five fathoms from the bottom. 
This showed that the bank must rise 
almost precipitously, and that there ex 
ists a wall of about four hundred and 
fifty feet in height. A very curious 
effect observed was a long ripple on the 
calm sea, apparently caused by the 
ground-swell breaking on the edge of 
the bank. 

Nothing further of an exciting nature 
happened during the soundings, and 
after one more zigzag our course was 
shaped for Grand Canary, our ren 
dezvous with the Cosmopolitan. The 
Cosmopolitan had made no such inter 
esting discoveries as had fallen to our 
lot, and having been awaiting our ar 
rival several days, those on board finally 
became alarmed at our delay and start 
ed out to look for the Dalmatia. We 
met the night before our ship was due 
to arrive at Canary, and rockets being 
fired, the two steamers recognized each 
other, and a conversation was kept up 
by means of the steam -whistles, the 
Morse code adapting itself as well to 
this method of signalling as to any of 
the many others in daily use. 

The following morning both ships 
were at anchor in the harbor of Las Pal- 
mas, the capital of Grand Canary. Dur 
ing the next week or two we visited the dif 
ferent islands, taking soundings between 
them and spending a few days at each port. 
Receptions were given on board to which 
the authorities and principal inhabitants 
were invited, and all the wonders of the 



412 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



ships were explained to them. Every 
where the greatest enthusiasm was dis 
played, as the natives looked upon the 
establishment of telegraphic communi 
cation as a great step in putting them in 
touch with the civilized world. Public 
rejoicings and fetes were the order of 
the day. At Las Palmas a ball was 
given to the officers and staff of the ex 
pedition, and (considering that we were 
in such an out-of-the-way place) we were 
fairly astonished at the scale of magnif 
icence on which the entertainment was 
carried out, and at the dresses and 
jewels of the ladies, while not a few 
members of the staff were considerably 
smitten with the personal charms of their 
partners ; but unfortunately, with but 
few exceptions, they could not exchange 
five words with them. At Teneriffe the 
chiefs of the expedition were escorted 
through the streets by a band of music 
and an immense crowd, and at La Palma, 
the western island of the group, the 
ships were serenaded, the town was en 
fete and decorated with triumphal 
arches, and another ball was given. 
Altogether, we were the heroes of the 
day throughout the Canaries. 

It was decided to lay the cable be 
tween Teneriffe and La Palma first, and 
the necessary soundings having been 
taken, both ships steamed round Tene 
riffe one fine November evening, and came 
to anchor off Garachico, a little village on 
the southwest coast of Teneriffe. Here 
it was proposed to land the cable, the 
connection between Garachico and Santa 
Cruz, the capital of Teneriffe, to be after 
ward made by a land-line across the isl 
and. 

At Garachico we spent several days. 
The coast being barren and rocky, con 
siderable difficulty was experienced in 
finding a suitable landing-place for the 
shore-end. Finally a spot was selected, 
and the shore party signalled that they 
had engaged a team of oxen to haul the 
end onshore, as the bad ground rendered 
it unadvisable to employ the usual 
method of working the whole operation 
from the ship. Everything went well 
and the end was soon successfully 
landed, and all being made fast on shore, 
the Dalmatia paid out about a mile 
of cable seaward ; then cut and buoyed 
the end in the same manner as at Cadiz. 



The next few days were occupied in 
erecting the cable-hut [p. 404 1 (a small 
structure of galvanized iron about twelve 
feet square), in fitting up the testing 
instruments in the hut, and in transfer 
ring a few miles of heavy cable from the 
Cosmopolitan to the Dalmatia. Finally 
all operations at Garachico were com 
pleted, and early one morning we started 
for the buoy and picked it up, and with 
it the end of the cable secured to the 
buoy moorings. The cable end was 
brought on board and spliced to the 
cable in the tank from which it was in 
tended to pay-out. The splice is always 
an interesting operation to watch. First 
the jointer and his assistant go to work 
and nimbly and rapidly j oin and solder the 
ends of the copper conductor, and then 
cover it over with sticky black compound 
and gutta-percha sheet, producing a 
homogeneous joint but little larger than 
the machine-made core, and every bit as 
impervious to the action of the water. The 
joint is tested by the electricians to make 
sure that it is sound and perfect, and 
this being ascertained, the cable hands 
at once go to work on the splice ; and it 
is surprising to observe how skilfully 
they manipulate the stiff iron wires, first 
carefully wrapping the core with its 
protective hemp covering, then laying 
on the armor wires and butting them 
together, and finally winding over the 
whole length of the splice a stout cord 
of spun yarn. 

The splice was finished and we started 
paying - out, slowly at first, but with 
gradually increasing speed, until deep 
water was reached and the light deep-sea 
cable went whizzing through the ma 
chinery at the rate of seven or eight 
knots an hour. Now we were at work 
in earnest. One of the engineering 
staff was in charge of the quarter-deck, 
keeping a watchful eye on the dynamom 
eter and the indicator on the paying- 
out drum ; by the former he knew the 
strain on the cable, and by the latter the 
amount of cable paid out ; of these data 
an assistant was continually taking 
notes. In the testing-room we found 
that a careful watch was being kept on 
the electrical conditions of the cable. 
The sensitive spot of light was doing its 
duty both here and in the cable-hut, and 
the electricians on shore exchanged sig- 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



413 



nals every few minutes with those on the 
ship. Thus both the mechanical and 
electrical behavior of the cable were con 
tinually under such scrupulous and ac 
curate observation, that it was impossi 
ble for anything to go wrong without 
those in charge being at once aware of 
it. The ship steamed steadily ahead and 
everything worked as smoothly as clock 
work ; coil after coil of the cable unwound 
from the tank, glided over pulleys and 
through troughs, wound around the 
swiftly revolving paying-out drum, dived 
under the wheel of the dynamometer 
and over the stern sheave, and trailed 
away after the ship until, a good many 
yards astern, it silently dipped into the 
water to seek its final resting-place in 
the motionless depths. 

As darkness came on the arc - lamp 
was lighted, and with the aid of its brill 
iant rays work was done as easily as dur 
ing the daytime. Toward midnight we 
approached La Palma, and the Cos 
mopolitan steamed ahead to show us a 
good position for buoying the end, 
which operation was necessary, as the 
La Palma shore-end had yet to be 
laid. Gradually our speed was slowed 
down ; the electrician on duty in the 
testing-room informed those in the hut 
at Garachico that we were about to cut 
the cable and buoy the end, and immedi 
ately afterward, as the ship had come 
to a standstill, the cable was made fast, 
the turns were taken off the paying-out 
drum, the executioner advanced with his 
axe and severed the cable, the wounds 
to its centre-nerve were healed up by 
means of a spirit-lamp, it was fastened 
securely to the moorings of the buoy, 
and in a few minutes cable, moorings, 
and buoy were all overboard and we 
steamed off for port. 

The next day the Cosmopolitan took 
up the work and met with ill-luck, which 
proved to be only the commencement 
of a series of disasters. To begin with, 
w r hile the cable-hut and tools were be 
ing landed, one of the boats was cap 
sized by the surf, the contents scattered 
broadcast, and a man imprisoned under 
the overturned boat. This unfortunate 
was, however, quickly rescued by his 
companions and equally quickly resus 
citated, being more frightened than 
hurt. The shore-end was successfully 



landed, and, as night was coming on, 
the Cosmopolitan started to pay out 
toward the buoy put down the pre 
vious night ; the buoy was picked up 
and the mooring-rope taken to the 
picking-up drum, which at once com 
menced to heave-in ; but after a few 
turns, a sudden diminution of the strain 
on the rope showed that it had parted, 
and the end of the cable was lost ! 
There was nothing to be done but buoy 
the end of the short length just paid-out 
and return to port, as it was too late to 
attempt to grapple for the lost cable. 

For the next two or three days the 
weather was so bad that nothing could 
be done, but finally, when everybody s 
patience was thoroughly exhausted, wind 
and sea moderated sufficiently for us to 
set to work. A grapnel was lowered over 
the bows by means of a long rope, the 
end of which was taken under the dyna 
mometer to the picking-up drum. The 
dynamometer serves in this case to show 
when the grappling-iron hooks the cable, 
as it at once indicates the increased 
strain on the rope. We steamed slowly 
back and forth across the course of the 
cable, and made four or five unsuccess 
ful drags. Once we hooked the cable 
but only succeeded in bringing up a 
loose piece, as it parted further seaward. 
The scene on board now is very differ 
ent to a few days back, when paying-out 
was going on so smoothly. All the ma 
chinery on the quarter-deck is motion 
less and deserted ; in the testing-room 
the active little spot of light is extin 
guished and the place wears an unten- 
anted air ; interest is concentrated for 
ward, where the engineers watch every 
rise and fall of the pointer on the dyna 
mometer with acute anxiety. Electri 
cians and others on board who find their 
occupation gone, hang about, listless and 
dejected, and a general air of discontent 
reigns. We are grappling in deep 
water, and, as is evident by the jerky 
action of the dynamometer, on rocky 
ground ; but finally, after a long and 
weary day, a steady strain is observed, 
the picking-up drum is set to work, and 
after a vast amount of laborious puffing 
and rumbling, shortly before midnight 
the grapnel arrives at the bows with the 
cable securely suspended across two of 
its prongs ! At once all is activity on 



414 



WITH A CABLE EXPEDITION. 



board. The testing-room brightens up 
and the spot of light shines cheerfully 
once more. The cable is cut and handed 
over to the electricians to be tested. 
Very shortly the verdict is delivered to 
the effect that it is in perfect condition, 
and at once the operation of splicing it 
to a new length of cable in one of the 
tanks is commenced ; this concluded, we 
start paying-out, and all goes well until 
we reach the buoy on the shore-end. 

Here a double disaster occurred ; the 
experience of the Cosmopolitan was 
repeated, as the moorings broke shortly 
after we commenced heaving-in. It was 
then necessary to pick up a short length 
of the cable we had just laid, so as to cut 
and buoy further out. 

While this was going on we dropped 
into the testing-room to see that matters 
were all right there, and scarcely had 
we commenced to watch the spot of 
light, when it quivered, oscillated, and 
finally darted off the scale. Something 
was wrong, and we made for the deck, 
where our suspicions were confirmed ; 
the cable had broken, and a few minutes 
later we were all gazing mournfully at the 
jagged end a mere bunch of tangled 
wires and hemp ! Both ends were now 
lost, and there was nothing for it but to 
start grappling again. Drag after drag 
did we make with the same lack of suc 
cess ; occasionally the strain went up 
with a rush as the grapnel clutched a 
rock, only to decrease with equal sud 
denness as the rock gave way and the 
grapnel flew off. Our spirits rose and 
fell with the pointer of the dynamometer, 
and when it only indicated the normal 
strain of the rope and grappling-iron, 
we all sank, mentally speaking, far below 
zero. 

This sort of thing went on all day. At 
12 P.M. the grapnel was at the bows but 
no cable, so work was suspended for the 
night and everyone turned in for a well- 
earned rest. The following day our luck 
changed. The cable was hooked at the first 
drag and brought safely on board ; the 
tests showed that it was still perfect, and 
the splicing and paying-out were pro 
ceeded with in due course. Meanwhile 
the Cosmopolitan had grappled and re- 
buoyed the other lost end, so we had 
no more difficulties to encounter. While 
paying-out, the submarine crater over 



which we had evidently been working, 
and which had given us so much trouble, 
was carefully avoided by taking a cir 
cuitous route. The buoy was soon 
reached and the other end hauled on 
board. Both cables were carefully test 
ed and pronounced to be perfect, the 
final splice was made, and with three 
hearty cheers the completed cable was 
lowered overboard. 

Finis coronal opus. Our first com 
plete section was finished, and Teneriffe 
and La Palma were in telegraphic com 
munication with each other. 

The rest of the work among the islands 
was carried out without a hitch of any 
sort, the long cable from Teneriffe to 
Cadiz being left to the last. This was of 
course a matter of several days, and may 
be taken as a good example of the rou 
tine on board when laying a long cable. 
Mile after mile of cable goes steadily out ; 
the machinery whirrs and revolves as if 
it never would stop, the spot of light in 
the testing-room behaves with perfect 
propriety, and only oscillates once every 
five minutes, when those on board ex 
change a signal with the man on watch 
in the cable-hut at Teneriffe. Every 
four hours tired engineers and electri 
cians go below and take their share of 
refreshment and rest, as sleepy substi 
tutes come on deck to take their places. 
One startling incident relieves the mo 
notony of this prosperous state of affairs. 
On the third night out, the eccentric be 
havior of the dynamometer indicating a 
varying strain, shows signs of an irreg 
ular bottom. At the same moment 
the Cosmopolitan, engaged in taking 
soundings a few miles ahead, is seen to 
fire a rocket. Shoal water is immedi 
ately suspected, and the Dalmatia is 
put full speed astern and cable paid 
out freely. It was found that the Dal- 
matia s course lay directly across a 
bank with only eighty-four fathoms of 
water on top, and nothing but the 
prompt way in which the situation was 
grasped by the engineer on watch averted 
an accident ; for if paying-out had been 
continued at full speed, the cable would 
have festooned from the edge of the 
bank and most infallibly been broken. 

The foregoing narrative of a cable- 
laying expedition is a typical description 



THE LONERS QUARREL. 



415 



of the manner in which the great work 
of lessening the separation set up be 
tween continent and continent by the 
trackless ocean is carried out. Nowa 
days it is not the good fortune of all 
cable expeditions to open up new ground 
and be welcomed and feasted by the na 
tives, as much of the cable work which 
is being constantly carried on in all 
parts of the world consists of the re 
newing, duplication, or triplication of ex 
isting lines ; and the laying of a new 
cable has come to be so much a matter 
of course that such an event arouses the 
merest spark of passing interest, al 
though books which have become clas 
sical were published chronicling the 
progress of the early Atlantic cable ex 
peditions. 



The reader has taken a glance at the 
manufacture of the submarine cable of 
to-day, he has seen how the ocean depths 
are surveyed almost with as much care 
as the land for a new railroad ; he has 
watched the landing of a shore-end, and 
has seen the deep-sea cable trailing 
steadily out into blue water ; he has 
participated in the joy and enthusiasm 
of dropping overboard a final splice, and 
in the disappointments and anxiety at 
tendant on grappling for a broken cable 
on rocky bottom. Altogether he has 
made a fair acquaintance with life on 
board a cable-ship ; and if he can point 
out any other branch of electrical work 
equally interesting and fascinating, I 
should much like to know which he 
would select. 



HORACE, BOOK III., ODE IX. 

THE LOVERS QUARREL. 

[Donee gratus eram tibi.] 
Mr. Gladstone s Translation. Reprinted by permission with Mr. Wegueliri 1 s drawing [frontispiece]. 



HE. 

WHILE no more welcome arms could 

twine 

Around thy snowy neck than mine, 
Thy smile, thy heart, while I possest, 
Not Persia s monarch lived as blest. 



SHE. 

Whilst thou did feel no rival flame, 
Nor Lydia next to Chloe came, 
Oh ! then thy Lydia s echoing name 
Excelled even Ilia s Roman fame. 



HE. 

Me now Thracian Chloe sways, 
Skilled in soft lyre, and softer lays, 
My forfeit life 111 freely give 
So she my better Life may live. 



The son of Ornytus inspires 
My burning heart with mutual fires, 
I ll face ten several deaths with joy, 
So fate but spare my Thracian boy. 



HE. 



What if our ancient love awoke 
And bound us with its golden yoke ? 
If auburn Chloe I resign 
And Lydia once again be mine ? 



Though brighter than a star is he, 
Thou rougher than the Adrian Sea, 
And fickle as light cork ; yet I 
With thee would live, with thee would 
die. 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 

By John W. Root. 




HE conditions attend 
ing the development 
of architecture in the 
West have been, in al 
most every respect, 
without precedent. At 
no time in the history 
of the world has a 
community covering 
such vast and yet homogeneous territory 
developed with such amazing rapidity, 
and under conditions of civilization so 
far advanced. Few times in history 
have ever presented so impressive a sight 
as this resistless wave of progress, its 
farthermost verge crushing down prime 
val obstacles in nature and desperate 
resistance from the inhabitants ; its 
deeper and calmer waters teeming with 
life and full of promise more significant 
than has ever yet been known. Between 
the period of conquest and the period of 
realization there is for art in this great 
development a distinct hiatus. It is a 
long time full of deadness, except of 
physical force, then a sudden bursting 
of art into exuberant flower. Up to a 
time twenty years ago every energy of 
the hardy pioneers who were opening 
the vast district now called "the West" 
was expended in the most rudimentary 
work that demanded by self-protection 
and self-support. Even now, in remoter 
districts, still sounds the Indian s war- 
whoop, and still exists something of 
those wild and barbaric conditions so 
recently conquered farther East. 

During the period of this ceaseless 
struggle architecture, as we understand 
it, was not thought of ; and the most 
primitive log-hut served for shelter. 
But as cities began to spring up, the 
" balloon - framed " wood house was 
evolved. This early type of dwelling 
has made the growth of the West possi 
ble. Frail as its structure seems to be, 
it has been the very fortress of civiliza 
tion, withstanding all assaults of heat 
and cold, and often baffling the deadly 
cyclone where massive structures of 
masonry succumbed. Nothing could be 



more simple than its skeleton. Unlike 
the early dwellings of wood erected in 
the East, no expert carpenter was need 
ed not mortise nor tenon nor other 
mysteries of carpentry interfered with 
the swiftness of its growth. A keg of 
nails, some two by four inch studs, a 
few cedar posts for foundations, and a 
lot of clapboards, with two strong arms 
to wield the hammer and saw these only 
were needed, and these were always to 
be had. For no sooner did the yell of 
the Indian grow distant upon the verge 
of the prairie, or over the slope of the 
hill, even if but for a few days, than its 
fierce sound was followed by the drow 
sy buzz of the saw-mill. Even to-day 
many Western cities, not only like Chica 
go, whose earliest growth dates back 
fifty years, but like Duluth, Minneapolis, 
Omaha, and others of later growth, are 
more than half made up of these frame 
houses. In Chicago the great West 
Side contains thousands of them. Their 
life, however, is now nearly finished ; for 
in nearly every Western city of more 
than one hundred thousand inhabitants 
the law is passed that within city limits 
no wood house may be built ; so that 
the next five years will see their total 
disappearance in favor of more or less 
substantial structures of masonry. 

Thus these hardy pioneers of archi 
tecture, in their very disappearance, do 
architecture some service, for because 
of them every old Western city must be 
almost entirely rebuilt, and this under 
modern and enlightened auspices, as if 
it had been devastated by a great fire 
or cyclone. This is clearly an advan 
tage to architecture and to civilization ; 
that is, it may be a great advantage 
to architecture and to civilization. It 
certainly presents possibilities to the 
architects of the West such as have 
never been given to any other group of 
men. But with these advantages, it 
must be confessed, are disadvantages 
equally palpable ; for it is evident that, 
by virtue of its ephemeral character, the 
" balloon-framed " house must in nearly 




House in Prairie Avenue, Chicago, III. 



VOL. VIII. 41 



418 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



all cases fail to become the landmark, 
venerated for itself, the embodiment of 
tradition, a monument to the conserva 
tism of a city s history. And similarly 
it can never become a link in the archi 
tectural development of the country. 

With the increase of population, 
wealth, and railroad communication this 
early dwelling, still retaining its essential 
structure, grew into more ambitious ex 
pression. Its owner, following either 
his own taste or the equally untrained 
taste of the most available carpenter or 
" mill man," adorned it with all sorts of 
"ornamental" devices in woodwork 
open-work scrolls under and above its 
gables, jig-sawed crestings on its ridges, 
and wonderful frostings and finials on 
its gables. The architraves about its 
windows were no longer content to be 
of simple boards, but were decorated by 
rosettes, star-shaped ornaments, and all 



one or two directions, or else in basket 
fashion, the joints being at right angles 
with each other. The verandas of these 
houses offered best opportunity for such 
display, and here jig-sawed railings and 
curiously turned or chamfered frosts 
ran riot. 

This obvious and cheap form of dec 
oration, by which a " plain " house was 
made " tasty " or " modern " to the citi 
zen, persisted for many years. In wood, 
it was applied with great freedom to 
cornices and porches of houses built 
otherwise of stone, when such ambitious 
structures first began to appear ; and 
forms thus originated in wood were 
afterward continued in metal, or even in 
stone itself. Perhaps this fashion gave 
to Western city houses of twenty years 
ago a gayer but less substantial appear 
ance than was presented by Eastern 
houses of the same kind. 




House on Dearborn Avenue, Chicago, 



kinds of forms, suggestive of nothing so 
much as "nudels" in a German soup. 
The clapboards or matched ceiling cover 
ing it were laid in all directions, some 
times horizontally, as often diagonally in 



In Chicago, previous to the great fire 
of 1871, the typical city house, whether 
of wood or stone, or of both combined 
(for often a stone front was but a mask 
covering a structure in every other re- 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



419 



spect of wood), was in general arrange 
ment not unlike the corresponding house 
in New York. There was the same high 
" stoop " covering the basement en 
trance, the same double front and vesti 
bule doors with their transoms, the same 
narrow hallway with a straight flight of 
stairs separated from the entrance only 



Reference has been made to certain 
wood-like stone decorations. One who 
has not seen these translations of wood 
into stone cannot understand how 
strange and weirdly interesting they 
were. Thus, for instance, a large dwell 
ing in Chicago, built twenty years ago at 
a cost of more than one hundred thousand 



wm& 







Old House in Cincinnati, O. 



by space for the hat-tree, and the front 
and rear parlors on one side, sometimes 
with an L in the rear. The street as 
pect of such houses was different, how 
ever, in that it was, as it has been said, 
gayer and less solid. This effect was 
produced partly by the freedom with 
which wood, or wood like\ stone or metal 
decorations were applied, Vnd partly be 
cause the stone generally employed was 
a light limestone, turned with age to a 
beautiful buff, somewhat like the French 
Caen stone, which was in sharp contrast 
with the dark sandstone so commonly 
employed in the East. 



dollars, is so designed that every person 
not informed supposes that the highly 
ornate cornice is of stone and the equal 
ly ornate bay-windows are of wood ; 
while the reverse is the case, as is re 
vealed once in five years or so (when the 
painter is called), when people laboring 
under the delusion are astonished to 
find a stone cornice being painted and 
wood bay-windows cleaned with water. 

Bay-windows were, and still remain, a 
great feature of Western city houses. 
Their use has been almost universal ; 
sometimes octagonal, sometimes square 
or segmental, sometimes round placed 



1 j^; 

lLi^_.j p*^ ;*"" 

fc --^^ .- -r-fi 




THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



421 



upon the corner. The customary form 
twenty years ago, in Chicago at least, 
was a segmental bay, carried from the 
ground up to the top of the roof, which 
generally embraced three stories, this 
with the high basement being the maxi 
mum height of dwelling reached. 

Because of the general crudity and 



ings were, in any event, good enough 
for any person except an architectural 
prig. The width of these architraves 
and the number of mouldings used to 
form them were in direct ratio to the 
cost of the house ; so that a very costly 
dwelling would have a group of mould 
ings about its doors and windows aggre- 



;;:-: _; ; i 




House on Dearborn Avenue, Chicago, III. 



haste of things, the architectural meth 
ods of this (to the West) early period 
were sometimes very remarkable. Com 
plete drawings for dwellings to cost, 
say ten to fifteen thousand dollars, fre 
quently consisted merely of plans and 
elevations drawn on a scale of one- 
quarter inch to one foot, supplemented 
by full-size sections of door and window 
architraves traced upon sheets of fool s- 
cap, and copied from the published cat 
alogues of planing-mills. To vary the 
profile of a moulding from these pub 
lished catalogues was, in this early day, 
considered a species of crime, because 
it entailed upon the manufacturer the 
cost of new "knives," and the old mould- 



gating twelve, or often fifteen inches in 
width, these being sometimes made of 
alternating lines of different and strong 
ly contrasted hard-woods, producing a 
most bizarre effect. Such an important 
feature as the main stair-way, with its 
newels, would be, in the specifications, 
described somewhat as follows (refer 
ence again being had to the published 
catalogue) : " Main newel-post in front 
hall to be a twelve-inch diameter octag 
onal newel, heavily moulded, and en 
riched top and bottom. The hand-rail 
to be a double toad-back rail, richly 
moulded, and four by five inches in sec 
tion ; the balusters to be octagon in 
shape, three inches in diameter, and 



422 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 




House in Milwaukee, Wis. 



heavily moulded." Notice the size of 
these things, and the splendor sug 
gested by the constant recurrence of 
the word " heavily moulded." 

Newspapers in these early days con 
tained advertisements of houses for sale, 
which, beyond attractions such as are 
above set forth, would be stated to pos 
sess "stationary wash-basins in every 
room " this before the days of ade 
quate traps and ventilation. And yet 
some of the purchasers of these houses 
and some of their families did not die 
of malaria. 

From the above general remarks St. 
Louis, Cincinnati, and Louisville must 
be somewhat excepted. These cities 
belong as much to the South as to the 
West. They began an earlier develop 
ment, and hence were in closer touch 
with the East at an earlier period than 
cities farther north. The old city houses 
peculiar to them were, for this reason, 
of a much more conservative type than 
existed in cities like Chicago ; and the 



frame house had not with them acquired 
the same importance. 

The Cincinnati house illustrated on 
p. 419, built about twenty years ago, 
with its simple and dignified stone front, 
its surrounding stone balustrades, and 
the general air of family seclusion and 
repose is a very pleasant object to gaze 
upon, strongly reminding one of several 
old houses on Madison Avenue in New 
York, and of some facing the Public 
Gardens in Boston, the essential differ 
ence being that the Cincinnati house is 
constructed of light limestone, while 
those in Boston and New York are of 
dark sandstone. I think it will be con 
sidered that the persistence of this style 
of house in the older cities of America for 
so many years has been a very remarka 
ble fact. It has dominated New York, 
Boston, and Philadelphia with scarcely a 
variation ; and yet, in view of much of 
the work now being done in these same 
cities, as well as in cities of the West, we 
may be grateful that the style was more 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



423 



inoffensive. Beside some of its younger 
brothers it becomes very much the fine 
gentleman. 

Both Cincinnati and St. Louis are 
cities where, although summer weather 
is very hot, very cold weather is fre 
quently experienced in winter. It seems 
strange, therefore, that a house plan 




House in Bellevue Place, Chicago, III. 



[No. 1] should be so largely used as 
that which is published on page 425 ; 
and yet, with all the inconvenience at 
tached to the absence of a hallway lead 
ing to the rear bed-rooms, this plan is 
very common in both cities. 

These cities, with Louisville, have 
architectural traditions and histories 
extending back, as we 
have said, much farther 
than other Western cities, 
but they seldom present 
objects of interest for the 
purpose of this paper, as 
they are, in the main, in 
direct sympathy with, or 
direct copies of, Eastern 
work, and present few as 
pects of local or typical in 
terest. To these there are 
a few exceptions. In Cin 
cinnati there is an old one- 
story dwelling, built in 
strongly defined Colonial 
feeling, which is so elegant 
in its proportions and de 
tails, so refined in its en 
tire expression, that it is 
worth a pilgrimage to see. 
The Grecian columns of 
the portico, with their 
strongly accented entases, 
and the general treatment 
of cornice and window 
architraves, is strongly 
suggestive of many of the 
old houses about New 
Bedford and Newbury- 
port. The house is unfor 
tunately so embowered in 
trees that a photograph of 
a representative kind was 
impossible ; although, in 
truth, to take a photograph 
of such a house would 
seem almost as imperti 
nent as to insult a fine 
old maid by capturing her 
picture with a "Kodak" 
without her knowledge. 

St. Louis, also, has in 
several of the older streets 
(Lucas Place, for instance) 
two or three old dwellings 
of interest. Two I recall, 
built of buff limestone, 
which have with age 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



425 




ri RST FLOOR PLAN. 



Plan No. 1. 

turned into a lovely scheme of color, 
varying from delicate old ivory to a 
rich " meerschaum brown ; " and the 
entire surface of the stone is encrusted 
with delicate lichen and other vegetable 
growth, as beautifully and minutely 
traced as are the needles of ice first 
formed on still water. 

Chicago possessed a few interesting 
souvenirs of its early history ; but these, 
alas ! went with the great fire of 1871 ; 
and scarcely a remnant remains ; and of 
these few not one has been spared by the 
irreverent hand of progress. 

From the early and meagre architec 
tural development of this and other 
Western cities the present state is 
vastly removed. Indeed, modern West 
ern dwellings seem to have scarcely a 
visible trace of relationship to these 
earlier types. First, let it be noted that 
there is in Western cities a notable ab 
sence, compared with cities in the East, 
of houses built in blocks. The reason 
for this is obvious. Eastern cities being 
older, were begun and their traditions 
established at a time when their citizens 
were more interdependent, and facilities 
VOL. VIII. -42 



for transportation were less complete 
than now. For this reason they are 
not only more compactly built, but 
ground has become dearer than in the 
West. The reverse is true of Western 
cities, and the result is that residences 
much more frequently occupy consider 
able space, being entirely detached from 
other houses and surrounded by their 
own trees and lawns. It will frequently 
happen that a citizen imbued with char 
acteristic and full confidence in the fut 
ure growth of his city will purchase a 
large tract slightly removed from the 
business centre, upon which he will 
build his home, knowing that but a 
short time will elapse before it will be 
embraced by the city itself. When this 
occurs, he subdivides and sells what he 
does not need, reserving an acre or two 
for his own purposes. The frequency 
of this kind of thing gives Western 
dwellings a general suburban aspect, 
removing them from the class of city 
houses to which we may have become 
accustomed. This suburban effect is 
also enhanced by the extraordinary in 
crease in the variety of building mate 
rials, which, coupled with the character 
istic Western love of novelty, often leads 
to the erection of houses as different in 
material, color, and treatment as is pos 
sible to conceive, different dwellings in 
the same street being as independent 
of each other often as apparently hos 
tile as if separated by wide stretches of 
open country. 

Nevertheless, many streets thus built 
up present a superb air of space, com 
fort, and even luxury. In driving 
through these streets the eye is at no 
time wearied with the monotony which 
is so tiresome in Fifth Avenue or other 
similar streets in Eastern cities, but 
is everywhere delighted with constant 
change, constant appeal to new senti 
ment, and that delightful sense of the 
picturesque which, to the stranger, is 
so inspiriting. Notable among such 
streets are Euclid Avenue in Cleve 
land, where the splendid residences 
which line it are often set back as much 
as two or three hundred feet from the 
street ; Michigan Boulevard and the 
Lake Shore drive in Chicago, superbry 
paved streets with great variety of in 
teresting outlook ; Prospect and Grand 



426 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



Avenues in Milwaukee, the first over 
looking the lake from a bluff one hun 
dred feet high, the second a magnifi 
cently wooded avenue two hundred feet 
wide ; and several avenues in St. Paul, 
Minneapolis, and other cities. Occa 
sionally these streets are laid out park- 
wise, still further accenting this sub 
urban aspect. Such are to be found in 
St. Louis, in Van Deventer Place ; in 
Cincinnati, in Walnut Hills and Clif 
ton, where, with 
winding roadways 
and magnificent 
trees, all the beau 
ty of the country 
is brought into im 
mediate contact 
with city life. This 
rusticity is by no 
means universal, 
but it is so com 
mon as to give a 
distinct quality to 
Western cities, and 
by contrast to im 
press one, in older 
towns, like Cincin 
nati and St. Louis, 
with a certain East 
ern flavor, when 
passing through 
their old, solidly 
and uniformly 
built-up portions. 

Even where 
dwellings occur 
solidly built into 
blocks there is an 
equally distinctive 

effect produced by means in some 
ways identical with those used in de 
tached houses. The great variety of 
building material accessible, freely and 
indiscriminately employed in a block of 
residences, produces at times an effect 
most bizarre and startling. Such blocks 
attain their most flamboyant expression 
if "all which flams is flamboyant" 
in the large number of dwellings built 
by real-estate speculators for sale. The 
inducement in Western cities to erect 
such houses, because of the wonderful 
increase in real-estate values, is very 
great ; while the temptation to catch the 
eye of the possible purchaser by un 
known and unheard-of novelty is to the 




Plan No. 



builder irresistible. The result is that 
in a block constructed with this end in 
view, one house may be of red sand 
stone, the next of gray, the next of 
green, and so on. Meanwhile, each 
house has its own bays of copper; its 
own cornice, turrets, and other "fix 
ings " of galvanized iron ; its own carved 
panels of terra-cotta ; which, with bands 
of pressed brick, porches of wood, 
aprons, roofs, and "rooflets " of slate and 
tiles, make up an otta podrida most try 
ing to even the sturdiest of stomachs. 

Against such barbarism a wholesome 
reaction has set in, and nowhere may 
simpler and more honestly built dwell 
ings be found than many now erected 
and erecting in the West. It may be 
prophesied with certainty that, as a re 
sult of the architectural movement now 
in progress, Western cities like Chica 
go, St. Louis, Kansas City, Minneapolis, 
Milwaukee, and many others will, with 
in a short time, present streets unri 
valled in the world for the variety, pictu- 
resqueness, and beauty of their domestic 
architecture. 

In this sketch no reference is made 
to very costly dwellings. These are not 
apt to be illustrative of popular taste so 
much as to be the representative of the 
personal taste and whim of the owner 
or architect, striving to impress itself 
by splendor or idiosyncrasy upon those 
passers-by who might otherwise be in 
different or untouched. The illustra 
tions chosen are from houses of moder 
ate expense, costing from ten to forty 
thousand dollars. 

Perhaps, since the interior plan of 
the house is its vital part, from which 
everything else grows, it may be well to 
give a few representative plans which 
have been developed in Western houses. 
In the growth of the house-plan from 
the earlier types the first great change 
began with the hall. This, originally a 
narrow passage, of no service for living 
and with few possibilities for decorative 
treatment, has been expanded, and made 
of practical value in several ways, be 
coming not only a large and picturesque 
room of itself, but serving admirably 
as a general reception - room or ren 
dezvous for family and guests. Some 
times this reception - room is placed 
upon the street level, in other cases it is 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



427 




Plan No. 3. 

raised above the street by a number of 
steps, which may be placed either with 
in the front entrance or without it, as 
in the case of old-fashioned " stoops." 
In small houses the first arrangement 
presents obvious advantages (see Plans 
2 and 3). The reception-hall is here 
convenient to the street, offering that 
immediate shelter to the guest which 
in rough weather is so desirable, and 
the opportunity to adjust himself be 
fore meeting the host or other guests 
who may have already arrived. The 
hall s remoteness from the main or liv 
ing portion of the house saves those 
within from the noise and draughts in 
cident to the opening of the hall-door. 
This arrangement also leaves the liv 
ing story in much more available shape, 
especially in the front room, which may 
be extended the full width of the 
house. 

Of these plans, that marked No. 2 is 
simpler than No. 3, but less picturesque. 
In Plan 2 the reception-hall has a fire 
place of brick, and oak floor and oak 
panelled ceiling ; a toilet-room opens 
from it, and coat closet. The room is 
bright and cosy, presenting a cheerful 



and reassuring aspect to the stranger 
and a homelike welcome to the owner. 

Plan 3 is very ingenious and pic 
turesque. The entrance proper is from 
a loggia, which may be inclosed in win 
ter, and in this plan less stress is placed 
upon the reception-room in the rez-de- 
chaussee than in Plan 2. The hall is on 
the principal floor, and gives a very 
picturesque view of the stairs and the 
other rooms about it. Its disadvantage 
is in the fact that it offers no seclusion 
to guests arriving at a reception and 
before removing their wraps a criti 
cism almost equally true of Plans 4 
and 5. 

The hall in Plan 4 is simple and obvious, 
presenting many advantages of conve 
nience and beauty. The inconvenient 
location of the stairs, in case of recep 
tions, has been, in another house of simi 
lar plan, removed by enlarging the hall 
somewhat and placing the stairs to the 
left of the entrance, doing away with the 
two alcoves. Wide windows upon the 
stair-landing between the first and sec 
ond stairs, together with groups of win 
dows in the opposite or north wall, give 
adequate light to the hall. In this house 
the mantel is made more monumental in 
design, and is placed nearly opposite the 
entrance. 

The hall in Plan 5 is very effective. 
The first stair-landing is placed at the 
intersection of the three axes of the adja 
cent rooms, so as to be equally visible 
from each of them, and to present a 
very picturesque glimpse of each of them, 




Plan No. 4. 



and by this means some very charming 
effects are obtained. It will be seen that 
two of the rooms present a view in per 
spective, so that the front and sides of 
all large pieces of furniture are equally 



428 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



seen, producing an effect somewhat un 
usual in the arrangement of dwellings. 

In the growth of their plans Western 
city houses have tended also toward 
greater enlargement and importance of 
the living and dining-rooms, at the ex 
pense of the parlor and reception-rooms. 
Of course, reference is made to houses 
of moderate cost. The old fashion, in 
which the largest and brightest rooms 
were reserved for occasional 




Plan Mo. 5. 

while the family lived in small and ill- 
lighted apartments, seems happily over, 
and now the brightest rooms, contain 
ing the most picturesque street aspects, 
will generally be found to be rooms of 
commonest use. The few plans here 
illustrated suggest this idea. For in 
stance, the front rooms in Plans 2 
and 3 are living-rooms, and the parlors 
or reception-rooms are the small, less 
desirable rooms in the centre of the 
house. The library, or living-room, in 
Plan 5 is the octagonal room giving a 
view upon the street ; and Plan 4 would 
be improved, from the average Western 
stand-point, were the library made lar 
ger and the drawing-room smaller. The 



words " library " and " living-room " are 
made interchangeable, because in gener 
al the library is the living-room, which, 
being thus made much larger than other 
rooms, admits of treatment much freer 
and broader than they. Its wealth of 
books and pictures, bric-d-brac, portfo 
lios ; its roomy tables and easy-chairs, 
its generous, wide-throated fireplace, the 
general air of profusion and informal 
ity, revealing something of the true 
character of the occupant to be brought 
into intimate contact with, which is so 
delightful to the guest all make this 
the attractive room of the house. Here 
is the focus of family gatherings, the in 
spiration of wit and good fellowship, and 
the opportunity fully to express the 
true character of family tastes and ac 
complishments. 

The dining-room has also greatly 
gained in dignity and importance, its 
size, shape, aspect, the reception of the 
morning sunshine, its coloring and en 
tire sentiment are all carefully consid 
ered. 

One feature in the plans of Western 
city dwellings must be very clearly 
denned. This is their openness. Not 
only are windows upon the average 
larger than in the East, but they are 
more frequent, as are also bay-windows, 
oriels, etc. ; while in the general plan 
rooms are more closely related, openings 
between rooms wider, and single swing 
ing-doors less frequent. Several dwell 
ings in Chicago and there are many in 
other Western cities have no doors 
whatever in the first story, except those 
at the entrance and between the dining- 
room and butler s pantry, curtains be 
ing exclusively used. This is certainly 
carrying out the idea of openness to the 
extreme, as it is the destruction of all 
privacy, and of all those suggestive 
glimpses upon which so much of the ar 
tistic effect of a house depends. 

A small room has intruded itself upon 
many Western city houses, which should 
be lamented equally by the occupant and 
the architect. This is a kind of office 
or den, where the master of the house 
keeps a desk and a few facilities for 
the transaction of business after hours 
are over in which business should be 
transacted ; for in the enormous press 
ure of events about him the Western 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



429 



man, perhaps even more than his brother said of Richardson that a very valuable 

in the East, is compelled in the evenings client gave him commission to build for 

to carry something of his business across him a house more or less ideal, the 

the threshold of his house. ideally-ideal feature of which was to be 




St. Louis, Mo. 



As in the East, that chief minister to 
the ethical side of the family life, the 
fireplace, has steadily grown in beauty 
and dignity, until now it has regained 
something of the supremacy from which 
it was threatened with dethronement 
when first the source of heat and com 
fort was inaugurated in the shape of a 
black hole in the floor. It is now apt to 
be most generous in size, wide enough 
for a good back log, and richly adorned 
with marbles or tiles, equipped with 
carefully designed fire-dogs, fenders, and 
screens. These fireplaces have become 
things of service as well as things of 
beauty. Woe betide the hapless archi 
tect who builds them in such fashion 
that the smoke goes the wrong way. 
No felicitous retort may save him ; no 
soft answer can turn away wrath. It is 
VOL. VIII.- 13 



a grand, guaranteed-not-to-smoke din 
ing-room fireplace. All architects will 
at once guess that this fireplace per 
formed prodigies in the way of smok 
ing out the inhabitants. At the house- 
warming dinner, at which Richardson 
was present, every eye had wept scald 
ing tears because of it. After the din 
ner the host turned to Richardson and 
said, with great suavity, "Your fire 
place smokes, you see ; " and Richardson 
said, "Yes, I see it does ; but don t you 
like it?" 

Take the subject of Western city house 
plans altogether, it wiU be found that 
from 1874 to within a few years back 
there was a tendency toward all sorts of 
ingenious arrangements producing odd 
and startling effects ; but since then a 
reaction has set in toward simpler and 



430 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



more practical plans, in which space, 
light, and utility supplant mere eccen 
tricity. 

Yiewed from without, many interest 
ing developments will be noticed. 

Of course the West took " the Queen 
Anne" fever with alarming intensity. 
It was just at the tender age when the 
constitution is most sensitive to such 
infantile diseases, and during its preva 
lence eruptions of all sorts came out in 
the most extraordinary way. But the 
youth of the patient was in its favor 
and the fever fortunately passed away, 
and now manifests itself in only a few 
cases, such as were mentioned earlier in 
this article. F". H. Richardson was one 
of the most efficient physicians in work 
ing the cure, for under his influence 
such architects as had been following 
Norman Shaw (blindly and igno rantly, 
as they had followed him) turned from 
him and began to follow the American. 
The results have been in many cases very 
happy, although in others they have re 
sulted more or less disastrously. Rich 
ardson s influence has always tended to 
make architecture more simple and di 
rect, and it has led architects more gen 
erally to avoid the hideous mass of shams 
which in America preceded him. Among 
results upon the whole fortunate is the 
use of quarry-faced stone in Western 
dwellings. The extent to which this 
has been done in nearly every Western 
city is extraordinary, and so accus 
tomed to stone in this shape have peo 
ple become that they often seem unable 
to realize that cut stone has at times 
greater artistic value. Many dwellings 
constructed in this rough material have 
an exceeding heavy and forbidding 
look, arising in large part because in 
them stone has been employed in blocks 
too large for the scale of the building, 
or because granite has been used whose 
cleavage has left too strongly projecting 
and rugged surfaces. This was a mis 
take which Richardson, in the few West 
ern houses he has designed, has avoided ; 
his fine sense of scale saving him from 
such an error. Still it must be confessed 
that, because of the great vigor and 
masculinity of his genius, he was gen 
erally more successful in monumental 
buildings than in smaller dwellings. 
His blind followers have often failed 



where he succeeded, because they were 
denied his finer sense. 

Successful dwellings constructed of 
this material are, as might be inferred, 
generally very simple in detail ; few 
mouldings are used either at window- 
jambs or elsewhere ; even arches are 
sparingly employed, and carving is ap 
plied very temperately. In the more 
frequent examples the general effect is 
simple, dignified, and satisfactory. The 
main entrance is in nearly every case 
the centre of the entire composition, 
and the place upon which is bestowed 
greatest enrichment. One of the most 
satisfactory of these dwellings is illus 
trated on page 418. This is built of a 
reddish-brown sandstone, slightly mot 
tled with gray, and having a cleavage 
not too rounded for satisfactory wall 
surfaces. The general composition of 
the building is very good, and the 
doorway is recessed within a well-shel 
tered loggia. The general mass and 
color of the building is altogether pleas 
ing. 

Among the abuses arising from the 
use of quarry-faced stone it may be well 
to mention what seems to be a pecul 
iarly Western institution, the quany- 
faced column. This is built of blocks 
of rough stone piled upon each other, 
and is the most distressing architec 
tural plague since the plagues of the 
other sort in Egypt. The stone surfaces 
never come in line with each other, the 
column, therefore, never seems straight, 
and the joints, being all recessed, 
give it the effect of a soft bag banded 
with strings. As an ideal expression, 
therefore, of absolute instability it 
is among all architectural forms unri 
valled. 

Cut stone has been employed com 
paratively seldom in the West since the 
earlier days when ashlar was largely 
used which had been put upon a rub 
bing - bed and brought to a perfectly 
smooth surface. The use of stone in 
more vigorous expression has almost 
entirely taken its place. The rougher 
dressing of stone occurs in compara 
tively few cases. This is perhaps partly 
a matter of expense and partly the re 
sult of an ephemeral taste which may 
change. 

Brick and terra-cotta are more largely 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



431 



employed than stone work in nearly 
every Western city, and both are manu 
factured in variety practically without 
limit. Bricks of every conceivable color 
may be found, and terra-cotta to har 
monize with them. I 
have seen bricks manu 
factured in the West hav 
ing the exact effect of 
green mosses, or the 
various tones given by 
small flowers and lichens 
adhering to stone, or else 
having surfaces black 
and burnished with me 
tallic lustres. 

Such material as this 
opens out possibilities 
for color treatment such 
as had not been dreamed 
of, which will doubtless 
be productive of many 
startling and distressing 
effects before architects 
shall have obtained the 
entire mastery of this 
nicest of all arts, the art 
of color. Such materials 
have contributed large 
ly to the dwelling-house 
development of the West. 

The Dearborn Avenue 
house, illustrated on page 
421, is built of brick and 
terra-cotta in very satis 
factory duh 1 red. All the 
details of this house are 
modelled with singular 
crispness and vigor, and 
the fine rococo sentiment 
is carefully preserved. 
This is one of the best 
houses, in many ways, 
designed for a position within a contin 
uous block, in Chicago. 

The State Street dwelling, on page 424, 
is built of Roman bricks of deep brown, 
with lines of red running through them, 
and the terra-cotta is made in the same 
general coloring. The entire effect of 
the wall is very satisfactory in posses 
sing a singular bloom of color entirely 
different and much richer than if each 
brick in the wall had been in one tone. 
This house has a very strong Colonial 
feeling, without in any way servilely fol 
lowing the Colonial type. 



Bricks are used in the Prairie Avenue 
house, page 417, which are made of 
fire-clay burnt to vitrification. Their 
colors are warm golden browns, with 
very considerable variety, the surface 




House in Minneapolis, Minn. 

being slightly rough. A more pleas 
ing wall it will be difficult to conceive, 
and the bricks so burned have the rare 
advantage of being impervious to water 
and frost, and of maintaining their 
color and quality intact for an indefi 
nite period of time. This dwelling il 
lustrates the growth of an English feel 
ing similar to that shown in some of the 
new London houses in Cadogan Square, 
Harrington Gardens, and elsewhere. 

The Belle vue Place house [p. 42 3 J is 
built, in the first story, of reddish-brown 
rough-faced brick. 



432 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



It will be observed that in the West, 
as in the East, the roof seems to have 
come to stay. Its frank expression, and 
its free use as a most important element 
in design is everywhere seen. This is 
most promising for city architecture, 
where nothing so much adds to the in 
terest of street vistas as outlines of high- 
pitched and well-modelled roofs. 

Especial attention is called to the St. 
Louis dwelling on page 429. This is 
of such unusual picturesqueness, and 
is so simple and direct in design as to 
be thoroughly charming. Nothing in 
the exterior design is adventitious ; the 
design grows naturally out of the plan. 
Notice the quaint dignity of the whole, 
and think how delightful would be the 
aspect of our cities if such dwellings as 
this, with their varied outlines of roof 
and tower and dormer, the strong 
individuality and harmonious coloring 
were more frequent. This dwelling also 
illustrates how largely suburban in as 
pect a true city house may be. 

The few wooden dwellings which are 
illustrated show that not yet have they 
been banished from Western cities ; ul 
timately they will be confined to the 
suburbs or the country, but at present 
they often form agreeable variations to 
the general street aspect. In certain 
examples they show that the influence 
of the neo-Colonial has passed to even 
the distant West, and if it has not al 
ways reached its point of greatest re 
finement, it still shows a vigor of thought 
and handling. The Milwaukee dwell 
ing [p. 422] presents some novel and 
pleasing features, especially in the use 
of the stucco frieze and in the manage 
ment of the gables. 

San Francisco has had a very unus 
ual architectural experience ; it has been 
more isolated from the rest of the coun 
try than almost any other of our cit 
ies ; its development, therefore, has been 
more peculiarly its own, and has been 
less modified by contemporaneous work 
in Eastern cities. It is only of very late 
years that work being done in the East 
has strongly modified the feeling of San 
Francisco architects. The fear of earth 
quakes has caused nearly every dwell 
ing-house to be constructed of wood. 
In spite of this fact, little seems to have 
been done, as might have been expect 



ed, toward developing an architecture of 
wood. All sorts of architectural styles, 
originating in stone, have been adopted 
bodily in wood, with scarcely a change 
in the original stone expression except 
such as is absolutely necessary for the 
jointing of a different material. Cali 
fornia and other parts of the Pacific 
coast are blessed, in so far as their wood 
houses are concerned, in their beautiful 
red-wood. This is a lovely color for 
interior, as well as exterior work. Its 
effect, when used outside in shingles 
and otherwise, and treated with spar 
varnish, is singularly fine, presenting to 
the eye a fine leathery texture. This 
wood is not difficult to work, and when 
used with intelligence and discretion 
should be made to contribute, to a great 
degree, in the development of new forms 
of design in wood. 

The houses mentioned above, like all 
typical Western dwellings, are better fin 
ished within than their exterior would 
seem to indicate. The reverse of this is 
seldom true, and this is a good deal to 
say for the certain honesty in Western 
cities, where the occupant of the house 
is less interested in making a specious 
display to his neighbors than in acquir 
ing a solid and enduring comfort for 
himself. Native hard-woods are freely 
used, especially white and red oak, both 
quartered and plain. These woods have 
been especially popular ; their beauti 
ful grain and open texture lend them 
selves to so many effects of color that 
they have taken the place of other wood, 
the color required being imparted to 
them by filling and staining ; indeed, 
their use has become so general that 
the supply threatens to be exhausted, 
and their market value has increased 
during the last few years nearly double. 
From California come several beautiful 
if rather showy woods, in yellows 
and reds. The manilla-wood from the 
coast has much of the beauty of mahog 
any, withxits deep red tones and waving 
grain. Curiously enough, when we have 
practically abandoned in the West the 
use of American black walnut, which at 
one time was employed far more than 
any other native hard-wood, and are 
now beginning to use so freely the Eng 
lish oak, the very " swell thing " in Eng 
land seems to be to abandon the use of 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



433 



their beautiful oak and substitute in 
stead our American black walnut. 

Much more may be said of the inte 
rior aspect of these Western dwellings, 
which is as varied as their exterior de 
signs, or as the temperament and social 
position and disposition of the occupant. 

Again let me say, that between the 
character of the occupant and the gen 
eral expression of the dwelling there 
is much greater similarity than in any 
other part of the country. The one is 
much less governed by artificial condi 
tions than his brother in the East, and 
very much more freely expresses him 
self. 

A few years back, and contemporane 
ous with the reign of, first, the " Victo 
rian Gothic " and afterward the " Queen 
Anne," was the reign of marvellous wall 
paper, portieres, bric-d-brac, and East- 
lake furniture. To all of these the West 
gave swift obedience. Houses may still 
be found in abundance where each of 
these sovereigns holds divided sway ; 
but in the main common -sense has 
won the day, or at least other and less 
artificial fads now rule. First the em 
broidered, carved, painted, cast and 
wrought iron crane, who so long stood 
on one leg amid surrounding cat-tails, 
has died ; the death was prolonged and 
painful, but seems finally to have oc 
curred. After this the famous, honestly 
constructed, glued-on, mortice-and-ten- 
on furniture fell to pieces and went to the 
cellar ; then, as intelligence increased, 
the people began to purchase pictures 
of interest and beauty, and ceased to 
paste pictures of no interest and beauty 
on their walls and ceilings. After this 
came a yearning for more sunlight and 
fresh air, and heavy stuffs were largely 
removed from doorways and windows, 
and lighter materials substituted. Last 
of all, the indiscriminate vase and 
plaque, the ubiquitous display of cups 
and saucers, have given way to temper- 
ateness in this as in other things, o^ven 
" stained " glass, which in the West has 
for many years run a most shameless 
career, has grown less wild and uncivil 
ized, exchanging its barbaric hues for 
gentler whites and opals. 

Take it altogether, the outlook for 
Western city houses seems most prom 
ising. Western people themselves are 
VOL. VIII. 44 



becoming, and will still more become, 
almost ideal clients. It is true that, as. 
in the East, Western city dwellings have 
not escaped the deadly touch of the 
" know-it-all " client, nor of the man 
who is " building the house to suit him 
self," nor of him who " is going to live 
inside the house, not outside," and who 
is therefore loftily indifferent to the 
street aspect of his house ; but each, even 
the last person, is becoming infrequent. 
In the past, and to some degree at pres 
ent, Western cities have been and are 
influenced by men whose lives have 
been absorbed by things too material to 
leave them much leisure for art ; but 
even in the case of such men there is a 
marked indisposition to dictate in direc 
tions where their knowledge is incom 
plete. They have a large openness and 
unbiased attitude of mind, and a genu 
ine and earnest desire to "get the best." 
In the West is less often found than in 
the East the "aesthetic crank," and it is 
also true that life in the West is less 
conventional, freer, less restrained by 
artificial restrictions than in older com 
munities, and the true nature of people 
and things is perhaps more frankly ex 
pressed. 

All of these conditions are helps to 
the architect, for while they free him 
from such artificialities as might tend 
to hamper him, or to make his work 
more formal, they give wholesome im 
petus to honest and earnest endeavor. 

Circumstances are also such that the 
architect may act with great catholici 
ty. Architectural tradition in the West 
there is none. Even from such prac 
tices as may exist in the East the West 
will often hesitate to borrow ; and 
among the various Western cities marked 
tendencies toward divergence not only 
from the East, but among themselves, 
may be noted. Thus contemporaneous 
work in St. Paul and Minneapolis will 
differ in a marked degree from similar 
work in Omaha or Denver ; and the 
dwelling-houses now erected in Chicago 
have marked peculiarities not to be 
found in other cities. These variations 
are due to great differences of climate 
and customs, as well as to differences of 
temperament among both clients and 
architects, for the enormous size of "the 
West" must be borne in mind when 



434 



THE CITY HOUSE IN THE WEST. 



considering this great architectural de 
velopment. 

Among these various rival cities dom 
inant fads in architecture are likely to 
become less common, and problems will 
be more generally determined by the 
nature of the case. 

The rivalry among these cities is a 
most important factor in the growth of 
domestic as well as commercial archi 
tecture. In cases like St. Paul and Min 
neapolis, every move of either city is 
watched by the other with keenest inter 
est, and every structure of importance 
erected in one city becomes only the 
standard to be passed by the other ; so 
that not only is it their ambition to ex 
cel in matters of population and wealth, 
but also in the splendor and prominence 
of their architectural movement. It is 
similar with individuals. Men who in 
many cases began their careers at the 
same time, who perhaps came from the 
same Eastern State, who have together 
succeeded in careers which seem but 
integral parts of the great developments 
about them, have with each other a very 
earnest but generous emulation, and ex 
ercise a careful scrutiny each of the ac 
tion of the other, not only of his attitude 
and actions toward the social world but 
toward the world of art ; and the result 
will inevitably be the growth of better 
and more wholesome art feeling. 

In the beginning instance this desire 
to surpass begot much of the meretric- 
iousness and display of architectural 
gewgaws. 

This, however, exists no longer. No 
men travel so much as Westerners. 
The distance from St. Paul to Boston is 
less than one-fourth the distance from 
Boston to St. Paul ; San Francisco men 
drop into Chicago as lightly as a Balti 
more man would into New York, and 
every one of these men knows something 
about architecture. Indeed, with the 
intimacy enforced upon him with all 
forms of building operations, he could 
not remain ignorant if he chose. Where- 
ever he goes, therefore, his eyes are 
wide open, and he will in the frankest 
way express opinions on So-and-So s 
dwelling in cities far East, often in 
Berlin or Vienna, at the same time com 



pare them with dwellings more familiar 
to him and nearer home. Such condi 
tions are certainly significant, and archi 
tecture growing up among them cannot 
fail to be vital. 

That this Western architecture is vital 
cannot be denied. With all its crudity 
begotten of ignorance, but more often 
begotten of haste, domestic architecture 
in the West is certainly vigorous ; there 
can be no question of its insistence upon 
the right to live. And with this vitality 
there will not be wanting material with 
which to work. Not a day passes in the 
office of any architect of active prac 
tice but specimens are brought in of 
new granite quarried in Wisconsin, new 
sandstones from Michigan, ricolites from 
Mexico, verd-antique jaspers and rich 
marbles from Colorado to California. 
There is an equally steady current of 
new processes for art metal -work in 
bronze and iron, of mosaics in glass and 
marble, of rich wall-coverings in leath 
er, stuffs, and even stamped wood-pulp, 
and in new forms of beautiful encaustic 
materials. 

The forces employed in producing 
every sort of material intended for use 
in constructing and adorning build 
ings, especially dwelling-houses, seems 
infinite. These various things the great 
er adventure and love of novelty in the 
West will more freely use than will the 
East, with consequences both for better 
and worse. But disastrous experiments 
remain isolated, since nothing is truer 
than the general sterility of bad art 
ventures ; the successful efforts will re 
main and multiply. 

With a wholesome quality of mind 
and life in the layman, and with imagi 
nation and discrimination in the archi 
tect, what may not our domestic archi 
tects become? In twenty years this 
will be the richest and most luxurious 
country ever known upon the globe. 
Shall all of these treasures of nature 
and of art, all of these fostering envi 
ronments, result in architecture splen 
did in material conditions alone, like 
that of later Rome, or shall it be chiefly 
distinguished, with all its splendor, by 
the earnestness, vigor, and thoughtful- 
ness which inspire the whole ? 



OLD AGE. 
By C. P. Crancb. 



SOON but by gradual steps across the blue 
The regal sun will steal from east to west, 
And veil in clouded gold his naming crest, 
With all his fiery plumage drenched in dew. 
Soon will the leaves of summer change their hue 
And flutter down to earth s all-hiding breast ; 
And silent birds forsake their wind-swept nest 
For distant climes and fields and woodlands new. 
So, year by year, from youth s brave morn and noon 
Life cools into its sunset unawares. 
And looking back across the long, long days 
Eastward, where rose our sun, a spectral moon 
Peeps through uncertain clouds, or dumbly stares 
Upon an unknown grave in twilight haze. 



n. 



This were a boon all others far excelling, 

Could we attain that faith so near yet far, 

In the deep inner world, where nought can jar 

The steadfast house and home, our chosen dwelling, 

Or check the immortal fountain there upwelling. 

And happy they to whom the gods unbar 

The gates of night to greet their evening star 

Ere vesper chimes are changed to funeral knelling. 

Ye fellow-lingerers in the twilight gloom 

Ye who with me have lived through morning s glow, 

And down life s darkening slopes have trod together- 

This greeting take this trust ; that not to doom 

But victory bound, our lives are pledged to know 

Another morn in Heaven s unclouded weather. 





AUTUMN SONG. 

By Duncan Campbell Scott. 

SING me a song of the autumn clear, 

With the mellow days and the ruddy eves ; 

Sing me a song of the ending year, 
With the piled-up sheaves. 

Sing me a song of the apple-bowers, 
Of the great grapes the vine-field yields, 

Of the ripe peaches bright as flowers, 
And the rich hop-fields. 

Sing me a song of the fallen mast, 
Of the sharp odor the pomace sheds, 

Of the purple beets left last 
In the garden-beds. 

Sing me a song of the toiling bees, 
Of the long flight and the honey won, 

Of the white hives under the apple-trees, 
In the hazy sun. 

Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage, 
Of sweet-marjoram in the garden gray, 

Where goes my love Armitage 
Pulling the summer savory. 

Sing me a song of the red deep, 

The long glow the sun leaves, 
Of the swallows taking a last sleep 

In the barn eaves. 




JERRY. 



PAET SECOND (CONTINUED). 



CHAPTEE IX. 

" We pant, we strain like birds against the 

wires ; 

Are sick to reach the vast and the be 
yond ; 

And what avails, if still to our desires 
Those far-off gulfs respond? " 

"Contentment comes therefore; still, there 

lies 

An outer distance when the first is hailed, 
And still forever yawns before our eyes 
An utmost that is veiled. 

JEBBY was glad that lie had the fire 
to make and the supper to cook, 
for this every-day work brought 
him back to a realization of his position 
and of all he owed Joe, for whom he 
now had a much higher respect than for 
either himself or the doctor. 

The corn-bread was assuming a most 
approved brown tint ; the bacon was 
crisping and curling ; the coffee was 
bubbling and muttering in the pot, 
sending out a grateful fragrance. Home 
ly, coarse fare, and Jerry knew it. He 
had read of the banquets and feasts of 
ages gone, and had read modern novels 
about the many alluring ways of feed 
ing people which fashion invents and 
money pays for. He had read it all 
with a sort of scorn at first, but later 
with a changed feeling that grew to be 
a longing to see the sights and hear the 
beautiful sounds of music and laughter 
that must fill in these pictures. And 
lovely women ; he had read of them too, 
and paused a moment as he turned the 
bread that was browned on one side : 
how would they look? He had never 
seen one save once when he w T as alone 
in the doctor s study, and before him on 
the table lay a case, a red morocco case. 
It was different in shape from any he 
kad ever seen before, and what could it 
VOL. VIIL 45 



contain ? It did not occur to him that 
there was any wrong in opening it, and 
he unhooked the clasp without one tre 
mor of his honest boyish heart. 

A sweet, fair face, that was more deli 
cate than any he had ever seen ; he did 
not know if it were beautiful, for he had 
no standard ; he had never seen any faces 
since he could remember, save those of 
the work - hardened, slovenly drudges 
about the towns where he lived; but 
there was something in the picture that 
held him. It looked so small and fine, 
like some of the flowers he had seen 
among the rocks, but had never picked 
because somehow he knew that one touch 
would kill them. 

The eyes met his with an expression 
as if they once had pleaded for protec 
tion, but afterward had learned a look 
of bravery ; and the mouth was pained. 

" Poor little thing," he had said, and 
had sighed as if he knew the sorrow 
that looked from her eyes. He felt that 
he would have spent his life in saving 
her from ill ! 

Of course he was a fool, and that face 
was only a picture, maybe of the doc 
tor s mother or grandmother who had 
died long ago. 

Poor woman ! 

Then he shut the case ; a new thought 
had flashed on him ; maybe this face 
had been the one face that the world 
had held for the doctor ? And had she 
died ? and so he had come out to waste 
his life on the people. "Was this the 
secret of that life ? 

But the memory of that face never 
left Jerry entirely, and it became the 
nucleus about which all his youthful 
dreams grouped themselves. If he could 
only know a face like that ; could only 
move in a world where such refinement 
was common. Paul could, but he could 



438 



JERRY. 



not; could not until he made a golden 
key. 

He turned the bread carefully while 
he pondered on the discontent that had 
culminated so suddenly in his heart. If 
the doctor had not turned from him he 
would have been satisfied always with 
the old life ; but now all was changed 
and he was filled with a restless ambi 
tion and jealousy ; feelings which he 
fully recognized, and a year ago would 
have despised. Now he must rise if it 
took a lifetime to mount one step ! 

Perhaps when he was an old man he 
would see such faces about him. When 
his eyes were too dim to see almost, and 
his ears too dull to hear, and his heart 
too weary to love, then all these things 
would come to him ! 

"Well, "and Joe stood in the door 
way. 

" How are you ? " Jerry answered, and 
turned to the table. 

"Thar s a paper," and Joe laid the 
printed sheet down, "it cusses youuns 
wuss an wusser ; durned if I d stan it." 

Jerry put the paper on the shelf. 

" I will have my say some time," he 
answered. 

" An Dave Morris says as youuns is 
welcome to the paper when youuns wants 
it." 

" Dave Morris ? " 

" Thet s what I said," sitting down 
near the table. 

"You have been there to-day?" 

"Ihev." 

Jerry poured out the coffee in silence ; 
questioning was not customary between 
them, and what else there was to be told 
must await Joe s pleasure. The supper 
was over and the few things washed and 
put away ; then Jerry lighted the lamp 
and took up the newspaper, and Joe 
filled his pipe. 

Truly, as Joe said, the abuse and mis 
representations seemed to culminate in 
this paper. There was nothing too false 
to be said nothing too wild to be pre 
dicted ; and at the end a comment by 
the far-off city editor, that many of the 
idle and worthless in the city were com 
ing out to throw in their lots with the 
"redoubtable Jeremiah P. Wilkerson." 
Jerry read it over again " the idle and 
worthless," the paper said : what should 
he do with them ? His heart sank within 



him. The little ball he had set rolling 
was taking such appalling proportions. 

" Dave Morris says as youuns is the 
peskyist varmint as ever he s knowed," 
Joe broke in, taking his pipe from his 
mouth, " an I says, says I, Dave, Jer- 
ry ll kill youuns thout thinkin , says I," 
and Joe chuckled contentedly to himself. 

This described his ideal hero, a man 
who "killed without thinking," and that 
Jerry should hold this proud position, 
and hold it in the estimation of the man 
who harried all Eureka, was to him an 
infinite satisfaction. 

Jerry put down the paper ; he was 
anxious to know of Joe s interview with 
Dave Morris. 

"Morris came to see me to-day," he 
said. 

" An come back mashed jest as flat ! " 
Joe answered, with a readiness that 
showed his pleasure. "An I axes him, 
Dave, did youuns skeer Jerry ? Lord ! " 
slapping his leg, "youuns jest oughter 
seen him, Jerry ; I llow he d a-liked to 
eat me jest whole, he would ; says he, 
Joe Gitiiam, youuns aint got but one 
hide, says he, cussin awful, an if you 
uns keeps on a-pesterin me I ll jest use 
it up, says he." 

" And you ? " Jerry asked. 

"I jest knocked him down," pleas 
antly, " I gin him a eye thet ll not look 
purty fur a while," and Joe chuckled a 
little " but I tole him as a rotten apple 
were mighty good fur it." Then Joe re 
turned to his pipe. 

He had gone to Dave Morris s shop to 
intimidate him, and had succeeded in 
doing not only this, but in addition had 
knocked the man down. This had been 
his day s work, and he had been happy 
in it ; Jerry had knocked Dave Morris 
down one day, and he, the next ; what 
more could Eureka need to prove to her 
that these men from the Durden s side 
were superior ? 

Knowing the people, Joe knew that 
his and Jerry s reputations were made 
now ; and that no man in either town 
would touch them without much thought 
and calculation as to the consequences. 

It was a happy feeling that came over 
Joe ; a calm assurance that he had done 
his duty by Jerry, and at the same time 
had won renown in Eureka. Surely a 
good day s work. 



JERRY. 



439 



he 



Then Jerry looked up suddenly. 

" Who owns Durden s Mine ? " 
asked. 

The fire still threw its quaint shad 
ows ; the lamp still burned with unwav 
ering brightness ; it must have been 
Joe s eyes that nickered and winced un 
til the room seemed dark flickered for 
a moment so that he could not see the 
face of the younger man and when he 
spoke his voice had changed. 

"Durden s Mine?" he repeated 
" Durden s Mine? I dunno fur rayly." 

So Jerry had heard what he had said 
by mistake the other night. 

And Jerry took the shade from off the 
lamp, and looked at the wick as if some 
thing ailed the light. " I thought you 
would know," Jerry said, slowly, while 
many surmises as to Joe s words flashed 
through his mind unbidden "and that 
you would tell me about it ; for if I 
know who owns it, and can find out 
from the owner its value, I can the more 
easily persuade the people to buy land 
in Durden s." 

" An open the mine agin ?" was ques 
tioned in a lowered voice as of one in 
fear of some catastrophe. 

" Of course that would be the plan," 
raising the paper again between him 
and Joe, " that, or find gold somewhere 
else near at hand ; I suppose it lies all 
about here." 

He had not looked at Joe since he 
asked the question about the ownership 
of the mine, and now went back to a 
pretence of reading in order to be able 
to collect his thoughts and reason them 
free from his suspicions. 

And Joe sat still with his pipe going 
out, and his eyes fixed blankly on the 
fire. 

It had been many a long year many 
a long year since he had been warned 
that some bad end would come ; many 
a long year since he had been pleaded 
with to come away and let the place 
alone ; many a year. 

He glanced furtively at the corner 
where the dog Buck lay sleeping ; then 
vaguely up along the rafters ; then back 
again into the leaping fire that, even 
though it was August, did not seem able 
to warm him now. 

The Devil had made gold, she had 
said ; God had never made that thing 



that ran men crazy ; the awful gold that 
shone in their eyes until they could see 
nothing else. And she had made him 
bury her in a place where there was no 
mark of gold ; no trace of the kind of 
rock that held it, else somebody would 
come some day and dig her up to hunt 
for gold, and she and the baby wanted 
to rest. And gold would break his 
heart some day, she said : would it ? 

It was very long ago since his " little 
Nan " had warned him very long ago, 
but dead people surely came back 
surely ! And he knew the path so well, 
and every rock by the way ; and every 
thing was so convenient there ; his eyes 
knew the darkness, and his back knew 
the angles and curves in the rocks ; and 
his lantern, would it burn anywhere else 
or his pick break any other stone ? 
And the nuggets ; the little shining 
nuggets he had found so many of 
them washed down by the water that 
dropped and dropped forever, and that 
far back in an unknown corner helped 
to make a stream that flowed aw r ay lost 
itself. And all that he gathered was for 
Jerry, all of it ; and if others came in all 
else that would be found should have to 
be divided. 

No, of course there was no gold in 
Durden s Mine ! and he drew his chair 
nearer the fire. 

" Thar s gole in the water thet runs 
down the mountain," he said at last ; 
and Jerry looked up. 

" I suppose there is gold all through 
that gorge," he answered, " even if the 
old mine is worn out ;" then more 
slowly, "It is not the mine that I want 
so much as it is all the land about it." 

Joe knocked the ashes out of his pipe 
and filled it freshly. "ITlows as it aint 
lucky, the gittin of gole," he said ; " my 
Nancy Ann says, says she, Joe, don t 
you tech no sich work/ says she, cause 
I llows the devil made gole ; God never 
done no sicher thing as thet, says she, 
to shine an shine in a man s eyes tell 
he can t see nothin else, says she 
pufling slowly at his pipe, " an youuns 
done hed a warnin , Jerry, a rale 
warnin ," almost angrily, " an youuns 
Hows thet it s a sin to speckylate in 
Ian , an is jest a-bein cussed out bout 
it, an now youuns is jest a-hankerin* 
atter it." 



440 



JERRY. 



" Not as a speculation," Jerry answer 
ed ; "I want it to help those who have 
been hurt by speculators. I want to 
give our people who have lived here al 
ways, as good a town as these new peo 
ple expect to have ; I want to give them 
mines to work in that will cause the 
railway to build a station at Durden s 
also ; I want to give them a good school ; 
I want to make the men more sober and 
decent, and the women more clean and 
respectable ; I want " 

"To maker fool of yourself, Jerry 
Wilkerson," Joe struck in, unexpectedly, 
while the angry color flashed into Jerry s 
face. "Youuns hes been a-livin in the 
doctor s steddy a-drinkin books an 
papers ; an Durden s an Eureky s been 
a-livin in dirt, an a-drinkin whiskey ; 
an they loves it, yes, jest like youuns 
loves the books an the papers, they do ; 
an lemme tell youuns jest one perticler 
if youuns wants to start this po trash 
off, youuns ll hev to promise em money, 
an piles of it ; an if youuns don t give 
it to em, they ll kill youuns in a minute ; 
jest youuns member thet ! " shaking his 
head. " orl they wants, or knows bout, 
is whiskey, an terbackey, an dirt ; they s 
usen to it an born to it an likes 
it. Lord ! " taking a puff at his pipe, 
" an the wimmins is satisfy cause they 
specks to be beat, an needs it too." 

Jerry had turned away, and again had 
raised the paper before his face. 

"I do not agree with you," was all he 
said when Joe s voice ceased. 

" Orl right," and Joe chuckled to him 
self, " but thar s one thing I m gettin 
to be powerful sure bout, an it s thet the 
doctor onderstan s these mean critters 
better n I llowed jest at fust ; he do 
thet." 

Jerry mo\ed his feet impatiently. 

" It s the Lord s truth," Joe went on ; 
"an when they ve jest plum killed 
youuns out, they ll stan squar up to the 
doctor an to Paul, jest youuns watch 
an see " looking anxiously at the pa 
per behind which Jerry hid himself 
" cause the doctor an Paul jest stomps 
on em thout axin no questions, they 
do jest stomps em clean out ; " then 
more slowly, " I aint got much larnin , 
but I knows a pig loves its mudhole, an 
a dorg is better fur beatin , an it aint 
agoin to do no good to tuck them 



things away. They s mad alonger the 
doctor now, cause youuns is done 
showed em thet they s been posed on ; 
but they aint agoin to member thet 
long ; an when they gits to doin nothin 
ceppen steddy bout youuns Lord ! 
youuns ll hanker atter gittin shed of 
livin you bet ! " 

" And you do not know who own 
Durden s Mine ? " Jerry repeated, coldly. 

" No, I dunno," he answered, slowly, 
then moved his chair outside, where no 
more such questions could reach him. 



CHAPTER X. 

" And also this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. " 

DAN BUKK would know. 

This thought had come to Jerry in 
the night, and he determined to follow 
it up. As far back as he could remem 
ber, he had heard Joe speak of Dan 
Burk more than of anyone else save the 
doctor ; and Jerry felt quite sure that 
Dan could tell him all he wanted to 
know, and more, for Dan was an older 
inhabitant than Joe, and would know 
more of the local history. 

Another fact of which Jerry was now 
convinced was that Joe got his money 
from Durden s Mine, which made his 
lack of knowledge as to the ownership 
seem more strange. But Burk would 
know, and Jerry was determined to 
make Burk tell him all that was known 
of the mine. Durden s had been always 
a strange story to him ; as long as he 
had believed what the doctor had told 
him, that the better find was at Eureka 
and had remembered what Joe had 
told him in his childhood about Dur 
den s as a fairy story he could under 
stand the desertion of Durden s ; but if, 
as Joe had lately revealed, Durden s 
mine was full of gold, why had it been 
deserted surely not for a ghost story ! 
It was true that the people were not ag 
gressively energetic ; and as the Doctor 
and Lije Milton had invested in Eureka 
it was natural, perhaps, that the people 
should follow ; but still, Joe s assertion 
of the richness of the mine made the 
facts hard to be understood. And now 
that he had committed himself so far 



JERRY. 



441 



that he could not go back, he must get 
at the truth of the story. 

His scheme was far within the bounds 
of possibility ; and success would bring 
him money, the one thing he needed to 
put him on a level with Paul, and to 
compel the doctor to respect his shrewd 
ness, at least. 

He would go to Dan Burk in the 
morning before school, and if he gained 
any information it would help him in 
his interview with Morris. 

He left home as early as Joe that day, 
only waiting until he was out of sight. 
He thought he had never known Joe to 
take so long to go ; he was excited and 
restless, and the waiting was trying. 

The paper he had read the night be 
fore had put new thoughts into his 
mind ; he was known out there in the 
East much more than where he lived, 
and was looked on as a crafty mob- 
leader as a violent communist as a 
dangerous demagogue ; and men were 
coming out to cast in their fortunes 
with him to follow him wherever he 
should lead. 

This sudden thought had demoralized 
him for a little while, but now he had 
recovered himself, and was determined 
to be ready for all who should come. A 
new excitement was creeping into his 
veins: his army that was to do battle 
against influence and capital ; that was 
to win for all who came after a foothold 
and a hope ; that was to make him 
triumphant this army was fast doub 
ling itself. The " halt, and the maimed, 
and the blind " were coming, " with 
neither scrip nor purse" coming to 
test a great question, and to prove once 
more, in the long, dark history of the 
world, the power of the people ! 

He walked more rapidly to keep pace 
with his thoughts. Of course Joe would 
not have worked in Durden s Mine all 
these years, his thoughts ran on, unless 
there was gold to be found there. It 
would hurt him to stop, but the avar 
ice of one man could not stand against 
the gain of the many ; Joe had had long 
years in which to lay up store, now he 
must stop ; indeed, he was too old to do 
such hard work, and once well started, 
Jerry knew that he could support them 
both easily. 

Early as it was, Dan Burk s door was 



open, and he and his shop were both 
dirty. There were no loungers about 
as yet, however, and Jerry felt he had 
done well to come at this hour ; for be 
sides the quiet, Dan had had nothing to 
drink. 

"I wanted to see you, Mr. Burk," 
Jerry began, " and had no other time ; 
can you spare me a half -hour ? " 

"I reckon," and Dan placed a chair 
for his visitor. 

"Who owns Durden s Mine?" The 
question was so sudden that Dan start 
ed, with a betraying look of wonder in 
his eyes. 

" Durden s Mine ? " doubtfully. 

" Yes," and Jerry did not move his eyes. 

" What do you want to know for ? " 
cautiously. 

" Tell me ; you will not lose anything 
by it," and the two men looked fully and 
searchingly into each other s eyes. The 
suspicious, treacherous eye of the shop 
keeper the tired, keen eyes of the 
clever school-master who had just now 
begun to measure his strength against 
the world. 

"All right," and Dan laid his hand 
on Jerry s knee, " it s Mis. Milton s." 

For a moment Jerry looked at him 
in silence ; was he telling the truth ? 
Could this be the truth and Joe not 
know it ? " 

"I ll go with you and ask her," the 
man went on, his face reddening angri 
ly under his companion s eyes ; " has 
Joe lied?" 

" That will do ! " and a look flashed 
on him that made the words die on his 
lips ; he had heard of the difficulty with 
Morris. 

"And she owns all the land near it? " 
rising. 

" She does." 

"Will she sell?" 

" She will, an be glad." 

Then Jerry turned away, looking 
out the door and down the road to the 
doctor s house ; he could see the chairs 
on the piazza, and someone tramping 
up and down ; how strange it was that 
he could not go there now, and ask ad 
vice when, and where, and how had 
the breach between them begun ? 

" You will not mention this," he said 
at last, turning his eyes again on Burk, 
" if you do " 



442 



JERRY. 



" It s aU right all right, Mr. Wilker- 
son, all right," the man interrupted, 
eagerly, " it s for you to remember, 
please, that I aint said nuthin ." 

" Very well," and Jerry walked away. 

Joe had lied ! and he drew a long 
breath. Joe, whom he had trusted 
more than he would have trusted him 
self ; Joe, whom he had looked on as 
the one honest man he knew ; Joe, whom 
in the last few weeks he had put far 
above the doctor for the exquisite 
quality of sincerity ! 

He walked rapidly, and his heels 
struck sharply on the hardened soil. 

Who could be trusted ? 

Slowly the long story unwound itself, 
this one clew showed him all. Lije 
Milton had owned the mine ; had been 
unable to put workmen into it because 
of the mysterious sights and sounds 
that haunted it ; had gone in himself 

Jerry s thoughts stopped, and a cold 
sweat came out on him, and his mind 
went groping back to that day when he 
had gone to see Lije Milton buried ; 
what where all the circumstances what 
had Joe told him ? 

He could not remember, save that 
Lije had met with some injury in the 
mine from which he had never recov 
ered. 

He drew his hand across his brow, 
and sat down on a stone. If only he 
could recall and be able to put together 
all that had been told him. How long 
had old Durden been dead ; how long 
had Joe been gathering gold on his own 
account ; how long had Lije Milton 
owned the mine ? He remembered that 
Lije had been the discoverer of the new 
mine in Eureka, and reaping gold from 
there, had been content, probably, to 
let his old property go. 

Jerry rose slowly : he would not 
think these thoughts any longer ; he 
dared not formulate any theory on the 
slight basis he had, and the suspicions 
that had come to him were too dreadful 
to be retained for a moment. Besides, 
if Lije had met with any tangible foul 
play while in the mine, he would cer 
tainly have had his revenge. He felt 
relieved when he reached this conclu 
sion, and put all thoughts away from 
him save that Burden s Mine had a bad 
name, and so would be sold at a great 



discount. He must by some means get 
money to buy the property, so securing 
it to his scheme; and he must find some 
person who would be figure-head to 
hold this land and sell it out in lots to 
the people from Eureka. 

The scheme grew as he walked, and 
took clearer and clearer shape in his 
mind. 

Faster and faster he tramped ; his 
eyes shining, and a slow color creeping 
up his dark face ; and he saw himself a 
rich, successful man. 

And Joe? 

The memory came over him like a 
cold wave, and he tried to put it aside. 
Joe was a liar, but not a murderer of 
his friend ; facts disproved that. 

And most men seemed to be liars ? 

He took his hat off ; his head was hot 
and throbbing, and he hated himself 
that he had found cause against this man 
who had clothed him and fed him. It 
was treacherous to judge him. Joe had 
gathered gold secretly, and had hoarded 
it all these years ; why not, if he found 
pleasure in it? He had gathered it 
from another man s possessions ! 

The thought came unexpectedly, and 
put yet another face on the question : 
Joe had stolen his money. And yet, 
could it be called stealing if he had 
made a find in a place that others had 
deserted? had deserted from stupid 
superstition, while Joe had been brave 
enough to go in and work there ? Could 
it be stealing ? 

Perhaps not ; yet, who was it that 
he had heard talk of the horrors of the 
old mine ; who had said it was death to 
go there ; who had been so mortally 
terrified at the nervous vision of his 
childhood? 

Had it been a nervous vision ? 

Even after all these years he did not 
like the memory of it. 

He put on his hat ; it was ridiculous 
to deal in such fancies, and be swayed 
by them. If Joe had stolen the chance 
and the gold, it was not his care he 
was not the keeper of Joe s conscience. 

He walked steadily on, and into the 
town. He would have to turn Morris 
away again to-day ; he had not learned 
enough to answer him yet. He would 
have made overtures to Burk that morn 
ing, but what the man had told him 



JERRY. 



443 



liad shocked him from his purpose ; he 
would go again to-morrow and make 
his inquiries the more sure from having 
had time to think them over. 

The day seemed endless ; the chil 
dren stumbled and struggled with their 
lessons in a way that was exasperating ; 
they seemed bent on making mistakes, 
on disobeying orders, on being kept in 
and whipped. The atmosphere was 
heavy and clinging ; the smell of onions 
and dirt was intensified, and Jerry s 
nerves seemed to strain, and tingle, and 
long for freedom. He must have some- 
thiDg better than this. 

The day waned, and the tasks and 
punishments were settled ; the future 
statesmen, and presidents, and " reign 
ing belles" had gone home to their 
hovels ; and Jerry, locking up his desk, 
heard the horn ring out so fine and 
clear. He listened ; when he became 
rich and could claim success, he would 
have a band of instruments such as he 
had read of, and would ask the doctor 
to come and hear them play. He would 
have this horn multiplied a hundred 
fold, and every note his own, and call 
ing to him. 

Always he had read of music with a 
longing : it would mean something to 
him ; once in the night a traveller had 
passed down the trail thrumming a 
guitar, and Jerry had heard the sound ; 
heard it coming like the throbbing of 
a heart coming with a cry so vague, 
so unfinished only a cry with so much 
left unsaid. Coming nearer and nearer, 
until it seemed to throb all about him 
as he sat up in the darkness listening. 
Beating, crying, pleading with him to 
fill out the unworded measure. 

Fading down the black gorge, the 
sobbing, broken cry passed away. 

Would music be like all the other 
things he had found in life a fragment ? 
Would he be striving always after some 
unfinished measure? 

Again the sound of the horn swept by 
him, and he listened with an impatience 
that was unbearable. Why had he been 
for all these years an idle dreamer, 
wasting so much time preparing him 
self for the cramped, chance life of a 
writer : feeding himself ill on dreams 
and vagaries that seemed now to possess 
him and to weaken him? 



He closed and locked the door with 
an angry vehemence that had no foun 
dation save dissatisfaction with him 
self. He had been such a fool ! Would 
he be able now to gather himself toge 
ther, and to stand entirely alone ; could 
he put aside all associations, all qualms 
of conscience, all feeling, and conquer 
success ? And he wondered vaguely if 
many of those whom the world called 
successful had consciences. 



CHAPTER XL 

" Then every evil word I had spoken once, 
And every evil thought I had thought of 

old, 

And every evil deed I ever did, 
Awoke and cried." 

IT was very dark, and the entrance 
was dwindling to a point of light. Still 
Joe seemed to know the way with won 
derful accuracy, and walked the rough 
path with the stealth and swiftness of a 
cat. 

A little further and he paused, felt 
along the wall, fitted his hands slowly 
and carefully into a crevice, then swung 
himself over some danger so well known 
to him, that dropping safely on his feet, 
he drew a short, sharp breath. He 
stopped a moment just where he had 
dropped, until he lighted a small lantern 
which he took from a ledge in the rock, 
then moved on. Carefully and slow 
ly he went now, crawling like a great 
spider, scraping himself against the 
wall. Only a little space was lighted 
by the lantern, but the ledge of rocks 
on which he walked stopped far with 
in that radius. Steadily on, looking 
neither to the right nor to the left, but 
only on the next step he must take ; 
carefully, cautiously, slowly, with his 
eyes shining and his breath coming 
heavily. One misstep and he would never 
be heard of again : one man had made 
this misstep; he was sure of it, although 
no one else was ; he knew because he 
had heard the legend of this narrow 
way from Dan Burk, who had been the 
near friend of old Durden. 

And beyond this narrow way he had 
found the cave the story had told about; 
and where, unknown to Burk even, the 
old man had hoarded great treasure. 



444 



JERRY. 



There was something strange about 
this mine ; some devil of greed and de 
ception seemed to inhabit it. 

He was safe over the narrow way 
now, and putting his lantern down, he 
began to change his clothes with rapid, 
stealthy movements. The whole man 
seemed transformed and alive ; seemed 
to have shaken off the stolid heaviness 
he wore in the outside world, and in 
stead moved about with nervous quick 
ness. Having arrayed himself in a 
rough, worn suit of clothes, he put his 
usual apparel in a corner, then paused 
and made a little wailing cry a peculiar 
sound that in an instant seemed to be 
repeated by a hundred voices ; taken up 
again and again ; coming back sometimes 
loud, sometimes low ; seeming to die 
aw~ay, then waking suddenly to one more 
repetition ; weird, startling, awful ! 

He listened, and seemed to know 
when it was finished, then made the 
little sound again this time not wait 
ing, but going deeper into the gloom, 
leaving the little cries to wander up and 
down the hopeless darkness until they 
died up and down until the merciful 
silence hushed them. 

Joe lighted two more lanterns stand 
ing in niches in the wall, then looked 
anxiously around the low arched recess 
that almost was a room. 

The walls looked dull and dead, and 
here and there were worked into deep 
holes ; especially on the side overhang 
ing a stream which ran the entire length 
of the room a stream that appeared 
without visible reason in one corner 
of the room, foaming white and strong 
against the fretting barriers, and dis 
appeared suddenly through a low arch 
in the corner furthest from Joe s place 
of entrance. Across its place of exit 
was stretched a net of finest wire ; and 
deeper in the narrow crack, a web of 
cloth. 

Low Joe stooped and peered with his 
glittering eyes, that seemed to enlarge 
and gleam as he caught sight of the shin 
ing particles washed by the water against 
his catches. 

" A good haul," he muttered, " a rale 
good haul ;" then he rose, and took down 
from the jagged ribs of the cave fresh 
nets of wire and cloth. Carefully he 
fixed them in place before he removed 



the standing catches, waiting patiently 
for a few moments that the disturbed 
water might resume its usual flow no 
smallest grain must be lost. Carefully 
he remov ed the nets that held the gold, 
emptying their hoard into a flat pan of 
water ; dipping them again and again ; 
examining them with bated breath. 

"Orl fur Jerry," he whispered, stir 
ring the glittering particles with his 
hungry-looking hands, "an a good lot; 
an he dunno, damn it!" tying a fine 
cloth tightly over the whole pan, " dunno 
nothin jest ceppen hisn s books ; talkin* 
so fine bout t other folks, an what he 
Hows they orter hev ; he aint got good 
sense bout thet, God bless im ! an sich 
shinin eyes." 

Carefully the string was untied when 
the last drop of water had been drained 
from the pan, and the cloth, with the 
valuable sediment inside, was gathered 
together and tied like a bag, then hung 
near a small iron stove filled with char 
coal. 

Slowly the fire lighted and grew red 
and glowing glancing through the one 
opening in the cylinder like a great red 
eye, dull, burning, watchful of the poor 
warped soul that only lived while in this 
den ! who seemed endued with new life ; 
who vibrated and glowed as he watched 
the steam that floated about the wet 
bag. It would not take very long to 
get dry, then he would get all the parti 
cles out, even to the least dust ; shake it 
clear and clean into the little leather 
bag that soon would be full enough to 
take to Eureka. 

If only Jerry would have a little sense ; 
just a little, he thought, as he squatted 
before the charcoal stove, looking stead 
ily into the red eye. 

If only Jerry knew anything besides 
books; he had learned too much ; he 
had learned more than Paul his 
thoughts ran on for Paul only know 
how to get and spend money; he did 
not know that a man ought to think 
about other men having money ; Jerry 
had learned too much. 

He rubbed his hand back on his stub 
bly gray hair ; if Jerry only knew gold ; 
if Jerry could only see what gold could 
get could only spend gold ; Jerry would 
be like Paul, he would take all he could 
get and never ask where it came from. 



JERRY. 



445 



Maybe if Jerry could be sent to where 
Paul came from, he would learn to be 
like Paul. 

The idea crept into the anxious mind, 
and the deep-set eyes seemed to catch 
fire from the red eye of the stove, and 
to light up as the new possibility loomed 
before them. 

Jerry must go East. 

At last the problem was solved : Jerry 
must learn to spend money ; he must 
learn to love it ; then Joe would be left 
in peaceful possession of his den. 

The red eye of the stove seemed to 
flash the stream seemed to lift up its 
voice almost into a laugh ; and from the 
black abyss the cries seemed to wake 
and come back to the lonely worker. 
He listened. 

"I hears it sometimes," he whispered, 
"when I aint never made no soun !" 
and he looked over his shoulder as if he 
expected to see a vision. "It d orl a- 
been for youuns, Nan, if youuns hed a- 
lived ; I swar afore God ! " putting his 
hands over his face " I swar ! " 

The stream laughed on and on, wash 
ing high up against the nets; the eye 
of the stove glared at the dull wall ; the 
lanterns flickered and flared as mysteri 
ous draughts of wind reached up and 
touched them with invisible, ghostly 
fingers ; and the cries were they echo 
ing still through the blackness of that 
awful passage? Were the souls wrecked 
by this fatal den waking and sobbing in 
the distance? 

"I swar, Nan !" and the lean, work- 
hardened body swayed back and forth 
where it crouched "I swar!" 

Surely the dead came back surely ! 

The man rose to his feet hurriedly; 
he must make some movement. Close 
over the stream was his work, and stand 
ing in the cold water he swung his pick 
with even, regular strokes ; breaking the 
rocks into very small pieces that dropped 
into the stream. The water and his 
hammer would do the rest of the work 
for him. 

On and on he worked, his strokes 
falling fast and hard his breath com 
ing sharp and thick. On and on, only 
stopping now and then to step from the 
cold water, that he might warm his feet 
near the stove. It would be his death 
some day, this standing in the water ; 



he had seen many a miner ruined in this 
way ; either drawn up with rheumatism 
and left a helpless cripple, or dying sud 
denly from some congestion caused by 
cold. He knew that in this place and in 
this work he would meet his death ; he 
knew that sooner or later the end would 
meet him here. Maybe, walking that 
narrow ledge, he would slip over with a 
last long cry that would live to haunt 
some future worker. 

Steadily the strokes fell ; it was all for 
Jerry. And he must persuade Jerry to 
go East ; to see the things that made 
money valuable. There was nothing out 
here in the wilderness to make men love 
money. But he had seen such things 
long ago when, in the East, he and Nan 
cy were nearly starved ; it was then that 
a man had persuaded them and a lot 
of other people to move "West, where a 
friend of his, Mr. Durden, had found a 
mine. They had had hard times that 
made him long for money, and made 
him come to this wild country. But 
when they reached the place they found 
that old Durden had disappeared in the 
mine some time before, and the place 
was closed because the people were 
afraid. They were simple, superstitious 
country people content if they had 
room to plant a little patch, and live 
from hand to mouth. There had been 
no regular miners nor adventurers 
among them. 

His Nan would have been content 
with a little patch ; but Joe had dreamed 
golden dreams ; and besides it was too 
late that year to plant a garden. Then 
it was that in despair he had explored 
the mine, had found the black hole, and 
on its brink a little nugget that some 
creature must have dropped there. 

He remembered now the intense, won 
dering joy of that find ; and how he had 
taken it to Dan Burk, the one shop 
keeper of the whole region, who was at 
that time reduced to as great straits al 
most as Joe. It was then that, with 
much cautious questioning, they meas 
ured each other, and determined to trust 
each other. Joe was not so much afraid 
of the mine as he was of hunger and 
death for himself and his Nancy ; and 
Burk, who was afraid of the mine, knew 
all its secrets or thought that he did. 

He knew that the shaft beginning in 



446 



JERRY. 



a cave opening into which the stream, 
turned out of its course by Durden, had 
once flowed that this shaft had run 
into an awful abyss which the people 
said had no bottom, and into which the 
stream must have fallen originally ; that 
on the other side of this abyss there was 
a large cave about which the Indians 
had left a story. 

When by accident the workmen had 
broken into this hole, the last Indian left 
in the settlement came to see it and told 
his story. He said that on the other 
side of this hole there was a cave in 
which there was a stream that washed 
out quantities of gold ; that his tribe, 
hearing of this treasure-house, had con 
quered the tribe owning it. The battle 
had been fought out on the plain, and 
the conquered tribe, when desperately 
pushed by their enemies, had driven 
their wives and children through the 
cave and into this hole, themselves jump 
ing in after, doing this rather than be 
come prisoners, and lose their places as 
braves. He went on to say that, after 
this, no good luck had come to his tribe 
anymore, that the Great Spirit fought 
against them in every battle, until in 
the days of his father they had closed 
and concealed the entrance to the cave. 
That he had never known where it 
was. 

Long consultations had been held be 
tween old Durden and his few helpers ; 
but the men refused to brave the dan 
gers of such a crossing for any amount 
of money. The huge bonfire built on 
the edge of the hole showed a narrow 
tunnel that seemed to have neither bot 
tom, nor top, nor end ; the only vestige 
of any foothold being a narrow ledge of 
rock that could be reached only by 
swinging across a section of the hole. 
There was talk of a bridge, but there 
was no skill there to throw one across 
the hole and even while they talked 
strange sounds had come from the hole ; 
they were made to listen by the Indian ; 
it was the crying, he said, of the mur 
dered women and children. 

So the last man of the victorious 
tribe had spoken ; with his hand rest 
ing on the shoulder of old Durden, and 
something shining in his eyes that made 
old Durden advise against the bridge. 

Later, old Durden had heard further 



from the Indian : a whispered story of 
hidden treasure, that made him risk the 
dreadful passage ; and Dan Burk said 
he had found much. 

The shaft that in the first instance had 
diverged from the bed of the stream, 
but that in breaking into the abyss 
had come into it again, was once more 
turned aside ; and the men, who would 
not attempt to cross the hole, agreed 
willingly to work there. 

So all day long the men worked busi 
ly, and in the night the old man went 
and came on his dangerous journeys ; 
for day and night were the same in that 
black place. For fear of having to share 
his gains, Durden revealed his find to 
one man only, and to him only because 
he needed a place of exchange for his 
nuggets and dust. 

Dan Burk had agreed to keep his 
secret for a certain share of the spoil, 
and had made money on the bargain, 
until once the old man went, but came 
no more. 

Search was made until they came to 
the hole that so held all in awe, and no 
man would go further. They heard 
dreadful sounds and cries, they said, 
and saw strange shadows looming up in 
the darkness, so that they turned back 
in terror, and the mine was deserted. 

The people had hard times then until 
the doctor came and took command, 
and Lije Milton, who had bought Dur- 
den s on a speculation, found the new 
mine at Eureka; then peace came again, 
and old Durden was forgotten save as a 
ghost. 

But during those dark days one man 
dared all, and crossing the dreadful 
abyss, crept along the narrow ledge. He 
found the hidden treasure, and found 
also that his predecessor had not shared 
fairly ; but carefully, in strong boxes, 
were little bags, clumsily but safely 
made, and full of dust ; and in another 
box a shining pile of golden coin. 

The old man had not carried out for 
exchange all that he found hidden, but 
he had brought back and stored afresh 
all the money he had gained. And all 
his tools were there, and the charcoal 
stove, but no other sign of him ; and 
Dan Burk s theory was that he had lost 
himself in trying to find the old en 
trance to the cave. Joe, who knew so 



JERRY. 



447 



well the perils of the passage, said he 
had fallen into the hole. 

And Joe, was he to reveal all that he 
had found ? It was surely his, he had 
risked an awful death to win it ; a 
death Dan Burk would never have 
risked. No, it was not stealing ; and 
when his friend Lije Milton wondered 
about the old story, he did not tell his 
secret : Lije had plenty, and where he 
worked was not Lije s mine, but an old 
Indian cave that belonged to no one. 

Of course it was not stealing ; and if 
Jerry would only let him be or if he 
could only find the old entrance to the 
cave ! 

He stopped in his work and laid his 
pick down ; there was one place he sus 
pected as the end of the old entrance 
passage, and once he had explored it 
for a little distance ; not very far, but 
far enough to realize that the dangers 
of it were too manifold for him to dare 
.a hurried investigation ; and he could 
not be absent for any length of time 
without an explanation. 

He took up a great stone pestle to 
crush the pieces of rock that had fallen 
into the water. 

Jerry must go East to learn to love 
money, then Joe could have his days 
free from observation. 

Surely Jerry mast go East : the 
thought took stronger and stronger 
hold on him ; Jerry must learn the 
worth of this money he had won from 
the hands of Death. 

He had worked hard to get it ; had 
spent sparingly to hide it, for he had 
learned to love the shining stuff for it 
self. It seemed to get into his eyes, as 
his Nancy had said, and to shine and 
shine until he could see nothing else. 
How heavily freighted he had been some 
times, when crossing that narrow ledge ; 
how carefully, while Nancy slept, had he 
dug a hole in the corner of the house ; 
how secretly night after night had he 
put away his treasure. And was it all 
to be cast to the crowd to be scrambled 
for when Jerry came into possession ? 

He had not divided the found gold- 
dust with Dan Burk, nor the box of 
money ; but only divided a part of 
what he got each day. He had found 
in the engineer of the Eureka Mine a 
man who paid more fairly for the gold, 



and who asked no questions, as he was 
in constant receipt of private stores of 
this sort. Every man who had a little 
" find " of his own tried to hide it from 
his fellow-man ; and all these little 
hoards went to enhance the value of 
the Eureka Mine. Of course it all came 
from this mine ; and the shares ran up; 
and the engineer s salary was increased ; 
and his speculations grew ; and Joe s 
secret was safe. As to Dan Burk, his 
share diminished steadily, and Joe grew 
more importunate in his demands ; for 
he could get a better price, he said. 

Of what use was it that Dan threat 
ened to tell of the cave ; Joe s retort 
came readily " Tell em, an show em 
the way." 

It was hopeless ; no one would at 
tempt that passage when gold was so 
easily found elsewhere, and Dan was 
quite sure that even Joe would not at 
tempt it for the small amount brought 
to him as his share. He knew quite well 
that Joe was cheating him, but what re 
dress was there ? So Dan determined 
to make what he could by holding the 
secret ; but was very willing to sell any 
information to Jerry when he came to 
him with his eyes gleaming so danger 
ously, and his words coming so sharp 
and quick. He had not thought it safe 
to thwart Jerry ; and by helping him he 
might gain something. 

Poor Joe ! 

Long ago he had removed all the 
treasure from the cave and stored it 
where a written paper would reveal it. 
And the paper was sealed and in the 
doctor s keeping ; he knew the doctor 
would see his wishes strictly carried 
out if he did not know where the money 
came from ; but once acknowledge the 
source of his gains, and he knew that 
strict justice would be done : justice 
such as Jerry believed in ; and the 
money would be divided out to every 
soul who had the remotest claim on the 
mine. So the paper revealed nothing 
save where the money was, how hidden, 
and declaring it all to be for Jerry. 
Nor was the doctor to read this paper 
unless Jerry willed it so ; and since the 
recent misunderstanding Joe felt an 
extra degree of security in the thought 
that Jerry would not show the paper to 
the doctor. 



448 



JERRY. 



It was all well stored now, and if any 
misstep left Joe s place vacant, the 
money he loved so well, and the young 
fellow his love bade fair to ruin, would 
both be safe. 

But the old lost entrance : if only he 
could find that, no law nor justice could 
disturb him, for none could prove that 
he was working in Durden s Mine. 

The cave was his own find ; Dan Burk 
had heard of it only as a tradition, a 
wild story that meant little ; Joe, how 
ever, had worked his way to it, and 
surely had a right to what he found 
there. 

Only he must find that old entrance. 



CHAPTER 



" Hadst thou understood 
The things belonging to thy peace and ours ! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that calls 
Doom upon Kings, or in the waste, Repent ? 

O rather pray for those and pity them, 

Who through their own desire accomplished 

bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the 

grave 

THE papers came daily now ; filled 
with warnings, and vituperations, and 
news of the horde that was preparing to 
come to Durden s. 

Only too swiftly were the shortening 
days flying by ; and the railway seemed 
to loom terribly near to Jerry, while 
day by day his fame grew until he found 
himself a hero. 

Dave Morris and Dan Burk had vol 
untarily come into his plans, and had 
agreed to advance money for the scheme 
on any terms he chose to name. 

Burk accepted the position as " Land 
Agent," and bought all the land about 
Durden s Mine. Dave Morris put so 
high a price on his whiskey that none but 
the best-paid miners, and the new civil 
engineers belonging to the despised 
" doctor," could avail themselves of the 
luxury. And of the first new people 
who came, Morris made good use: he 
persuaded them to give great prices for 
the land about Eureka, so relieving the 
Eureka people of their properties, and 
allowing them to move to Durden s with 
money to invest. 

Jerry watched with intense interest 



the extraordinary sales that Morris made 
for his Eureka friends ; listened as the 
strangers were made to read the pamph 
let put out by the engineer of the Eu 
reka Mine, in which all the lands in and 
about Eureka were represented as gold 
lands ; listened afterward as the Eureka 
people were persuaded to buy lands in 
the Durden s settlement ; and listening, 
wondered that Morris did not stand 
higher in the world. 

Morris s own Eureka lot went for the 
highest possible price, part of which was 
invested in Durden s land, the rest be 
ing generously lent to forward the new 
scheme. 

Eureka was in a state of the wildest 
excitement : land changed hands from 
hour to hour ; was sold by telegraph 
even, the operator making a small per 
centage in the general upheaval ; and all 
the money, following Dave Morris s, fell 
into the hands of the new land agents, 
Daniel Burk & Co. 

Even to Jerry, who stood behind the 
scenes who pulled the wires even to 
him it seemed like magic. And when 
with Dan Burk he went to see Mrs. 
Milton about buying the mine, he felt 
as if some strange power, other than he 
knew, was working for him. 

Instantly she acceded to their re 
quest. 

"Durden s hes allers been onlucky," 
she said, and willingly gave up the mine 
and all the adjacent lands for relatively 
a small amount. 

And Joe, left outside of all plans and 
arrangements, watched, and listened, 
and wondered in his own anxious mind 
how Jerry had accomplished it. Things 
were taking such a strangely sudden 
turn that he could not satisfy himself 
with any solution save that Jerry, and 
not Dan Burk, was the moving power ; 
even though Jerry kept himself well in 
the background. No one but Jerry 
would have had the sense to direct such 
a move as this, and carry it out so suc 
cessfully. 

Land in Durden s could have de 
manded almost any price ; yet, stranger 
than anything that had ever happened 
in his experience, Joe saw that the price 
was never increased ; and this convinced 
him that Jerry was manager. 

Rapidly the people from Eureka be- 



JERRY. 



449 



gan to erect their small houses in all 
directions : their small houses that they 
were allowed to move from Eureka to 
Durden s. The lots were not laid out 
with the beautiful regularity of the great 
tract of land about Eureka, but they 
were sold or rented much more rapidly. 
Durden s was surely favored in its situ 
ation ; high up from the plain, and with 
plenty of water, it was cooler and more 
healthy than Eureka ; and Jerry won 
dered that the doctor had not chosen it 
instead of Eureka as his centre of oper 
ations. And every day, as Jerry went to 
his school, he was stopped and consulted 
as to the future of Durden s, and the ad 
visability of buying land there. Was 
gold to be found there was there money 
to be made by holding the land was it 
better and safer than holding land in 
Eureka? 

And to all these questions he answered 
yes ; and revealed his position further 
by saying that this was the chance he 
had promised to find and secure for the 
people ; and he wanted them to under 
stand that it had his fullest sanction. 
To prove this, they could see that, no 
matter what the demand for land might 
be, the price of the land was never raised. 
He came forward now, when this last 
fact had been sufficiently observed and 
proved, so that he could act without be 
ing suspected as a speculator, and took 
hold of the scheme with a strong guid 
ing hand ; and the people nocked to 
him. 

Three new "finds" had been made in 
Durden s gorge, and the regular miners, 
thrown out of work in Eureka, were 
leading the way in opening them up 
most successfully. 

Jerry s heart burned within him ; 
money and people came in rapidly ; 
Burk and Morris carried out his every 
wish, and rendered a strict account of 
every transaction. A committee had 
been appointed and called the "Town 
Committee," and of this Jerry had been 
elected chairman. The first resolution 
passed was one prohibiting the sale of 
liquor in the settlement : a strange law, 
the old inhabitants thought ; and looked 
on Jerry as a sort of supernatural creat 
ure. After this a corps of workmen had 
been detailed to cut wood for the Com 
munity, and to bring it down from the 



mountain-side ; this the " Town Com 
mittee" shared out according to the 
number in each family. The "Town 
Committee" had in their hands also the 
opening of the mine, in which every 
Commune man was to buy shares, and 
be paid regular dividends as soon as they 
could be declared. Any gold found on 
private lands was the property of the 
land-holder ; every man who held shares 
in the public mine had to do a certain 
amount of work there, or put a man in 
his place ; for private finds must not be 
worked to the detriment of the public 
good. 

Eureka stood still and breathless : 
would this marvellous enterprise prove 
entirely disastrous to them ? It was a 
question that grew more grave as day 
by day there were fresh defections from 
the Eureka colony ; day after day men 
came and cast in their lots with the 
Durden s Commune ; for so Jerry had 
named it ; and the Eastern papers, tak 
ing it up, rang with it, and Jerry became 
more and more notorious. 

But, amid all the toil and tumult, one 
came and went silent and unnoticed. 
Going out from his house before day, 
before the brisk new town that fast was 
climbing up to the mine s mouth was 
astir ; and coming down in the dark 
ness when all were at their evening 
meal. 

Like a bent shadow he came and went ; 
every day stooping a little more ; every 
day the frost gathering a little more 
thickly on his stiff hair. He was un 
heeded in the general rush ; left outside 
of all plans ; left outside of all that filled 
Jerry s life. He knew that Jerry was 
the leader ; he knew that Jerry had 
stopped teaching the school, that now 
had been moved from Eureka to Dur 
den s ; he knew that Durden s Mine had 
changed hands ; he knew that Jerry had 
lost all confidence in him ; he knew that 
the man, Dan Burk, whom he had saved 
from starvation, he knew he had be 
trayed him : and deeper down in his old 
heart he knew that not for much longer 
could he walk in his old paths, and reap 
his golden harvest. 

The old mine was like a home to him 
like mother wife children ; all the 
ties of life were for him concentrated in 
that black hole, and in the glittering 



450 



JERRY. 



particles he found there. How could 
he live his life day after day, and all the 
object gone out of it ; hour after hour 
sit and smoke idly by the fire ; hearing 
in imagination only the laugh of the 
stream, that in these years had come to 
seem the voice of a friend ; and seeing 
in memory only the great red eye of 
the stove ? 

For many years he had lived there, 
working alone in the darkness ; with at 
first the need of the money for spur 
afterward for love of the money ; later, 
for the love of the wistful eyes of the 
boy who looked to him for everything. 

The little, thin voice, and patient, 
humble face, so sorrowful, so lonely. 

Somehow the boy had taken a deep 
hold on him, and all the gold he gath 
ered was to provide for this little crea 
ture. It had made him work all the 
harder : he had been happy in paying 
for his education and clothes ; in each 
winter providing for all his wants ; in 
making the house and the living grad 
ually better for him, and in each day 
adding to the store of gold. He had 
been proud of Jerry s absorption in 
books and dreams ; proud of the grad 
ual change that left such a distance be 
tween him and Jerry, and lifted the boy 
to the level of Paul and the doctor. It 
had never occurred to him but that 
Jerry loved him, although toward the 
last Jerry s devotion to the doctor had 
hurt him a little. But now ? 

Now his boy had turned from him 
entirely had joined with a stranger in 
betraying him was living his life apart, 
without any reference to him. 

It had been for Jerry s good that he 
had deceived him about the mine ; yet 
from that night Jerry had never uttered 
one word in his hearing of the hopes 
and wishes he entertained for his 
scheme. 

The more Joe thought and suffered, 
the more surely he came to one conclu 
sion. Only one thing was left to be 
done ; only one plan that could save 
him and teach Jerry wisdom : it was to 
send Jerry East that he might learn to 
love money, and while he was absent, 
find the old entrance to the cave. This 
done, he would be safe in his possession 
safe to gather and hoard the gold that 
Jerry would one day appreciate, and 



appreciating would come back to his 
old relations with his truest friend. 

But how could he accomplish this 
end ? He had not been near Dan Burk, 
for a moment s speech even, since the 
mine changed hands ; a tacit under 
standing made them avoid each other ; 
and now all Joe s gold dust went to En 
gineer Mills, of the Eureka Mine. 

He must approach Burk once more, 
however, to get his assistance in sending 
Jerry away ; and he felt quite sure he 
could find means to make Burk per 
suade Jerry to go. 

He had stopped work while he 
brought to a conclusion these thoughts 
of many weeks ; and now storing in his 
pocket the last little bag of gold that he 
had gathered, he set his nets to last for 
two days, for to-morrow he must go into 
Eureka to sell the dust. He did not 
know what might happen any day, so 
he busied himself making all safe behind 
him ; there was nothing there to tell 
any tales except the nets and the little 
black stove, things of little value ; 
friends who could not betray him. 

It was late now, very late ; Jerry 
would be at home by this, and the sup 
per ready, but for all that he must see 
Dan Burk. 

Carefully he chose his way through 
the new settlement that had climbed 
the mountain-side, down into the old 
village which was nearer the level of the 
plain ; carefully, for people might ask 
questions if they saw him in the town 
at night. 

Dan Burk was at home, sitting in his 
shop, that looked much improved ; it 
was clean, and without the smell of 
bacon and whiskey that had never been 
absent before. The Community had 
provision depots now, and Dan s place 
served only as a shop for clothes and 
tools. Besides, his business as land 
agent kept him busy, and in the future 
would pay him better than selling 
whiskey. 

More than this, Dan s shirt was clean, 
and his black hair brushed to a painful 
state of sleekness. He turned when the 
door opened, and recognizing his visitor, 
he rose. 

For a moment he paused, then push 
ed his chair back and came forward 
with a suspicious profusion of welcome. 



JERRY. 



451 



" H are you, ole pard, h are you ? " 
he said, " durned if I aint real glad to 
see you," holding out his hand. 

" I m well as common," Joe answered, 
and stood still with his hands in his 
pockets. 

There was a pause while Dan rubbed 
his overlooked hand down his sleek hair, 
with a doubtful look creeping into his 
light eyes. 

" Take a cheer," he said at last. 

" No, I m bleeged," and Joe took one 
hand from his pockets to push his hat 
back, "I aint got much to blate bout." 

"All right," and Dan cleared his 
throat that had become strangely dry. 

" Youuns knows orl of Jerry s doin s," 
Joe began, with both hands again in his 
pockets, and his keen, deep-set eyes 
fixed steadily on Dan s half -averted face, 
" an I don t ; an youuns knows somer 
my doin s, an agin youuns don t," paus 
ing solemnly, after this last thrust that 
made Dan look round ; " no," more slow 
ly, " youuns dunno orl, damned if yer 



1 
(L 



o ! " with an angry light gleaming in 
his eyes that made Dan wince a little. 

"But I aint come jest to jaw, ner to 
tell youuns nothin bout me," more 
mildly, "but sumpen bout Jerry." 

"About Mr. Wilkerson?" and Dan 
was all attention. 

" Thet s what I said," Joe answered, 
" bout youuns Mr. Wilkerson an bout 
my Jerry ; an it s jest thet he aint got 
no sense ceppen bout books. Great- 
day-in-the-mornin ! why, man, Jerry 
dunno no thin mo bout money an a 
baby, he don t," and Joe shook his head 
solemnly. 

" He knows how to git it, all the 
same," and Dan laughed in a relieved 
way. 

" Orl the same he aint a-goin to keep 
it," Joe said, " ner he aint a-goin to let 
youuns keep it, an don t yer furgit it ! 
An he s jest a-goin to shar an shar 
alike orl roun this town ; jest youuns 
watch," waxing more earnest ; "I knows 
thar aint nobody agoin to make no for- 
chins roun this town tell Jerry larns to 
love money : durned if they will ! " 

" Learns to love money ? " Dan re 
peated, slowly ; " Lor, Joe, you re plum 
crazy ! " 

" Orl right," and Joe shook his head 
slowly, " orl right, an when youuns 



keeps on a-seein j Jerry jest a-spreadin 
orl the money roun even ; an keeps on 
axin youuns fur counts ; an a-buildin 
a meetin -house, an a school-house, and 
a-stoppin folks from cussin an whiskey, 
youuns ll member me, an mebbe 
youuns ll say, Ole Joe warnt crazy 
nuther. Mebbe youunsll member, an 
mebbe youuns ll cuss cause youuns 
members." 

" Members what, Joe Gilliam ? " and 
Burk uttered some oaths even now, be 
fore the prophesied time. 

" Members as Joe Gilliam said to sen 
Jerry to the East, whar he d larn to love 
money ; cause when a man don t love 
money hissef, he s jest sartain to spise 
them as do," pausing as if to give his 
words more weight, "an thet s the rea- 
sin as Jerry spises the doctor cause he 
spekylates in Ian to make money ; an 
thet s the reasin as Jerry spises me, 
cause I tole him I bet on money, I did. 
An if a man spises money he aint 
a-goin to save none, ner to let nobody 
save none ; an don t youuns furgit it." 

Burk stood without motion, and 
looked at his companion, while a great 
wonder grew slowly in his eyes : was the 
old man losing his mind ? 

Joe went on slowly. 

"Jerry aint never seen nothin aa 
money kin buy," he said, " an he don t 
keer nothin bout it ; he kin git vittles, 
an cloze, an books, an thet s orl he 
wants, an he dunno nothin mo ." 

" Darnation ! " and a new light seemed 
to be coming to Dan. 

" I knows it s true," Joe went on, " an* 
Jerry aint a-goin to let nobody hev no- 
moren thet, he aint ; an he s a-goin to 
make orl go to school, an go to ineetin , 
cause Jerry don t know nothin ceppen 
books." 

Burk stood silent : this model com 
munity, with no possibility of private 
gains, was not his ideal town ; so far 
he had rendered a strict account of all 
money in his hands ; but he had not 
made his calculations on this senseless 
honesty lasting forever, but only until 
the enterprise was fairly started. He 
had voted for school-house and church, 
thinking they would look well in the 
circular which the Town Committee 
had put out, and would make the place 
more attractive to outsiders. 



452 



JERRY. 



" An he ll tuck in orl the trash as ll 
come alonger the railroad," Joe went on, 
" cause when orl the Ian round Eureky 
were sold, Jerry were jest a-rippin bout 
folks not a-gittin a shar of Ian. Youuns 
hearn him a-talkin bout God a-makin 
the Ian for orl, jest like the sun and 
wind wuz ; " then reflectively, " Mebbe 
it s so, then agin mebbe it aint, cause 
if God TLowed fur orl to hev the Ian I 
reckon it ud a-been fixed up thet away 
like the sun an the wind wuz ; thet s 
what I Hows." 

"An it s true as mornin , Dan granted. 

" An* I duiino as orl God made were 
made fur ever pusson," Joe went on, in 
structively, " cause I knows as God made 
me, an I m durned if I m fur ever pus- 
son ; durned if I are ! " 

" That s so," and Dan looked still more 
grave. 

This " all things in common " arrange 
ment was a mystery to him ; his ideas of 
justice and equality were circumscribed ; 
it was not just that anyone should have 
more of this world s goods than Dan 
Burk, he thought, but if Dan Burk 
gained more than his brethren, it was 
because Dan Burk was a sharp fellow. 
As he had realized Jerry s enterprise, it 
looked like a fair opening for a few to 
make fortunes ; but now Joe had put a 
new face on it, and Dan paused and 
thought very deeply. He realized the 
truth of all that the old man had said ; 
and looking back, he could see plainly 
very convincing proofs that Joe s warn 
ing would benefit all who heeded it. 

For how could they know of the wild 
desire for wealth and success that now 
possessed Jerry ; how could they know 
of the deep plans he was laying for the 
future thinking night and day of ways 
and means to persuade some capitalist 
to interest himself in the mine growing 
thin and careworn with the strain and 
longing that was on him. How could 
they know of the consuming bitterness 
that held him that almost would have 
caused him to sell himself if that would 
secure the success of his plans. 

To Dan Burk, he was the cool, calm, 
far-seeing man, directing with consum 
mate skill the workings of the little com 
munity ; a controlled, fearless man who 
commanded the confidence of the people. 



To Joe, he was still the wild dreamer 
who could realize nothing but the injus 
tice of existing laws, and the needs of his 
fellows ; who had no want nor care for 
money ; who despised all practical things. 

" I ll gie him the money to go, an to 
spen ," Joe went on, breaking the silence 
that had fallen ; " youuns ll wanter fel 
ler what onderstan s ; a rale engynar to 
open Durden s agin," slowly. 

"That s so," and Dan looked inter 
ested. 

" Sen Jerry to git him," Joe pursued, 
"jest youuns come to my house to-mor- 
rer night, an tell Jerry bout goin , an 
I ll fix the ress ; jest youuns come ; " then 
Joe turned away, but paused as he turned : 
" an if youuns tells Jerry thet I ve a-been 
har," he said slowly over his shoulder, 
"youuns ll never git in Durden s Mine, 
cause I knows the way of keepin folks 
out," mysteriously ; " but if youuns ll do 
my say, I ll pint the way myseff; far- 
well," and he walked slowly out, shutting 
the door after him, and leaving Dan 
Burk pondering deeply. 

This was the best opportunity in the 
world ; and the pay Joe required for 
leading the way into this mysterious 
mine was that Jerry should be persuaded 
to go at his expense to get an engineer 
the engineer who was now the great 
est need of the community. 

It was strange pay, that this young 
man must be made to love money. What 
motive lay hidden under all this ? In 
Burk s estimation old Joe did not have 
much sense ; and think as he would, 
Dan could not solve the problem. 

But of course he would accept the of 
fer ; that part was plain enough. He 
would go the following night to Joe s, 
and make the proposition ; then Joe must 
manage the rest. 

And old Joe, toiling up the steep path, 
felt his point was gained ; rejoiced that 
he had been able to spread the toils for 
the feet of him he loved the best ; had 
been able to set forth the temptation so 
that the young heart might most surely 
be led astray and be absorbed by the 
meanest of passions ! 

Poor old man ; doing in his loving 
ignorance the greatest ill to the one 
creature he loved the creature for whom 
he would have given his lif e ! 



(To be continued.) 





" On the Benbow signal lights are flashing." 

FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE 
WHITE SQUADRON. 

By Rufus Faircbild Zogbawn. 



UIETLY at anchor, the White Squadron lies in the harbor of 
Lisbon ; the square blue jacks, dotted with stars, fly on the 
staffs at the bows of the cruisers, the admiral s ensign flutters 
on the mizzen of the flag-ship, the long pennants of the 
commanding officers of the other vessels wave from the main 
trucks, while at the stems of all our men-of-war, opening out 
in graceful folds of blue and white and scarlet, the stars and stripes float proudly 
on the breeze. On every side of us ships are anchored or moored to great red 
buoys ; steamboats fly swiftly past with beat of bright-hued paddle-wheels and 
warning shriek of whistle ; far and near lumbering lighters move from shore to 
shore with great sails spread, or gather about the iron merchant steamers, dis- 
VOL. VIII. 46 



454 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 



charging or loading their cargoes. The 
shore where Lisbon rises, street on 
street of gray- walled, red-roofed houses, 



On the spar-deck of the flag-ship 
everything is shipshape and in apple- 
pie order. The planking is as smooth 



tower of church and palace, green trees, and clean as holystone and sand, squil- 
and here and there a palm showing gee and brush can make it ; the paint 



p 





:s r/S 1S& ^k* V< I 




The Black Watch. 



above stone garden walls runs like a 
levee in an American river town up to 
the buildings, forming a street on the 
harbor front, and is swarming with life, 
and lined with lighters, from which 
gangs of men are unloading the freight 
brought from the ships in the stream. 
There, where the fishing-boats gather 
their nets, hanging on the masts to dry, 
forming a thick maze of mesh and cord 
age the cries of the workmen, the 
jangling of street bells, the blowing off 
of the steam from the Trafaria ferry 
boat by the wooden pier near the fish- 
market, the martial notes of the bugles 
sounding a call in the square, many- 
windowed barracks beyond, mingle in 
one confused, continuous roar. Almost 
straight to the eastward the harbor- 
mouth opens out to the sea, looking like 
a vast sheet of silvery blue, vying with 
the sky in brightness and dotted with 
incoming and departing craft of every 
kind. Away off, the heights of Cintra 
form a distant background to Belem- 
town, the houses of which mingle with 
those of Lisbon, and its old tower on 
the river s brink seems floating on the 
flood, while on the high hill back from 
the shore, the huge pile of the royal 
palace stands out against the sky. To 
the west the Tagus widens, forming a 
broad lake-like body of water, and the 
shore directly opposite the city, where 
Trafaria s houses lie in a deep ravine, 
towers up in a long line of dark bluffs. 



on the bulwarks and rail, on boat-da\ 7 its 
and squids, the ventilating shafts and 
masts is spotless, and the brightwork 
everywhere throws back sparkling glints 
to the sun s rays. The guns, great and 
small, their water-proof covers removed 
and placed out of sight somewhere, 
shine in all the glory of martial bronze, 
brass mountings, and polished blue 
steel ; the yards on the tapering masts 
are squared with mathematical accuracy ; 
every halliard, stay, and block, each coil 
of rope is in place, and fore and aft 
absolute order prevails. On the star 
board side of the quarter-deck the space 
is clear from forward of the gangway 
to the stern; on the port side arms 
piled in a perfectly aligned row of 
stacks near the 8-inch rifle the marine 
guard is stationed ; while forward, the 
crew dressed in immaculate blue, flat- 
topped caps, white knife-lanyards hang 
ing from under their wide collars where 
the glossy black -silk neckerchief is 
loosely knotted is occupied in various 
ways. On the bridge a vigilant quarter 
master moves about, glass under arm, 
reporting every movement about the 
harbor to the officer of the deck, who, 
white-gloved and trim in his neat ser 
vice dress, and closely followed by the 
young apprentice, serving as his mes 
senger, moves about from place to place, 
wherever his presence may be required. 
And a busy time he is having of it ; 
during his four successive hours tour 



FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 455 



of duty not a moment of quiet is his, 
and he is constantly on the alert, and 
constantly occupied, and is responsible, 
during his watch, for the proper execu 
tion of every order, every detail of the 
government of the ship and its crew. 

" Shore-boat coming alongside port 
gangway, sir ! " 

" All right ! " and permission to board 
the ship, or to lie alongside for one 
purpose or another, is granted or re 
fused. 

" Ten minutes to four bells, sir ! " 

" Messenger ! tell the gentlemen 
boat s going ashore in ten minutes ; 
call away the first cutter ! " Tratarata ! 
the bugle sounds the call, the boat 
swain s whistle pipes. "Awa-a-y first 
cutter ! " the command is heard forward, 
and the cutter s crew scramble out on 



comes a party of officers, all of them in 
their " shore-going " clothes high hat 
and round, " swell " overcoat, or rough 
ulster, canes or umbrellas in neatly 
gloved hands all on pleasure or busi 
ness bent ; they report " permission to 
leave the ship, sir ! " and troop over the 
side to the waiting boat. "Coxswain, 
make the usual landing, wait ten min 
utes and return to the ship ! " the officer 
of the deck commands. 

" Aye, aye, sir ! Shove off ! Out 
oars ! way together ! " and the oars dip 
in the water and the boat darts away 
and heads for the shore. 

" Strike four bells ! " Ting-ting, ting- 
ting, the bell sounds the hour, and 
immediately following, the strokes are 
repeated on the other vessels of the 
squadron. 




Duke has shaker 



jpsails. 



the long boom, which runs from the " The English steamer is getting un- 
frigate s side, and down the rope ladder ; der way, sir ! " 



swinging from it, hand over hand, one 
after another the men drop into the 
boat in the water below, and bring it to 
the starboard ladder. Up from below 



Up to the bridge jumps the lieuten 
ant, to see that all is right and that our 
ship is in no danger from the move 
ments of our neighbor. 



456 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 



" Hand by the colors there ! " as the 
merchantman, gliding slowly by, lowers 
his ensign in salute, and our flag flut 
ters gracefully down the staff in ac 
knowledgment. "What is it, my lads ? " 
to a couple of seamen standing respect 
fully at the mainmast, and some request 
or complaint is listened to and disposed 
of, while, with hand to cap-peak, a ma 
rine orderly delivers a message from the 
chief. " Very well ! Messenger ! ivhere s 
that boy ? Here, you, sir, stay where 
you belong, d ye suppose I ve got noth 
ing to do but to look all over the 
ship for you? Ask Mr. Dash to come 
here ! After-guard sweeper ! Mop tip 
that place, and keep your eyes about 
you ! Ah, Mr. Dash " to the midship 
man of the watch. " tell the guardship 
to send a boat ! " and in a moment the 
signal flags are " wig- wagging " from 
the after-bridge, telegraphing the order 
to one of the cruisers, with the white, 
red-crossed guard-flag flying at the fore. 

" Boat coming from the Portuguese 
flag-ship, sir ! Flying two Portuguese 
ensigns, sir ! " 

"All right! Flag-orderly! tell the 
Admiral the Portuguese Minister of the 
Marine is coming alongside ! Bo s n s 
mate, there ! Tend the sides ! Six side 
boys ! Look alive now ! Turn out 
your guard, there ! " From where I 
stand on the after-bridge, I see the 
Portuguese boat coming toward us. To 
American eyes it is a queer-looking 
craft, with carved and richly gilded 
prow, bright green sides, a sort of box 
at the stern, in which the coxswain 
stands, over the after-part a canopy, 
with the royal arms of Portugal painted 
on the top, under which a civilian, sur 
rounded by a group of cocked hatted, 
epauletted officers, is sitting. Slowly, 
and with measured stroke of its sixteen 
oars, the barge comes alongside ; the 
apprentices at the bottom of the gang 
way uncover and hand out the white, 
canvas-covered side-ropes to the grasp 
of the visitors ; shrilly, in a long-drawn 
rising and falling note, the " bo s n s " 
whistle pipes our guests over the side, 
as the Minister, followed by his suite, 
climbs the ladder and appears on deck, 
hat in hand, and responds to the greet 
ings of our chief, who, with the captain 
and. one or two other officers, stands at 



the gangway to receive him, while the 
marine guard presents arms and the 
band strikes up the Portuguese national 
anthem. Our visitors go below, where 
the admiral s hospitable cabin awaits 
their coming, and I look down at the 
sailors in the barge, short, brown-faced, 
sturdy-looking fellows, who, the mo 
ment their officers leave the boat, fall to 
smoking their cigarettes and lounge 
lazily on the thwarts, looking up curi 
ously at the sides of the big Yankee 
frigate. Official visits are short, if not 
sweet, and with the same ceremonies, to 
which a salute from our guns is added, 
and during which the Portuguese boat 
lies motionless, and the Minister stands, 
uncovered, in the stern sheets of his 
barge, our callers return to their own 
ship, which lies some distance beyond 
us. 

The afternoon passes, the officer of 
the deck always busy. Great lighters lie 
alongside, and hogsheads of olive-oil for 
the machinery are hoisted on board for 
ward ; shore- and ships -boats come and 
go, merchant vessels arrive and depart, 
and from the busy city the same con 
fused roar is heard all through the day. 

A mist comes creeping in from the 
sea, and the sun, low on the hor 
izon, sends a glare all through it, cast 
ing a dull crimson reflection on the 
water and reddening the buildings of 
the town. Slowly it sinks, until it hangs 
apparently motionless for a moment ; 
then, as it disappears below the sea-line, 
the notes of the " Star Spangled Ban 
ner " ring harmoniously out in the still 
atmosphere, and, as the flag glides slow 
ly down from its tall staff, officers and 
crew stand silently and with uncovered 
heads, in respectful salute to the emblem 
of the nation. 

The little group of belated Yankee 
naval officers, standing on the broad 
stone coping of the levee of the "Black 
Horse" Square, look in vain harbor- 
ward for a ship s boat. Before them, 
black as ink against the moonlit sky, 
and thick as trees in the primeval for 
est, rise the masts of the lighters, 
moored along the shore ; behind them, 
the huge statue of the black horse and his 
silent rider casts an enormous shadow 
back from the moon s rays on the smooth 



458 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 



gravel-covered surface of the wide plaza. 
Hardly a sound, save for the faint, dis 
tant jingle of a horse-car bell from 
under the huge archway yonder, where 
the long lines of street-lamps dimly 



and damp, the little company makes its 
way over the slippery pavements. Here 
and there, at long intervals, a lamp, 
projecting from the side of some one of 
the tall houses lining each side of the 




The Officer of the Deck always busy. 



burn in the shadow of the high houses. 
Tier upon tier, above the buildings 
bounding the square, ghostly white in 
the moonlight, rise the houses of the 
city, and, rushing silently on its way to 
the sea, but with swift, strong current, 
the Tagus stretches out to the black 
bluffs of the opposite shore. 

Not a boatman anywhere ; not a hu 
man being in sight besides themselves 
but the motionless sentry, wrapped in 
his gray capote, rifle-butt resting on the 
ground, and the fiery point of his cigar 
ette glowing against the silhouette of 
the watch-box by which he stands. 

There is another boat-landing further 
down the river, and, plunging into a 
dark, narrow side street, foul-smelling 



street, casts a sickly gleam on the wet 
stones ; now and then a light twinkles 
through the closely-shut blinds of some 
window, behind which the twanging of a 
guitar, the shuffle and stamp of dancing 
feet, the hum of voices are heard, and 
once or twice a glare from the open 
doorway of some low wine-shop cuts a 
luminous square out of the surrounding 
gloom. Some drunken seamen, singing 
a maudlin chorus, stagger by ; in the 
gutter a dark shape of human form is 
lying, waiting, in the deep sleep of com 
plete intoxication, for the coming of 
some patrol, to be carried away to the 
lockup. Other signs of misery and sin 
are evident in the flitting shadowy forms, 
occasionally met, slinking along the 



FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 459 



sides of the houses or appearing and 
disappearing in the black doorways. 

A small square, another narrow but 
short street, and out to the water-front 
again, to a long, rickety wooden pier 
and a gray stone wall, from which a 
broad inclined space, paved with slip 
pery, mud-covered stones, leads down 
to the water s edge. Numerous boats 
are moored here, and up from under 
the stone walls where they have been 
lying, a score of boatmen rush forth 
and with much eager gesticulation and 
noisy acclamation, proffer their services. 

" Me John Fishboy, officer ! Best 
boat for officer ! All American officer 
know John Fishboy ! " 

" No, my boat best ! John Steeck-a- 
mod boat best, captain ! " and so on, 
through a whole categor}^ of nicknames, 
handed down from father to son for 
generations, ever since English-speaking 
seamen first landed on Lisbon s shores. 

A great, high-bowed craft is quickly 
boarded, and, amid a chorus of "good- 
nights ! Tek me iiex time, officer ! 
More come soon ! " shoves off and out 
on the rushing bosom of the broad 
river. The night is bright with the 
full light of the moon, the tide is run 
ning strong, and the oarsmen sigh and 
pant, as they pull the heavy boat along. 
The water is covered with shipping 
long, black-hulled steamers, sailing ves 
sels from all parts of the world ; huge 
iron buoys strain and pull at their fast 
enings, as the tide rushes, gurgling and 
sparkling in the moonbeams. Every 
port shining bright and a blaze of light 
from the cabin windows, a great passen 
ger steamer towers high out of the 
water ; silent and dark and grim, the 
warships lie at their moorings. Hark ! 
mellowed by the distance, deep-toned 
bells are chiming. Over from steeple 
and dome, in moon-lit Lisbon, the sol 
emn yet joyous notes float on the mid 
night air, proclaiming " On earth, peace, 
good-will toward men ! " Christmas Eve ! 
Ah, dear little ones in far away America ! 
Ah ! sweethearts and wives ! God bless 
you, and a Merry Christmas ! 

Away forward, clinging with one hand 
to the foretop-mast stay, and waving the 
red signal-flag with the other, a young 
apprentice is sending a message to the 



ship ahead of us ; behind him, crouch 
ing among the loose folds of the jib and 
balancing his spyglass on the rail, his 
companion is awaiting the answer. The 
sun has just risen from behind the hazy 
blue line of the land, trending away be 
fore us over yonder, and the sea, a deep, 
rich purple, dark under the shadow of 
the coast and sparkling with glints of 
golden light, where the sharp-pro wed 
cruisers, cleaving the clear waters, send 
rippling wakes astern, stretches with 
gently heaving, long, smooth swell, far 
away to the horizon s edge. The tall 
masts and great spars of the ships stand 
out in bold relief against the bright, 
pale-blue sky, the tall chimneys pour 
forth dense volumes of black smoke, 
which drift slowly off to leeward, until 
mingled with and lost in the air ; miles 
away on our port bow, between the 
faint line of the headlands on either 
side, the Straits of Gibraltar open out, 
as we head for the African coast. "VVe 
are in sight of the shores of two conti 
nents. 

The surf, breaking over the black 
rocks, throwing masses of snow-white 
spray up against the precipitous sides 
of the cliff ; a tall, white tower, perched 
on a rugged crag Judios Point, with its 
lighthouse, the only one on these barbar 
ous shores. The coast rises, dark, for 
bidding, and abrupt, straight out of the 
sea ; here and there the white walls of a 
house gleam out, in striking contrast 
with the luxuriant masses of dark-green 
foliage, with which the hillsides are cov 
ered, and, as we steam slowly into the 
bay the flat-roofed houses, the domes 
and minarets of Tangier rise over the 
old gray walls, running from the sum 
mit of titie hills down to the water s edge. 
One after the other the ships come to 
anchor and float quietly at rest on the 
mirror-like surface, their shapely hulls 
and maze of spar and rigging reflecting 
straight down into the water. A glori 
ous day ! Like a fairy to\vn of silver, 
Tangier lies basking in the sunlight ; 
with graceful curves, the crescent of the 
beach borders with an edge of golden 
sands the azure of the sea, and melts 
gradually into the rich green of the roll 
ing mounds beyond. Through the glass 
I can see a long string of camels moving 



FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 461 



slowly along, and flying past them, an 
Arab on horseback, white cloak stream 
ing out behind, gallops toward the town. 
Yonder comes a heavy fishing boat, nets 
heaped in a great pile, swarthy, bare- 
armed, bare-legged crew bending to the 
long oars. It passes close under our 
stern, and the wild faces of the fisher 
men look up at me, fierce, stern, imper 
turbable under the picturesque folds of 
turban or shadow of hood of brown 
burnouse. Other boats dot the surface 
of the bay, a white-winged felucca 
stands out to sea, her huge lateen sail 
swelling with the scarcely perceptible, 
soft, warm breeze from the land. From 
the shore, near the crumbling crenellated 
walls of the ancient fort, a barge puts out 
and goes alongside the flagship, and I 
conjure up visions of picturesque streets 
and buildings, moon-eyed and veiled 
beauties, and proud, gaudily attired 
Moorish cavaliers, of the caliph of Bag 
dad, and of Sheherazade and all the 
tales of the thousand and one nights, of 
the bazaars and the mosques, the stories 
and pictures of Oriental splendor and 
barbarous life I have heard of, and I hug 
myself mentally in delightful anticipa 
tion of the artistic treat in store for me, 
once the blood-red standard of the 
Moorish emperor should float at the fore- 
top-mast of the flag-ship, as her guns 
saluted his barbaric majesty, and the 
despised giaour from over the seas would 
be allowed to set foot on the sacred 
shores of the followers of the prophet. 

I step down the ladder from the quar 
ter-deck, pass along the waist and climb 
up to the forecastle, whence I can get a 
better view of the Chicago. The barge 
is still alongside and the men of her 
crew are lying on their oars ; on the 
steps of the frigate s gangway a couple 
of officers are parleying with the oc 
cupants of the boat, who do not seem 
to have boarded the big ship. " Some 
thing is up," evidently, as I see the 
Moors giving way and heading toward 
the land again, while the dark-blue fig 
ures on the gangway ascend and disap 
pear behind the bulwarks. I don t have 
long to wait to know what has hap 
pened. Instead of the crimson flag of 
Morocco, a bright yellow square of bunt 
ing is run up to the fore. Quickly follow 
ing the lead of the flag-ship, out flutters 

Vol.. VITL 47 



the hateful emblem of the quarantine 
from theforetop-masts of the Boston and 
the Atlanta, of our own ship, the York- 
town, and, to my intense disgust and dis 
appointment, I realize that "pratique" 
is refused to the American squadron, 
and that all my anticipations of a few 
days of artistic enjoyment of the life of a 
genuine Oriental city were but " dreams, 
idle dreams." 

In the Straits for a short run to the 
" Rock ! " A levanter has been blowing, 
and the swell is heavy, and our gallant 
little craft responds to the rise and fall 
of the waves with impatient pitch and 
roll, as she speeds swiftly through the 
water in the wake of the other ships. 
On either side the land is in full sight. 
On the Spanish coast Tarifa nestles at 
the base of the hills, on the African 
shore the mountains of the Apes raise 
summits of strange and fantastic shape 
skyward, ahead the "Lion Couchant" 
Gibraltar s famous rock looms into 
view. 

It is the first Sunday of the month ; 
the crew is being mustered at quarters 
and the deck is crowded with " blue 
jackets." On the port side the marine 
guard endeavors to preserve its steady 
military alignment, a difficult task with 
the rolling of the ship ; the engineers, 
machinists, and firemen form in a dou 
ble rank amidships, and the seamen, 
and " all hands " generally, stand at their 
appointed stations, while the executive 
officer reads out the naval regulations 
the Articles of War. 

At the davits on the starboard side, 
where the captain s gig hangs, the cox 
swain and one or two men are engaged 
in securing the boats. 

Sparkling in the sunlight, little dancing 
wavelets rippling over its bright blue sur 
face, curving in a great horseshoe-like 
bend, the Bay of Gibraltar sweeps from 
the point over beyond Algeciras around 
to the great " Rock," thrusting its embat 
tled walls in haughty grandeur out into 
the sea, as if in proud consciousness of 
Britain s mighty power. Gray sea-walls 
line the strand, roof-tops peeping over 
them ; houses and barracks, turret and 
ancient stone defence climb the steep hill 
side ; the Alameda, with its dark fringe of 



462 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 



trees and level parade ground, lies be 
yond, and, bristling with barrack and 
battery, Europa Point the New Mole 
projecting into the harbor some way in 
side of it rises out of the water. Sheer 
from the verdure-clad incline behind the 
town, the naked rock rears its rugged 
outline, on its top the signal-tower, with 
its tall staff pointing heavenward. 

Back in the bay off the Water Port, a 
tangle of masts and rigging, here and 
there black smoke-clouds rising from 
the funnels of some steamer, mark the 
anchorage of the merchant-men ; dingy 
and dismantled, the coal hulks sit heavi 
ly on the water. Off the Bagged staff 
landing thousands of sea-gulls are fly 
ing, screaming about the war-ships rid 
ing easily at their moorings, the snow- 
white hulls of the American cruisers, 
" anchored at discretion," showing con 
spicuously among them. 

Almost like yachts the latter look, 
compared with some of their huge 
neighbors, for some of Great Britain s 
strongest and most terrible sea-mon 
sters are gathered in the harbor, lying 
on the waters as if in slumber, quiet 
and tranquil enough now, but ready to 
awaken at their mistress s bidding, and 
to vomit forth death and devastation 
from their steel-clad sides.* 

Close to our ship is the Anson ; on the 
other side the huge Benbow, with mas 
sive black hull and white, fortress-like 
superstructure, points the muzzles of 

Of the ships of the British Navy, lying at Gibraltar 
when the squadron of evolution visited that port in 
December, 1889, the Anson, Benbow, Camperdown, and 
Colossus are the most formidable. The Northumberland, 
Monarch, and Iron Duke are vessels of a different type 
from those first named. The Benbow, Anson, and Cam 
perdown the latter ship came into the harbor one day 
and left on the next are similar to one another in general 
shape and construction, the Benbow having, however, an 
armament of two 110-ton guns in barbette one in each 
barbette, fore and aft and ten six-inch guns in broadside, 
while the Anson and Camperdown have two 63-ton guns 
in each barbette and six six-inch rifles in broadside. 
Their armor is compound, being of a maximum thickness 
of eighteen inches on the belt and fourteen inches on the 
barbettes. Their displacement is 10,600 tons, horse-power 
11,600, and the speed attained about seventeen knots. 
Each is provided with five torpedo tubes and each carries 
a number of machine and rapid-fire guns in excess of the 
heavier batteries. The Colossus has a displacement of 
9,420 tons, 7,500 horse-power, and a speed of about sixteen 
knots. Her armor has a thickness of eighteen inches on 
the belt and sixteen inches in the revolving turrets, of 
which she has two, each containing two 43-ton guns ; her 
auxiliary batteries consist of five six-inch rifles in the 
superstructure. She carries torpedoes and rapid-fire 
and machine guns. The Northumberland, Monarch, 
and Iron Duke are all older vessels, less powerful iron 
clads, but are still more formidable than any man-of- 
war of the United States in commission, or even planned, 
at the time of the writing of this article. No cruisers of 
a similar class to the American ships were in port 
during the stay of our squadron. 



her enormous guns over the tops of the 
turret-like barbettes on her decks, fore 
and aft, while from the ports in her 
sides the cannons of her batteries peer 
menacingly outward. A fringe of da 
vits, from which here and there a boat 
is hanging, runs on both sides of her 
upper-deck, and her tall military mast, 
the tops bristling with machine guns, 
tapers aloft amidships. The Anson flies 
the flag of the rear admiral ; on her 
quarter-deck scarlet coated, white hel- 
meted marines are drawn up and the 
band is playing ; alongside of her some 
boats are lying. Farther out in the bay 
the Iron Duke has shaken out her top 
sails, and the canvas droops from the 
long yards in graceful folds, while from 
her bows to aft of her main-mast the 
white clothing of her crew, hanging 
there to dry, flutters from the clothes 
lines. Over by the long stone wall of 
the New Mole the Northumberland and 
the Colossus, the vice admiral s ship, 
and a number of smaller vessels de 
spatch-boats and yachts are moored, 
while back among the colliers the Mon 
arch s white ensign marks the presence 
of a man-of-war in their midst. In the 
offing another naval monster, the Cam 
perdown, is steaming slowly out to sea. 
The harbor is alive with row-boats 
and launches of all kinds. Yonder, 
glancing like a fish half emerging from 
the water, comes a small, queerly shaped 
craft. Circling with astonishing rapid 
ity around our ship for a moment, it 
darts off suddenly, and, with a swish and 
quick splash, something drops from its 
side. A moment later a dull report, a 
flash of fire, and a little puff of blue 
smoke, curling over the water some 
distance beyond us, where a little red 
flag waves from a sort of buoy floating 
there, shows us that the torpedo, that 
we have just seen launched, has reached 
its mark. With hum of forced draft 
and pant of steam and thud of rapidly 
revolving screw, a launch is passing near 
us, towing great man-of-war boats, filled 
with blue-jacketed sailors and red-coat 
ed marines, toward the shore. On the 
height, crowned with masonry work, 
over by the dockyard, clouds of white 
smoke, followed by sharp ringing reports 
and the shriek of the projectiles, indi 
cates where a crowd of blue-jackets are 



FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 463 



at target practice with their howitzers, 
and out to sea beyond, columns of spray 
fly up in the air as the shells strike the 
water or ricochet across its smooth sur 
face. 

From some of the regiments forming 
the garrison of Gibraltar, and from all 
the British ships lying near us, many of 
the officers have come on board at vari 
ous times to bid us welcome, and a 
party of our own people from the ward 
room are leaving the ship for the pur 
pose of returning the calls. As this 
projected round of visits is purely of a 
social nature, I gladly accept the invita 
tion to accompany my friends, and we 
board the formidable iron-clads one af 
ter the other, and are received every 
where with great cordiality and frank 
hospitality by our transatlantic cou 
sins. Perfect order and admirable disci 
pline are visible on all the ships ; the men 
of the crews are a splendid lot of fellows 
uniformed in well-made, easy and per 
fectly fitting blue, and neat and clean 
as brush and soap and water can make 
them heavier and perhaps slower in 
their movements than our own Jackies, 
but homogeneous and unmistakably 
British in character and with the nation 
al spirit and pride strongly developed 
in their natures. 

The Benbow is sending out some of 
her boats for practice as we come along 
side. Great heavy launches, filled with 
men and with machine-guns mounted 
in bow and stern, pull slowly out to 
ward the harbor s mouth, the blades 
of their long oars dipping into the wa- 
T-er in perfect unison and whirling cir 
cling eddies astern. On the decks of 
the big ship the monster guns weigh 
ing each 110 tons, throwing, with a 
charge of 960 pounds of powder, a pro 
jectile 1,800 pounds in weight seem 
more huge and terrible than ever, as we 
look up at them from where we stand, 
mere pigmies alongside of them, and we 
measure with our eyes the immense 
width of the vessel s beam, the tremen 
dous steel walls of her sides, and " take 
in " with rapid glances, on our way to the 
spacious and comfortable wardroom, 
her thousand and one appliances for 
defence and offence, for the health and 
welfare of her crew. 

A fine, hearty lot of men, these new 



found friends of ours, of a common 
race and speaking the same tongue, evi 
dently intending us to feel at home 
among them, and to carry away with 
us friendly impressions of the British 
navy. 

And, as we pull away from the Iron 
Duke, the last of the ships w r e have vis 
ited, and look up her high sides to the 
genial, smiling face of her executive 
officer, who has been our host and en 
tertainer during our short visit, and 
hear his cordial voice, as he shouts out 
kind words of farewell, I cannot help 
but hope that when we fight again as 
sooner or later we must surely expect 
to do it may not be with Englishmen. 

The basin at the Bagged staff land 
ing is crowded with man-of-war boats, 
British and American. A number of 
officers from the different ships of our 
squadron are going ashore for a tour 
through the streets of the town, and are 
disembarking at the landing-steps. On 
the pier a battalion of sailors is drawn 
up, awaiting the command to enter their 
boats, lying in the water by the wave- 
lapped stone wall. All in white canvas 
and brown leggings, their rifle-butts 
resting on the ground, the sturdy Eng 
lish seamen " stand at ease," where they 
have halted after their shore-drill on 
the Alameda, and many of their officers, 
acquaintances of ours, nod and smile 
friendly greetings as we pass along the 
front of the battalion and out, over the 
drawbridge, through the stone archway 
of the gate and across the court, where 
ton upon ton of iron and steel shot and 
shell are piled in regular rows. On the 
ramparts above, pacing up and down 
with rapid stride, a scarlet-coated, white- 
belted sentry looks down upon us, and, 
with precise military salute, blue-coat 
ed gunners, swinging their short, slim 
canes, pass by us, as they stroll down to 
the landing to have a look at their sea 
faring comrades of the navy. 

Some of us are bound for a walk in 
the town ; others have calls to make or 
business to attend to, and so, breaking 
up into little groups, we go our sepa 
rate ways. With one or two, who, like 
myself, have come ashore just to wander 
about anywhere that our fancy may dic 
tate, I turn to the left and pass under 



464 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 



another stone archway into the street 
of the town, and we walk slowly along, 
looking in at the shop-windows and en 
joying the street sights generally. The 
military character of the place is at once 
evident ; a guard -house with sentry 
in front and the men of the guard 
lounging on the benches in front of it 
and the garden and buildings of the 
" garrison recreation rooms " are just 
inside the gate. Soldiers move about 
everywhere in the crowd that throngs 
the street. Red-coats and blue, som 
bre riflemen and linesmen, gorgeous in 
white and scarlet ; scores of officers in 
civilian clothes, but betraying their 
calling in attitude and bearing ; black- 
coated clergymen, sweet-voiced English 
women, chubby little fair-haired chil 
dren, bearded Moor and dusky Arab, 
and black-eyed Spanish girls, lace veils 
drooping from their shapely heads, 
stroll along the narrow sidewalks. By 
the post-office a little crowd awaits the 
distribution of the mail, among it mail- 
carriers from every regiment, mess, and 
battery in the garrison, and " cheek by 
jowl " with Tommy Atkins some of our 
own soldierly marine orderlies. Yon 
der comes a " buss " rattling over the 
well-paved roadway, passengers inside 
and out, a Jewish merchant from Mo 
rocco or Tangier, in voluminous turban 
and flowing garments, side by side with 
a Spanish priest. Hackney coaches, 
with small, sturdy horses ; queer two- 
wheeled carts, filled with Spanish peas 
ants ; donkeys, panier-laden or with rider 
astride away back on their haunches ; 
sunburned, roystering " blue- jackets " 
on liberty ; ladies on horseback, dogs, 
ponies, more soldiers, pass and repass. 
Over the murmur of voices and the 
rumble of wheels I hear a distant, 
strange, wild strain of music, a stirring 
martial melody. Way off yonder over 
the heads of the people a glittering mass 
of burnished steel is moving toward us, 
and, as the crowd parts before its ad 
vance, and the wail of the pipes and the 
thundering roll of the drums re-echoes 
from the walls of the houses, a long col 
umn of white-coated, dark-kilted, bare- 
kneed Highlanders marches with meas 
ured, cadenced step and proud military 
bearing down the street. Splendid 
manly fellows they look, fit descendants 



of their war-like ancestors, and well has 
the regiment upheld in storm and bat 
tle, in Northern snows and on Egypt s 
burning sands, in the fastnesses of theii 
native mountains, and under the rays of 
the pitiless tropic sun the honor and 
the glory of the old " Eorty-second " the 
famous "Black Watch." With one im 
pulse we turn about my companions and 
myself and tramp along with the troops, 
keeping step with them and to the 
music, as we were wont to do in our own 
distant land, years ago, in our school 
boy days. We chaff one another a lit 
tle about our enthusiasm, but there is a 
drop or two of hot Gaelic blood in the 
veins of all three of us, which the half 
savage screaming of the pipes has set 
dancing, and, as we glance along the 
" serried column," we are a little proud 
of the fact. 

Out through the gate the guard 
there " turned out " and presenting arms 
the regiment marches, crossing ovei- 
the wide parade of the Alameda and oi\ 
past gardens and high stone walls, 
past cactus and aloe-hedges and gianl 
geraniums, past pretty little tile-roofed 
houses, past batteries, covered ways, 
gates, and steps up a steep hill to the 
broad space in front of the barracks. 
The ranks are broken, the men swarm 
into the building through the open door 
ways, and a party of the officers, on hos 
pitable doings intent, seize upon us and 
carry us off, nothing loth, to the mess. 

High above us towers the summit of 
the " Rock ; " with shriek and roar the 
wind tears through the air, hurling 
great cloud-masses in wild flight across 
the heavens, dipping down in sudden 
squall and furious eddy, lashing the 
water into whirling spots of foam, tear 
ing off the wave-tops and chasing them 
in sheets of spray like drifting snow 
sheer across the bay to the opposite 
shore, outlined dimly against the sky 
beyond. The full round face of the 
moon glances out from behind the rag 
ged cloud-edges and throws a frosty 
sheen of pale light, like a rippling river 
of diamonds, over the dark waves ; on 
the ships at anchor around us lanterns 
swing in the rigging, fitfully flaring as 
the gusts strike them ; the great iron 
clads lie like rocks, immense, black, 



FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 465 



inert masses, their ports, here and there, 
glowing like bright round coals of fire ; 
from the tall mast on the Benbow signal 
lights are flashing. 

Up and down on the poop, from port 
to starboard, the quartermaster of the 
watch, the wide collar of his rough pea- 
coat turned up, walks to and fro. For 
ward all is quiet, a lamp burns dimly 
in the waist, and the canvas screening 
the hammocks swung under the fore 
castle deck shakes and trembles in the 
draft. The crew is sound asleep all save 
the anchor-watch. The first lieutenant 
is " yarning " with me under the lee of 
the bulwarks by the " rapid-fire " Hotch- 
kiss, and the captain s orderly, leaning 
against the rails of the hatch by the 
wheel, is reading a book by the light 
streaming out of the open doorway of 
the little office on the port side of the 
deck, and where the officer of the watch is 

making some 
entry in the 
ship s log. 

"Boat a- 
hoy ! " comes 
the peremp- 
tory hail 
from the 



thwarts, mingle with words of com 
mand. Instantly the officers hurry to 
the starboard gangway, the corporal of 
the guard stands at " attention " near 
the main-mast, the orderly whips his novel 
into the mail-bag hanging by the cabin 
door, and faces to starboard, heels to 
gether, straight and stiff as a ramrod, 
while a seaman holds an electric lantern, 
its long coil trailing behind, out over 
the steps of the accommodation ladder 
hanging at the ship s sides and at the 
foot of which the white gig, tossing up 
and down on the choppy waves, has just 
stopped, and where, watching his op 
portunity, as the boat rises on the crest 
of a wave, the captain jumps nimbly 
out onto the grating and ascends the 
steps. With a question or two to his 
officers, and a friendly good-night, he 
disappears through the cabin door, and 
I follow him into the comfortable room, 
glad to seek shelter from the chilling 
blasts without, to have a quiet chat and 
smoke with my kind and genial host be 
fore turning in, and to listen to his 
graphic and interesting account of his 
evening on the British flagship. 

Out to sea again, blue and sparkling, 




" A white-winged felucca stands out to sea. 1 

poop ; faintly the response is heard : 
" Yorktown ! " and a moment later the 
regular dip of oars, their rattle, as 
they are raised and placed on the 



east, south, and west ; to 
the north ard the snow- 
clad Sierra Nevada 
raises silvery crests 
above rock-bound Anda- 
lusian shores. Through 
the clear waters the war 
ships speed, merrily the 
soft breeze sings in the 
rigging and plays with 
the bright-colored signal-flags on the ad 
miral s ship. Up to her main-yard long 
lines of fluttering bits of bunting, now 
spelling out one order, now another, fly 



466 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 



outward. Promptly the answering pen 
nants wave from the other ships. Now 
like things of life the beautiful cruis 
ers move in column ; now, answering 
quickly to the touch of the helmsmen, 
they form line and push forward in battle 
order ; now they wheel and again fall 
into column, obedient to the orders of 
the commander-in-chief, with the reg 
ularity and precision of troops on pa 
rade. Evolution after evolution are exe 
cuted until the final command to resume 
sailing order and the squadron settles 
down, steadily steaming onward over 
the calm, smooth surface of the " Tide- 
less Sea." 



Inside of a well-built, massive granite 
mole a long breakwater running out 
from the shore straight across the bay, 
and on the rounded point of which a 
handsome stone tower is in process of 
construction the ships of our squadron 
are lying in a long line, bows pointed 
toward the town, sterns moored by huge 
cables to immense iron rings in the walls 
of the pier. High hills, bare and rocky, 
not a tree visible on their scarred sides, 
are all around us, and emerge straight 
out of the sea on either hand beyond ; 
batteries and forts crown the heights on 
every advantageous site, and great guns 
peep over mounds of earth, thrown up 
at the narrow entrance to Carthagena 
harbor. To the left and on our port- 
bow, as we look toward the city, are the 
long white buildings, the sheds, the 
dock and basins of the navy yard ; fol 
lowing the irregular curve of the shore 
in our front and, around to the right, we 
see the walls of Carthagena, pierced by 
the double-arched gate of the Puerta 
del Mar, and in front of which well 
constructed stone docks are lined with 
shipping. Further along and outside of 
the walls a dingy mass of buildings 
huge chimnies rising here and there 
from among them, and lighters and 
scows floating on the bay before them 
mark the store-yards and mills for the 
ores from the mines in the region 
around, and which form the chief article 
of export of the place. Inside the walls 
a wilderness of roofs, from the midst of 
which a mound-shaped hill lifts its top, 
on which an ancient citadel is crumb 



ling to picturesque ruin, stretches back 
into the country. 

A swarm of " bumboats " surround the 
war-vessels, and a lively trade is es 
tablished between their occupants and 
our Jackies, crowding in the port gang 
ways. The boats are mostly heavy, 
cumbersome affairs, with high bows and 
heavy oars, and are loaded with piles of 
golden oranges, dates, loaves of Spanish 
bread, little brightly-labelled boxes of 
sweets, cigars or cigarettes. Red-capped, 
calico - shirted, sandal - shod Spanish 
bum-boat men here and there a dark- 
skinned beauty of the softer sex chatter 
and gesticulate, as they barter with the 
sailormen or protest vociferously when 
their too-eager advances are checked by 
the impassive masters - at - arms, seated 
or standing at the bottoms of the ac 
commodation ladders, vigilantly guard 
ing against the smuggling of contra 
band articles aboard. On the mole, 
groups of the townspeople, grave, seri 
ous-faced Spanish officers, with short 
bef rogged, black blouses, high kepis, and 
black-striped, baggy scarlet trousers, 
who have come out from the city to 
have a look at their visitors from distant 
America, stand gazing curiously at the 
cruisers. Man-of-war boats pull to and 
fro, and shore - boats the " cabs " of 
the harbors hover about, the boatmen 
looking attentively toward the ships in 
search of a possible customer. 

The day is a perfect one, the water 
smooth as glass, and I beckon one of 
the boatmen to the port side, and, mak 
ing my way through the throng of sail 
ors, and stepping from one bumboat to 
the other, I jump aboard the little craft. 
By dint of signs and a few lame sentences 
of Spanish, eked out by equally crippled 
words of English on the part of my 
smilingly polite boatman, I strike a bar 
gain for a pull anywhere about the har 
bor my fancy may dictate, so, settling 
myself comfortably in the stern-sheets, I 
grasp the tiller, and we paddle quietly 
out over the water. 

Passing under the stern of an English 
merchant steamer anchored off the 
mole I direct the boat s course toward 
the dock-yard, meaning to catch as much 
of a glimpse of its interior as I can, al 
though I fancy that I will not be allowed 
to enter the sacred precincts. How- 



FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 467 



ever, I steer as near to the entrance as 
I think the boatman will go, and, as we 
approach the mouth of the great square 
basin, I " lay a straight course " across, 
directing the bow of the boat toward 
the little white guard-house on the edge 
of the pier on the town side. My boat 
man says nothing, although he glances 
over his shoulder once or twice to see 
which way we are pointing, so we are 
probably not breaking any port-regula 
tions, and I take a good look of as much 
as I can see of the famous Spanish dock 
yard. To my inexperienced eyes there 
does not seem much to hide from the 
gaze of the curious, although some of 
those long rows of buildings doubtless 
contain things the government might 
object to lay open to the gaze of foreign 
naval officers. There are ships and 
boats, hulks and scows, derricks and 
sheds, and in a dry-dock, back in the 
basin, a big frigate is standing, and, on 
platforms placed along her sides, white- 
clad workmen are busy. A man-of-war 
boat comes out from some side dock 
toward us, the officer in the stern 
glancing at us, as it darts out to the 
harbor. We row past the guard-house, 
by perpendicular stone walls running 
down into the water, and through a lit 
tle fleet of fishing boats, until we come 
opposite the fine, massive walls of the 
landing stage near the "Sea Gate." 
Here, by the handsome flight of steps, 
the scene is an animated one. On one 
side fishing boats are crowded ; bare 
legged, bronzed-faced fishermen are un 
loading great round panniers filled with 
fish and covered with wet green sea- 
grass ; carts, drawn by long-eared, round- 
bellied donkeys, stand near awaiting 
their freight from the boats. Rowing 
and small sailing craft of all kinds are 
coming and going ; at the steps man-of- 
war boats and steam launches are lying, 
among them our admiral s barge with 
handsome crew, and I can see a little 
crowd gathered near some carriages on 
the stage. Blue uniforms, cocked hats, 
the glitter of polished brass and the 
sheen of gold lace contrast with the 
more sober habiliments of civilians, as 
the admiral with one or two of his staff 
and several gorgeously attired Span 
iards enter the vehicles and are driven 
through the big gateway, and I hear the 



blare of a trumpet and the clash of arms, 
as the guard inside there turns out 
and salutes the commander-in-chief of 
Uncle Sam s squadron as he enters the 
town to pay an official visit to some 
high functionary of his Spanish majes 
ty s government. 

The custom-house officer, hands deep 
in the tail pockets of his uniform coat, 
stands, looking down at us as we row 
past, on the edge of the stone dock, 
where the big steam cranes are hoisting 
bales and boxes of merchandise from 
the lighter below ; now, the water-side 
is crowded with shipping ships, barks, 
schooners, lighters, and feluccas ; here, 
we come to ship-yards, with vessels in 
all stages of repairing, and, as the water 
grows shallower, and the stone docks end 
with the walls of the city, boats and 
small sailing vessels recline on their 
beam ends, half submerged in the water 
on the shoals, and men are working on 
them, painting, scraping, or caulking the 
seams in their bottoms. 

Slowly my boatman pulls along 
stopping now and then to let me " take 
in " some interesting scene of harbor 
life, or to scrape a match on the seat of 
his velveteen trousers to light the Ma 
nilla I have given him, and which is 
constantly " going out " and we pass 
along the entire water-front. Slowly 
we glide past a huge steam dredger, 
snorting and sighing, and, with clank of 
iron chain and soft " sough " of falling 
mud, digging out a channel there near 
the dirty and low but well built stone 
piers to the east of the town, where im 
mense piles of ore iron and lead, 
some copper are being transferred, in 
baskets, by gangs of dark - visaged, 
half-clad stevedores, to great unwieldy 
square scows, that are pushed out, 
when loaded, to the steamers lying in 
the bay, which, the boat pointed for 
the squadron again, we are now cross 
ing. Close alongside a large wooden 
Spanish man-of-war, nearly touching* 
her boats, floating under her long 
booms, we move ; past a big iron-hulled 
steamer, where we pause a moment to 
watch the stevedores handing up the 
baskets of ore from the flat-boat along 
side. Plank stagings, each one wider 
than that above it, are made fast to the 
steamer s sides, and on each staging two 



468 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 



men are passing the heavy ore-filled 
baskets from the pile in the scow up to 
the pair above them, reaching clown for 
the succeeding load, as soon as that 
preceding it has left their hands, and 
swinging their bodies and arms up and 
down with machine-like regularity. 

The bumboats are still swarming 
about the ship, as my friendly boatman 
brings me alongside and I dismiss him, 
but soon the call to evening quarters re 
sounds through the squadron, and the 
Jackies scramble back from the gang 
ways and hurry to their stations, and 
the bumboats pull in irregular, long 
lines back to the town. The flags are 
lowered ; soon the bo s ns whistles 
sound shrilly from ship to ship, pip 
ing to supper, and the lamps begin to 
twinkle over in the city, as the gloam 
ing shuts down on us. 

How perfectly tranquil and calm is 
the water of the bay, reflecting in its 
depths the lights, increasing momenta 
rily in number all over the harbor ; so 
quiet is everything about, as the even 
ing shades gather closer and closer, 
while the light dies out of the sky in 
the west and the stars shine with soft 
brilliancy in the high dark vault of the 
heavens, that we can hear the shore 
sounds from the city way over in front 
of us, and the voices from the neighbor 
ing ships sound startlingly near us. 

Hush ! the band on the flagship is 
playing, and each one of us grouped 
on deck to port near the breech-loading 
rifle stands in dreamy silence, listen 
ing to the sad, sweet strains of the music. 

"Off Cape De Gatte I lost my hat, 

And vhere d ye think I found it ? 
In Port Malion, under a stone, 
With all the girls around it 

hums the " senior-watch," in the words 
of the old song of the midshipmen, as, 
slipping his arm through mine, he joins 
me in a walk on the deck. Cape Palos, 
with its lighthouse, is rapidly disap 
pearing on the horizon, and we are bowl 
ing along in the twilight on a course 
laid straight for the island of Minorca 
and Port Mahon. In the van, the 
Chicago points her nose out to sea, and 
the rest of the squadron, each ship in 
position for night-sailing, follows the 
lead of the flagship. Forward, some 



of the men off watch are " skylarking," 
the smoking-lantern is burning, and 
Jackie is enjoying his evening pipe, 
while on the high narrow bridge the 
officer of the watch strides to and fro. 
Aft, on the poop by the rail at the stern, 
a marine stands on guard near the pat 
ent life-buoys, and the quartermaster, a 
handsome, trim young sailor, with the 
white knot of the apprentice - mark 
indicating that he has passed through 
the ratings of apprentice in the navy, 
stitched on the breast of his shirt, is 
stowing away some articles, rolls of 
bunting, signal flags, and the like, in the 
white locker near the cabin skylight. 
We touch our caps to the captain, com 
ing up the starboard ladder, and he 
joins us in our walk, chatting over the 
events of the day, and the prospects of 
a clear night and a rapid run to Port 
Mahon. 

By and by, as the air grows chilly 
up on deck, one after the other we drop 
below. Perhaps the evening is spent 
in the wardroom over a quiet game of 
whist, or chaffing and laughing about 
some episode of our daily life on ship 
board. Or in the comfortable cabin, the 
soft light of the electric reading-lamp 
over the table, the captain and I sit 
reading some work from the ship libra 
ry, pausing now and again to discuss 
some matter we have come upon in the 
books we are reading, or to converse 
about people and things of mutual in 
terest to us. Then, as my host bids me 
good-night and enters his state-room, I 
too seek my comfortable nook, prepared 
nightly for me by the well-trained cabin 
boy, and turning off the light by the 
touch of a button over my head, I roll 
myself in my blankets, and soothed by 
the musical rippling of the water along 
the ship s sides and the song of the sea- 
breeze in the rigging, I lie there, warm 
and snug, hearing with half - conscious 
ears as sweet, health - giving slumber 
gradually steals over me the occasional 
footfall on the deck above, the muffled 
stroke of the ship s bell, tolling the 
hours of the watch, and the answering 
cry of the lookouts, holding faithful 
vigil over their sleeping shipmates. 

Dear in memories of bygone days, 
to the heart of many an old sailor, is 




A swarm of bumboats. 



VOL. VIII. 48 



470 FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 




white-walled Port Mahon. Safe from 
the mistral s savage winds, many an 
American cruiser has rested in its land 
locked harbor in the old days of the 
sailing frigate ; here " Old Ironsides at 
anchor lay " once years gone by ; here, 
when the baby republic first sent its 
star-sprinkled flag out to greet the older 
nations and to enforce respect for and 
recognition of its rights by barbarous 
pirate kings, Decatur and Preble came ; 
here Porter lived and wed his bride ; and 
from Minorca s sea-girt land came the 
father of " the Sea King of the sovereign 
West," brave, loyal, old sailor Farragut. 
And here to-day is anchored the first 
squadron of the new American navy, the 
best equipped, the finest, and most for 
midable ships the United States has 
ever sent to foreign parts. And once 
more does Port Mahon justify its old 
reputation, for over behind its shelter 
ing hills the storm is gathering to 
sweep over the sea and scatter havoc in 
its path. 

The air is still. Not a breath of wind 
disturbs the placid surface of the har 
bor ; the pennants on the mainmasts 
hang straight down, the flags are mo 
tionless on their staffs. The sky is 



cloudless, but the 
blue has died out 
of it. and it shows, 
one unbroken ex 
panse of grayish- 
white. From the 
sea a small felucca 
is corning toward 
us, sails furled and 
crew working at 
long sweeps, pull 
ing in harborward. 
Over by the sea 
wall the fishing- 
boats are hauled up 

on shore ; none of them have put out 
to-day, for the experienced Minorcan 
boatmen well know the warning signs 
in the heavens. The " first lieutenant 3> 
is looking at the barometer, and points 
out to me how it is steadily falling, but 
his ship is well anchored, his position 
in the harbor all that he can desire, so 
he contents himself with seeing all snug- 
alow and aloft in readiness for the com 
ing blow. 

Now, over in the sky, where the sun 
shines weakly, a wall of gray clouds is 
rising, slowly, almost imperceptibly. 
Still there is not a breath of air, but 
there is a confused, indistinct murmur 
around about us, and then the light of 
the sun is obscured, and a cold shadow 
spreads over land and sea. The pen 
nants, the flags move slightly, waving 
their ends sluggishly, then hang listless 
again. It has grown cooler, and a drop 
or two of rain falls on the deck. Thick 
er and more threatening grow the 
clouds, and now cover the sky, save a 
long narrow streak on the horizon. 
Dust is rising in the air over the land, 
and, hurrying before it, flocks of pigeons 
fly down among the houses of the town. 
The murmur in the air has increased to 
a moaning, sighing sound, and suddenly, 
with rush and roar and shriek, striking 
the water as if a solid mass, and shak 
ing our ship from stem to stern, causing 
her to heel before its mighty onslaught, 
the mistral is upon us. 

All night long the tempest rages, all 
night long our ship trembles and heaves, 
bravely holding on by her stout anchors, 
while the furious wind tears at her, as if 
striving to pull her bodily from the 
water. As the day comes the pale light 



FROM PORT TO PORT WITH THE WHITE SQUADRON. 471 



shows the storm at the height of its 
fury. Our consorts topgallant masts 
housed, halliards curving out stiff as 
steel, the Admiral s little blue flag stand 
ing out like a board from the mizzen 
are half hidden in a cloud of flying mist, 
as they rock on the wind-swept water, 
straining like living creatures at their 
huge anchor chains. On deck every 
thing is wet and dreary. The men on 
watch, clad in their rain-clothes and 
dripping with mingled rain and sea- 
water, seek such shelter as their duties 
will permit, or tramp heavily about the 
deck in their clumsy sea-boots, bending 
their heads to the spiteful blasts. 
Laboring into the harbor, comes a 
French merchant steamer, with main- 
topmast gone and the splintered stump 
of her foremast showing on her deck, 
and we are thankful that we have a safe 
refuge in the "harbor of Mahon." 

Safe and sound are most of us, but, 
in his narrow cot forward in the ship s 
sick-bay, a brave man, a gallant soldier, 
is slowly dying. He is fighting hard 
for life, but the dread con 
queror of us all has marked 
him for his own, and, as four 
bells toll out in the midwatch, 
the veteran sergeant of ma 
rines has " fallen in " at his 
place in the ranks of the great 
army of the dead. 



green hills of Minorca are clear to the 
view, and flecked with ever-changing 
masses of sunlight and shadow. The 
harbor is almost bare of shipping, the 
cruisers have sailed, all but the pretty 
Yorktown lying, quiet and still, at her 
anchorage. 

Quiet and still seems everything on 
our ship, for an awful presence has come 
on board during the night and has taken 
shape there, under the drooping canopy 
of flags amidships, in the coffined form 
of the dead sergeant. 

" A-a-11 hands bury the dead ! " the 
solemn call of the boatswain sounds 
through the ship. Quietly and in re 
spectful silence the crew assembles, the 
officers grouped to starboard, and, as 
the chaplain reads the simple service, 
rough faces soften and heads are bowed 
in reverential awe. The bearers lift the 
coffin, the marine-guard present arms, 
and the body is gently lowered over the 
side into the cutter lying there to re 
ceive it, while officers and crew take 
their places in the boats, and a little pro- 




A Cab of the Harbor. 



The storm is over and the sky and sea 
are blue and smiling. There is a strong 
breeze blowing, and the clouds fly fast 
across the heavens, but the beautiful 



cession c a p t a i n s 
pennant, ship s and 
boats colors at half- 
mast starts for the 
land, there to lay 
the poor fellow to 
rest in a little white- 
walled enclosure on 
a bight on the har 
bor side, and where, 
gone before him long 
years ago, many a 
gallant sailor English and American 
lies, awaiting the last call for "All hands." 
Quietly and gently the dead man is 
lowered into his last berth ; with spout 



472 



REVISITING A GREEN NOOK. 



of flame and circling cloud of smoke the 
rifles render martial honor, and then, in 
the sad, sweet music of "taps," the bugle 
sounds the sailor-soldier s last good 
night. 



All hands up anchor ! Cheerily the 
boatswain s whistle pipes again, cheer 
ily the men tumble to their work. Up 
to the peak of the staff glides the ensign, 
up come the boats with a run. Cheerily, 
lads, cheerily ! Farewell, shipmate, rest 



peacefully in the grave where American 
sailors have placed you ! Good-by, friend 
ly old Port Mahonl 

Out to the rolling waters again. Hur 
rah ! how our little racer settles down to 
her work, like a thoroughbred on the 
home stretch, almost bounding over the 
waves under full power of her engines. 
Cheerily, lads, cheerily ! Let the dead 
bury the dead, the sea, the dancing, 
sparkling, merry blue sea, the fresh 
breeze, the bright sunlight are for the 
living. 




REVISITING A GREEN NOOK. 

By Annie Fields. 

THE sky is clear, the voice is fresh 
Of waters beating on the shore, 

And nature to my heart her heart 
Now lavs once more. 



Mindful of summer days long past 
She will not show a weeping face 

But cheerful with remembered joy 
Gives gladness place. 

The light slips down from other skies 
And mingles with the blue of this ; 

I hear another music through 
The sparrow s bliss. 



The light of an unfading love 

Paints the gay grass and frames the sky; 
And hides the moon in morning seas 

And cannot die. 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 

SECOND PAPER. 

By N. S. Shaler. 




HE effect of the Ap 
palachian M o u n - 
tain system upon 
the distribution of 
slavery, and conse 
quently on the po 
litical and social 
history of this 
country, was of 
great importance. Slavery, as is well 
known, depended, for its extension, on 
two important crops, both of which de 
manded a large amount of cheap labor, 
and afforded articles which commerce 
greatly demands. The institution rested 
on the industries of tobacco and cotton 
growing. Only where one of these crops 
could be profitably tilled did the insti 
tution ever firmly establish itself. A 
glance at the map will show that the Ap 
palachian system of mountains widens 
as we go southward from Pennsylvania, 
until it occupies nearly one-fifth of the 
Southern States, extending southward so 
as to include half of Virginia and North 
Carolina, a considerable part of western 
South Carolina, much of Georgia, Ten 
nessee, and Kentucky, and a part of Ala 
bama. In this section the character of 
the soil and form of the surface, and the 
nature of the climate, make the land un- 
suited for the extended culture of either 
tobacco or cotton. The result was, 
slavery never firmly established itself 
as an economic institution in any part 
of this vast territory. Here and there 
in the more fertile valleys a few slaves 
were employed, but there are counties 
in this area where a slave was never 
held, and where, to this day, a negro is so 
great a curiosity that people will jour 
ney miles to behold him. The natural 
result of this distribution in the negro 
population was that the mountain dis 
tricts of the South were separated in 
their political motives from the plain 
country. When the rebellion occurred- 
the Appalachian country was a region 
where disaffection toward the Confed- 
VOL. VIII. 49 



eracy prevailed ; to a great extent the 
men cast in their lot with the North, or 
at least gave their sympathies to the 
Federal cause. The peoples of eastern 
Kentucky and Tennessee and western 
Virginia and generally those of west 
ern North Carolina as well recruited 
the ranks of the Federal army. Some of 
the counties of eastern Kentucky sent 
more troops to the Union forces than the 
voters who ever appeared at an election 
in those districts. 

Owing to these conditions the Appa 
lachian upland region divided the South 
in a political and geographical way, and 
served greatly to enfeeble the resistance 
which it opposed to the Federal arms. 
About one-fourth of the population of 
the slave-holding States lay in this up 
land country. Not only did this dis 
trict afford over a hundred thousand 
soldiers to the Federal army, but the 
prevailing sympathies of the population 
were with our troops in every stage of 
their work. It is to this non-slave-hold- 
ing element of the Appalachian districts, 
that we owe the adhesion of Kentucky 
to the Federal cause and the effectual 
sympathy of half of the Old Dominion, 
now known as West Virginia. But for 
the existence of this extensive territory 
inaccessible to slavery and the consequent 
weakening of the South, it is doubtful if 
the Federal arms would have been able to 
prevail in that momentous contest. 

It would be possible to extend these 
considerations concerning the influence 
of geographic features on the develop 
ment of European settlements and the 
history of our peoples on this continent. 
Analysis would show that almost every 
feature, every river and plain, had its 
effect in controlling the distribution of 
the population in its westward march. 
It would also be easy to show that the 
climatal characteristics have vastly af 
fected the political conditions through 
the character of the crops which are tilled. 
Thus, for instance, the Western prairies. 



474 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



which apparently owe their origin, as be 
fore remarked, to the Indians habit of 
burning the plains to favor the spread 
of the buffalo, greatly affected the dis 
tribution and the prosperity of our popu 
lation. The forests being removed from 
the prairie countries, they were ready for 
the plough, without the arduous labor re 
quired to clear the woods away. Possibly 
-owing to their long deforested condition, 
the soil greatly abounded in the elements 
fitted for the production of corn crops. 
The climate excluded the profitable cult- 
tire of cotton and tobacco, the staples 
on which slavery rested. The result 
was the rapid economic development of 
that region through the export of grain 
and the consecration of the country to 
the interests of free labor. History 
shows us that it was only narrowly that 
the States of Illinois and Indiana escaped 
the institution of slavery within their 
territories. If the isothermals had been 
drawn one or two hundred miles farther 
north, so that the southern crops would 
have prospered in these States, the evil 
of slavery might well have been fastened 
so firmly that it could not have been up 
rooted from our State. Manifold and 
interesting as are these considerations, 
we must turn from them for a glance at 
certain other features dependent on the 
structure of the continent which have 
had a profound influence on the devel 
opment of our American population, and 
are to have yet other important effects 
in the high time to come those which 
arise from the distribution of the soil 
and the deeper-lying mineral resources 
of the national area. 

In his savage state man s dependence 
on the under earth, or even upon the soil, 
is very slight. It is true that in a fertile 
country the game is commonly some 
what more abundant than in a region of 
scanty soil, but differences in this re 
gard do not greatly or immediately affect 
the people. With the invention of agri 
culture dependence on the soil begins ; 
with the needs of tools a slight relation 
with the metallic resources of the under 
earth is instituted. With each step in 
the further development of the arts, 
man s interest in the crust of the earth 
increases. At first the non - precious 
metals iron, copper, lead, and zinc 
are sufficient for his needs ; but in ever- 



increasing ratio with the development of 
civilization this dependence on the un 
der earth is augmented. The greater 
portion of these geologic materials are 
either prepared for the use of man, or 
brought nearer to the earth s surface by 
the process involved in mountain-build 
ing. Thus the solar force of past geo 
logical ages buried in our coal deposits 
depends for its formation upon the 
changes which have brought it into the 
state of coal, as well as for the uplifting 
which brings it into the surface of the 
earth, to a great extent, on the forces 
which build mountains. The develop 
ment of the Appalachian axis, as well as 
the similar processes which led to the 
formation of the Cordilleras, has pro 
duced and revealed in this continent an 
ample store of mineral materials suited 
to the needs of man, and has placed these 
stores in remarkably advantageous posi 
tions in relation to the regions suited 
for the purposes of agriculture. 

In general the continent of North 
America is divided into three regions 
of arable land and three great mineral 
districts. Along the Atlantic coast and 
east of the Appalachians there is the tol 
erably fertile country of the Atlantic 
slope, extending from Florida to the 
St. Lawrence. The agricultural capac 
ity of this district compares favorably 
with any equal section in the world. In 
the Mississippi Valley we have, consid 
ering the circumstances of the soil and 
climate, the largest and most fertile area, 
the area best suited to maintain a great 
body of our English race which the 
world affords. On the Pacific slope we 
find a third arable field, containing less 
area than the Atlantic territory, but with 
great agricultural possibilities. Divid 
ing these three fields, and facing them on 
the north, we have the mineral districts. 
On the east the Appalachian country, 
abounding in coal and iron and consider 
able quantities of other important met 
alliferous or mineral deposits. In the 
Cordilleran districts we have, as far as 
known, the most plentiful deposit of the 
more important of metals, except of tin, 
which the world affords within equal 
area. On the north, in the Laurentian 
field lies a third mineral area extraordi 
narily rich in iron, phosphates, copper, 
and other valuable earth materials. In 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



475 



the great valley between the Cordilleras 
and the Appalachians, and, to a certain 
extent, on either shore-land, there are 
extensive beds of coal and important 
deposits of the fluid fuel petroleum, as 
well as of natural gas. This distribution 
of agricultural and mineral resources 
of this country is singularly favorable for 
the conjoint development of tillage and 
of mining, and for a vast interstate and 
foreign commerce, of which we, in our 
day, see but the beginning. 

Before we proceed to consider the de 
tails of this natural order in the distri 
bution of the earth resources of North 
America, we must turn aside for a mo 
ment to note the effect of modern econ 
omies in producing local peculiarities 
in human life. In the earlier states of 
man the nurture places of the races de 
pended for their effects on the presence 
of strong geographic barriers seas or 
mountains which might fend the people 
from the interference of their neighbors, 
and thereby enable them to undergo the 
nurturing process which led to racial or 
national peculiarities. It is easy to see 
that the effect of commerce is to destroy 
these boundaries. The Alps, once a for 
midable barrier, are now pierced by tun 
nels, and are as easy of passage as the 
plain lands to the north and south. A sea 
son s earnings will now carry a man to the 
farthest civilized countries. But while 
commerce and the industries on which it 
depends have served to break down the 
natural barriers between peoples, they 
have served also, in a singular way, to 
create other limitations of habit and ac 
tion which are likely to have even greater 
influence in the cradling of people than 
the old geographic bounds. It is evident 
to any one who has studied the varying 
effects of occupations, that the herds 
man, the soil-tiller, the manufacturer, 
the miner, pursue employments so dif 
ferent the one from another, that men 
who follow them become in hand and 
mind specialized and unlike those of 
other occupations. 

A German phrase has it that a man is 
what he eats ; we may better say that a 
man is what he does ; and that persistent 
doing in one line of deeds for a few gen 
erations will serve to give character to a 
population in much the same manner as 
a thousand years of isolation in a penin 



sula or an Alpine valley. Within the 
limits of either of the great classes of oc 
cupations noted above we find a wide 
range of diversities dependent on the 
peculiarities of the employment. Thus 
the population employed in the iron fur 
naces or rolling-mills differs widely in 
character from the folk employed in 
weaving and spinning fibres. The watch 
maker and the shoemaker are both, in 
a sense, manufacturers ; but the mental 
training which the two receive, and the 
consequent habits of life, both moral 
and physical, differ in a very wide way. 
The orange gardener of Florida and the 
wheat farmer of Nebraska pursue em 
ployments which differ entirely in their 
nature ; the one labors throughout the 
year with his tasks, the other is sub 
jected to the peculiar influences which 
come from seasonal activities ; the wheat 
field of the Far West calls for action on 
but four months of the year ; for the 
rest the workman is but a drone, unless 
he turns his attention to other tasks 
than his field affords. Indeed, the vari 
ety of character which occupations give 
to a population is much greater than 
that which in the same time could be 
instituted by any purely natural cir 
cumstances. 

Although North America is almost 
destitute of the geographic divisions 
which in the earlier conditions of man 
served to diversify the character of peo 
ples, the diversities of occupation are eas 
ily and necessarily instituted in the great 
American mixture of folk. Varieties of 
men as characteristic and as important 
in the history of our people as those 
which nature has produced in the folk 
of the Old World, divisions resting upon 
modes of activity bred in men by occu 
pations and by habits of thought which 
occupations engender, will at once unite 
and diversify the people of this coun 
try, linking particular districts in one 
interest and habit of thought and ac 
tions, and separating those districts on 
the basis of industry from the folk who 
pursue diverse habits of life. 

I now propose to make a general re 
view of that part of this continent which 
is occupied by English-speaking folk, 
with the hope that we may thus obtain 
a basis on which to foretell, in a general 
way, the divisions of character in our 



476 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



people which are likely to arise from the 
varieties of their occupation. 

We have already noted the fact that 
the continent of North America is divid 
ed into three great mineral and three 
great agricultural districts. We may 
profitably add to the consideration the 
fact that there are three regions of a 
maritime sort where the people have ex 
perienced the important effects of close 
contact with the sea. These maritime 
districts consist of the North Atlantic 
shore, from Cape Hatteras to Labrador ; 
the Pacific coast, from Alaska to the 
Gulf of California, both regions abound 
ing in good harbors ; and the third, the 
southern coast, from Hatteras around 
Florida to Mexico, which is not well 
provided with ports, and where the 
maritime conditions are less important 
than along the other shores. Despite 
the imperfection of the harbors from 
Hatteras southward, the coast of North 
America is, on the whole, the most com 
pletely maritime of any continent except 
Europe. Its landlocked waters, includ 
ing the great lakes, are of vast extent ; 
the total number of ports possibly ex 
ceeds that of the Old World. It is 
clear, therefore, that we are to have in 
North America two great maritime dis 
tricts, and a third in the south, of less 
importance, to add to our list of national 
labor-fields. 

In this general survey we have to 
consider the natural - employment di 
visions of this country and endeavor to 
forecast their economic history and the 
quality of the population which their 
condition is likely to induce. This task 
may advantageously begin with the New 
England section, a region which, by its 
geographic as well as its economic con 
ditions, is one of the most specialized 
parts of North America. In our con 
siderations it is not desirable to take 
an account of the arbitrary line which 
now separates Canada from the United 
States. Whatever be the political fut 
ure of these countries, there can be no 
doubt of their destined economic and 
social unity. The several questions 
which now separate them are of such a 
nature that we may be sure they will in 
the end lead to a closer union. 

The New England section of North 
America, including as such all the till 



able ground from Newfoundland to the 
Hudson, is well named. On the whole 
it more closely resembles, in its condi 
tions of shores, the surface and soil, the 
islands and peninsulas of northern Eu 
rope, in which our Northmen folk de 
veloped. The geological histoiy of the 
two regions is very similar. Both are 
mainly composed of ancient rocks, and 
both these ancient rocks have been much 
crumbled by the mountain - building 
forces. Both have been subjected to a 
vast amount of glacial wear ; their soils 
have certain common qualities given by 
ice action. In both we have a close 
combination of agricultural and mineral 
resources. 

The New England section of North 
America, including the St. Lawrence 
district in that field, is essentially 
the maritime portion of North America. 
Within its limits we find the largest 
amount of shore line for a given distance 
along the main coast of the continent. 
There are more deep bays and fjords, 
and larger islands, than along any other 
portion of the Atlantic border of the 
continent. 

The surface of the New England 
and Laurentian district, throughout its 
whole extent, may be described as moun 
tainous. Save in the southeastern por 
tion of the country, every part of the 
field contains decided mountain ridges 
worn to their roots by the recurrent 
action of glaciers and sea, but still giv 
ing the surface a truly mountainous 
character. The result is here, as else 
where, that in a large part of the moun 
tainous districts not far from one-half 
of the whole field is sterile from the lack 
of sufficient soil, or fit only for the 
growth of forest trees. This feature in 
sures to the district the permanence of 
the timber industry. 

The tillable soils of the New England 
and Laurentian field lie mostly in the val 
leys between the important mountain 
ranges ; they are glacial soils, formed of 
the materials brought to their place by 
ice action ; they have certain peculiar 
characteristics. When first won to the 
plough they are of only moderate fertility. 
Largely composed of pebbles and bowl 
ders the amount of plant food they con 
tain does not compare with that which 
is held in the prairie soils, where for 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



477 



ages the conditions have favored the 
preparation of the materials required 
by vegetation. They have, however, the 
peculiarity that they gain in fertility 
by skilful tillage, even without artifi 
cial fertilizing, while the prairie ground 
steadfastly diminishes in its produc 
tiveness under cultivation. All the peb 
bles in our stony fields, except those 
composed of quartz, are constantly yield 
ing some part of their materials to re 
fresh the soil. A pebble of granite, or 
of the kindred crystalline rocks, contains 
considerable quantities of potash, soda, 
lime, and phosphorus, substances which 
are most rapidly brought into the state 
where they may be appropriated by 
plants when the soil is used by man. 

At present the tide of immigration sets 
from New England to the West, where 
cheap lands with their great though un- 
enduring store of fertile materials await 
the settler. This stage in our history, 
where cheap but unpermanently fertile 
lands are to be had almost for the asking, 
is now nearly passed by. In another 
generation these opportunities will no 
longer exist, and it is thus likely that 
with the relative increase in the value 
of soil products the agricultural posi 
tion of New England will be improved. 
From a somewhat careful study of the 
New England States, as well as a por 
tion of the Laurentian district, I have 
become convinced that this northeastern 
field has far greater agricultural possi 
bilities than is commonly supposed. A 
very large part of the neglect to which 
these fields have been subjected is due 
to the withdrawal of the population from 
the fields to manufacturing life, to oc 
cupations which for a time afforded a 
larger remuneration than the tillage of 
a stubborn but not unfruitful soil. 

When the Western country is fully 
occupied through immigration, and the 
natural increase of our native people, 
there is every reason to believe that ag 
riculture in the northeastern part of our 
country will attain to something of the 
relative importance which it had in those 
districts a century ago. This seems the 
more probable when we note the fact that 
a large portion of the richest soils of New 
England, viz., the swamp-lands, were 
never won to the plough. In the Lauren 
tian and New England district we have 



not far from ten thousand square miles of 
morasses, areas which demand a consid 
erable expenditure of capital before they 
can be brought to the tiller s use, but 
which, when so won, afford fields of sur 
passing fertility. Up to the time when 
the great West was opened to settle 
ment, the population of New England 
had not become dense enough to drive 
the people to this class of soils ; but with 
the inevitable crowding of our American 
population which the next century is to 
bring about, these swamps will be drain 
ed, and by their drainage a vast area of 
excellent land will be won to tillage. 

This northeast section of the conti 
nent has a fair share of subterranean 
resources, including a wide range of 
metals and a very plentiful and varied 
store of building materials. Last of all 
it is peculiarly the seat of the greater 
water-powers of this country. This 
abundance of streams suited for me 
chanical purposes is due to the relative 
ly considerable height of the district 
and the frequent great thickness of the 
glacial deposits in which the rain-waters 
are retained and slowly yielded to the 
streams. 

It is easy from the facts stated above 
to foresee that, in the future, the New 
England district, including, as we have 
done, the region about the St. Lawrence, 
is to be the seat of the most varied oc 
cupations. No other part of the United 
States so well combines the conditions 
for maritime, agricultural, mining, and 
manufacturing labor as this territory. 
Further variety in the life to come is 
insured by the remarkable mixture of 
races in this territory. In Nova Scotia 
we have perhaps the largest body of 
Highland Scotch outside of the mother 
country, and in this region where this 
blood is so little mingled with that of 
other lands that the Gaelic language is 
the common form of speech. In lower 
Canada there are several large settle 
ments where the people are almost en 
tirely derived from northern France. 
New England proper has many areas 
where Irish Celts and their descendants 
outnumber the original New England 
stock. Here and there there are consid 
erable colonies of other peoples, Scan 
dinavians, Germans, and Portuguese. 
At present it seems likely that the peo- 



478 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



pies presumably of Celtic stock the 
Irish, Canadian-French, and Highland 
Scotch will, in another fifty years, 
greatly outnumber the original New 
Englanders. So far, however, the im 
migrants from continental Europe have 
in the main betaken themselves to the 
cities of New England and have shown 
little disposition to obtain control of 
the soil. The rural neighborhoods are 
still characteristically English, and, for 
all that we can see at present, bid fair 
to remain so for a hundred years to 
come. Although much of the strength 
of New England has gone West to 
found new States, enough remains to in 
sure the perpetuation of the original 
stock, so that we may look forward to 
another element in the diversification of 
New England conditions wherein the 
towns will be largely composed of de 
scendants of foreigners and the country 
districts of folk of English blood. 

South and west of New England we 
have another characteristic group of 
States in New York, Pennsylvania, New 
Jersey, and Delaware, a region tolerably 
well marked by its conditions of surface 
and climate so far as those affect the de 
velopment of man. In this district, 
which is about as extensive as the New 
England and Laurentian district above 
described, we have an area in which the 
maritime conditions are less pronounc 
ed, the agricultural resources as deter 
mined by the soil and climate propor 
tionately more considerable, and the 
mineral resources very much larger than 
in the more northern realm. While in 
the New England section, practically, the 
whole of the surface is mountain built, 
and not more than one-third of the area 
is suited to agriculture, in the New York 
district, as we may term it, the moun 
tainous sections occupy not over one- 
third of the total area, and the soil is, 
on the whole, much more tillable. The 
mineral resources of this field, par 
ticularly those which are applied to the 
production of power coal, petroleum, 
and natural gas are the staples of its 
geological wealth. Including a small 
portion of Ohio, we have in this section 
the largest store of these materials that 
is afforded by any equal portion of the 
earth. On the other hand, while the 
power derived from ancient sunshine 



and stored in the form of carbon in the 
rocks is more plentiful in this district 
than in New England, the immediate 
energy of water-power, due to the heat of 
the present day, is less available than in 
New England. Except at Niagara Falls, 
where there is a vast, but as yet unusa 
ble store of river energy, this district, 
owing to the relative thinness of its 
glacial accumulations and the conse 
quent impermanence of the rivers, pre 
sents no such advantages to the manu 
facturer as are afforded by the New 
England streams. 

In general, the physiographic condi 
tions of this group of States afford the 
basis of a very varied life. The differ 
ent forms of activity are likely to be 
only less closely associated than in New 
England. The natural manufacturing 
centres are widely distributed, and the 
mineral resources lie well in the body 
of the tillable land. 

South of New Jersey and Pennsyl 
vania we have a somewhat characteris 
tic group of commonwealths, including 
Virginia and the Carolinas. This, which 
we may call the Virginia group of States, 
differs in many ways from the two north 
ern associations which we have just con 
sidered. The first and most important 
peculiarity consists in the character of 
the soils. The whole of New York and 
a large part of Pennsylvania and New 
Jersey have had the character of their 
soils determined by the peculiar grind 
ing of the surface and distribution of the 
waste which was brought about by the 
glacial period. Although a trace of this 
ice action is observable in Virginia, the 
region as a whole was substantially un 
affected by the tread of the marching 
ice. This difference leads to a great 
modification in the character of the 
soils. In place of being the product of 
that distinct carriage which has brought 
the soils of the glaciated countries to 
their places, the upland portion of these 
States is covered by an earthy coating 
derived from the immediate decay of the 
rocks beneath the surface. 

The Appalachian Mountain system, in 
its two elements of the Blue Ridge and 
the Alleghanies, widens as we go south 
ward from the Potomac. The result is 
that an even greater share of these States 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



479 



consists of mountainous elevations than 
find in the New York group. The 



we 



western portion of each State is occupied 
by heights which rise so far above the 
level of the sea that the climate is greatly 
affected by the uplift. These mountains 
are, however, far less sterile than those 
of the New York and New England dis 
tricts ; not having been swept over by 
the ice, they retain their original soils 
and thus afford larger areas for tillage 
than are found in the more northern 
highlands. In each of these States, by 
way of contrast with their upland dis 
tricts, we have along the shore a broad 
belt of lowlands, territories which were, 
until very recent times, beneath the level 
of the sea. This great southern plain, 
which extends from New Jersey south 
ward, widening as we go toward the 
equator, affords, compared with the 
mountain districts, the sharpest con 
trast of conditions which are found in 
any part of this country. 

Owing to the slight elevation of the 

lain region, its nearness to the Gulf 
tream, and the protection which the 
mountains afford on the northwest, the 
climate becomes very much warmer on 
this plain as we proceed southward. 
Between dawn and dark of a winter s 
day we can journey from the frigid con 
ditions of New York to the semi-tropical 
climate of Charleston from the realm of 
frost to one of flowers. With a shorter 
journey from the mountainous heights 
of the western Carolinas, which have a 
winter temperature about as low as that 
of New York, we may pass toward the 
sea through the same range in temper 
ature conditions. This contrast in cli 
mate is equalled by that between the 
under-earth resources of these two sec 
tions. In the mountainous portion of 
these States of the Virginia group we 
have an abundance of mineral wealth, 
the search for which has but begun. 
Gold, iron, copper, zinc, and various oth 
er substances of economic importance 
abound in the upland portion of this 
area, while the lowland parts have as yet 
afforded but small supplies of such ma 
terials, phosphates being the only geo 
logic element of any importance. It is 
evident, therefore, that the plainland 
region of this district is to develop 
purely agricultural industries, while the 



upland section, by its admirable com 
bination of soil, noble forests and min 
eral resources, is to have more varied 
industries, and therefore a more diversi 
fied life. 

Although within the above-mentioned 
States the resources of fossil fuel are lim 
ited, we find, immediately on the west 
of the district, and everywhere conven 
ient to it, the vast coal measures of Ten 
nessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia 
fields, which afford bituminous coals 
quite equal to those which have been 
the foundations of the commercial in 
dustries of Great Britain. Thus, this 
region of southern uplands has in its 
soil, its forests, and its mineral re 
sources, a combination of advantages 
perhaps greater than those of any other 
equal area in the world. In addition to 
these favoring conditions the region pos 
sesses an admirable climate. In winter 
the temperature falls low enough to in 
sure the preservation of bodily vigor ; 
in summer the heat is less ardent than 
in the lower-lying regions of the New 
England and New York group of States. 
In the Virginia section we find a cli 
mate resembling in its range of temper 
atures those which characterize the 
most favored regions of the Old World, 
and it is there perhaps we may look for 
the preservation of our race s best char 
acteristics. 

The lowland country, on the other 
hand, appears to be too warm to afford 
the most satisfactory conditions for our 
people. Although the whites appear to 
be able to work in the fields during the 
summer season, the malarious influence 
common to a large part of the territory, 
as well as the lack of a really tonic win 
ter, does not promise a brilliant future 
for European peoples in the seaboard 
portion of the district. 

The population of this group of States 
is as diversified as their physical con 
ditions. In the lower-lying lands the 
negro folk constitute a large, and ap 
pear to be, physically, the most suc 
cessful portion of the population. In 
the plains between northern Florida and 
Chesapeake Bay the negro finds appar 
ently the most satisfactory environment 
which this continent affords him. His 
contacts with the whites are sufficiently 
close to stimulate his languid industrial 



480 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



motives, and the climate fits his needs 
in a very tolerable way. It is doubtful 
if the tribes of Africa, from which our 
blacks came, are in any better physical 
condition than their descendants on the 
Atlantic coast. 

Although the negroes constitute the 
largest element in the population along 
the shore-lands of the Carolinas and 
Georgia, the upland section is almost de 
void of Africans. This peculiar feature 
in the distribution of the blacks was 
brought about, as before remarked, by 
the unfitness of the upland country for 
the crops on which the plantations of 
the South depended. It has been main 
tained by the disinclination of the negro 
to dwell in cold countries and the indis 
position of the white population to tol 
erate their presence. There is good 
reason to believe that the negro popu 
lation will not become more extensive 
in the upland section of the South than 
it is at the present time. On the con 
trary, it is most likely that they will 
spontaneously gather to the warm low 
lands, leaving the cooler grounds to 
the white race. If this be the case, if 
the Southern mountains are left to the 
whites, we may reasonably expect this 
region will become one of the most im 
portant seats of an unmixed American 
population. It is not in the pathway 
of immigration ; as yet it is occupied 
almost altogether by the descendants of 
British immigrants. 

South of Georgia we find ourselves at 
the base of the most singular peninsula 
of this country, if indeed it be not the 
most remarkable mass of land on the 
borders of any continent. The penin 
sula of Florida affords the most distinct 
field in a physiographic sense of any 
part of North America. Including the 
northern portion of the State it has 
a length of about six hundred miles, 
an average width of near one hundred 
miles, and a total area greater than that 
of New York, and nearly as great as that 
of New England. In all this great realm 
the maximum height above the level of 
the sea does not exceed about four 
hundred feet. The whole of the soil is 
composed of materials recently brought 
together on the sea-floor. About one- 
fourth of the soil area is limy, due to 
the coral rock which underlies it. The 



remainder is nearly pure sand of an in 
fertile nature. All the soil owes its 
value in the main to the wonderful cli 
mate which the region enjoys. 

The mineral resources of the Florida 
peninsula are of the most limited nature. 
Certain deposits of phosphatic rocks ex 
ist, apparently of sufficient richness to 
give them economic importance. From 
the point of view of geological values, it 
is perhaps the most absolutely sterile 
section of North America. 

Owing to its peninsulated form it has 
a shore line of more than two thousand 
miles in length ; owing also to the vari 
ous system of harbors which the coral 
reefs have created, this region has a 
maritime character and fitness of con 
tact with the sea which is not enjoyed 
by any other portion of the coast south 
of the Chesapeake Bay. The harbors, 
though shallow, afford tolerable protec 
tion to small vessels, and the extraordi 
nary wealth of fish in the waters make 
it certain that in the future this region 
is to have an industry resting upon the 
harvest of marine life such as is afforded 
by no other section of the Atlantic coast. 
Not only do the food fishes abound, but 
the waters afford vast quantities of 
sponge, and the species of marine tur 
tles find a better station along this shore 
than any other section of the contin 
ent. 

The physical conditions of Florida 
make it plain that this peninsula is to 
develop its life on the lines of agricult 
ure and of marine industries. The ag 
riculture is destined to be of a peculiar 
sort, gardening, in fact, rather than the 
ordinary field tillage. The tropical and 
subtropical fruits, the orange, the lem 
on, the lime, and tenderer sorts of vege 
tables may be easily reared and assure 
the agricultural possibilities of this dis 
trict. It can never be a corn-bearing 
country, and the grazing industry is 
practically excluded by the imperfect 
growth of the grasses. Owing to the 
fact that this land is wrapped around 
by the seas, the summer temperature as 
well as the winter is insular in its char 
acter ; although at present the region is 
a prey to fevers, they seem due not to 
an essential unhealthfulness of the cli 
mate but to the bad sanitation. Even 
in the extreme south, on the Keys and 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



481 



the shores of the beautiful Bay of Bis- 
cayne, the population appears to be very 
healthy ; the children are vigorous, ex 
treme old age is frequently attained, 
and there appears to be an exemption 
from deadly malarial fever. We may 
best judge as to the climatal effect on 
man by the condition of the Indians, 
which is excellent. No portion of our 
aborigines appear to be in a better 
physical or moral state than the Semi- 
noles of Florida. 

It is an advantage enjoyed by this 
section, which it shares with the high 
lands of the South, that the negro popu 
lation is very small. Although the cli 
mate is one which suits the negro, the 
present industries, and those which we 
may foresee for the future, make it likely 
that this race will be slow to take pos 
session of the country. 

On the west of Florida and Georgia 
lie a group of States which face the Gulf 
of Mexico. Between western Florida 
and western Louisiana, and back to near 
the northern border of Alabama and 
Mississippi, we have a region of lowlands 
which derive their quality from their re 
lations to the Mexican Gulf. The low 
land portion of these States is, in its geo 
logical history, like the lowland section 
of the Atlantic coast. It is an old sea- 
bottom which has recently been elevated 
above the ocean. The soil, save along 
the banks of the rivers, is of only mod 
erate fertility; but it bears luxuriant 
forests and is excellently suited to the 
great staple cotton, on which the com 
mercial development of the section has 
rested. Owing to the fact that these 
States lie at the southern end of the Mis 
sissippi Valley and are unprotected by 
mountains from the winter blasts, they 
are subject to great variations in tem 
perature. The summer heats are great, 
and to the white population enervating. 
The winter cold, on the other hand, is 
considerable, sufficient indeed to bring 
something of the tonic effect upon which 
our race is so accustomed to depend. 

The northern part of Alabama, as is 
well known, abounds in stores of coal 
and iron. In topography it is sharply 
contrasted with the southern portion of 
the State, and its wealth of mineral re 
sources insures in that section a large 
manufacturing industry dependent on 



the materials from below the soil. The 
population of the States between western 
Florida and eastern Texas is, on the 
whole, a less satisfactory part of our 
American people, for the reason that the 
negro element is at present, and is like 
ly, for all the foreseeable future, to have 
a greater place in this territory than 
it has in any other part of the United 
States. It is true that at present South 
Carolina abounds in blacks in an equal 
measure with Alabama and Mississippi ; 
but with the growth in population of the 
highland district of the former state we 
may fairly expect that this preponder 
ance of the African element will disap 
pear. On the other hand, in southern 
Alabama, in Mississippi and Louisiana, 
the conditions of the soil and of the 
climate clearly point to a vast increase 
in the number of blacks, without a pro 
portionate gain in the European popu 
lation. There is more danger of Afri 
canization in this section than in any 
other part of the United States. 

North of the Gulf States, and thence 
to the great lakes, and westward to the 
Mississippi, we have the valley of the no 
blest tributary of the Mississippi, the 
Ohio, containing within its basin the 
northernmost portions of Mississippi 
and Alabama and a portion of western 
Georgia, North and South Carolina, a 
part of Virginia and West Virginia, the 
whole of Tennessee and Kentucky, and 
the greater part of Indiana and Illinois. 
Although the geographic limitations of 
this great basin are not sharp, they are 
sufficiently accented to make it one of 
the most characteristic divisions of the 
continent. This individuality is further 
affirmed, as we shall see, by its qualities 
of soil, climate, and its subterranean re 
sources. 

The basin of the Ohio, with the ex 
ception of some parts of its headwaters, 
the upper Kanawha and the tributaries 
of the Tennessee, lies well within the 
broad trough of the Mississippi Valley. 
It is thus in the path of the great air 
movements from the Gulf of Mexico 
northward, and from the Arctic Sea 
southward. Atmospherically consid 
ered, it is like the other parts of the 
Mississippi Valley, a region of combat 
between torrid and frigid conditions. 
In the winter season the dominance of 



482 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



polar winds brings a low temperature 
upon all parts of the area. In the sum 
mer-half of the year, the superior power 
of the tropical, northward-setting winds 
brings it into almost torrid heat. The 
range of climatal variation, measured 
by the periods of seasonal length, is per 
haps greater in this valley than in any 
other part of the continent. The sur 
face of this region is essentially without 
mountains. Though the western tribu 
taries of the Ohio rise in the highest 
land on the Atlantic side of the conti 
nent, the portion of the valley which can 
be termed mountain-built does not in 
clude more than one-tenth of its area. 
The result is that nearly the whole of 
the surface is tillable. Probably not 
more than one-fiftieth of the total area 
is permanently unfitted for the uses of 
the husbandman. 

The soil of the Ohio district has been 
but little affected by glacial action. It 
is true that the ice in the most devel 
oped state of the old continental glaciers 
overlaid the greater part of the Ohio, 
touching the surface of Kentucky im 
mediately south of Cincinnati, and oc 
cupying perhaps one -half of Indiana 
and Illinois, as well as those parts of 
the headwaters of the Ohio which lie 
in Pennsylvania and New York ; but 
over the most of this district the ice 
was thin and the amount of glacially 
transported material much less consid 
erable than in the normally glaciated 
districts of the north and east. As a 
whole, the soils may be classed as those 
of immediate derivation, those originat 
ing with the decay of the subjacent 
rocks. As the geological strata of the 
Ohio Valley vary greatly in their min 
eral constitution, the soils derived from 
them are naturally divided into a good 
many classes. Thus we have in Ken 
tucky and Tennessee a wide range of 
Silurian limestones, which by their de 
cay afford soils of extraordinary fertility, 
those which give character to the wen- 
known blue-grass district. It is worth 
while to note in passing that this singu 
lar richness of the earth is due to the 
fact that in these limestones there are 
certain thin layers composed almost al 
together of the remains of minute creat 
ures which had the peculiarity of taking 
lime phosphate from the sea and build 



ing it at their death in the deposits 
formed on the old sea-floors. When 
elevated into land and subjected to the 
process of decay, these rocks afford, un 
der the action of the atmosphere, soils 
of great fertility ; so we see that the 
fruitfulness of our fields may depend 
upon the nature of organic beings in the 
remotest past. 

Throughout the Ohio Valley, except 
along the margins of the streams where 
the soil has been brought to its resting- 
place by flood waters, we find every 
where sharp contrasts in the fertility of 
the soil. Already, although the history 
of the country extends back for but a 
century, we perceive very clearly that 
these natural differences have been of 
great importance in differentiating the 
people. There is no greater contrast in 
any country between neighboring people 
of the same blood than that which exists 
between the so-called mountaineers of 
eastern Kentucky, who occupy the soil of 
sandy carboniferous beds, and those who 
dwell in the rich grass country of the cen 
tral district of the commonwealth. The 
fertile soil of the limestone region has 
given abundant wealth to the inhabitants 
of that region ; wealth has brought cult 
ure and all the circumstances of a high 
civilization. The sandy soil giving lit 
tle to tillage, the people have remained 
poor ; their contacts with the world have 
been slight, and they yet abide by their 
customs and intellectual development 
in the conditions of the eighteenth cen 
tury. 

It is worth our while to go one step 
further and to note the effect of these 
diversities induced by differences of soil. 
When, in 1861, it was to be determined 
whether Kentucky should go with the 
South or North, the question turned in 
the main on the occupations of the pop 
ulation. Where the soils were rich the 
plantation system was possible, the slave 
element was large, and in general the 
voice of the people was for union with 
the South. Where the soils were thin 
the people had no interest in slavery, 
for they owned no negroes. Old fric 
tions with the slave-holding portions of 
the State existed, and consequently the 
people of this sterile land were generally 
devoted to the Union. A soil-map of 
Kentucky would in a rude way serve as 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



483 



a chart of the politics of the people in 
this crisis in the nation s history. If 
Kentucky possessed a soil altogether 
derived from limestone, there is no 
question but that it would have cast in 
its lot with the South. 

The mineral resources of the Ohio 
Valley have a somewhat singular distri 
bution. From western Alabama around 
to the headwaters of the Ohio in Penn 
sylvania, we have a continuous belt of 
country abounding in coal and iron. 
Nowhere in the world, so far as it has 
been explored, is there any region of 
equal extent where these two substances, 
both of the first importance to man, 
each requiring the other for its most 
important uses, are geographically so 
united. In the western part of the 
Ohio Valley, and separated from this 
eastern and southern section by a wide 
interval of fertile lands, lies the western 
coal field, extending from central Ken 
tucky to central Indiana and Illinois. 
Taken as a whole, the area of the Ohio 
Valley has a more perfect association of 
fuel and iron resources together with 
those which are afforded by a fertile soil 
than any other part of the world. 

In addition to the supply of energy 
contained in the coal-beds tributary to 
this district there are two other sources 
of power accessible to the inhabitants 
of this valley petroleum and natural 
gas. The deposits of petroleum appear 
to be in the main limited to a field oc 
cupying a portion of western Pennsyl 
vania, western Virginia, and eastern 
Ohio, and to another smaller and less 
important district on the waters of the 
Cumberland River near the point where 
it crosses the division between Ken 
tucky and Tennessee. Although the 
quantity of petroleum accessible at any 
one point in this valley appears to be 
much less than that which can be ob 
tained in the famous Caspian or Baiku 
field, the district is probably, all things 
considered, the most extensive source of 
supply of this substance which the world 
is likely to afford. The natural gas of 
the Ohio Valley appears to be far more 
considerable in quantity than that con 
tained within any other equal area. 
Thus in this district we have three 
known sources of valuable subterranean 
energy coal, petroleum, and natural 



gas in more advantageous conditions, 
as regards quantity and nearness to fer 
tile agricultural areas, than in any other 
region of the world. 

We thus see that the Ohio group of 
States has, from the point of view of its 
resources, singular advantages over any 
other part of the continent for the main 
tenance of a vast population engaged in 
industries, both those of the soil and 
those of the shop. Within a century 
the area occupied by these States is 
likely to contain a larger population 
than that which now exists in all Eng 
lish-speaking countries. Although this 
population is destined to be to a 
great extent engaged in mining and 
manufacturing, there is room in this 
country for an agricultural people ex 
ceeding in numbers the present popu 
lation of the United States ; for, as 
before remarked, there is hardly any 
untillable land in its area, and except 
for the limitations which the necessary 
preservation of the forests put upon the 
extension of the tilled fields, ninety-eight 
hundredths of its area can be won to 
husbandry. 

There remains, in the part of the con 
tinent east of the Mississippi, another 
interesting district, which constitutes a 
singular physiographic unit. It is the 
basin of the Laurentian lakes, com 
monly known as the Great Lakes of 
North America. In this great dis 
trict of inland waters we have an area 
situated so far north that the rigors of 
the climate limit the operations of ag 
riculture to less than half of the year. 
The soils are throughout glacial in their 
character, of remarkable fertility, but 
more enduring to tillage than those 
which lie to the south of the glaciated 
country. This district includes the 
whole of the Canadian provinces of Onta 
rio, the northern part of Ohio, the west 
ern portion of New York, the whole of 
Michigan, a small part of the north 
ern sections of Indiana and Illinois, and 
a portion of Wisconsin and Minnesota. 
Although the northerly site of this 
area gives it a short season for the 
growth of plants, the region near the 
lakes has the climate somewhat modi 
fied by these great areas of water dur 
ing the time when they are not locked 
in frost. The northern portion of this 



484 



VAGRANT LOVE. 



area, nearly the whole of the region 
north of the Great Lakes, and a consid 
erable part of the Michigan peninsula 
is mountain-built, having been subject 
ed to the disturbances attendant on the 
formation and growth of the Lauren- 
tian system. The elevations have, how 
ever, a small relief. In the Canadian 
section nearly, if not quite, one-half the 
surface is barren or of moderate fertil 
ity ; while perhaps nearly the whole of 
the district south of the Great Lakes 
is covered by tilled fields or luxuriant 
forests. The soils and the climate af 
ford, on the whole, as favorable condi 
tions for tillage as are found in the Scan 
dinavian peninsula and the other regions 
about the Baltic which have been the 
birthplace of great peoples. 

The mineral productions of this area 
are extremely varied. Coal of valuable 
quality does not exist within its limits. 
There is a considerable area of carbonif 
erous rocks in Michigan, but they have 
as yet given little promise of important 
contributions of fuel. Iron, copper, sil 
ver, the phosphates of lime and salt are 
the geological staples of this region. 
All these substances, both as regards the 
mass of the deposits and their purity, 
appear to have in this region a pre-emi 
nence among all the fields of this conti 
nent. The distribution of these resources 



of the under earth and the variations 
of climate in this continental Mediterra 
nean district, provide an ample basis for 
a great differentiation in the population. 
Thus western New York and the north 
ern border of the Ohio States which 
come to the Great Lakes are destined to 
be agricultural communities with a cer 
tain share of manufacturing industry. 
These parts of this field are not to be 
the seats of mining. The same is true 
of southern Michigan and southern 
Wisconsin. The region about Lake 
Superior, owing to the sterility of its 
soils and the rigor of its climate, is not 
likely to be the seat of a considerable 
agriculture or of much manufacturing. 
It is evidently destined to be a region 
engaged in mining and in timber cult 
ure. 

The foregoing inadequate glance at 
the conditions of North America, east of 
the Mississippi and south of the region 
which is sterilized by cold, shows us 
that, despite the generally consolidated 
character of its geography, the varia 
tions of the soil, of climate, and of the 
under -earth resources are such as to 
insure the profound diversifying influ 
ences which come to man from his occu 
pations. This measure of diversity will 
increase with each step in the advance 
of civilization. 



VAGRANT LOVE! 

A KONDEL. 

By Louise Chandler Moulton. 

VAGEANT Love ! do you come this way ? 

I hear you knock at the long-closed door 
That turned too oft on its hinge before 

1 am stronger now ; I can say you Nay. 

The vague, sweet smile on your lips to-day, 
Its meaning and magic, I know of yore : 

O vagrant Love, do you come this way ? 
I hear your knock at the long-closed door. 

But why your summons should I obey? 
I listened once till my heart grew sore 
Shall I listen again, and again deplore? 
Nay ! Autumn must ever be wiser than May 
And the more we welcome the more you betray- 
O vagrant Love, would you come this way ? 



FRAY BENTO S BELL 

By Charles Paul MacKie. 




N one of those narrow, shel 
tered valleys which are to the 
gaunt desolation of the Boliv 
ian Andes what the green 
wddis are to the arid wastes 
of the Soudan, lies the little 
Franciscan monasterio of Our 
Lady of Many Sorrows. Such, 
at least, is the " devotion " of 
the tiny chapel attached to the 
miniature convent, and by this name the 
whole establishment has come to be 
called. Protected on three sides from 
the biting winds of the snowy sierras by 
the steep walls of the lofty mesa above, 
the valley opens only toward the east ; 
whence come soft breezes warmed by 
the sun of equatorial Brazil, and heavy 
with the moisture of the far off Atlantic. 
These, with the irrigation furnished by 
the stout stream which brawls past the 
quiet retreat on its way to the distant 
Amazon, have made it possible for the 
good fathers, by dint of much patience 
and hard labor, to create a veritable gar 
den in the wilderness ; and, save for the 
bleak tableland towering overhead, and 
the gleam of a single ice-crowned peak 
away to the eastward, to forget that they 
are perched nearly twelve thousand feet 
above the ocean tides, in the very heart 
of the barren Cordilleras. 

Though it was distant not more than 
three leagues from the city, which we 
may miscall La Vega, I had been a resi 
dent of the latter for many weeks with 
out so much as hearing the convent men 
tioned. In the one dingy bookstore of 
which the city boasted, I had sometimes 
met a monk of the Order of St. Francis, 
evidently bent, like myself, on finding 
such relief as was possible, among the 
scanty collection of books, from the intol 
erable dulness of life in an inland South 
American town. Beyond a courteous 
" good morning, senor," or " good even 
ing, seiior," he never showed any dispo 
sition to talk, however, although his ap 
pearance had aroused my interest from 
the first. Not more than fifty years of 
age, tall and spare of form, he bore him- 
VOL. vni. 50 



self with a dignity as far removed from 
the slovenly carelessness of so many of 
his brethren as was his whole air from 
the vacant self-complacency, or sour dis 
content, so common to his caste. Though 
clad in the coarsest garb affected by the 
extremists of the Order, his bearing was 
essentially that of a polished man of the 
world ; while his handsome, clean-cut 
face was stamped with the look of reso 
lute self-control one sometimes sees in 
men who have walled up their past, and 
keep their eyes bent sternly on the path 
leading from it. Altogether a most in 
teresting face ; but one whose reserve 
forbade any approach to a nearer ac 
quaintance. 

One gloomy afternoon, as I was read 
ing with some attention an old number 
of the Revue des Deux Mondes, the friar 
entered the shop, and, with a polite salu 
tation, passed to his customary seat at the 
back of the room, and was soon deep in 
a large volume. Perhaps an hour had 
elapsed when, noticing the rapidly in 
creasing darkness, I went to the door, 
and found the rain descending in sheets, 
and the steep street turned into a moun 
tain torrent ankle-deep. The voluble 
expressions of regret from the booksel 
ler at the inconvenience thus caused us, 
brought the monk to the doorway as 
well, and on seeing the condition of af 
fairs out of doors, he turned to me and 
said : " We shall be prisoners for several 
hours, I fear, sen or." Accepting his 
advance, I hastened to express my satis 
faction at having agreeable companion 
ship, at least ; and we readily drifted 
into a conversation about books which 
lasted pleasantly enough until the rain 
ceased and the street was again passable. 
Before starting homeward I gave my 
new acquaintance a card, with an earnest 
invitation for him to join our bachelor 
household at breakfast any day he might 
elect ; warning him that we were nearly 
all " heretics," though his welcome would 
be none the less sincere on that account. 
He thanked me with apparent cordiality 
and promised to take me at my word, 



486 



FRAY BENTO S BELL. 



" though not very soon, perhaps." He 
added as we parted, " You, too, must 
come out to our little cabin, sen or, with 
out waiting upon ceremony. Anyone will 
tell you where it is. Ask for Fray Bento. 
You will be a very welcome visitor, 
and I shall be glad to show you our 
library." 

On my mentioning this invitation to 
our host, Don Gaspar, a wealthy young 
Spanish merchant who was a devout 
Catholic and generous supporter of the 
church, he seemed not a little surprised. 
" You must surely go, Don Alberto," he 
said ; " it is an honor that is done you." 
In answer to my inquiries as to Fray 
Bento, he had not much to say. A 
learned man and a good one, but not 
often seen at such reunions of La Vegan 
society as were frequented by other 
priests. Indeed, he scarcely went any 
where but to old Dona Theresa s, the 
widow of a rich merchant of the place 
who had married abroad. She was an 
Italian, and so was Fray Bento, and this 
was a bond between them. But he was 
a good padre (with much emphasis) and 
greatly beloved of the Indians. And it 
was a marked compliment to be asked 
to go to see him at the convent, especi 
ally as I was a heretic ; so I must not 
fail to go. 

It was nearly a fortnight before I was 
able to ride out to the convent. The 
rough track wound around the base of 
the bold mountain spur which formed 
an effectual barrier to easy intercourse 
between the city and the little valley of 
the Franciscans, and then followed up 
the course of the rapid stream already 
referred to. There was a warmth and 
softness in the air of this secluded nook 
very different from the harsh atmosphere 
of the more exposed town ; and as the 
path approached the monks retreat it 
passed through hedges of wild helio 
trope and fuchsia and by well cultivated 
fields, where a number of Indians, di 
rected by a cowled friar, were at work 
on the irrigating ditches. The wicket 
of the convent was opened by a young 
brother who insisted on taking care of 
my horse, telling me that Fray Bento 
would be found in the inner court-yard. 
Passing through the outer patio, whose 
centre was occupied with a pretty rose- 
bed surrounding a fountain, I entered 



the inner one, which was wholly given up 
to flower - beds and medicinal plants. 
Here was Fray Bento, diligently spad 
ing over the earth about a tall and ro 
bust geranium-tree which stood in the 
midst of a plat of heart s-ease and vio 
lets. He seemed unfeignedly glad to 
see me, and, after bringing his task to 
a convenient point, started to show me 
through the establishment. It was 
small, exquisitely clean, and painfully 
bare in all its appointments. Except 
the library and gardens, there was noth 
ing about the place to relieve its air of 
gloomy isolation. In the former was, 
however, a passably liberal collection 
of books and a huge pile of old manu 
scripts dating from the time of the 
Spanish conquest ; while the latter con 
tained a profusion of flowers and shrubs 
which, in that ungenial soil, were them 
selves a monument to the patience and 
industry of the brothers. Fray Bento 
explained that each of these had an as 
signed task, either in the garden, or in 
the fields outside, or about the building ; 
and he evidently took great delight in 
the perfect condition of the large bed 
allotted to himself. I remarked that his 
violets, while surpassingly large and 
beautiful, had no perfume, and said 
that this a common defect at such al 
titudes must be a great deprivation to 
him. 

"No, "he answered, with some sad 
ness, "it is that which makes it possible 
for me to have them." 

" But, father," I remonstrated, " sure 
ly they lose much of their loveliness 
in being odorless. It is as though a 
beautiful child were dumb." 

" True, son ; but being dumb, they 
can never offend," he said ; and with 
some abruptness called my attention to 
other things. 

His manner impressed me strongly ; 
for he was the last man from whom one 
should have expected to hear a remark 
which savored so much of the profes 
sional cant of the conventional padre. 
But, whatever the cause, he clearly 
meant what he said ; and that it was 
coupled with some sombre thought 
was evident from the shade of pain re 
maining on his face. 

As we strolled through the pleasant, 
sunny paths, he talked freely of himself 



FRAY BENTO S BELL. 



487 



and bis companions, to many of whom 
he smilingly introduced me as "A here 
tic come to judgment." 

" You think it a prison life, no doubt, 
my son," he remarked, " and so it is in 
many ways ; but it is better so. Petty 
as it seems in all its details, this very 
pettiness makes us the more accessible 
to the wretched, the ignorant, and the 
suffering among our fellow-creatures. 
There can be no cure for the wrong 
man does to man ; when it is done, it is 
done ; but for one we harm in our lives 
we have the opportunity of helping 
hundreds. That is, if we but take our 
eyes off ourselves, my son ; off our use 
less regrets as well as our vain hopes." 

This was disappointing. Here was a 
keen-witted, high-bred, liberal-minded 
ecclesiastic, apparently so wedded to 
the formal routine of his calling, that 
twice within the hour he had fallen in 
to the language of Thomas & Kempis 
while conversing with a stranger who 
could not be expected to share either 
his convictions or his enthusiasm. And 
yet, I could not bring myself to believe 
that this was mere talking for effect. 
The whole thing was a puzzle, and I took 
the first occasion for retiring, some 
what in doubt as to the correctness of 
my high estimate of Fray Bento s in 
tellectual attainments and breadth of 
views. He, however, was again perfect 
ly natural and unconstrained as he 
walked to the wicket, and in promising 
to breakfast with us before long showed 
all of his notable ease of manner and 
graceful courtesy. 

Within a few days he made good his 
promise, joining us at breakfast with a 
pleasant apology for his want of cere 
mony. On this occasion he proved him 
self to be, beyond question, a brilliant 
and highly educated man, exhibiting a 
familiarity with secular affairs which 
was all the more agreeable by reason of 
a total absence of that assumption of 
worldliness so often noticeable in his 
class in their hours of relaxation. He 
displayed a keen insight into the larger 
questions of European politics, lament 
ing that his knowledge of American 
public affairs was limited to the study 
of De Tocqueville. With the specula 
tions and researches of modern scienti 
fic thought he was also at home, and in 



protesting, as he did, against their ten 
dency toward materialism, he argued 
from a logical rather than a clerical 
standpoint. In talking of literature, too, 
he showed a broad range and sympathy 
which was most attractive ; and we were 
not a little surprised when, upon one of 
our number offering to send up to the 
convent a collection of the latest foreign 
papers and reviews, he replied, with 
some decision, that he " never read a 
European journal." A few minutes 
later, with some suddenness, he took 
his leave, urging me to repeat my visit 
to the monasterio as soon as convenient. 

Our acquaintance grew rapidly. I 
sought his society often and spent many 
delightful hours with him in studying 
the manuscripts of the convent library ; 
while he became a regular visitor to our 
quarters and established himself as a 
warm favorite with all our party. 

As a rule, the convent seemed utterly 
shut off from the rest of the world, and 
save for the occasional presence of the 
few Indians working in its fields, there 
was no sign of life stirring in the neigh 
borhood. But two or three times I had 
found quite a little crowd of the men 
and women of the mountain tribes 
gathered about the wicket, with Fray 
Bento in their midst, receiving their 
trifling offerings and saying a few kind 
ly words to each. A handful of coca 
leaves, a few ears of purple maize, or a 
quart or two of dried potatoes, would 
be laid on the stone bench, along with a 
wild cat s skin, or the pelts of chinchillas, 
or a hank of alpaca yarn, with now and 
then a little package of cinchona bark, 
or a bunch of gay feathers contributed 
by some more venturesome Indian who 
had been lately in the Yung us, or hot 
valleys, of the eastern slopes. One tall, 
fine-looking young fellow once brought 
a small quill filled with shining gold- 
dust as his gift ; but, when asked where 
he had gathered it, had worldly wisdom 
enough to merely say with a wide sweep 
of his arm toward the eastern horizon, 
that he had "found it down there." 
Upon my remarking upon the practical 
nature of his devotees alms, Fray Ben 
to said, with much earnestness : 

" They come, at least, from the heart, 
and are often all their givers possess 



488 



FRAY BENTO S BELL. 



in the world. They are for my bell, 
which I want to get to hang in the bel 
fry there." He pointed to the low tower 
between the convent gate and the en 
trance to the chapel, which had no bell, 
although the stout beam for swinging 
one was already in place and painted. 

" We have no bell," he continued, 
" except the little one you hear tinkling 
sometimes ; and I thought it would be 
such a good thing to get a big, deep- 
toned one whose sound would go up on 
the mesa, where our children could hear 
it. Besides, my son, it seems to me 
that there is something in the voice of a 
great bell, especially at night in a lonely 
spot like this, which goes straight into 
our hearts and wakens our memories as 
nothing else can. And it is well for us 
not to let our memories sleep too long ; 
some less than others." As he paused, 
there was the drawn look about his face 
which I had before seen and connected 
with some peculiarly sad recollection in 
his mind. 

"The bell wiU cost a great deal of 
money," he added, in a moment ; "more 
than twelve hundred pesos by the time 
it is dragged over these mountains from 
the coast. But we have nearly a thou 
sand now and it will soon be enough. 
It has only taken us eight years to get 
this." 

He spoke with naked simplicity in 
saying this, and it was clear that there 
was no thought of complaint, much less 
of insinuation, in his remark. He told 
me that our generous young host, Don 
Gaspar, from time to time sent for all 
the various offerings of the Indians and 
allowed him a liberal value for them all, 
with interest on the money until the sum 
should be complete. Then his firm 
would purchase the bell in Lima and 
have it brought up to the convent ; so 
that Fray Bento would have no care 
about its transportation. 

" Our poor people will be happy when 
they hear it away off in their villages," 
he said ; " and I shall be better for it, I 
know. It will make me less cowardly, 
surely." And he turned into the library 
with me and commenced to talk about 
the manuscripts we were examining. 

On my mentioning to my companions, 
one day at dinner, Fray Bento s ambi 
tion to secure a bell for his convent, and 



proposing that we should quietly do 
something, through Don Gaspar, to has 
ten its purchase, that impulsive young 
Castilian said that he and his fellow- 
Catholics present were willing to make 
good one-half of what was wanting if we 
"heretics" cared to give the remainder. 
This we gladly agreed to do ; and Don 
Gaspar undertook to get the bell up 
from the coast without the knowledge 
of Fray Bento ; so that the latter might 
receive it and have it mounted by East 
er, which was always a great feast with 
his Indian "children." 

He himself never again alluded to the 
matter, although more than once I had 
come upon him standing by the wicket, 
surrounded by his picturesque contrib 
utors. Indeed, he had not again re 
ferred even remotely to his religious 
sentiments, nor given any further indi 
cation of those deeper personal feelings 
which he had allowed to escape him on 
the two occasions mentioned. One odd 
proceeding was, however, several times 
repeated. Now and then, as we were 
sitting together in the salon of our 
house, or strolling through the porticos 
of our courtyard, he would suddenly 
offer some hasty apology and leave us 
with a singular precipitation. This be 
came a matter of discussion among our 
party, and it was remarked that it had 
always occurred some time after we had 
finished our cigars, so it could not be 
because they annoyed him. In thinking 
the thing over I became satisfied that 
it was connected in some way with the 
habit of one of our number to adjourn 
after smoking to an adjoining room, and 
play for a half -hour or so on the piano. 
Still, this scarcely explained Fray Bento s 
brusqueness ; for he had often expressed 
a love for music and shown an excellent 
knowledge of it, and I knew that both 
our player and his instrument were 
above the average in quality. As this 
might be the cause of our guest s hasty 
departures, however, I determined to 
mention the subject frankly to him and 
assure him that it would be no depriva 
tion for us to postpone our concert. 
One afternoon, as he and I were pacing 
along his favorite walk a path through 
the fields outside the convent walls 
after having been confined for several 
hours in copying together an old chron- 



FRAY BENTO S BELL. 



489 



icle, I recalled this matter of the music, 
and mentioned it to him with the free 
dom of a good comrade. 

He walked on a few steps without 
replying ; then, stopping short, he 
grasped my shoulder almost violently, 
while a flush of color swept over his 
pale, refined features. 

" My friend," he said, and I noticed 
that he dropped the more formal style 
he habitually used, " you do not be 
lieve in miraculous interventions, nor do 
I ; at least in these days. But I have 
seen that, not once but twice, which has 
all but caused me to tear this gown from 
my sinful body and go out into the 
world a renegade and an outcast ; lost 
to honor in this world and to hope in 
the next. God gave me of His strength, 
when mine was gone beyond recovery, 
to turn my back on the temptation and 
keep my feet in the dull routine of daily 
drudgery ; to Him be the praise. But 
I cannot hope, I dare not expect, that 
such mercy will be shown me again if I 
wilfully offend ; and, weak though it 
may seem, I find safety in avoiding the 
danger I have not the confidence to com 
bat. Listen, my friend ; you will not 
think me a lunatic, I know, and there is 
that in your face which revives a feeling 
I thought yes, and hoped was dead 
and buried. 

" Years ago they are getting to be 
very many now I came to this remote 
corner of the world to be free forever 
from my youth. Among these rude and 
desolate surroundings, and these poor, 
ignorant people, I looked to be as safe 
from all contact with the past as though 
I herded with the dumb beasts that per 
ish. Year after year I spent, if not hap 
pily, at least contentedly, among the 
squalid villages of these frozen moun 
tains, or the savage camps of the wan 
dering Indians down yonder in the wil 
dernesses of the Marafion. Then the 
Superior recalled me from that work to 
train our younger brothers here for the 
same field. Still I found rest and peace 
in the knowledge that what I was doing 
would bring help and comfort, sooner or 
later, to those who needed. But one 
day a generous friend of our Order, one 
who had shown much true kindness to 
me when it was very grateful, urged 
me to attend the fiesta of his little 



daughter. I pleaded with him that such 
a thing was distasteful to me ; that for 
serious reasons I abstained from all fes 
tivities, however innocent ; but he would 
take no refusal, and to save him pain I 
went to his house that evening. It was 
a harmless little gathering of neighbors 
and friends, and I found there my good 
old Dona Theresa, a truly holy woman, 
who was the nina s godmother. I was 
talking with her on one of the balconies, 
looking out on the moonlit night, while 
the young secretary of a foreign legation 
here was playing over some airs he had 
just brought back from Paris. They 
were idle trifles ; waltzes, chansonnettes, 
and scraps of operas, and I paid them 
no heed. Suddenly, the whole scene 
vanished as completely as though swal 
lowed up by the earthquake. The 
dingy houses opposite disappeared, and 
in their place rose the stately front of a 
marble palace ; the narrow street flowed 
silently by as a placid stream reflecting 
the stars above ; down in the east the 
huge dome of icy Illimani melted away ; 
and where it had stood the moonbeams 
flashed on the rippling waters of the 
distant lagoon, whence the cool salt air 
drifted up the canal to where we were. 

" I tell you truly, my friend," and he 
clutched my arm again, " it was no 
dream. I was there ; in the flesh, not in 
the spirit. Behind me was the great 
saloon, all gold and white, glittering 
with the light of a thousand candles. 
Over the polished floors were gliding 
scores of the noblest and most beautiful 
of Italy s sons and daughters, and I knew 
them all and could call them by name. 
And through all and above all, came the 
sound of liquid music and the heavy 
perfume of myriads of flowers. Son, it 
was real, real. It was no trick of the 
imagination. For close to me, so close 
that I caught the fragrance of the vio 
lets she always wore at her bosom, was 
that face I had forced my mind to ban 
ish until I thought it was forgotten for 
ever ; and she said, her warm breath 
sweet in my face, Pdvero mio, why did 
you this thing? I loved you always. 
Did not you know that ? But when I 
wanted to answer, to swear to her I had 
believed only her own written words, 
zas ! it was all gone ; and I was back 
on the little balcony in the dreary moun- 



490 



FRAY BENTO S BELL. 



tain city on this side the world, and the 
good Dona Theresa was asking me if I 
was ill." 

Fray Bento shook himself slightly as 
he released my arm and took a step for 
ward ; then, turning again, he said : 
"Don Alberto, this is between us. 
What I did, I did because it seemed 
right and holy and that God willed it 
to be so. I know now that I was wrong ; 
that He only can judge between man and 
man, and alone can give man s life and 
take it. For that one deed I have spent 
twenty years seeking what chance could 
be found to help those who most needed 
help, to strengthen those who were 
weakest ; and I daily pray to be spared 
yet twice twenty to do the same. But, 
oh, my friend ! we have but one life ; 
you, and I, and our friends, and our ene 
mies ; and what is left for those who 
have destroyed the one and wrecked 
the other to no purpose, in mere blind 
ness of heart ? God s will be done, my 
son. Had it not been for His grace I 
should then have cast my faith and my 
work to the dogs, and gone back to the 
old land and the old life to seek what 
perhaps did not exist save as a fiction 
of the Evil One. That is years and 
years ago now ; yet I dare not trust my 
self to hear the sound of the world s 
music, or meet again the fragrance of 
that one small flower, lest the trial come 
again and I fail." 

He seemed to be waiting for some 
word from me, and I assured him that 
I was grateful for his confidence and 
would respect it. Then, thinking that 
he was the better for telling his strange 
story, I asked : 

" And the other vision, or whatever 
you think it, father ; was it, too, like 
this one ? " 

" No, my friend, it was as nothing in 
comparison. It was but a flash of light 
ning in my soul. I took up idly a 
paper, long afterward, and saw there 
the name of one I believed long since 
at rest. Yet it may not have been the 
same. His brother s child might have 
borne the name, and I must not venture 
to hope that he indeed still lives. The 
burden is on my shoulders and I must 
bear it. Whether the sin is on my soul, 
God only knows. By and by it will all 
be clear, and I may not look back to 



see whether I be right or wrong. Come ; 
it is late, and the wind blows cold off 
the mesa." 

Passing his arm almost affectionately 
about my shoulders, he walked slowly 
back to the convent without speaking. 
As we stopped at the wicket while the 
young brother went to get my horse, 
Fray Bento raised his hand in priestly 
fashion, and very solemnly gave me his 
blessing. Then, as the younger friar 
approached, my friend bade me pleas 
antly good-evening, and said that ere 
long he would see us again at our house. 

My horse travelled at his own gait 
back to the city that evening, while his 
rider pondered over Fray Bento s aston 
ishing revelation, and connected it here 
and there with what had seemed enig 
matical or inconsistent in his conduct. 
That the handsome, aristocratic, brill 
iant Franciscan had belonged to the 
Italian noblesse ; that he had loved some 
beautiful woman of his own rank and 
lost her ; and that for her sake he had 
taken the life of a dear friend, and 
sought oblivion for the deed, or life 
long penance for it, under the coarse 
frock and cowl of the discipline of St. 
Francis all this seemed clear enough. 
But that a scrap of melody, dashed off 
carelessly on the piano by an entire 
stranger, and the casual sight of a 
name in a stray newspaper should so 
move him that, after the lapse of so 
many years, he had come to doubt abso 
lutely both the extent of his crime and 
the reality of the fancied provocation to 
it, and yet denied himself the possibility 
of finding permanent peace by seeking to 
learn the truth this passed by far my 
comprehension. 

As the dark shadows gathered in the 
narrow valley and the stars began to 
shine, I reached two profound conclu 
sions : first, that were I His Holiness of 
Rome, the name of Fray Bento should 
head the list of possible candidates for 
canonization ; and, second, that in has 
tening the arrival of his bell, we, his 
friends, had played unwittingly the part 
of ruthless savages. For, that the deep 
tones of a great bell were in some way 
inseparably connected in the friar s mind 
with the great tragedy of his life ; and 
that, in bringing such an one to the con- 



FRAY BENTO S BELL. 



491 



vent, he was purposely subjecting him 
self to a constant daily, almost hourly, 
revival of his horrible quandary, with 
all of its attendant misery, was as clear 
to me now as was the great snow-peak 
before me. Why he should have chos 
en me as the confidant of his ghastly 
secret, I did not know ; only that one 
phrase in his revelation seemed to show 
that it was due to a fancied resemblance 
with someone for whom he had cared 
in el tiempo pasado. And, as he had 
blessed me there by the wicket, in the 
deepening twilight, it had seemed to me 
that in his mind I was standing for 
someone else. 

When Easter approached we received 
word that the great bell had been safely 
hauled over the main Cordillera, and 
was now lying at a point on the table 
land three days journey from town, 
awaiting our orders. For my own part, 
I was heartily sorry that it had not fallen 
over some convenient precipice and been 
dashed to pieces ; but I could do noth 
ing now in the matter without betraying 
my friend s confidence. So, when the 
order was given to drag it on toward the 
city, I agreed to be the medium for in 
viting Fray Bento, upon the plea of a 
special reunion, to breakfast with us on 
the day of its expected arrival, when we 
would discover our little plot. 

There was no unusual air about our 
little party as we gathered, that bright 
spring forenoon, in the sunny dining- 
hall, and the meal was nearly finished 
when Fray Bento asked whom he was to 
congratulate as the hero of the day ? In 
a few modest words Don Gaspar ex 
plained what we had done, and begged 
our guest s forgiveness for the liberty 
taken in interfering, even in kindness, in a 
task which we knew was so near his heart. 

Fray Bento was very deeply moved ; 
his pallid face grew deadly white and he 
locked tightly the fingers of both hands, 
as he said, " My thanks would be a poor 
return for your kindness, my friends. 
May Our Lord s blessing rest on you all 
for what you have done to-day." 

As he sat still, apparently in deep 
thought, the silence became embarrass 
ing, and one of our party, to relieve the 
strain, turned to him with a laughing 
protest : 



" Father, should the bell not ring 
true, you must not charge it to the por 
tion given by us heretics." 

He looked up, smiling kindly, and re 
plied, " You are all so bad there could 
be no distinctions, I am afraid. I doubt 
if even Don Gaspar has been to mass for 
a year." 

Just then a servant approached him 
and said there was an Indian runner in 
the courtyard with a parcel for His Rev 
erence, which was to be delivered only 
into his hands. 

" Oh, Don Gaspar," said Fray Bento ; 
"some other surprise still? Let the 
man come in, by all means." 

A lean, wiry Indian, dressed in the 
long tunic of the river tribes, came into 
the room with the loping step peculiar 
to his calling, and, kneeling at the friar s 
side, handed him a package done up in 
oiled silk and heavily sealed. Touching 
the seal with his lips, without betraying 
a sign of surprise, Fray Bento asked 
permission and opened the packet. It 
was a letter written on two large sheets 
of paper, and he had soon mastered its 
contents. Turning to the still kneeling 
messenger, he dismissed him with the 
simple words : " Say that I am going,, 
my child." 

Then rising, and tightening, as if me 
chanically, the knotted cord about his: 
waist, he went to the head of the table 
where Don Gaspar sat. Taking his hand 
in both his own, he said, quietly : 

" My friend, the black small-pox is 
sweeping through the tribes in the low 
er valleys. It has carried off all our 
brethren in the mission save one, and he 
was dying when he wrote. The Supe 
rior sends me there to do what I can till 
others come ; so I must say Adios." 

We all crowded about him to offer 
our assistance ; asking him to let us 
send to the convent for him some medi 
cines, or a mule for travelling, or what 
ever he might need ; but he gently de 
clined all help. 

" You are very good, my friends ; but 
I must go as I have always gone, and 
must not return to the convent." 

In answer to our expressions of re 
monstrance and appeal, he said, with a 
simplicity which disarmed all argument : 

"It is better so, believe me, that I 
should not turn back. Fray Miguel will 



492 



FRAY BENTO S BELL. 



overtake me with whatever is neces 
sary." 

Then, pressing earnestly the hand of 
each of us in succession, he bade us fare 
well. Beaching the door, he made the 
sign of the cross, and saying, " The peace 
of Our Lord be with this house ! " he 
started on his journey. 

Within a few weeks I was called to 
the United States. Before leaving La 
Vega I rode out to the convent to in 
quire if there was any news of Fray 
Bento ; but no word had as yet been re 
ceived from him. 

The big bell was standing in a corner 
of the courtyard. 

Six years later, I had occasion to as 
cend the Amazon River and penetrate 
the forests lying on the eastern slopes of 
the Andes of Peru and Bolivia. Above 
the rapids which form the head of 
steam navigation from the Atlantic, I 
travelled for many days in a canoe pad 
dled by twelve Indians of the Mojos. 
One afternoon, as we were nearing 
the base of the mountains and toiling 
slowly against the increasing current, 
we reached the mouth of a tributary 
flowing into the Chapare, on which we 
were. On the little clay promontory 
lying between the streams, high enough 
to be beyond the rise of the floods, and 
so placed as to be seen by the canoes 
passing up and down the river, stood a 
low, black wooden cross. Some care 
was evidently taken, even in that lonely 
spot, to keep it free from undergrowth ; 
for there was a little clearing about it, 
though the forest rose, a tangle of trees 
and vines, close behind. 

As we passed the point, our capitan 
Ignacio, gave a wide sweep of his steer 



ing oar and threw the nose of our craft 
into the shallow water at the foot of 
the bank. Instantly the crew cast their 
paddles into the bottom of the boat, 
and, kneeling beside them, crossed them 
selves and muttered some prayers. Then 
rising and resuming their paddles, they 
backed the canoe off and started again 
up the darkening stream. 

" What saint is that you prayed to 
there, Senor Ignacio ? " I asked of the 
steersman. 

" That is no saint, Senor patron," he re 
plied ; " it is the grave of the good padre. 
When the viruelas passed up the rivers 
last time, and all the other padres were 
killed, he came down here and tended 
the sick and dying Indians, who had 
been abandoned by everybody who 
could get away. Why, senor, in those 
days a man ran away from his wife and 
the mother from her child. But the 
good padre went about among them, 
and washed their sores, and gave them 
cool things to drink, and buried them 
like human beings when they died, in 
stead of leaving them to rot like dogs, 
and he seemed to be made of iron ; for 
he never got tired or sickened, until 
the plague was over and the people 
came back out of the woods to their 
villages. Then he fell ill ; and though 
we sent runners all the way up to La 
Vega to bring help for him, and two 
other padres came down quickly, he died 
the day before they got here. But he 
was a good padre, senor, and he died in 
helping us poor people, like El Cristo 
he taught us about." 

" Your padre was indeed a good man, 
Ignacio. What was his name ? " 

"He called himself Fray Bento, Sen or 
patron. May Our Lady plead for him ! " 




WINE OF LUSITANIA. 

To S. B. E. 

By Edith M. Thomas. 

OH, who would storm with foolish half-fledg d wings 
The Heav n of Song, and in one morning spend 
His lease of flight and music, and descend 

To be henceforth with dumb, unbuoyant things, 

The scourge proud rashness from Apollo brings ! 
Let me be mute an age, and take for friend 
Strong Life so may I offer at the end 

One strain dew-freshened from Pierian springs, 

That shall not other be than as the wine 
Swart Lusitania for her kings doth shed : 

Its clusters, hoarding up the rich sunshine, 

Know not the groaning press nor peon s tread, 

But, full ripe globe on globe, their sweets resign 

In slow distilment, slender, but divine ! 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 

By Newman Smyth. 




IT is something for which 
the lovers of original nat 
ure may still be thankful 
that, two hundred and sev 
enty years after our fathers 
began to chop wood in the 
forests which came down to the shores 
on which they landed, we can find, with 
in a hundred miles of the seaboard, a 
vast stretch of almost unbroken wil 
derness, larger than the whole area 
of the two States of Massachusetts and 
Connecticut. The day after leaving the 
crowded streets of New York, one may 
find himself fairly shot into a wilderness, 
where he may roam at will through an 
immense solitude, with the stream and 
the voice of the rapids for his com 
panion. 

Since Thoreau published, in 1848, an 
account of his first visit to " The Lake 
Country of New England," as he happily 
called this region of dense forests and 
many waters ; and since Mr. Lowell 
wrote his charming " Moosehead Jour 
nal," civilization has made some further 



inroads into the wilderness of northern 
Maine. The stage-coach, for the top- 
seats on which men and women used to 
scramble, has become a tradition of the 
past. The Kineo House, standing half 
way up Moosehead Lake, is no longer a 
simple paradise for fishermen, but a com 
modious modern hostelry ; and twenty 
miles down the West Branch of the 
Penobscot the canoeman who has run 
that fine stretch of river, and over Pine 
Stream Falls, may now find a consider 
able clearing, plenty of roast lamb, de 
licious wild strawberry preserves, with 
cream, and a comfortable bed in a large 
frame building, where Thoreau found 
only a rude log-house. But this wilder 
ness of woods and watercourses is too 
vast easily to give up its ancient soli 
tudes at the first approach of. the rail 
roads, or to allow itself to be tamed even 
by the repeated incursions of the lumber 
men. Moosehead, which is the goal of 
the railway excursionists, is a large lake, 
forty miles long, extending through the 
woods, and horizoned with mountains 



494 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



the lake of the forests ; but Moosehead 
is itself the spacious gateway to a broad 
tableland in which three rivers have 
their sources, and where the streams are 
the only highways through the forests. 
One who wishes to pass through this 
glorious gateway into the Maine woods 
will traverse by steamboat the whole 
length of this lake, and land at one of 
the two carries at the upper end. He 
will have with him a guide who is at 
home in quick water, and who knows 
how to swing an axe as well as to cook ; 
and from the camp-supplies with which 
he is provided, experience will have sifted 
every unnecessary pound. The guides 
have not a few good stories to tell of 
new-comers into these woods, and the 
supplies with which they came furnished ; 
one party, they say, was provided with 
fifteen pounds of cheese and five of flour ; 
another had taken rice enough, when 
boiled, to fill the canoe ; and another 
actually brought a gas-stove, thinking it 
might be handy in a tent. If one with 
out experience wishes to go into camp, 
he will do well to consult his guide in 
provisioning his party. 

At the upper end of Moosehead Lake 
a team is in readiness to haul canoes and 
luggage across a carry of two miles, 
where the wagon, with the whole civili 
zation of which it is a sign, is abandoned, 
and the sportsman, shaking the dust of 
all the ways of the world from his feet, 
puts his canoe into the West Branch of 
the Penobscot, and, with a dip of the 
paddle, floats off into the freedom of the 
forests. He must be a dull soul who 
does not feel a thrill of genuine pleasure 
when he is at last fairly afloat on this 
stream, the world left behind to run as 
it will without him, and a large, out-of- 
door life opening before him. By a sud 
den transformation-scene the man of 
the city finds himself changed into the 
likeness of an aboriginal. The primi 
tive, but long-smothered, Indian instinct 
awakes in him. He becomes once more 
an eager, careless child of nature. He 
drops the manufactured necessities of 
life, and learns, to his surprise, how 
simple, elemental, and healthful human 
existence may become, at least in the 
summer season. This reversion toward 
the type of the primitive man proves 
usually a very short and easy process to 



campers in the Maine woods ; and one 
is apt to return from it with a simpler 
heart for civilization, as well as with an 
invigorated nervous system. In this 
kind of free, out-of-door summering one 
puts himself beyond the vexatious com 
forts of hotels, and refuses to be detained 
even in that half-hearted acquaintance 
with nature which may be gained in a 
permanent camp, quite accessible, on 
the edge of some wilderness ; life is 
given over wholly in trust to nature and 
the elements, and the tent is pitched on 
the bank of some stream, or by the shore 
of some far forest lake, wherever, in 
one s roaming, night may happen to find 
one. The spoils won by the rod or rifle 
speckled trout, plump partridges, or 
a steak of sweet venison are quickly 
broiled and eagerly devoured by blazing 
camp-fires ; sleep is speedily won from 
beds of fragrant fir-boughs ; some ac 
quaintance is renewed with the early 
dawn, and many an evening s intimacy 
with the sunsets is enjoyed on those 
clear lakes, in the midst of dense woods, 
which seem to be the open eyes of the 
forest for the skies. In this careless, 
happy roaming, when one happens per 
chance to remember who he is and from 
what brick walls he has come the nar 
row street of some city to which he 
must go back, with hardly a clear acre 
of sky to be seen above it he could 
almost wish that he had been born cen 
turies ago, and his soul have taken bod 
ily form in the sinewy flesh of some In 
dian chieftain, having the subtle woods- 
lore for his education, and the Great 
Spirit for his faith, before America 
had the misfortune of being discovered 
by Columbus, or the Puritans had al 
lotted the common lands, or man s life 
had been reduced to a daily study of 
economics, and scholastic theology had 
ever been invented. 

The Indian s canoe is still the only 
device fit for all uses in this wilderness. 
The light cedar boat of the Adirondacks 
does not even enter into competition 
with it in the Maine woods. With al 
most equal facility the canoe may be 
swiftly paddled across a lake, dropped 
with the iron - shod " setting - pole " 
through the many rocks which vex a 
piece of quick water, run down a strong 
rapid, led over too dangerous pitches, 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



495 



lifted up mere brook-courses, or, when 
all trace of water fails, carried on a 
man s head along some rough trail 
through the woods. The canoe is too 
unsubmissive and high-spirited to be 
quite safe for anyone who presumes on 
acquaintance with it, but it is a quickly 
responsive and faithful friend to him 
who thoroughly understands its moods 
and ways. To float along in a canoe is 
the poetry of motion ; and if to glide 
down some quiet stretch of river be 
tween the perfect reflections in the 
waters of the overhanging boughs and 
moss-tufted trees of the high banks, af 
fords the lyric passages of this poetry of 
motion, the canoe reaches its thrilling 
epic moments as it lives through some 
splendid rapids. It is exciting sport 
to run a good rapid with an expert 
canoeman. Above some foaming pitch 
the canoe is held for an instant until it 
takes the water just right, then over it 
leaps, skimming by the edge of the rock, 
and escaping the under-tow by a few 
quick strokes of the paddle to be shot 
half-way across the stream ; to swing 
with the current and to be flung quiver 
ing down between the next rocks over 
which the mad river rushes, and so 
on, leaping successive pitches, follow 
ing each whirl of the stream around 
the ledges, until, with hardly a cupful 
of water taken in, the canoe leaves the 
rapid to roar and rage behind it, and 
we leisurely dip our paddles again in 
some smooth, deep pool. Thoreau esti 
mated his speed in running a rapid, at 
the swiftest moments, as aboiit fifteen 
miles an hour. My Indian guide once 
took me through the " horse-race " a 
rapid about two miles long in the West 
Branch within fifteen minutes time by 
my watch. As in making the descent 
we had to shoot across the stream sev 
eral times, with here and there a bit of 
dead water between the ledges to pad 
dle over, Thoreau s estimate of the speed 
of a canoe at its most exciting moments, 
in a strong rapid, seems hardly exagger 
ated. There may be a spice of danger, 
particularly to one s provisions, in run 
ning some of these falls ; but so dexter 
ous of hand and so quick of eye have 
the guides become who know these wa 
ters, that accidents rarely happen, and 
indeed, in twenty years familiarity with 



them, I have only twice come near swamp 
ing ; once in an unloaded canoe when 
we carelessly tried to cross a river too 
near the head of a wild pitch, and had 
to do some quick paddling to swing with 
a canoe half-full of water into an eddy ; 
and at another time when we attempted 
to run a fall, which was unknown to the 
guide, in a canoe too heavily loaded, and 
were picked up for an instant on a rock, 
but fortunately were able to throw our 
selves off before we were caught broad 
sides and swamped by the current. On 
the lakes a canoe without a load, if pad 
dled by two good men who understand 
it, will live in an astonishingly high sea ; 
but with a camp-load to be safely car 
ried, one must sometimes wait by the 
shore of a lake for the wind to go down 
before it is safe to venture forth. Yet, 
when one has to go from point to point 
across a tossing lake, a good canoeman 
will manage to pick his way among the 
white-caps, running with a strong push 
of his paddle from one threatening wave, 
waiting for another to pass and break 
beyond him, keeping off from the comb 
ing crests, and availing himself of every 
opportunity of making progress afford 
ed by those occasional lulls, or calmer 
spaces on the water, where the waves 
for the moment seem to have succeeded 
in knocking one another out. No ac 
cidents of any seriousness, within my 
knowledge, have happened to canoes 
when guides were taken with them. 

Some minor discomforts, and at times 
an opportunity to test one s endurance, 
may lend variety to this life ; but with a 
proper supply of rubber clothing and 
woollen blankets, it is possible to bid 
defiance to rain or cold ; and a posi 
tive pleasure may be found in declaring 
one s independence of the elements, and 
in the conquest of the storms. Even 
though one should happen to camp late, 
tired, wet, and hungry, it is astonishing 
what a cheerful homelikeness the fire, 
when once the great birch logs are fairly 
ablaze, gives to a bright warm space in 
the forest s gloom, and how good the 
freshly baked biscuit seem, and with 
what comfort one may fall asleep though 
the rain beats on the thin tent just over 
his head. If a more equable couch is 
desired than the fir-boughs, when prop 
erly shingled, afford, one may indulge 



496 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



in the civilized device of an air-bed, 
made of rubber, which may be rolled 
up as compactly as a pair of blankets 
while one is travelling by day, and blown 
up with no little healthful exercise of 
the lungs at night. In the late sum 
mer or early autumn the Maine woods 
are quite free from that peculiar dis 
comfort in which Paley found a proof 
of benevolence, when, somewhere in his 
"Natural Theology," he wrote, with a 
more philosophic coolness than June 
fishermen are apt to display : " The in 
sect youth are on the wing." The black 
flies, after the middle of August, cease, 
except in some of their favorite haunts, 
to take that delight in existence which 
was Paley s proof of universal benevo 
lence, and the cool, frosty nights make 
life no longer worth living for the 
swarms of mosquitoes, and they desist 
from their music. While vigorous men 
may find days of paddling, or climbing, 
which task and test their strength, others, 
whose muscles have been neglected and 
who lack red blood in their veins, need 
not hesitate to plunge into this wilder 
ness for fear of hardship or exposure ; 
camps can be made quite endurable dur 
ing the rains, and with whole days spent 
in the sunshine, some of it is sure to find 
its way into the blood and to enrich the 
heart-pulses. Ladies venture on this 
out-of-door life with entire safety, and 
none enjoy more than they this perfect 
escape from conventionality, and restful 
return to nature and simplicity. In this 
life in tent and canoe, those special in 
vitations to colds are not offered which 
the drafts and sudden alternations of 
temperature bring to summer visitors in 
hotel corridors, and on windy piazzas. 
If such precautions are taken, in the way 
of dress and outfit, as a little experience 
will suggest, and if the camp is made in 
good season each day, there is no reason 
why women in ordinary health should 
not go almost anywhere that men may 
penetrate through the heart of the Maine 
woods. And the most ardent lovers of 
this wilderness-life are some ladies who 
have tried it. 

One decided advantage which this 
lake country of New England possesses 
over the Adirondacks is the vastness of 
its solitude. Its uncleared area is so 
extensive, its forests are still so unbrok 



en by any highways, save the streams 
and the rough tote-roads of the lumber 
crews, that this region cannot become 
populous with visitors. Though many 
summerlings (to coin a word to describe 
us summer transients) now flit along 
these streams, yet is not this wilderness 
over-swarmed with visitors. Even while 
paddling down the main streams one 
will meet but few canoes, and may camp 
at night with no neighbors in sight or 
sound. Some future day the rich bot 
tom lands along these streams may know 
cultivation ; but now they are mostly 
left to the grasses, the wild flowers, and 
the deer. When I first discovered for 
myself the delightful possibility of re 
lapsing for a season into this Indian- 
like existence, about twenty years ago, 
although it was then late in the sum 
mer, I learned that only two parties of 
" sports " (as we are called in the native 
dialect) had crossed before me the 
carry from Moosehead into the Penob- 
scot waters ; and not until the last day 
of nearly a fortnight s canoeing did 
pass a boatman on the river. I asked 
him for news of the Franco-Prussian 
war, which was then waging ; but the 
native woodsman had not troubled him 
self with such foreign affairs. He was 
eager, however, to learn from me " what 
was going on up at the dam." So, each 
of us with his different question, passed 
midway in the river, he living in his 
forest world, and we going back to 
ours. How separate are the worlds in 
which men living on the same planet, 
passing each other on the same stream, 
may be dwelling one man s world as 
a foreign land to another ; yet is there 
not some one world great enough and 
simple enough to contain us all? some 
one kingdom of heaven human enough 
in its sympathy, and divine enough in 
its promise, to comprehend all men 
the moral inhabitants of all worlds in 
its pure and perfect good ? 

Since that first discovery which I 
made of this wilderness many of its 
more accessible haunts have become 
familiar camping-grounds, and some of 
our nearer trout-pools have given up 
their secrets ; yet the lover of untamed 
and unhumanized nature, to whom every 
increase of forest distance between his 
tent and the nearest house is so much 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF 



ENGLAND. 



497 



added pleasure, has only to push a lit 
tle farther back, to work his way over a 
side-carry, or to lead his canoe up some 
tempting brook, and he will find himself 
without pursuers, and may light his sin 
gle camp-fire by some lake on whose 
waters no flies but his own are cast. 
And the trout of those remote pools, 
whose education to the artificial fly has 
been entirely neglected, rush at the 
hackle, or the ibis, and leap, and are off, 
with a flash of motion, and a whirl of 
the fisherman s reel, of which the more 
educated trout in less wild pools, often 
fished, seem rarely capable. Almost all 
old habitues of these Maine woods have 
some hidden lake, or nameless trout- 
pool, or mouth of mountain brook, and 
stretch of meadow-shore known to the 
deer and themselves, of which they say 
little, but to which often, during the busy 
days of the year, their thoughts return, 
and to which, when the vacation time 
comes again, their canoes quietly find 
the way. There are many unmapped 
and rarely visited lakes, known to the 
hunters, some into whose clear waters 
Mount Ktaadn casts its shadows, which 
at some future day may it be still dis 
tant! when these solitudes shall dis 
close the secrets of their peace to the 
world, are destined to become familiar re 
sorts of the lovers of pure nature. One 
such lake I hold in memory a round, 
clear crystal set in green ; at one break 
in the forests which shelter it a rocky 
little brook, by which its existence had 
been revealed to me, runs out of it over 
the stones ; a lake scarce ruffled by the 
winds which swept over the tops of 
the spruce and the birches which were 
etched, every mossy twig and lightest 
leaf of their branches, in the clear wa 
ters from which the trout leaped to my 
fly. So far as I could learn, those speck 
led trout, some of which had grown old 
enough to reach three good, solid pounds 
by my scales, had never had the pleasure 
before of seeing an artificial " Montreal," 
or rising to a small "professor," and we 
had the satisfaction of introducing them 
for the first time to the cheerful sput 
tering of the frying-pan. And within a 
short distance, so our Indian guide told 
us, lay several similar lakes whose waters 
have not yet been touched by any white 
man s canoe. 



This lake country possesses two Ti 
tanic features, the equals of which it 
would be hard to find in the whole Ap 
palachian range Eipogenus gorge and 
Mount Ktaadn. Kipogenus Rapids arc 
the dread of the lumber-driver and the 
fascination of the tourists. Before reach 
ing this ravine the West Branch of the 
Penobscot has collected a whole as 
sembly of waters into its now strong 
stream ; gathering its powers up for a 
brief pause and rest in a deep lake which 
lies between the hills and under a preci 
pice, it suddenly plunges, as though im 
patient of delay and conscious of its 
might, down through one of the wildest 
and most relentless gorges which a con 
vulsion of nature has ever torn and 
twisted from the great rock for the leap 
and the foaming of a river on its way to 
the sea. Near the foot of this gorge 
one may stand on the brink of a preci 
pice which rises straight up seventy feet 
from a dark pool beneath. Directly op 
posite, so near that we could almost leap 
across the chasm, a solid rock, sharp at 
its upper edge, and broad at its lower 
end called from its resemblance to a 
flat iron the heater splits the wild cur 
rent below in two. The level top of 
this great wedge of rock is mossy, and 
covered with bushes bearing the largest 
blueberries, which, though they hung 
provokingly almost within our reach, 
no hand could pick. From this point 
we look up the gorge between precipi 
tous walls, over which regiments of hardy 
spruce and birches climb their dense 
ranks broken by jutting rocks and bare 
cliffs on which only a few venturesome 
skirmishers of vegetation have succeeded 
in gaining scant footing ; while, beneath, 
the river is one hurrying succession of 
cascades, tossed into the sunlight, and 
momentary pools where the foam gathers 
under the deep shadows ; and the whole 
wild ravine is filled with sound and re 
verberation as though nature within 
this deep gorge were engaged in some 
awful combat of its powers. Turning 
and looking down, one sees this narrow 
path, which has been rent through the 
rock, widening into a sunny valley, 
through which the river, at last es 
caped from its turmoil, winds between 
fringes of meadow ; and beyond, only 
ten miles of clear air distant as the 



498 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



bird flies, Ktaadn lifts its scarred and 
ragged pyramid almost a straight mile 
up above the river and the forest at its 
foot. 

Along the west side of Bipogenus 
gorge, a narrow and precarious driver s 
path leads from point to point on the 
edge of the precipice, where, during the 
spring freshets, watchmen are stationed 
while the West Branch drive of logs is 
being run through the rapids below. 
If at any place in the rapids a log is 
flung between the rocks and others fol 
lowing it are piled up in a great jam, 
the watchman waves his torch of blazing 
birch-bark, and the signal is thus trans 
mitted from point to point to the head 
of the gorge ; the men at the dam, be 
ing thus warned, stop turning more 
logs from the boom into the stream ; 
and at the sharp, ragged ledge where 
the jam has occurred, an effort is at 
once made to break it. Sometimes a 
venturesome driver will go out on it, 
and seek to cut loose the log which 
holds the whole jam, and to leap ashore 
in time to escape going down himself 
with the crash. Several lives have been 
lost in these rapids by too great reck 
lessness in thus breaking a jam. This 
watchman s path runs at one place sev 
eral hundred feet along the crest of the 
precipice, then it descends suddenly to 
the level of the stream, where I have 
taken radiantly speckled trout, and seen 
silvery parr or young salmon leap from 
the foam of the rapids ; then the dizzy 
pathway climbs half-way up the side of 
the gorge, and offers hazardous foothold 
as it skirts the base of an overhanging 
cliff, which looks as though the next 
touch of the winter s frost might tumble 
it down among the broken rocks at the 
bottom ; and so the path runs on and 
on, now losing itself in the dense ever 
green, and now coming out at high 
points into moments of sunshine, or in 
viting the thirsty climber to rest at a 
cool spring which trickles from some 
mossy fissure in the side of the great 
rock a path this, which, if one has the 
hardihood to follow it its whole length 
up the gorge of Bipogenus, will lead 
him through wildness itself ; and long 
afterward it will remain etched on his 
memory. 

The carry around these Bipogenus 



rapids is three miles long, or two and a 
half to " the putting-in " place where 
the canoes lightly loaded may be safely 
run ; it follows a good tote-road, through 
fine woods, favorable for partridges, and 
past a small pond which used to contain, 
under the birches at its farther end, a 
famous trout-pool. After passing Bipo 
genus one paddles through stretches of 
dead water, runs several rapids, and 
carries by some bad ledges and falls, 
with Ktaadn every now and then fram 
ing itself between the river-banks for a 
picture. Those who wish to venture 
the ascent of this mountain will pitch 
their tents at its foot by the mouth of 
a clear stream, which still bears the Ind 
ian name Aboljackarmegassic. From 
this point it is about eight miles to the 
mountain s top. A path which was 
scarcely blazed, and which taxed even 
an Indian s skill to follow it when I 
first climbed it, but which is now more 
worn and not difficult to trace, leads 
through the woods, up and down over 
the lower ridges, ascending by the side 
of a tumbling brook until it comes out 
on an open highway to the mountain s 
crest, which some landslide had ploughed 
and broken out before the memory of 
man. Nature, however, rested content 
with marking this possible approach to 
the summit, and has never taken the 
least pains to finish her road. It is as 
though Pamola, the dread spirit of the 
mountain, according to the Indian tradi 
tion, would give us to understand that 
the bold climber may approach in this 
way the cloudy summit, but at no easy 
cost ; only the strong will shall gain the 
reward to be won on Ktaadn s height ; 
let all but the most determined keep to 
the stream below. 

The scramble up this landslide re 
minds me of the climb over the loose 
lava up the cone of Vesuvius. But it 
is much more difficult, as, at an angle 
of forty degrees, one not only has to 
maintain every foot he gains among 
loose stones, but also frequently must 
climb over or around great blocks of 
granite which have been left lying in 
all conceivable positions and confusion. 
We found the hollows between some of 
these wedges of rocks convenient hiding- 
places during a cloud-burst. The ascent 
and return to one s camp at the foot of 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



499 



Abol may be achieved in a day ; it is bet 
ter, however, to carry what one needs 
for a night s bivouac a little way up the 
slide to the edge of the woods, and to 
gain an evening and a morning at the 
top. For the old Scripture concerning 
the creation is particularly applicable 
to the mountain-tops: "And there was 
evening, and there was morning, one 
day." 

When I last climbed Ktaadn, the day 
had been threatening and showery ; but 
the mountain-spirit rewarded us richly 
for our double temerity in seeking to 
gain Ktaadn s solitary top, and on a 
doubtful day. For while we rested and 
waited at the summit, the veil which had 
been drawn over the face of the earth 
was lifted, and the winds swept the 
clouds from around our feet off into the 
evening sunshine, shaping them after 
the pattern of the mount on which they 
had been formed ; and as they built 
themselves up in great battlements and 
towers in the air, they took on such col 
ors as of all manner of precious stones, 
and glow r ed in such resplendence of the 
whole heavens, as only could be seen 
from this sublime mountain-top in one 
of nature s transcendent hours. And 
while those clouds, which but a half- 
hour before had wrapped us in their icy 
vapors, were become the nearer glories 
of the skies to our vision, far below the 
slant sunbeams rested on the green 
pavement of the forest -tops, and at their 
touch, in the midst of that vast expanse 
of living green, lake after lake Mil- 
linokett, Bipogenus, Chesuncook, and 
Moosehead in the distance under the 
western sky, and a whole host of lesser 
lakes shone and gleamed like shields of 
burnished gold. 

The summit of Ktaadn is itself even 
more interesting than the broad pros 
pect to be gained from it. It may not 
be called one of the wonders of the 
world, but it certainly is the mountain 
wonder of New England. At the top 
we cross at first a broad plateau, covered 
with low forms of vegetation, and a 
dwarfed species of blueberries, which 
from the way they are spread over the 
rock the Indians call bed-quilts ; then 
one makes a slight ascent and finds him 
self on a narrow ridge, rounding at in 
tervals into cones, perhaps twenty feet 



in diameter, on the one side of which 
the mountain flings itself down at a 
steep angle, and on the other side of 
which it breaks off into an abrupt pre 
cipice straight down for nearly a half- 
mile s distance. This ridge at some 
points between the cones is but two or 
three feet wide, and, especially when 
the wind blows, one has need to creep 
carefully along it. From it you may 
toss a stone down and hear it falling and 
echoing for several minutes in its de 
scent. But this is only the half of the 
marvel of Ktaadn s summit. This nar 
row ridge, running from cone to cone, 
describes a semicircle, and Ktaadn thus 
encloses within its heart of broken rock 
a great gulf of awful depth ; and down 
into this gulf, as I stood gazing into 
its gloom, the cloudy vapors from the 
mountain poured, the winds wailing and 
sobbing through the mists, now blow 
ing the clouds against the sharp rocks 
and filling the whole gulf with their 
moaning, now rending them, and lift 
ing for a moment the vapors to disclose 
the cavernous depths below. Dante, 
I thought, could have found no fitter 
scene for his Inferno, and might have 
heard from beneath the wailing as of 
lost souls. Yet at the bottom of this 
same fearful gulf, when the morning 
came and filled its rocky depths with 
the warm sunlight, we saw beneath the 
precipice a peaceful lake. Which vision 
shall be the last of God s creative day, 
that evening s gloom or that morning 
in Ktaadn s Inferno ? But we do not 
know what is last in God s one thought. 
In the Maine woods the deer have in 
creased greatly in number during the 
past few years, and if I may judge from 
the tracks which I have seen in various 
places, the moose are not decreasing. 
This result is largely due to the com 
mendable efforts of the game commis 
sioners, and to certain provisions of the 
law which prevent the wholesale de 
struction and exportation of game for 
the market. Over-legislation, however, 
often tends to defeat the ends of law, and 
the game laws of the State of Maine, in 
some particulars, are generally regarded 
as overdone by those who are naturally 
interested in the proper protection of 
game. The sections of the statutes 
which extend the close season bevoncl 



500 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



the months when men can usually take 
vacations in the woods, and which do 
not even permit a camper to shoot 
legally venison enough to eat when he 
may be miles from any meat-market, 
are of little practical value in protecting 
the game, while they succeed in array 
ing against the law the interests of many 
who should be the most concerned in 
seeing the game saved from extermi 
nation. Efforts have been repeatedly 
made by the Kineo Club to have the 
laws so modified that, while the whole 
sale slaughter of deer and moose may 
be prevented when they are helplessly 
yarded in the deep snows, some oppor 
tunity for legal shooting may be granted 
somewhat earlier than October ; and a 
bill which was introduced into the last 
legislature of Maine for this purpose, 
passed one branch of that body, but 
was defeated in the other by some in 
fluence adverse to sportsmen. Gentle 
men who take to the woods in the sum 
mer generally denounce, and are quite 
ready to help expose, indiscriminate and 
wasteful killing of fish or game ; but as 
in the course of the season they bring 
considerable money into the State, they 
naturally think that some liberty might 
be granted them of feeding themselves, 
if they can, while in the woods, from the 
only meat-market which is there open 
to them. Some modification of the law 
in this respect would make little or no 
difference in the amount of game actu 
ally shot, and it would seem to be not 
an altogether unprofitable act of hos 
pitality on the part of the State toward 
visitors, whom its railroads and hotels 
and guides invite at considerable charges 
to view its varied scenery, and to find 
rest and sport in its great wilderness. 

Jack-hunting is not often practised in 
the Maine woods, as it has been in the 
Adirondacks ; the hounding of deer into 
the water, where a blind man might 
easily shoot them, is forbidden by the 
law ; and the general sentiment as well 
as practice of sportsmen sustain this 
section of the law. The usual method 
of securing large game in the Maine 
woods is still hunting. After the first 
snows have fallen the hunter, on noiseless 
snow-shoes, will follow, often for miles, 
through the woods and across lakes, the 
track of a deer or caribou ; or in the fall, 



with the paddle of the guide not lifted 
from the water, the sportsman s canoe 
will skirt the shores, look up into the 
" logons," or steal along the edge of the 
meadows, following some brook, in the 
hope of seeing a deer come out to drink 
or to feed. It is a fascinating method 
of hunting, and not without its reward, 
although no venison may be brought 
back to camp. Though one may not 
chance upon a deer, or may start 
one up and see him bounding away, as 
only a deer can leap through the brush, 
there is an indescribable charm in fol 
lowing thus some winding stream just 
as the dawn begins to purple the sky, 
or in lingering at the edge of some 
grassy point, which stretches down 
from the dark forest, while the sunset 
fades and the stars come out. The 
recollection of such mornings will light 
up future hours of work, and such even 
ings which fall around one while still 
hunting, have their long after-glow in 
memory. This kind of still hunting il 
lustrates the general and fine law of 
happiness, that what one seeks is often 
not the best which nature has to give. 
The object of the hunt furnishes the 
immediate incentive to activity ; but the 
success of the hunt forms a minor part 
of the happiness of one s whole contact 
with nature in this wilderness. 

Occasionally, if one has rare luck, the 
canoeman may come upon a moose 
drinking or feeding among the lily -pads ; 
but the moose is a great, solitary creat 
ure, and generally keeps out of sight 
and harm in the daytime. The hunter 
who has got on the track of a moose, 
tries at night to call him down to his 
canoe by imitating, through a large 
birch-bark horn, the succession of grunts 
and long flourish of sound which is 
made by the cow-moose. He must wait 
for a clear, still moonlight night ; too 
much wind may prevent his call being 
heard, or, if the wind be in the wrong 
direction, the moose may scent his dan 
ger, and cannot be allured from cover. 
Quietly placing his canoe close to the 
shore at a point where he judges from 
the tracks a moose may be called out, 
the Indian bellows through his horn, 
directing the sound all around the for 
est ; and while the sportsman, rifle in 
hand, sits wrapped up in his blanket, 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF "NEW ENGLAND. 



501 



for the October nights are cold, they 
listen for an answer. The call under 
favorable conditions may be heard for 
two miles ; and, if a bull-moose is with 
in call, soon, in answer to the horn, a 
low bark or grunt will become distin 
guishable from the silence in the dis 
tance. " He is coming," the Indian, who 
probably first detects the sound, will 
whisper ; and as the moose rushes down 
in a bee-line toward the point from 
which the call proceeded, the breaking 



such a night, " to call a big moose right 
clown to the canoe, and then to have 
my man not hit him." Four conditions 
must be met for success in this kind of 
hunting : there should be little or no 
wind ; there must be moonlight enough 
to enable the hunter to see his game 
and to cover it with his rifle ; and, what 
is quite as important, there should be 
a moose somewhere within sound of 
the Indian s call ; and even when these 
conditions are fulfilled, and a moose has 




Foot of the Rapids at the Head of Ripogenus Lake. Ktaadn in the distance. 



of the branches with his horns, and 
cracking of the bushes through which 
the great creature plunges, leave no 
doubt in the sportsman s mind that some 
thing is coming. Sometimes a moose 
may break almost out of cover, and then 
grow suspicious, or lose the direction, 
and roam wildly around, and come back 
again ; the excitement may thus be kept 
up, and the hunter s suspense prolonged 
for a considerable time, and then the 
great moose stands right before the 
canoe, as if he would jump into it, and 
the decisive moment is now ! "It makes 
me feel bad," said one of my Indian 
guides, after having described to me 
VOL. VIII. 51 



been heard breaking his way from th^ 
forest ridges straight toward the water, 
the sportsman must have succeeded in 
keeping steady enough to shoot at the 
right moment, and not into the thin air, 
when at last the great branching horns 
come out just before him, and his rifle 
may bring him the long-coveted trophy. 
These conditions, and particularly the 
last, give the moose a fair chance. 

In the first part of this article I have 
sketched the way through the Maine 
woods which leads down the West 
Branch through Kipogenus, and past 
the foot of Ktaadn. One following that 
route still farther would cross the lower 



502 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



lakes, with grand views of the great 
mountain accompanying him down the 
river, and after several days canoeing he 
would come out at the railway station 
in Mattawamkeag. 

But the trip down the West Branch 
is only one of many water-paths which 
may be followed through this forest. 
From the head of Chesuncook Lake 
one may choose either of two courses to 
the upper waters of the St. John ; and 



The East Branch trip requires some 
ten days of almost steady canoeing in 
order to pass in this way from civiliza 
tion back to civilization. Leaving the 
West Branch at the head of Chesun 
cook, we followed Umbazooksus stream 
through the meadows for five or six 
miles of perversely crooked dead water, 
and then up two or three miles more of 
the quick, shallow stream to a lake of 
the same Indian name. Then we have 




Hauling Canoes Across the Carry from Caribou to Portage Lake, Me. 



he may branch off in various side direc 
tions ; or he may find his way down 
either the West or the East Branch of 
the Penobscot. 

Last summer I took for the first time 
this latter, roundabout, and rarely tra 
versed East Branch trip. A brief de 
scription of what we had to pass through 
in that trip may convey perhaps a more 
definite idea of canoe life in the Maine 
woods. I will give, therefore, a con 
densed traveller s itinerary of this jour 
ney. Yet the color, and the joy, and 
the fun of it all, cannot be easily repro 
duced from a traveller s note-bo*ok. 



to pass the sportsman s Slough of 
Despond, the Mud Pond carry. But an 
enterprising backwoodsman now has a 
logger s camp, and keeps a team and a 
drag at this carry ; so canoes and lug 
gage are hauled over to a pond about a 
mile in width, after crossing which one 
drops down through another winding, 
shallow brook until he comes out to a 
large expanse of water which the Indi 
ans used to call Apmoojenegamook, but 
which now goes by the less romantic but 
more pronounceable name of Chamber 
lain Lake. The outlet at the upper end 
of it lets its waters flow into the tribu- 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



503 



taries of the St. John ; but we follow the southern shore and enter a stream 
which once flowed into this lake, but which now, by reason of a cut which has 
been made lower down, carries the overflow of Chamberlain into the East Branch 
waters, so that this lake actually unites the two rivers, the St. John and the Pen- 
obscot, and makes, in a sense, an island of all the broad country lying between 
them. Paddling across three lesser lakes, and through the narrow water-courses 
connecting them, we have next to run our canoes eight or more long miles down 
Webster Brook, a narrow but swift, strong stream, with many a steep pitch in it 
hazardous to the canoe, and with a fine waterfall near the mouth of it. While de 
scending this brook course, Thoreau s companion, climbing over a ridge before 

him, became separated from his party, and had 
to spend the night supperless by himself in the 
woods. We had agreed to camp by the falls near 
the mouth, and while our guides sought to drop 
the lightened canoes safely down this wild stream, 
we started to w T alk within sound of it through 
the woods. But the old tote-road which we 
followed, just when we should have 
turned finally toward the stream, led 
us off around high ledges toward a 
lake farther 
down, and af 
ter several 
hours tramp 
we found our 
selves in the 




Drawing Canoes up the 
Rapids. 

condition of the 

Indian who had 

missed his way 

in the woods, and who, when recovered by a 

searching party, laconically remarked, "Ind- 



504 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEM/ ENGLAND. 



ian not lost, wigwam lost." But after 
returning on our track we found the 
river, and one of our guides found us, 
and we were glad enough to see again 
the canoes which had reached the water 
fall before us. It was late in the after 
noon, but after a hastily seized lunch, 
in which our solitary can of chicken sud 
denly disappeared, we found ourselves 
philosophically fishing at the foot of a 
wild waterfall in one of those pools, 
overshadowed by the rock, in which the 
trout, with their singular regard for 
picturesque scenery, love to dwell. An- 



I had been curious to observe how 
far up these waters I could find evidence 
of the ascent of the Penobscot salmon ; 
and at Grand Falls a pitch of the river 
over a ledge some twenty feet high I 
had the unexpected pleasure, while I 
stood watching the foaming cataract, of 
seeing a large salmon leap clear out into 
the sunlight, some six feet up the falls, 
and, falling back, leap out a second time, 
when apparently the water proved too 
strong for him, and he fell back into the 
deep pool. One of the falls on this river 
is named " Hulling Machine Falls," for 




Jam of Logs at Grand Falls, East Branch of the Penobscot, Me. 



other short carry, to avoid impassable 
rapids, and we are dropping down the 
East Branch beneath the overarching 
trees, and then floating over the still 
surface of another lake with a large out 
look of mountains. Here we found fit 
temple for our needed Sabbath s rest. 

The river which we followed the next 
morning winds through meadows, with 
large "logons" opening on either side, 
favorite haunts for deer, and then broad 
ens into another large expanse of water, 
Grand Lake, from which it hurries for 
the rest of our journey through a suc 
cession of falls, rapids, and pitches, with 
occasional reaches of dead water be 
tween them. 



in the spring freshets the logs which are 
driven over it are often completely hulled 
or stripped of their bark by its sharp 
rocks. Another drop of the river, which 
presents a succession of white steps as 
one looks up it, is called Stair Falls. 
The scenery, as one paddles down this 
portion of the river, is exceedingly pic 
turesque ; the Traveller Mountains 
so called because they seem to follow 
with the traveller down the stream 
at frequent turns of the river fill out 
the perspective between the high-wood 
ed banks with noble mountain forms. 
Some spring "logons" and mouths of 
mountain brooks offered as cold water 
as ever flows from under the great rocks ; 



506 



THE LAKE COUNTRY OF NEW ENGLAND. 



and when we cast our flies over their 
clear surface, so many trout would leap 
for them that our chief difficulty was in 
selecting the exact sizes which we pre 
ferred for our frying-pan. My experi 
ence, however, is that the largest trout 
in this whole region, those weighing 



trout, true fisherman s weight, is a good 
trout for the Penobscot waters. 

For several days we floated between 
the trees, had visions of mountains, and 
pitched our tents at evening in the for 
ests through which the East Branch 
flows, meeting no one in this remote- 




Traveller Mountains, from the East Branch of the Penobscot, Me. 



from four to six pounds, are to be taken 
in Moosehead Lake (by those who know 
when and where to find them) ; but, 
though trout of four or even more 
pounds are sometimes killed in these 
streams, they do not often run higher 
than two pounds and a half or three 
pounds ; just underneath Chesuncoock 
dam, and at another pool which shall 
be nameless, I have taken several brook 
trout which weighed fully three pounds, 
and which looked, when first caught, 
like a piece of iridescence broken off 
from some rainbow. But a three-pound 



ness, and having at night the voice of the 
stream for our lullaby. But at last the 
mountains drew back into the distance, 
we saw tame cattle and scattered houses 
in the clearings, and then a whole village 
came in sight. After a few more miles 
of pleasant river we passed under that 
sign of civilization, a railroad bridge, at 
Mattawamkeag. Though in the morn 
ing we had eaten our breakfast by the 
camp-fire, in the evening we left our 
canoes and their poetry of motion, and 
were trying to accustom ourselves once 
more to the dull prose of railway travel. 




On the Back of the Hatteras Sand-Wave. 

(The sand-wave has passed a stunted live-oak, cutting the sand from around its roots.) 



SAND-WAVES AT HENLOPEN AND HATTERAS. 

By John R. Spears. 



IN a journey by sea along the coast 
of the United States no more interest 
ing headlands are seen by the traveller 
than Cape Hatteras and Cape Henlopen. 
Both are low- lying sand -spits backed 
by low-lying stretches of country cov 
ered with scraggy forests ; but whatever 
may be lacking in grandeur of scenery 
is more than compensated by other feat 
ures that must at all times excite emo 
tions in the spectator. To the master 
of the ship they are often objects of 
the most eager anxiety the one that its 
dangers may be avoided, the other that 
safety may be found behind it. 

It is at Cape Hatteras that the warm, 
moisture-laden wind from the south 
meets the cold blast from the north, to 
form such black fogs as bewilder seamen 
nowhere else in American waters. It 
is here that, because of the contour of 
the coast, opposing tidal currents meet 
to sweep in eddies off shore, and form 



shoals many miles out to sea on which 
unnumbered ships are lost, leaving no 
trace behind, for no wreckage comes to 
this beach. It is here, more frequently 
than elsewhere on the coast, that the 
cyclones from the Sargasso Sea are felt 
in all their terrific power, for this point 
approaches closer than others to the 
usual path of the vortex of the hurri 
cane the Gulf Stream. 

It is at Cape Henlopen that the most 
extensive artificial harbor on the sea 
board, the Delaware Breakwater, is 
found. 

Indeed no beacons in the world excite 
stronger or more conflicting emotions 
in the breast of the mariner than the 
black-spiralled tower and flashing white 
light of Hatteras, and the plain white 
shaft and steady glare of Henlopen, for 
the one stands for the Rudra and the 
other for the St. Nicholas of the dan 
gerous American coast. 



508 



SAND-W A YES AT HEN LOP EN AND HATTER AS. 



Born of the wind and 
the sea, on the sandy 
beach of each cape is a 
curious natural phe 
nomenon. A mammoth 
wave of sand, that tow 
ers aloft like a sea-wave, 
even curling over in 
places like a huge 
breaker, is rolling in 
land irresistibly, and 
lacking only the ele 
ment of speed in its ca 
reer to carry such ter 
ror to the hearts of the 
inhabitants as is in 
spired by the sea-waves 
that follow an earth 
quake, for the destruc- 
tiveness of the sand- Hi 
wave is limited only by 
its scope. Though similar in origin, 
substance, and motive power, there 
is yet so much difference between 
the two waves in form, extent, and 
speed of travel, and in the actual 
destruction of property, that each 
is a study in itself. Especially 
noticeable is the difference in the 
devastation wrought, for while one 
is laying waste a forest of small 
value, the other is burying inexo 
rably a hundred lowly homes. 

According to gray -haired ob 
servers living near Henlopen, the 
sand - wave there was, fifty years 
ago, simply a great dune or ridge 
lying along the northerly side of 
the cape. Its foot was washed by 
the waves whenever a northeast 
gale was blowing ; its crown was 
covered with twisted pines inter 
spersed with patches of coarse 
grass. A Government engineer, 
who in 1845 surveyed the cape, 
placed the elevation of the dune 
at seventy-two feet above the sea, 
as is testified by one who assist 
ed in the survey. The length was 
nearly two miles. Behind the ridge 
was a swamp through which the 
salt water ebbed and flowed to the 
depth of several feet at every tide, 
and which, with the low plateau 
beyond, was crowded with dense 
growth of timber and brush, in 
cluding many pines that were large 





SAND-WAVES AT HENLOPEN AND HATTERAS. 



509 



and valuable. A half-mile back from 
and nearly parallel with the beach ran 
the Government road, built in colonial 
times for the transportation of supplies 
from the old town of Lewes to the light 
house on the cape. 

Somehow about the time of the sur 
vey, or a little before, the old observers 
do not remember just when, and do not 
know just why, this sand-dune became 
animate began to roll inland. When 
ever the wind was northerly its coarse 
sand was picked up in clouds and sent 
driving along with the gale. The light 
house keeper or the beach comber, 
bound along the crest of the ridge, could 
continue his way only by covering his 
face with a thick veil, and even then 
his journey was painful. The cutting 
power of the blast was so great that new 
handkerchiefs used as veils during a 
walk of a mile or so were worn to shreds 
when the end was reached. The wind 
was picking up the sand from the north 
ern face of the ridge, carrying it up 
over and beyond the crest, and then, 
because the eddies in the air could not 
sustain the load, the sand was dropped. 
Inch by inch the foot of the ridge on 
the north side receded from the beach ; 
inch by inch the foot on the south side 
advanced toward the swampy forest. 
The ridge had become a wave that was 
literally rolling in from the sea. 

The twisted trees on the crest were 
soon uprooted and their trunks were 
rolled over the ridge and buried by the 
sandy spoondrift, or were left stranded, 
to be lowered eventually to the level of 
the beach as the wind cut the sand from 
under them. The trees that had stood 
on the back of the ridge found a flood- 
tide of sand about their roots which rose 
higher and higher till crotch and limb 
and twig disappeared, and the life was 
drowned out of them. 

Then the edge of the marsh was reached 
and its black mould and its green vegeta 
tion were covered over by .the yellowish- 
white flood. The ditches where the 
tides had gurgled in and out were filled. 
The tree-covered ridges that marked the 
swamp had the sand piled over them, and 
then the substantial forest on the low 
plateau beyond the swamp was reached, 
and the most interesting epoch in the 
history of the wave began. Where the 
VOL. VIII. 52 



trees stood wide apart, with little or no 
underbrush, the sand flowed in between 
and around them as so much lava might 
have done. Where they formed a close 
barrier of interlacing limbs and thick 
underbrush the wave rolled up before 
them as the Bed Sea rose up against the 
hosts of Pharaoh, higher and higher 
in a perpendicular wall, until the level 
of the tree-tops was reached, when it 
curled and toppled over and buried them 
as a sea -wave buries a rock. With 
every breeze from the north the wave 
continued its way, and the people saw 
with wonder a forest covered before 
their eyes. The great trees that seemed 
capable of resisting every force that 
nature might bring against them strug 
gled against fate, strove to put forth new 
shoots and branches above the rising 
tide, reaching out as if for succor, grew 
faint in the struggle, turned their green 
leaves to yellow, and the yellow to black, 
and so gave up and died pitifully. 

As time went on the receding wave 
uncovered the old swamp over which 
it had passed. Old landmarks reap 
peared. The old sod and muck, and 
the vegetation, which had become a 
black mould, were easily recognized. 
Even the contour of the little old ridges 
could be made out, but the old tidal 
ditches were filled forever. Neverthe 
less the tide now ebbs and flows through 
the low valleys of the old swamp much 
as it did, with nearly the same depth 
of water that it had in the old days. 
Stranger still, a new growth of pines 
has started up on the ridges in the old 
swamp and along its northerly edge, and 
a new sand-dune, now perhaps twelve 
feet high, has formed between them 
and the sea. 

As the big wave has continued on its 
way the remnants of the buried forest 
have been uncovered, and now the tour 
ist who walks the crest sees on one 
hand the living giants of the forest 
gasping in the last throes of death, and 
on the other the bleached and decaying 
skeletons of other giants that succumbed 
long ago. In the summer, when the sun 
beats hot on the sand, the air dances 
and quivers over the wave, and the 
withered stumps that project above 
it are distorted until they seem to be 
moving about ; while the wave itself be- 



510 



SAND-WAVES AT HENLOPEN AND HATTERAS. 



comes animate and moves visibly for 
ward to scorch the life out of the cool 
green forest in its path. 

When the sand-wave had reached the 
old Government road it began to make 
trouble for Uncle Sam. The Henlopen 
light-house stood on a low, treeless des 
ert beyond the forest. A fairly com 
fortable old dwelling stood near the 
light-tower, together with a little shan 
ty used for storing oil. As the wave 
approached, the spray from its crest 
was carried over against the old home. 
It beat in around doors and windows ; 
it covered carpets and rugs and bed 
ding ; it sifted into bureau-drawers and 
clothes-closets. No weather strips, no 
wifely industry, could keep it out. The 
wave drew nearer. It rose up like a 
comber about the oil-house, and one day 
broke over and buried it out of sight. 
It advanced on the old home, and it 
buried that too. Perhaps this house 
might have been saved, but it was old, 
and Uncle Sam built a new one, placing 
it well up on the face of the sand-wave. 
But that did not protect it wholly, for 
the crest advanced steadily, until it 
passed the light-tower and gathered 
around the new dwelling, burying its 
veranda and half the lower story, and 
forming about the tower a crater, thirty 
feet deep on one side, that is a most 
curious spectacle to the visitor. 

Judging by the accounts of the peo 
ple, the sand-wave has travelled from 
forty to fifty feet a year. They explain 
the fact that it travels only with a north 
ern wind by saying that southern winds, 
being usually moist, bring rain to pack 
the sand ; besides, that the trees on the 
south side have always protected it 
there. In this statement one finds, per 
haps, an explanation of the cause of the 
sand-dune s original start on its travels. 
It is said that workmen engaged in 
building the Delaware Breakwater used 
to build fires along shore at night, and 
that the dune, before it became a wave, 
was burned over. It was thus deprived 
to a great extent of the protection of 
vegetation. 

It is interesting to note that anyone 
examining the country back of the big 
wave can find, at intervals, within a space 
of three miles, a number of sand-ridges, 
by no means as large as the great wave, 



but yet in such form and position as to 
indicate that they, too, were once just 
such sand-waves as the one that now at 
tracts the attention of all who visit Cape 
Henlopen. 

But it is on the island of which Cape 
Hatteras is the most prominent feature 
that the traveller will find a sand-wave 
which, by its extent, by the speed with 
which it is moving, and by its power for 
distressing a simple community, will ex 
cite simultaneously his wonder and his 
compassion. 

Fifty years ago Hatteras Island, from 
inlet to inlet, a distance of over forty 
miles, was almost completely covered 
with a prodigious growth of trees, among 
which live-oak and cedar were chief in 
size and number. Growing everywhere 
in this forest were grape-vines of such 
great length and extent that the boys 
of that day (the white-haired men of 
this) were in the habit of climbing into 
the tree-tops and crawling from tree to 
tree, often for a distance of over one 
hundred yards, on the webs the vines 
had woven. 

The population was sparse then, but 
it has been increasing in such ratio as 
families of from nine to nineteen chil 
dren may give. The people then, as 
now, were of simple habits, living on 
corn-meal, fish, oysters, pork, and tea 
made from the leaves of the yapon 
shrub ; but they had to have a little 
money for clothing and tobacco. To 
obtain this they cut and sold the live- 
oak and the cedar. 

Thus it happened that spaces along 
the sea-side of the island were denuded 
by the axe, and then burned over by the 
fires the fishermen built when the blue- 
fish and the mackerel came swarming 
into the beach. In time, and especially 
during the great demand for live-oak 
for Yankee clippers, just before the war, 
these spaces were enlarged, until at last 
there was a permanent widening of the 
whole beach north of the cape. 

It was then that the northeast wind, 
on a bright day, picked up the sand just 
beyond the edge of the surf, and tossed 
it back inland in a fine spray, when it 
fell down at the feet of the laurel, and 
the young cedar, and the young live- 
oak and the pine, and the yapon. With 



SAND-WAl/ES AT HENLOPEN AND HATTER AS. 



511 



each fine day the pile of sand in the 
shrubbery grew, until the shrubbery 
withered under the breath that fanned it, 
and finally died. Where the green trees 
had stood in a sandy loam, a sand-ridge 
arose, which, receiving the breath of life 
from the northeast gale, started on a 
mission of death. This wave was of ex 
tended length, but its pathway was 
short. It reached, with the exception 
of a few short breaks, from the cape to 
Loggerhead Inlet, a distance of about 
thirty miles, but the journey it was to 
make must end at the Sound, and the 
island was on the average only a little 
over half a mile wide, though at Kin- 
nakeet it is barely one mile from sea to 
sound. 

The wave s progress was at first very 
slow, because it was of small height ; it 
was scarce entitled to be called a wave, 
it was but a sand-ripple. But its speed 
of travel increased with each year, for 
every inch that was added to the narrow, 
sandy desert along the sea increased the 
area on which the wind could get a firm 
hold of the sand. Foot by foot, yard by 
yard, rod by rod the wave travelled in 
land. 

The yapon, the laurel, the cedar, and 
the live-oak were buried as it rolled along, 
or, where the wave was not high enough 
to cover them, were killed by the hot 
sand-bath about their roots and trunks. 
In places were the timber was scattered, 
the progress of the wave was so rapid 
that within twenty years from its start 
ing the narrower parts of the island had 
been crossed. 

As was said, the whole island was 
covered with a great forest fifty years 
ago. It was in the thickest parts of 
these woods, but nearly always on the 
side near the Sound, that the people 
built their homes. A log cabin or a 
board shanty of one or two rooms, and a 
garden patch four rods square, were all 
that the Hatteras islander ever aspired 
to. With the aid of a " kunner " (dug 
out canoe), and nets which the women 
knit, he was and is able to supply his 
simple wants from the harvest that 
ripens in the sound and the sea. He 
did not notice, or, if he saw it, paid little 
heed to, the stealthy approach of the 
sand-wave. The homes were scattered. 
As the wave in the narrow and open 



spaces rolled across the island, the 
isolated settler living there took up an 
other little claim where the island was 
wider and the woods thicker. As the 
children grew up and married, they built 
new homes where the wave was as yet far 
away where it attracted no attention 
whatever. There was land enough for 
all, and it belonged to the State, and was 
to be had for the asking. 

At last, however, the time has come 
when all the available land has been 
taken. It is owned by someone, and 
there is a price, a small price it is true, 
upon every acre. The forests are all 
gone, and only groves of shrubs inter 
spersed with live-oaks of deformed 
growth remain, and these are but two 
in number and of very small extent. 
Sticks of cedar have become heirlooms, 
and limbs of trees must be hoarded for 
firewood in a country where fires are 
seldom needed save for cooking. There 
is as yet no family homeless, but a 
number of families find the surf from 
the deadly sand-wave beating at their 
doors. 

But two settlements exist north of 
the cape Kinnakeet and Chicarnico- 
inico. Kinnakeet lies in a grove a mile 
long and half a mile wide at its widest 
place. Half the island has been crossed 
by the sand-wave at its widest place. 
At Chicamicomico the grove is not over 
a quarter of a mile wide, and consists 
of scattered clumps of brush separated 
by stretches where the wave has entirely 
crossed the island. Some idea of the 
time which will elapse before every 
vestige of these two groves will be gone, 
can be had from a single measurement 
which I made at Kinnakeet. The pas 
tor of the Methodist Episcopal church 
(the only denomination on the island) 
pointed out a dead cedar which had 
just been reached by the advancing 
wave during the first week of January. 
In May, when I saw it, the crest of the 
wave was thirty-one long steps further 
inland. It had travelled through the 
thickest part of the grove one hundred 
feet in five months, and the Sound but 
half a mile away. 

It was in the Kinnakeet cemetery that 
this measurement was made. In the 
old days a spot was selected for the 
burial of the dead in a little hollow that 



512 



SAND-WAVES AT HENLOPEN AND HATTERAS. 



was surrounded by great live-oaks and 
cedars, and covered with myrtles. The 
vine-covered branches arched and met 
overhead and shut out the sunshine un 
til the soft light of evening prevailed at 
noon-day. Here shallow trenches were 
dug, and the loved ones laid to rest 
where the roar of the surf, modified by 
the intervening trees and shrubs, was as 
musical as the light was soft and sooth 
ing. But thoughtless greed destroyed 
the protecting oaks and cedars, and 
now the desolating sand-wave is upon 
the hallowed spot. Indeed, one corner 
has been crossed by it. The laurel and 
the yapon are withered and dying. The 
hot glare of the sun beats down where 
once only the cooling shade was known. 
The hot sand is filling in between the 
tiny mounds and burying them and the 
cedar head-boards, carved by unaccus 
tomed hands, with names and dates and 
scriptural words of comfort in rude let 
ters, many feet under the yellow sand, 
but not forever. Where the wave has 
passed, it is not content with uncovering 
the mounds that marked the graves, but 
because they, too, are of sand it scoops 
them up, and, digging deeper and deep 
er, at last exposes the coffins and even 
the bones of the dead. The vain efforts 
which the living make by driving stakes 
and building little huts to prevent the 
desecration are pitiful. The blast that 
uproots tree-trunks is not to be stayed 
by anything that this people can do. 

Though but a few years must elapse 
before the island north of the cape will 
be uninhabitable, save as the families of 
the life-saving crews live in huts on the 



desert, the people as a whole are almost 
heedless of the inroads which the sand- 
wave is making. They are a contented 
race. One day of hard labor will yield 
a return that will supply a family with 
the necessaries of life for a week. Not 
that the islander very often does a hard 
day s work ; he takes the greater part 
of a week to accomplish what he might 
do if he had to, in twelve hours. He 
fishes, he tongs for oysters, and he sells 
the surplus to dealers who come to him 
for it. Having food and raiment, he is 
therewith content. If his attention is 
by any chance called to the sand-wave, 
he languidly says that it won t reach 
the Sound in his time, or that when he 
" kain t stan it no longer dowd doubt I 
will hev t move ; " and that is the end 
of the matter in his mind. 

Yet the time will soon come when this 
simple people must be driven from 
their homes, pursued by a fate as irre 
sistible as the deluge of old, leaving be 
hind them all the associations of their 
race, of their customs, and of their oc 
cupations ; leaving the bones of their 
dead to whiten in the burning sun, or to 
be lifted from their resting-place and 
tossed about by the merciless wind. 
Powerless against this tidal wave of 
sand they must flee away and hide 
themselves from its fury in a part of the 
island below the cape, where stunted 
groves may yet protect them in the 
years to come ; or to wander Ishmael- 
like on the mainland. Steadily, stealth 
ily onward creeps the relentless wave, 
and calmly, idly waiting, these people 
accept their doom. 




5.59. 

By Charles F. Lummis. 

AHA ! There whistles Number One ! 

And down the tingling grade she grows, 
Tossing her cloud of tresses dun 

Back on the twilight s fading rose. 

A mile a moment and my Kate, 
From years and half a world apart! 

But now we ll smile at cheated Fate, 
And keep our Kingdom of the Heart. 

And But the world is drowned in steam 
A volleying, billowing, deafening cloud 

And men there run, as in a dream, 

And through the thunderous fog they crowd. 

"An open switch," I heard one say; 

An op But that s a wreck ! And she 
A half-a-hundred yards away! 

Ah, God ! How ill from Fate we flee ! 

How cursed leaden drag my feet 
And yet the rest are far behind 

On, through that misty winding-sheet, 
My Heaven ! I know not what to find. 

H-h ! That I tripped on moved and cried ! 

Ah ! There she is ! My Kate ! my Kate ! 
Unscratched ! And not a soul beside 

Is lost, of all that living freight. 

But while the grumbling travellers hie 
To crowd the station with their fret, 

Here, sweetheart, step a little by, 
To thank the saviour they forget. 

Nay, not in words that dull ear strains 

Not even to your music, Sweet ! 
For that poor clay in greasy jeans 

There come the stretcher and the sheet. 

But of your pure heart s purest give 
To him the hungry Death that spied 

Betimes himself to leap and live 

But stayed, and stopped the train and died ! 

And yon dumb clinger to the dead 
Ay, weep for her who cannot ! She 

Upon the morrow should have wed 

With him that brought you safe to me ! 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 

By Mrs. Sylvanus Reed. 



this 



subject has been so 
prolific in themes for 
essayists, historians, 
philosophers, and crit 
ics of all civilized na 
tions as that of Educa 
tion. The founders of 
commonwealth gave it their earli 




est attention, and American literature of 
the latter half of the seventeenth, and 
of the eighteenth and nineteenth cen 
turies vies with that of England and 
continental Europe in the value and in 
terest of its contributions to that sub 
ject. Every State in the Union has been 
generous to the public schools munifi 
cent individuals have built and endowed 
with lavish hands universities and col 
leges for young men, and within the last 
two decades woman has had doled out 
to her, with great reluctance, with much 
reserve, and many misgivings, some of 
the crumbs which fall from the tables 
of the great universities. And four col 
leges, exclusively for women, have been 
built and generously endowed. 

The question as to her capacity to 
receive this blessing is not yet decided, 
and the fear that it will subvert the 
purposes of nature and unfit her for 
the functions of domestic life is finding 
nervous and incoherent expression in 
the periodical literature and after-dinner 
speeches of the day. Meanwhile there 
is a great and powerful arm of the 
educational force of this country which 
has no literature, no written history, 
which is seldom referred to by periodi 
cal, scientist, or the orator of the day, 
except in some flippant allusion to point 
a moral or adorn a tale this is the 
" Private School for Girls." 

For two hundred years this institu 
tion has held a dignified and responsi 
ble place in the educational and social 
system of this country. To this the 
American woman, such as she has been 
in times past, and such as we find her 
to-day, owes the character, the culture, 
the grace, and the embellishments which 
enable her to take her stand, not blush 



ing for her ignorance or her stupidity, 
side by side, with the cultivated and rep 
resentative woman of other countries. 

It has no favor from the state. Being 
private property it cannot hold endow 
ments ; it has paid its own taxes and 
supported itself. European educators 
have marvelled that American writers 
should leave the world to learn by 
accident that American ladies were not 
all educated in their famous public 
schools. The French Commissioner of 
Education to the Centennial Exhibition, 
whom I afterwards met, could not for 
give the committee which waited on 
him in New York that it had not af 
forded him an opportunity to visit the 
schools in which the accomplished wo 
men whom he had met in this country 
were trained. He requested the cir 
culars, rules, schedules of study, and 
whatever records and literature of in 
terest had grown out of my school to be 
transmitted officially to him. Mr. Bryce, 
in his "American Commonwealth," 
though his interesting chapter upon the 
" Position of Women " notices the facili 
ties offered by the state for the edu 
cation of girls and the eagerness with 
which they are accepted, makes no refer 
ence to Private Schools except that in 
a foot-note of two lines the existence 
of such schools in the Eastern States is 
mentioned. 

I have been asked to give to the cur 
rent history of the day a sketch of 
one of these schools. But to give the 
history of a battle before time has 
adjusted events and incidents to the 
proper perspective is conceded to be 
almost impossible. Even when the 
victory is won, and the heart swells with 
gratitude, the stress and weariness of 
the conflict, may for a time so dull the 
ears and dim the eye that one may be 
insensible to the magnitude of the end 
achieved and the far-reaching interest 
with which it may have been observed. 
A school which has stood twenty- 
six years in this community has a 
history full of interest, not only as a 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



515 



witness and an expression of the char 
acter and purposes of its head, but also 
as a witness for or against the social 
sentiment and educational demands of 
the day, and the quality of education 
which parents really desire and seek for 
their daughters. 

In 1864 when I determined to found 
a school in New York for the educa 
tion of girls, I was impelled to do so by 
two motives. One, and the immediate 
occasion, was of a private nature, and 
the other and wider motive was the 
hope of developing plans and purposes 
which had long existed in my mind of 
founding an institution for the educa 
tion of the daughters of gentlemen, in 
which the heart and character should 
have as much consideration as the in 
tellect, and in which the standard aimed 
at should be the highest Christian ideal. 
I desired to build up a school in which 
American girls of the highest class 
should be trained to know and fulfil the 
duties which grow out of their vari 
ous relations in life as members of the 
school, the home, of society, of their 
country, of humanity, and of the Church 
of Christ. The aim of this school should 
be to teach them that with them lies the 
conservation of the dignity and purity of 
society, and that under the favorable 
institutions of their country they are 
bound to exhibit to the world and to 
transmit to posterity the highest type of 
womanhood. 

I would have each one learn that this 
type is attained by individual culture 
and individual discipline. She should 
learn that happiness, the ultimate end 
of her being, is secured by subjecting 
her will and her senses to reason, and 
her reason to the dictates of the Supreme 
Ruler of the universe. Her intellect 
must be trained to have a right judg 
ment in all things ; her heart must be 
kept glowing with the sweet motions of 
charity, and her love for the beautiful 
must be cultivated that it may lend its 
grace and charm to the homeliest lot. 
While the harmonies of her intellectual, 
spiritual, and aesthetic nature are thus 
adjusted, the young girl must be early 
taught the care and respect which are 
due to her own body, with a knowledge 
of its marvellous structure and the phys 



ical laws which govern it. This was 
the ideal being whom I hoped to train 
up to take her stand in history as the 
representative woman at the opening of 
the twentieth century. 

It is in this moulding of the character 
that I feel that my greatest work for my 
pupils and for society has been done. 
I did not expect that every pupil or 
parent would recognize or appreciate 
this, for there are many who never lift 
their eyes above the level of material 
things. But there have been many in 
this community and in other parts of this 
country who prize it above all other ad 
vantages, and their approval and support 
have cheered my heart in the working- 
out this one idea, which lifts the teacher 
above the prose of mechanical drudgery 
and stamps her common daily life with 
the signet of a Divine commission. 

In setting out to perform a work one 
must not only have a clear and well-de 
fined idea of the purpose to be accom 
plished, and the organized system and 
method by which to attain that end, 
but one must also consider the char 
acter and dispositions of the agents 
to be employed, and the quality of the 
material presented with which that aim 
is to be achieved, and upon which the 
methods and the skill which one can 
control may be brought to bear. It is 
also important for those who have in 
their hearts high hopes to achieve, and 
who would venture their time, energies, 
and fortune to secure this purpose, to 
count the cost and weigh the chances of 
success against those of failure. 

In matters that depend not upon ma 
terial or physical wants, but upon the 
wills and dispositions of the people in 
the community, a close analysis must be 
made as to the quality of that people 
and the motives which sway their wills 
and dispositions. 

The selection of teachers, and the 
bringing of various talents, qualifica 
tions, and dispositions into one organi 
zation, guided by one motive power, and 
quickened by one energy, has caused 
me more solicitude, more earnest pray 
er for right judgment than any other 
duty. The head of the school stands 
sponsor for posterity ; and the conse 
quence of a false step here cannot be 
calculated. Unsound principles, care- 



516 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



less habits, incorrect language, or per 
sonal peculiarities in a teacher will be 
transmitted to remote generations. 

Higher class work can always be as 
signed to University men, but the num 
berless applicants who present them 
selves for the routine work of a girl s 
school may be divided into two classes. 
To one belong those who, having from 
youth looked forward to that occupation, 
have fitted themselves in public or in 
normal schools, or in colleges admitting 
women, and who, though professionally 
equipped with good knowledge of the 
subject which they intend to teach, have 
revolved in a limited, and perhaps not 
exalted sphere, and often lack that in 
herent refinement and breadth of cult 
ure which aid so largely in the educa 
tion of the young. In the other class 
are included those who come into the 
profession by other routes, those who, 
when compelled to depend on their 
own exertions for a support, bring into 
requisition for that purpose their edu 
cational attainments and personal ac 
complishments. 

As special qualifications are more 
easily acquired than high breeding and 
refinement of character, I have often 
found this class of teachers more avail 
able for my purpose. They often bring 
to their work a singleness of heart, and 
a devotion and fidelity which come only 
from a high sense of vocation. In esti 
mating the value of a teacher, mere in 
formation is too often mistaken for 
ability or mental power. The memory 
may be filled with facts, like an en- 
cyclopsedia ; choice bits of knowledge 
may be laid up, labelled as in a cabinet ; 
but to educate requires something more 
than the mere possession of knowledge. 
The number of qualified teachers bears 
no proportion to the demand, especially 
for the training of young children. The 
few who are qualified scorn to take that 
most important work of all, the primary 
department of the school. 

I have always felt the most intense 
interest in the trials and joys of chil 
dren. Childhood should be gay and 
happy, free to turn its tendrils whither 
soever it will, and to catch every gleam 
of sunshine from every source of love. 

Years ago my imagination was so de 
pressed by a painting of the massacre 



of the Holy Innocents, and by Mrs. 
Browning s " Cry of the Children," that 
ever after they were to me like memo 
ries of some terrible experience. The 
thought of the army of children patter 
ing along the streets and highways at 
five o clock in the morning to the mines 
and factories of England, and back again 
at nine o clock at night to their wretched 
hovels, sick and faint, to die without 
sunshine and without cheer harassed 
my heart during those long years while 
Lord Shaftesbury was laboring with 
Parliament to mitigate their suffer 
ings. But more cruel than King Herod, 
more obdurate than the heart of the 
British legislator, is the system which 
condemns little children of a tender 
age to spend long, weary hours of every 
day in constrained positions in crowded 
rooms and stifled air, loading their lit 
tle minds with burdens which they can 
not bear. In the words of the Rev. Hen 
ry Latham, "the receptive and carrying 
power of the mind of a child has a limit, 
and must carefully be measured." Dr. 
Carpenter, in his "Principles of Mental 
Physiology," explains the necessity of 
time for the forming of permanent im 
pressions on the brain, and the slow 
processes of intellectual development ; 
he says this "assimilation cannot be 
hurried ; the mind will only absorb at 
a certain rate." This verdict, though 
by one of the most careful observers, 
and the wisest of modern men, is the 
one which the intelligent educator has 
the most difficulty in carrying out. 
Many parents, especially with their first 
children, wish to see results immediate 
ly, and judge of the progress of the pu 
pil by the amount of memorized knowl 
edge, which, as by a draft at sight, can 
be produced on demand. It is also 
astonishing to find how many, who are 
called good teachers, insist on this pro 
cess of cramming the memory with 
knowledge, which Mr. Latham says " has 
no educational value to expand the mind 
or arouse the intellectual activity of the 
child, that strengthens no faculty but 
memory, and, in the end, by weakening 
others, may destroy even that." 

I have been called to the school-room 
to witness feats of memory prepared as 
an agreeable surprise for me. I would 
find the children standing in a line, with 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR. GIRLS. 



517 



hands behind them and their little 
tongues would rattle off the names of the 
rivers of Asia and all the capes of South 
America. In higher classes I would be 
edified by a long column of dates and 
difficult rules of grammar. I always 
praised the children for their work : and 
in their presence, to preserve the proper 
morale I praised the teacher also. But 
if failing in subsequent efforts to con 
vince her of the mischief of this method, 
upon psychological principles, I was con 
strained to change her for one more to 
my mind, it was with the sure knowl 
edge that the credulous ear of parents 
would listen to, and sympathize with, her 
sufferings in the cause of education, and 
that the struggle to define the mysteries 
of qualitative and quantitative and par 
ticipial adjectives by children who could 
not even pronounce the words, would 
still go on where no protecting hand 
would be stretched out over their heads. 

In taking charge of little children the 
head of the school stands in the place 
of the parents. With children of ten 
der age this parental care must ever be 
quick and vigilant. The judgment of 
children is imperfect and their feelings 
sensitive ; and with them the instructor 
holds the key of happiness or of misery. 
Teachers of little children are often 
more anxious to impose their own rou 
tine and methods than to develop the 
power and the faculties of the pupil. It 
is in this department that I have suffered 
my greatest trials, and it is here that I 
feel almost constrained to acknowledge 
that I have suffered defeat not as the 
world calls defeat ; but in not having 
been permitted to do with these little 
ones that which in honor and conscience 
I felt bound to do. 

The true teacher must be a true artist 
and have an insight into the nature of 
the child ; she must bring imagination 
and all the highest faculties to bear upon 
her work. But the appreciation of true 
artistic work in any direction has been 
very slow to develop in the natures of 
the citizens of this great commercial 
metropolis. It is only the elect to-day 
who know, or care to know, a chromo 
from a Rembrandt. 

The next consideration with which the 
school must concern itself is the quality 



of the material with which it has to deal. 
With purpose and principles avowed, 
with teachers engaged, the head of a 
school awaits the advent of that class of 
pupils for which these plans have been 
formulated. The private school is con 
fronted at the outset with the fact that 
it is the pupil who supports the school. 
In public and endowed schools the pupil 
knows that the state or college gives 
her education, and conforms her conduct 
to the situation. In a private school pa 
rents and pupils very properly regard 
the arrangement in the light of a con 
tract. In many cases the pupil is al 
lowed to choose for herself the school 
to which she will go ; and this fact is an 
nounced at her entrance. It may read 
ily be seen how complicated relations 
between principal and parents and pu 
pils might become, were there not a sim 
ple and strict system of ethics brought 
to bear on the first inauguration of 
the school. I have informed my pupils 
at the beginning of each year that while 
yesterday we were strangers to each 
other, having no relations to sustain, 
to-day their parents, by placing them in 
my care not to promote my prosperity, 
but for their own greatest good had 
entered into a covenant with me, which 
covenant I, by God s help, was deter 
mined to fulfil. I should also do all in 
my power to help them fulfil their part. 
But if they failed in will and disposition 
to do so, I should regard the covenant 
as broken, and they must retire at once 
from the school, for I would never retain 
a member who was a let or hindrance to 
others, or a trial and vexation to myself. 
The young are generous and valiant, 
quick to see and respond to relations. 
A leader who will inspire them with en 
thusiasm and establish an esprit de corps 
must have firmness and courage, and 
move unswervingly upon the lines of in 
flexible principles. But, this once done 
in a school, good government is forever 
insured. During twenty-six years, never, 
in a single instance, by word or act, has 
disrespect been shown to me by a mem 
ber of my school. I have treated them 
all with the same courtesy as if they ware 
my guests. I have been scrupulous to 
receive them every morning in suita 
ble attire. I have always received and 
taken leave of them standing, often when 



518 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



I was very weary. I have never passed 
them in halls or corridors without giv 
ing and receiving a salutation, and if, 
after spending much time and money 
in having them taught and trained in 
the most exacting system of manners 
and etiquette, on the evening of the 
week which I set aside to entertain them 
I required from them a careful toilet 
and a court courtesy, it was because I 
wished them to be equipped for ex 
traordinary occasions, as well as for the 
usual amenities of life. The rehearsal 
over, their dance and song were unre 
strained, and enjoyed by me as much as 
by themselves. This social drill, which 
some affect to treat lightly, takes but 
little time, is good exercise, and gives to 
the body flexibility and poise. But it 
gives also to the girls the confidence 
which enables them on occasions to for 
get to think of themselves. 

This material from which the ideal is 
to be constructed is a being with a phys 
ical, mental, and moral nature to be de 
veloped and educated. This education 
is not like a mechanism produced by 
cunningly fitting together portions of 
grammar, science, and art ; neither is 
it a receptacle to be filled. The child 
brought for education must be regard 
ed as a distinct personality, different 
from all other personalities, the result 
of antecedents and environments upon 
which, just as it is found at that mo 
ment, must be brought to bear the 
strongest motives and influences, to in 
duce it to make sacrifices or suspend 
self-indulgence, for the sake of an end 
at which it aims. So far all true edu 
cation must be the same. The state 
will take the child on its way so far as 
to enable it to become a good citizen ; 
there its duty ends. The college goes 
further and aims to make a learned man. 
The state and the college treat all their 
children alike ; the curriculum is inflex 
ible, and the stagnation of uniformity 
is often the result of their rigid pro- 
crustean rule. While system, methods, 
and careful organization must form the 
groundwork of any school, the true aim 
of education should be to seek the indi 
vidual, that it may bestow upon him in 
himself the fulness of its blessing. And 
in this garden there should be no at 



tempt to make a lily of an orchid, or to 
train a violet into the gay flower of the 
parterre ; nor, though parents often ex 
pect it, and resent the failure to produce 
it, can the " hyssop on the wall " be de 
veloped into a " cedar of Lebanon." 

Strange ideas as to the function of an 
educator are sometimes met with. 

A socially ambitious mother, in a city 
renowned for the beauty and grace of 
its women, was greatly disappointed that 
her daughter, one year a pupil of the 
school, and an amiable ancl clever girl, 
did not take rank in society as a reign 
ing belle. Nothing could exceed her 
bitter reproaches against the school on 
that account. 

Instead of fostering false, unwhole 
some ideals, and worldly-mindedness, a 
good school corrects all of this, and 
gives to the pupil principles of action, 
high ideals, and practical habits which 
steady her through the vortex and over 
the dangerous strands of modern life. 

A bright and rather handsome girl 
from a Western town spent the last year 
of her school life with me. She was re 
spectful to her teachers, courteous to her 
companions, and though perhaps rather 
intense, most kind to everyone. Noth 
ing in her disposition or bearing indi 
cated the attention with which the eyes 
of the world would hereafter regard her. 
On taking her from school her mother 
informed me that her eldest daughter 
had married a humdrum man and set 
tled down to mediocrity, but that she 
was determined that this daughter 
should have a career. She should take 
her to Newport for the summer, bring 
her to New York for the season the 
next winter, and with the experience 
thus gained take her to London the fol 
lowing summer for the success which 
she had planned. The Atlantic cables 
and foreign and home papers of every 
degree have borne testimony that she 
achieved her career. 

The yellow-covered novel idea of a 
girl s boarding-school is also familiar 
and amusing. 

In The Popular Science Monthly some 
time ago was an article devoted to "Hy 
giene in the Education of Women," in 
which was the stereotyped tirade upon 
the useless and insipid lives most young 
ladies lead. It says: "The system of 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



519 



fashionable boarding - schools, whose 
anxiety to render their pupils accom 
plished and fascinating at all costs re 
sults in a forced and at the same time 
imperfect training which, combined with 
luxurious living, absence of exercise, and 
other healthy circumstances, tends to in 
crease the irritability of the nervous sys 
tem and to foster a precocious evolution 
of character. As this is increased, 
tone and energy are diminished. The 
girl returns from school a wayward, 
capricious, and hysterical young lady, 
weak and unstable in mind, habits, and 
pursuits." 

There may be schools like this, there 
must have been somewhere at some 
time an original and a negative for all 
these worn-out impressions which are 
thrust upon the public view ; but I have 
never seen one, and I think it time to 
adjust the camera to a new subject. 
The boarding-school with which I am 
familiar has in it none of these hysteri 
cal, capricious young ladies. If such an 
one enter she is speedily cured. Ris 
ing at half-past six, breakfast at half- 
past seven, a brisk walk at half-past 
eight, morning prayers at nine, fol 
lowed by class and study until noon ; 
then a hearty luncheon ; class and 
study again until 2 P.M. leave little 
time for anything maudlin, or for the 
greatest bane of a young girl s life, in 
trospection. Each hour she passes into 
a new atmosphere, where new enthusi 
asm makes the time fly as on wings. At 
two o clock all emerge into the open air 
the day-scholars to go home, the 
boarding-scholars to the park for an 
hour ; on their return, a slight repast 
awaits them ; then music with masters, 
or study in a room with a governess ; 
the hour from five to six with French 
or German conversation, brings the time 
to dress for dinner. Dinner, at which 
the canons of good breeding are strictly 
observed, lasts an hour, after which is 
recreation or repose. From eight to 
nine study, and at half-past nine a gover 
ness puts out the lights and the house is 
quiet. There is nothing in that routine 
to increase the irritability of the nervous 
system and to send the girl home " a 
wayward, capricious, and hysterical 
young lady." On the contrary, the 
brains are hardened, good salutary hab 



its are formed, promptness and careful 
value of time become the rule ; good man 
ners, from being enforced by exam 
ple and precept, become second nat 
ure, and the doctor is seldom in de 
mand. Notwithstanding all the pressure 
which comes at the end of the school 
year, the girls might be exhibited at 
that time as specimens of perfect nor 
mal health. 

The visits to Huyler have been almost 
the only disturbing element in the sani 
tary record. By an accurate estimate, 
with proof (including doctor s fees, les 
sons lost, medicine, etc.), I have demon 
strated to the girls that a pound of 
candy may, and often does, cost them 
twenty dollars. This demonstration with 
a limitation of such visits to Saturdays 
of late, has mitigated somewhat my suf 
ferings, as well as theirs. As some of 
them assure the doctor that Huyler is 
an important factor in determining their 
selection of a New York school, this is 
surely a triumph. 

Besides educational and financial con 
siderations a private school is expected 
justly to exercise a peculiar care in the 
selection of pupils in respect to their 
social desirability as associates. Here 
a narrow and false policy must be 
guarded against. Social questions must 
be considered with great care and dis 
cretion, which only the initiated can be 
supposed to appreciate or to have dis 
covered. A woman s education must 
qualify the individual to hold her place 
and fulfil her relations in the society or 
community in which her lot is cast. 
In this country the class called the best 
society is constantly recruited from the 
rank and file ; there is therefore the 
absolute necessity of infusing the heal 
ing and vivifying influences of true 
education, the pure ozone, into the very 
depths. The aesthetic arts, the love of 
nature, the love of beauty, should go 
hand in hand with the rudiments of 
learning into our common schools, into 
our public institutions, even into the 
schools of the almshouse and the re 
formatory. No place so humble as to 
be beneath it, no place too lowly, if it 
contains a being who may bear the title 
and have the right to exercise the func 
tions of an American citizen. 

But if these classes should feel these 



520 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



influences, what shall we say of those 
who stand in the front ranks of society, 
who stand so high that, like the sun, 
their influence is felt in every orbit of 
the social system ? All this the patriotic 
educator must have in view when the 
first impression is made upon the sensi 
tive nature of the young child. This 
little being is to become an essential 
factor in the world s history. And, in 
view of such an awful responsibility 
as the moulding of an immortal spirit, 
the educator should hold on her way, 
never temporizing with adverse influ 
ences, whether from gigantic w r ealth or 
uncompromising ignorance. 

The history of social life in a nation 
is happily not always the history of the 
special circle which comes to the front 
in a metropolis, and yet the influence of 
that portion or class of society which 
sets the fashion is of great importance. 
It is the outcome of influences and insti 
tutions most interesting to the philo 
sophical inquirer, and it is a question 
worth considering, how far a people is 
justified in allowing that set or coterie- 
to have sway. In the matter of extrava 
gance, with the old republics of Italy 
and many other governments, sumptu 
ary laws were thought necessary. In 
England to-day the Duke of Westmin 
ster is compelled by act of parliament 
to expend a certain proportion of his 
vast income in repairs and renewals of 
his London estate. 

No one can more seriously respect 
a proper regard for the early associa 
tions of children than the writer. Evil 
communications corrupt good manners, 
and the true and conscientious teacher 
should keep the atmosphere which the 
innocent child is to breathe morally and 
spiritually, as well as physically, pure. 
More than this : A private school, which 
is supported by the parents, owes a 
duty to those parents that vulgarity and 
coarseness should not enter in. But 
parents must not ask too much of the 
school. The true work of education 
must begin with the very young child, 
even at the cradle. In any theory of 
education worth considering, it is the 
first and earliest years which are to be 
directed with discretion and truth. This 
done, the higher education, of which so 
much has been said and written, be 



comes an easy matter. It is owing to 
the mistakes and caprices of parents, at 
this early period, that good schools have 
difficulty in keeping up a high standard. 

Too often the first thought of a mother 
over the cradle of a little child, especially 
if it be a girl, is how to steer and trim 
her little bark so that at the proper age 
she may float upon the serene seas of 
social success. The schemes, and de 
vices, and worries of young mothers in 
New York to achieve this end ; the com 
plications in which they involve them 
selves, and the energy which they ex 
pend to control or to interfere with the 
affairs of a school in matters of which 
they have no knowledge or skill, would 
be amusing were it not so pitiful. While 
they talk of anxiety and interest for the 
education of their children, it is this 
meretricious end alone which many pa 
rents are seeking. The teacher receives 
their children with the knowledge that 
her best work will never be appreciated. 

And the saddest thing of all is that 
the children see through these wretched 
subterfuges of the tuft-hunting parents. 
Such a child, taught at school that " she 
must not be puffed up, and not behave 
herself unseemly, and not seek her own," 
and that she must speak the truth from 
her heart, often becomes at home, in her 
guileless innocence, a witness against 
the double dealing of her parents. She 
is furnished by them with a list of little 
girls with whom she may not play. But, 
in happy forgetf illness, she transgresses ; 
she cannot understand why she should 
be put to bed without a supper for play 
ing with a good little girl, and why her 
parents should wish her to play with a 
naughty little girl who disobeys and 
grieves her kind teacher. The child is 
perplexed between the ethics of the 
home and of the school. The parents 
are in a dilemma, for " they have prom 
ised and vowed that their child should 
love, honor, and obey its teachers, 
spiritual pastors, and masters." They 
end the difficulty by cutting her off 
from the good school, and sending her 
to one more subservient ; or, oftener, by 
joining her to a private class in charge 
of one whose poverty of mind or estate 
suggests no perplexing questions. After 
many shifting experiments, this child is 
sometimes brought back to the school 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



521 



a mental wreck, too far gone for repair ; 
or she is launched into society with no 
discipline, no acquirements, no armor 
in which to trust against the life which 
she is to confront. 

This is not the least of the trials which 
a conscientious teacher must face. The 
great success of a school is often won 
by features which the head of the school 
regards as accessories rather than es 
sentials, and the best and most serious 
work is done almost by guile, and with 
no hope of winning for it worldly rec 
ompense or repute. If the school has 
upon the roll names recognized as of 
social consequence, the teacher is often 
humiliated by the conviction that it is 
not the educational, but the external 
social advantage, which brings the new 
pupil. But in a large community with 
multifarious interests, like that of New 
York, there is always an important and 
intelligent class of citizens who are 
above all such baser motives. They 
really desire and seek for their children 
the best education which can be ob 
tained. They have some faith in schools 
which have borne the test of time and 
the perils of success. Their social stand 
ing, and that of their children, is secure. 
In their recognition and support the 
honest and uncompromising school will 
always win in the end. 

Often, when I have led girls to the 
crowning moments of their school life, 
have seen them resist pleasure, self-in 
dulgence, and temptation because of real 
enthusiasm for their work, as well as to 
please their parents and do credit to the 
school ; when I have watched the growth 
of spiritual life and high purposes, and 
felt sure that I returned them to their 
parents as pure in heart as when in the 
timidity of childish innocence they first 
placed their hands in mine, and believed 
that their parents would guard these 
treasures with jealous care ; I have seen 
that which has filled my heart with 
grief. These parents, entitled by high 
birth and gentle breeding to every social 
advantage, have themselves stood aloof 
from the new society, and shrink from 
its demands upon their comfort, its late 
hours, its midnight suppers, and its 
morning dances ; and, have confided 
their innocent and beautiful daughters 



to the care of some old campaigner on 
whose face are scored many sharp and 
ignominious social conflicts, who will 
gladly induct them into the devious 
mazes of her social code in exchange 
for the notice and the court which their 
youth and beauty bring to her at the 
opera or the ball. 

One tempestuous winter s day, when 
naught but dire necessity would be sup 
posed to lead one out into the storm, 
the mother of one of these girls entered 
my library, where I was seated by my 
fireside. 

" I have come to open my heart," she 
said, " to ask your counsel, and beg your 
sympathy." 

Her daughter had been two winters 
in society under one of these chaperones, 
and had just opened her mother s eyes to 
the quality of education which this ex 
perience had taught her. The mother 
then repeated to me phrases from the 
vocabulary of the club men and older 
women, innuendoes and sayings, the 
double meaning of which her daughter 
had interpreted to her. That which 
had distressed her most of all was that, 
while last winter her daughter could not 
hear this talk without dropping her eye 
lids and blushing most provokingly, 
now she could hear it all without a quiv 
er of the lip. I could give her no com 
fort, but reminded her that she should 
not have confided to another the choic 
est and most delicate trust which life 
can bring to a woman. And so these 
parents send their sons and daughters 
through the fire to Moloch, and then ask 
why they are scarred and seared by the 
contact. The history of American so 
ciety for the last fifty years has not ful 
filled its promise. 

In 1839, the date of the diploma given 
to me when I completed my own school 
education at the Albany Female Acade 
my (which Dr. Andrew S. Draper recent 
ly said is the first higher educational 
institution for women the world ever 
knew), one should, upon the principles 
of the theory of evolution, have been 
able to prognosticate the character of 
the social condition of this country for 
the next quarter of a century. Vir 
tuous, dignified, and religious, the 
American woman was the central figure 



522 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



of every household, presiding over her 
realm in great security, not vexing her 
mind with questions of rights and priv 
ileges which had never been disputed : 
and if she lived in bondage it was of 
her own choosing, after her own heart. 
The men of our cities had not organized 
themselves into clubs, but spent their 
evenings with their families, or in social 
enjoyments where the young and old 
met together at an early hour and dis 
persed at midnight, the time at which 
society of to-day sets out upon its career. 

Were one to draw a social picture of 
that day, there would be seen, of a win 
ter evening, the cheerful drawing-rooms, 
the bright open fires ; father and mother 
in one room reading, or perhaps playing 
whist with some neighbors ; the daugh 
ters in an adjoining room, guests drop 
ping in to chat over the gossip or news 
of the day, to sing a new song, perhaps 
accompanied with the violin or cello, 
to discuss the last chapters of Dickens 
or Thackeray, just received by the last 
packet, an essay by Macaulay or Car- 
lyle, or a poem by Tennyson. If there 
were no questions of intense interest at 
home, the Oxford movement in England, 
the Syllabus at Rome were subjects of 
lively discussion, and now and then 
some lately returned student from the 
German universities treated us to a dis 
course upon the new philosophies. In 
those days there were very few of the 
suffering poor, even in our large cities, 
and it was the boast of our institutions 
that it was in the power of every citizen 
to gain a respectable livelihood. 

Those were rare days, and young men 
and women were receiving that fulness 
and richness of the higher education 
which can only be found in the agree 
able intercourse of cultivated society. 
There was a zest to social life ; at an 
evening gathering the guests were capa 
ble of entertaining themselves, and were 
not constrained to listen to recitals 
from romantic young people, paid to 
entertain them. Young men of talent 
received the polish and fine finish, the 
" delicatesse," so charming in the older 
men to-day, but which is lost to the 
generation which has spent its evenings, 
its Sundays, and leisure hours in the 
society of other men, at clubs. 

But events at home and abroad, un 



foreseen but startling and stupendous, 
conspired to arrest this quiet social evo 
lution, and to develop suddenly a new 
order of things, bringing to this people 
unprecedented problems which were to 
test their social and political institutions 
to the last degree. All this was to be 
considered in determining the type of 
education proper for this generation. 

Among the movements with which 
the active energy evolved by the new 
order of things occupied itself was that 
to secure to woman the rights and privi 
leges which she needs in order to qual 
ify herself for the duties which modern 
life imposes upon her and which are her 
birthright. Among these privileges, 
and which should be held dear by all 
women, was that which President Andrew 
D. White prefers to call the further ed 
ucation of woman, and this watchword 
soon became a call for the exhibition of 
reforming zeal. It became the charac 
teristic mark of the higher education 
reformer to recognize no " higher edu 
cation " which should not be submitted 
to a board of college examiners and 
to loudly and sweepingly condemn the 
private schools for girls. 

The true plan was asserted to be, to 
take the system of preparatory schools 
and colleges for men, just as they found 
them, and press the young girl up 
to that standard, laying upon her in 
some colleges additional manual labor, 
like waiting at table, washing dishes, 
and chamber-work, which, while it does 
not improve her in the art of house 
keeping, takes time which might well 
be spent in cultivating the tones of the 
voice and refining the pronunciation of 
the English tongue, or be utilized in be 
coming acquainted with high standards 
of womanly refinement and grace, or 
in studying the lives of some perfect 
woman who has lived and left her rec 
ord. It might perhaps be fairly urged 
that the colleges for women, while do 
ing good work on strictly intellectual 
lines, neglect that liberal and social cul 
ture which distinguishes artistic work 
from the merely mechanical. 

A very few years ago, the catalogues 
of ah 1 these colleges showed but ten 
names of pupils from New York, and 
very few from the other large towns, 
and since then this average has not been 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



523 



raised. This might be held to show 
that there is a large demand for another 
and different system of liberal education 
which these colleges do not satisfy. 
While the course of instruction which 
they offer identical with that in col 
leges for men, and graduating their 
students at twenty-two and twenty-five 
years of age is worthy of encourage 
ment and of praise nothing is more cer 
tain than that a majority of those girls 
who, as women, are sure to fill most im 
portant and influential positions through 
out the land, will leave school at a much 
earlier age. 

The conditions of modern life in this 
great and growing country are such, 
that the average American girl of more 
favored circumstances may step from 
the school-room, generally before she is 
twenty years old, into a station where 
the demands of domestic, social, chari 
table, and practical affairs leave her little 
time for further systematic study, and 
yet tax every resource of her store of 
knowledge and acquirement. If, then, 
she is confronted with subjects of which 
she is ignorant, but with which she 
should have acquired at least a speaking 
acquaintance while at school, she may 
justly reproach her teachers that they 
have adopted the mistaken policy of 
educating a girl who was to leave school 
at twenty on the plan requiring a con 
tinuance at school till at least twenty- 
three. Though many have doubted the 
possibility to provide for this active and 
proper demand, without compromise 
which is unfair to thoroughness, and 
which will not result in superficiality, 
I am justified in having adopted and for 
many years defended such a plan, by 
the highest authority among the edu 
cators of modern times. 

The Rev. Henry Latham, Master of 
Trinity Hall, Cambridge, in his admir 
able work on the Action of Examinations, 
published in 1877, defines a "liberal edu 
cation as that which concerns itself with 
the greatest good and highest cultivation 
of the pupil, valuing any accomplish 
ment it may give, for the perceptions it 
opens out, for the new powers it confers, 
or for some other good it may do the 
pupil, and not as in technical education 
with reference to work produced." 

This defines precisely the purpose and 



scope of the private school for girls, dis 
tinctly laid out by myself in 1864, viz., 
to afford to girls the best liberal educa 
tion possible, consistent with certain 
limitations of age and the demands of 
their future lives and from this pur 
pose I have never swerved. Under this 
idea the regular course differentiates it 
self in the very beginning from that of 
the preparatory school, which is limited 
by the assumption of an advanced col 
lege course to follow. 

I took the college system for men, and 
eliminated from it studies, the educa 
tional value of which were questioned 
by high authorities, and adapted it to 
the needs of women. Just now, when 
in these colleges woman has demon 
strated that she can do in an examina 
tion just as much and as well as a 
young man, the great universities of 
England and America have discovered 
what a quarter of a century ago I be 
lieved to be the case, that much of this 
preparation is a waste of time and en 
ergy. 

In the Forum of April last, is a paper 
by President Dwight, of Yale College, 
every word of which went to my heart. 
For twenty-six years the epithets of 
"fashionable," " superficial," have been 
applied to my system by the educational 
" Beckmessers " of the day, for exhibit 
ing the very principles and views which 
he promulgates. President Dwight 
says, "If I am asked, therefore, what a 
boy who has the best chances ought to 
know at eighteen, my answer is of 
course bearing in mind the limitations 
which my thought and the nature of the 
case suggests he should know every 
thing. This is the richness of the bless 
ing which education has to give, and 
which it may give the richest of all the 
blessings which our human life knows or 
can know, except that of the personal 
union with God. " Discipline gives the 
man the use of his powers. It almost 
creates them. It is of infinite impor 
tance, and is the fundamental necessity 
in all education. 

" But enthusiasm sets the powers in 
motion, and fires the soul with the love 
of knowledge, and carries the man for 
ward as on joyful wings." " Discipline 
was the gift of the old education that 
which the fathers received and handed 



524 



THE PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. 



down to their children." "The ordi 
nary boy of our educated families lost, 
in my judgment, under the old system 
of school education, from two to three 
years out of the seven that were allotted 
for his earlier studies. He moved along 
his course by a hard road and a hilly 
road." 

What is expected of woman whose 
nature feels every vibration of the great 
ly expanded moral medium about her 
in these latest years of the nineteenth 
century ? 

What education shall serve her under 
these varying and complex relations, 
under the burdens which one s duty to 
one s neighbor impose upon the Ameri 
can woman who stands upon the fron 
tier of the twentieth century after 
Christ ? 

Science and relentless truth are al 
ready at work with her portrait. There 
shall be no mystery, no romance ; no po 
etic glamour will have to be dispefied 
when her likeness shall be exhibited. 

She will . stand in the blaze of the 
electric light. The camera will be lev 
elled upon her from every point of view ; 
the stethoscope and thermometer will 
record every palpitation and degree of 
temperature of the heart ; and the knife 
of the vivisector will reveal the source 
of the emotion which brings the blush 
to her cheek and the light to her eye. 

I was told by Sir William Thomson, 
that Americans excel all nations in mak 
ing instruments of precision ; the Amer 
ican woman therefore will be submitted 
to every test until she shall cry, not in 
shame but in innocence, for the rocks 
and the hills to cover her not from the 
wrath of God, but from the curiosity of 
man. 

I have implicit faith in the American 
girl. The springs and impulses of her 
being are pure. It is expected of her 
that her education must enable her to 
fill any position which the civilization 
of the twentieth century may develop. 

She should have all knowledge, which 
must appear in her conversation not as 



learning, but distilled in the alembic of 
her brain, it must wait upon her lips 
with the amber perfume of culture. 
Like the model lady described by Bald- 
essare Castaglione in the sixteenth cen 
tury she must be of "noble bearing, 
but without affectation, graceful and vir 
tuous, witty, and to excel in dancing and 
all festive games, yet be able to guide 
the house, to be well skilled in needle 
work, pious and learned in the writings 
of the great doctors, a discreet wife and 
a careful mother." 

The Alma Mater of the American girl 
might feel satisfied that its measure of 
responsibility was filled, if (not only from 
a thousand homes in the city of New 
York, but from the Atlantic coast to the 
Golden Gate, from Puget Sound to the 
Rio Grande) by beautiful and sensible 
girls and young wives and mothers re 
joicing in health and happiness, per 
forming with intelligence and devotion 
their duties to family, society, and the 
Christian church, its name was spoken 
with reverence and affection. But its 
influence is not limited by this broad 
continent. 

American women are wielding a great 
influence in foreign lands, either for bet 
ter or for worse. Not only in England 
and France in places of responsibility, 
but near the throne in Germany, Italy, 
and other countries they fill positions of 
highest dignity. For many years there 
has been no time when some pupils of 
my own were not residing in honorable 
positions at foreign courts, or discharg 
ing with discretion and grace duties 
and obligations which have no place in 
the simpler social system of our Bepub- 
lic. 

It has been my ambition that a private 
school should be justified in its claim as 
one of the chief agents in developing 
whatever is true and faithful in the 
home, whatever is pure and dignified 
in society, whatever is holy and exalted 
in religious life, whatever impels the 
people of all nations to bow with an in 
stinct of respect to the name of an 
American woman. 




THE POINT OF VIEW. 



A REPRESENTATIVE of that " contempora 
neous posterity," with whose criticism we 
are benevolently supplied by foreign na 
tions, has visited us during the past year in 
the person of M. Pierre de Coubertin a 
Frenchman whom from intrinsic evidence 
it is certainly no error to describe as young, 
in spite of the gravity to be presumed from 
the title of his earlier work L Education 
en Angleterre," and of his selection by the 
French Minister of Public Instruction to 
visit for a special purpose the educational 
institutions of the New World." To M. de 
Coubertin the New World is new indeed ; 
" quel n est pas votre etonnement," he 
says, " d y trouver une civilisation etablie, 
une societe solidement assise, et surtout 
des traditions puissantes ! " Yet he faces 
his surprises with unshaken confidence and 
the friendliest spirit, and does not allow 
them to interfere with the exercise of his 
critical acumen ; and in the book, Uni- 
versites transatlantiques," in which he has 
fulfilled his task, if he has occasionally 
contributed a little to the gayety of the 
American teachers and students who may 
read it, he has also now and then furnished 
a text for thought more serious than he has 
himself worked out. 

It must not be supposed from the very 
general title of M. de Coubertin s book 
that his mission was to report upon Ameri 
can education generally ; but in the rela 
tion of that title to his actual subject there 
will lurk an unconscious irony in support 
of certain cynics, who will ask where the 
cisatlantic university is to be looked for if 
not in its gymnasium, playing-field, and 
VOL. VIIL 53 



boat-house ? What M. de Coubertin came 
for was " to visit the universities and col 
leges, and study there the organization and 
working of the athletic associations founded 
by the youth " of the United States and 
Canada in other words, to report upon 
school and college athletics, with the view 
of seeing whether, in what way, and how 
far it was well to inoculate the French stu 
dent with the virus that has " taken " so 
fiercely in America. 

It would be amusing to follow M. de 
Coubertin in his several visits of inspection : 
To Princeton, where (this being his first 
sight of a body of American students) he is 
struck by the lack of a race-type, and where 
he is put in charge of " le football-captain " 
(" un grand fort gallon, aux cheveux noirs 
f rises, 1 air un peu brutal, revetu d une 
espece de houppelande jaunutre, sous la- 
quelle on devine un deshabille sans gene "), 
who shows him much of which he generally 
approves, but of which he has less to say in 
detail than elsewhere ; to Harvard, where 
he will none of Dr. Sargent and his an 
thropometry, speaking indeed very disre 
spectfully of his " normal man " and of the 
registers of measurements in the college 
gymnasium (which he says will probably 
take the place of family portraits in the fu 
ture so that a descendant may turn to one 
and say, " Voici mon arriere-grand-oncle ! 
What a biceps he had ! ") ; to Yale, where 
the rowing-tank filled him with admiration ; 
to Cornell, Johns Hopkins, Amherst, Ann 
Arbor, and so on ; to Wellesley, an im 
portant study surely ; and even to the 
preparatory schools Groton, Lawrence- 



526 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



ville, the Berkeley, and the rest. But it is 
clearly impossible thus to follow his expe 
riences ; and what remains is to gather up a 
few of his general utterances and wonder 
whether they really represent the verdict of 
contemporary posterity after all, and where 
in they are sound. 

M. de Coubertin says : "It is certain that 
after the close of the war of secession the 
United States, having emerged intact from 
a terrible fratricidal struggle, gathered con 
fidence in themselves ; they had proved 
that they formed a solid nation, and the 
fear of letting themselves be tamed by the 
adoption of foreign ideas and customs grad 
ually disappeared. Thus foot-ball, rowing, 
and, in a general way, all open-air exercises, 
came thronging into the New World ; and 
at the same time teachers turned their eyes 
toward Great Britain to draw thence the 
principles of reorganization principles 
which would have produced still better re 
sults by far if German ideas had not come 
athwart them to introduce disorder and sow 
seeds of evil. American education is a bat 
tle-field where German and English peda 
gogics contend for the mastery ; " and the 
ideas of Arnold and the English public 
schools, he thinks, struggle with the rigid 
discipline and over-regulation of the Ger 
man system the latter helped by the fact 
that so many graduates of American col 
leges go to Germany to complete their 
studies. To be sure, he seems to apply 
this criticism to preparatory schools more 
than to the universities and colleges them 
selves ; but he returns more than once to 
this idea, and especially in his own field 
constantly contrasts free athletic sports 
(jeux libres) with the systematic gymnastics 
to which he attributes a German origin 
those which only recognize " mouvements 
d ensemble, discipline rigide et reglemen- 
tation perpetuelle. " 

His special bete noire seems to be the 
careful examination and measurement of 
individuals, as he saw it practised by Dr. 
Sargent at Harvard ; and the regulation of 
their exercise toward local development. 
" It was the triumph of local gymnastics," 
he says, as he pictures with fine irony the 
efforts of a student to restore the equilib 
rium between his little fingers, or to regu 
late a variation of his left thigh, in his 
.struggle to approach the "normal man." 



And the whole extent to whicn the sys 
tematizing and organizing of athletics are 
carried at Harvard seems to him pedantic 
and repellent : " Mais comrne c est regie - 
mente, tout cela ! " How it is all regulat 
ed ! " These sports are in the hands of 
directors, who organize them despotically ; " 
and a propos of the preparation of the 
" teams : " " one would say, it was a rac 
ing-stable ; that a breeder was turning over 
fine animals to the trainer." And more 
generally he finds that even into the "free 
sports," the games, etc., which have been 
adopted from England, "the Americans 
brought that excessive ardor which charac 
terizes them, and exaggeration was the 
speedy outcome." In the training of rep 
resentative "teams " the extent to which the 
gymnastic apparatus and facilities are often 
monopolized by them (surely an error of 
fact, this last), and the immense importance 
given to their action and victories, he sees 
serious dangers to the maintenance of a 
general, healthy, normal standard of ath 
letics ; and in his final letter to his chief he 
warns him against admitting these perils to 
any system of physical education that may 
be established in France. 

M. de Coubertin gives us no opportunity 
to apply the proverb as to the wisdom of 
learning from an enemy, for his book is 
generally friendly, sometimes enthusiastic, 
always appreciative in spirit even when not 
remarkably profound. Good results will be 
hoped for from his mission by everyone 
who knows the past condition of French 
schools and colleges in this regard ; and 
his analysis of some of the motes in our 
eyes is of interest enough to let us overlook 
any beam that may be in his own. 

THEBE is a proverb of Solomon s which 
prophesies financial wreck or ultimate mis 
fortune of some sort to people who make 
gifts to the rich. Though not expressly 
stated, it is somehow implied that the prov 
erb is intended not as warning to the rich 
themselves, who may doubtless exchange 
presents with impunity, but for persons 
whose incomes rank somewhere between 
" moderate circumstances" and destitution. 
That such persons should need to be warned 
not to spend their substance on the rich 
seems odd, but when Solomon was busied 
with precept he could usually be trusted 



THE POINT OF VIEW, 



527 



not to waste either words or wisdom. Poor 
people are constantly spending themselves 
upon the rich, not only because they like 
them, but often from an instinctive convic 
tion that such expenditure is well invested. 
I wonder sometimes whether this is true. 

To associate with the rich seems pleasant 
and profitable. They are apt to be agree 
able and well informed, and it is good to 
play with them and enjoy the usufruct of 
all their pleasant apparatus ; but, of course, 
you can neither hope nor wish to get any 
thing for nothing. Of the cost of the prac 
tice, the expenditure of time still seems to 
be the item that is most serious. It takes a 
great deal of time to cultivate the rich suc 
cessfully. If they are working people their 
time is so much more valuable than yours 
that when you visit with them it is apt to 
be your time that is sacrificed. If they are 
not working people it is worse yet. Their 
special outings, when they want your com 
pany, always come when you cannot get 
away from work except at some great sacri 
fice, which, under the stress of temptation, 
you are too apt to make. Their pleasuring 
is on so large a scale that you cannot make 
it fit your times or necessities. You can t 
go yachting for half a day, nor will fifty 
dollars take you far on the way to shoot big 
game in Manitoba. You simply cannot 
play with them when they play, because 
you cannot reach / and when they work you 
cannot play with them because their time 
then is worth so much a minute that you 
cannot bear to waste it. And you cannot 
play with them when you are working your 
self and they are inactively at leisure, be 
cause, cheap as your time is, you can t 
spare it. 

Charming and likeable as they are, it 
must be admitted that there is a superior 
convenience about associating with people 
who want to do about what we want to do 
at about the same time, and whose abilities 
to do what they wish approximate to ours. 
It is not so much a matter of persons as of 
times and means. You cannot make your 
opportunities concur with the opportuni 
ties of people whose incomes are ten times 
greater than yours. When you play to 
gether it is at a sacrifice, and one which 
you have to make. Solomon was right. 
To associate with very rich people involves 
sacrifices. You cannot be rich either with 



out expense, and you may just as well give 
over trying. Count it, then, among the 
costs of a considerable income that in en 
larging the range of your sports it inevita 
bly contracts the circle of those who will 
find it profitable to share them. 

IT has happened to me within a year or 
two to look on at the partition of several 
considerable estates, and to observe in a 
general way what the heirs seemed to be 
doing with their money. They were an as 
sorted lot of heirs, with such differences in 
tastes as people usually have, and I have 
been surprised at the similarity in their 
methods of primary expenditure. A rea 
sonable outbreak in clothes was one of the 
early symptoms of those that came under 
my notice ; followed in several cases by in 
vestments in horses, carriages, and hired 
men, in houses and domiciliary improve 
ments, and less immediately by the pur 
chase of increased leisure. Following the 
leisure came travel. Out of a score or so 
of these new heirs not less than a dozen re 
ported in the early spring, without any gen 
eral previous understanding, at an expensive 
and delightful watering-place in Florida. 
They have since gone to Europe with a 
unanimity which brought to some of them 
the embarrassment of finding themselves on 
the same steamer with co-heirs with whom 
those exasperating differences which are so 
apt to be incident to the distribution of 
property had left them on politely antago 
nistic terms. 

It is an interesting deduction from the 
behavior of these heirs, that if you distri 
bute a certain number of millions among a 
certain number of intelligent, adult Am 
ericans, you can forecast the general lines 
of their expenditure for a year or two 
ahead, and even mark upon the map the 
places at which they may be confidently ex 
pected to appear within a certain time. Of 
course your forecast will not be verified in 
all cases, but if you are reasonably intelli 
gent about it the accordance between what 
you expect and what you observe will be 
close enough to give you a new idea about 
the smallness of the world, and the influ 
ence of circumstances and personal example 
on human action. You will find that peo 
ple newly entrusted with about the same 
amount of money, in the same country, at 



528 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



the same time, go through for a time about 
the same set of motions. But of course 
they get different degrees of enjoyment out 
of them. For anyone who can pay can go 
and do, but the capacity to enjoy is strictly 
personal. That is why, after heirs have had 
their money awhile, and tried the amuse 
ments that everyone is bound to try, they 
cease to fit your generalities. They find 
out presently what they like and what they 
do not enjoy, and then their individuality 
reasserts itself, and they go their several 
ways again with tastes and purposes modi 
fied indeed by money, but not obliterated 
by it. 

FEW of those who do not write are likely 
to be aware of the strange perplexities and 
despairs which sometimes assail the writer, 
which Henri Murger chronicles repeatedly 
in his immortal "Vie de Boheme." "Noth 
ing is more terrible," he says, "than this 
solitary struggle between the stubborn 
artist and his rebellious art. . . . The 
sharpest human anguish, the deepest 
wounds in the heart s core cause no pain 
approaching that of those hours of impa 
tience and of doubt, so frequent with all who 
are given over to the perilous employment 
of the imagination." Even the proudest and 
most self-reliant man has his day of trial, 
when he turns instinctively to a friend for 
help ; and the author, whose laboring hours 
must of necessity be passed alone, feels the 
want of such counsel oftener than he is 
able to obtain it. As life goes on we grow 
naturally more and more absorbed in our 
selves ; our own interests and prejudices 
and convictions become barriers that are 
harder and harder to break down. The 
man who appeals to us discovers this, and 



seeks elsewhere for encouragement, or goes 
without it. Could we but learn to answer 
his appeal wisely, generously, and hope 
fully, his gain would be great, while ours 
would be greater still. 

The late John Boyle O Eeilly, whose soul 
" is but a little way above our heads," was 
never found wanting when this friendly ser 
vice was demanded of him. He had no petty 
jealousies to overcome, no envious anxieties 
for personal success to set aside. He gave 
himself freely and fully, hailing with de 
light the good in another s work as though 
it were his own. His sympathies were per 
fect, his expression of them was consider 
ate to a rare degree. He listened eagerly 
and patiently, ever ready to speak the stim 
ulating word of approval ; or, if fault was 
to be found, finding it in a way that had 
no power to wound. His skill at detecting 
a flaw was unerring, but not content with 
marking down the error he would suggest 
one remedy after another, and never rest 
until the cure had been effected. "Your 
work rings true ; but I wish you had more 
purpose," he said once. His own purpose, 
as many know, was always heroically high. 

This is but one small view of a many- 
sided character that had the fire of genius 
in it. Yet the glimpse is significant and 
may afford opportunity for reflection, show 
ing as it does how his influence worked 
good in younger writers. His intention, 
expressed a few hours before his sudden 
death, was to devote more time in the com 
ing years than ever before to the higher 
forms of literature. In his loss there has 
been lost not only the product of his own 
mature mind, that would have gained him 
wider fame, but also all that he would un 
selfishly have aided other men to do. 




SCRIBNER S MAGAZINE. 



VOL. VIH. 



NOVEMBER, 1890. 



No. 5. 




Ivory at Home. 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF IVORY. 
By Herbert Ward. 



COULD we faithfully follow an or 
dinary tusk of ivory from the time 
it bows the head of its ponderous 
owner as he crashes his way through the 
wild primeval regions of the upper Con 
go, until it is sold in an English ivory 
auction room, to be carved into billiard 
balls, toilet-sets and so forth, we should 
obtain a wonderful insight into savage 
nature, and an ample record of the many 
phases of African barbarism. 

From time immemorial, the smooth 
shining tusks of elephants have been 
acknowledged as currency by the savage 
tribes of the far interior of Equatorial 
Africa ; and even in these days countless 



numbers of human lives are sacrificed 
in the bloody fights which are constantly 
waged, both between the tribes them 
selves, and the armed bands of half- 
caste Arab freebooters, solely for the 
sake of gaming possession of these tusks 
of ivory, which by a series of novel ex 
change and bartering transactions, grad 
ually reach the little stations of the 
white trader on the surf -bound coast. 

It is the story of such a tusk, based 
upon facts that either came to my 
knowledge or were part of my own 
observation c 1 r ig my experience in 
Africa, that I hi.ve brought together 
here. 



Copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



532 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF IVORY. 



One morning at sunrise, during the 
rainy season, of the year 1872, some five 
years before the advent of the white man 
in the interior of western Equatorial 
Africa, there was an unusual commotion 
in the populous village of Yabuli, situ 
ated on the banks of the Aruwimi Kiver, 
which flows into the Congo, about fif 
teen hundred miles from the Atlantic 
coast. As a rule, the villages in these 
districts were always in a more or less 
disturbed condition owing to the wild, 
unrestrained savagery of the inhabitants 
whose tastes had a decided tendency to 
blood-thirstiness ; but upon this particu 
lar occasion, the angry voices of the men, 
and the plaintive wailing of the women, 
were caused by a domestic affliction 
which appealed to young and old alike. 




The Elephant Trap Death of Litoi Linene. 

Their plantations had been destroyed 
during the night by a herd of elephants, 
such a heavy rain had fallen that even 
the old women, whose vigilance is pro 
verbial, had neglected their watchful 



duties, and all, with one accord, had 
thought of nothing else but gaining 
shelter in their grass-roofed huts from 
the inclement weather. 

As is so frequently the case in these 
tropical latitudes, the night s rain was 
followed by a radiant sunrise, and there 
was not a semblance of a cloud in the 
clear blue sky. Nature seemed all smil 
ing and bright, and the foliage looked 
refreshed after the rain. Numbers of 
brilliantly plumed little sun-birds flew 
from the dark, dripping forests to 
the trees in the open village streets, 
where they flitted from bough to bough 
and plumed themselves, while large 
zephyr-winged butterflies soared silent 
ly and gracefully over the village in the 
early morning sunshine. The village 
scene presented a striking 
contrast to the beauties of 
Nature around it, for the 
huts were sodden and bowed 
down by the weight of the 
wet grass roofs. There were 
f* large puddles of dirty water 
in the paths, littered here 
and there with palm-fronds, 
sticks, and grass-stalks, which 
had been blown, during the 
storm, from the dilapidated 
huts. 

In the midst of an angry 
throng of naked savages, who 
were all talking at once in 
excited tones, sat one of the 
village headmen. He was 
powerfully built, his counte 
nance bore the impress of 
every form of brutal indulg 
ence, and indicated plainly 
an unrestrained and evil dis 
position. His arms and legs 
were ornamented with high 
ly-polished iron and copper 
rings ; around his neck he 
wore a string of human teeth. 
His name was loko, and his 
position as headman had 
been gained by individual 
prowess and domineering 
character. 

He sat upon a small, carved stool, 
listening for some time to the uproar, 
until losing patience, he arose, and with 
a wave of his arm commanded compara 
tive silence. 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF IfORY. 



533 



" You men of Yabuli ! Listen ! Last in another voice, " but we ought to be 
night in the darkness the elephants glad that neither the elephants, nor the 
robbed us of our food. Two moons hippopotami, nor the leopards eat our 




Village Attacked by Arab Trade 



ago we were treated in the same way by 
hippopotami who, like big pigs that they 
are, not only trampled our cassava and 
sugar-cane, but ate the roots. This is 
an unhappy time for us, for not only are 
our gardens ruined, but our goats and 
fowls, our only live-stock, are always be 
ing stolen by leopards. Men of Yabu 
li, the evil spirit is at work against us." 
" You speak good words, loko," chimed 



fish, for if they robbed us of our fish we 
should be hungry, indeed." 

" Yes, yes, that is true," was yelled in 
chorus. 

Then for several minutes a general 
hubbub followed, until interrupted by a 
shrill female voice from a group of huts, 
some distance off. 

" I know why the elephants came to 
us last night. You remember that old 



534 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF IfORY. 



monster elephant with big ears and only 
one tusk, the one we all call Litoi Linene 
it was he that led the others to the 




The Search for the Hidden Tusk. 

plantation, for the evil spirit is in his 
heart, and it has been there ever since 
loko tried to spear him in the forest. 
We shall never enjoy quietness until 
Litoi Linene is killed." 

Several voices shouted in favor of this 
last speech, and after about an hour s 
excited talk it was agreed that several 
traps should be arranged forthwith in 
order, if possible, to put an end to the 
evil-spirited elephant Litoi Linene, who 
was credited with having worked so 
much ill to the tribe. 

Soon after this village conclave, most 
of the men started off in different direc 
tions far into the forest, which surround 
ed the village, to set snares with keen- 
bladed spears which they firmly fastened 
in heavy spars of wood and deftly sus 
pended from branches overhead by an 
ingenious arrangement of small creepers, 
so that when an unsuspecting elephant 
wandered beneath and unwittingly broke 
the light creepers which held the trap in 
its place, the weighted spear would fall 
and inflict a wound in the back or 
shoulder, that would often prove fatal. 

All the male portion of the tribe were 
busy at this task until the sun went 
down, arranging the elephant snares in 



all the most likely places in the forest. 
The women were also absent, endeavor 
ing to repair their damaged plantations. 
The village was deserted until 
sunset, when everybody returned 
to eat their evening meal of 
boiled cassava and plantains, af 
ter which they soon settled down 
to sleep. 

The night was very dark, and 
there was every evidence of the 
near approach of another storm 
of wind and rain equal to that of 
the previous night. The only 
persons who were not comfort 
ably sleeping in their grass huts 
were two or three women who 
were sitting with crying babies 
in their arms, outside their doors, 
in front of the log -fires upon 
which their supper had been 
cooked. Soon even they retired 
for the night, and gusts of wind 
blew sparks from the fires that 
were burning low. Sometimes 
a gaunt and bony pariah dog 
sneaked from one fire to ano 
ther in a vain search for food, but soon 
even they were overcome with sleep and 
curled themselves up in the hot ashes 
of the fires. In the depths of the forest 
the only sounds were the hoarse croak 
ing of frogs and the occasional flutter 
ing of horn-bills and other large birds, 
roosting in the tree-tops. As the night 
advanced and the darkness became more 
dense, the air grew hot and heavy, and 
fierce gusts of wind whistled through 
the branches overhead, snapping off 
dead twigs which fell to the ground al 
ready bestrewn with decaying vegeta 
tion. 

Here silent, and almost motionless, 
quite hidden in the darkness, stood the 
huge form of an old bull elephant, one 
of whose tusks had been damaged in his 
youth and had become totally decayed. 
His head was bent forward in order to 
rest his one monster tusk upon the 
ground, his trunk loosely coiled between 
his fore-legs, was also resting on the 
ground, and his great ragged ears flapped 
spasmodically in vain endeavors to shake 
off the myriads of mosquitoes that per 
sistently hovered around his head. Sud 
denly the forest was lit up by a most 
vivid flash of lightning, followed an in- 




I 







536 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF Il/ORY. 



stant afterward by a crashing peal of 
thunder. The elephant raised his head 
with a startled jerk, his huge limbs 
shaking with fear. 

Almost before the rumbling echoes of 




Release of the Headman s Wife and Child. 

the thunder had died away, the rain, 
that had been threatening for so many 
hours, fell in torrents. Flashes of light 
ning succeeded each other so rapidly 
that the attendant peals of thunder were 
converted into one continuous roar, and 
the violence of the wind soon increased 
to a veritable tornada a tropical hurri 
cane. 

Trees were blown down and uprooted 
on all sides of the terrified elephant, 
who remained for some time motionless 
with fear, but as the tempest continued, 
the monster became suddenly panic- 
stricken, and charged madly through 
the dense forest, stumbling and falling 
over the trunks of uprooted trees in his 
endeavors to gain some open patch where 
there would be no danger of being 
crushed by the falling timber. 

The lurid flashes of lightning revealed 
the frightened animal with coiled trunk 



and head bent low, blindly smashing a 
way through the dense woods. 

Suddenly, in the midst of a mad rush, 
the elephant sank to the ground with a 
sharp squeal of pain. The poor brute 
had severed the vines that sup 
ported one of the traps that had 
been arranged the previous day, 
and a heavily weighted spear was 
plunged between his shoulders. 
For some moments the wounded 
animal remained motionless, then 
the great body rolled slowly from 
side to side in vain endeavor to 
free himself from the spear, but 
the weapon was barbed and the 
points had penetrated too deeply 
to be shaken off. 

After many efforts the animal 
at last got on his legs again and 
staggered a short distance 
through the forest until, grow 
ing rapidly weaker from loss of 
blood, he stopped to rest and 
leaned the weight of his body 
against a large ant-hill, breath 
ing heavily and groaning deeply 
in agony. Here he remained, ex 
hausted, until daybreak, his hide 
covered with patches of mud and 
deep red smears of blood. Grad 
ually the rain ceased, and the 
wind died away. With the first 
glimpse of dawn in the village, 
there was creaking from the 
small square cane doors of the huts, as 
they were removed one by one, and dark, 
manly figures, with long spears in their 
hands, stepped forth and stretched them 
selves, after their night s heavy sleep. 

After hastily arranging their scanty 
loin-cloths of beaten bark, the men all 
started into the dark woods to see if 
any elephant had been wounded by the 
traps. 

The party entered the forest in single 
file, but soon divided into small com 
panies and set off in different directions, 
loko took an entirely different route from 
the others, and when about two miles 
from the village he halted suddenly, 
snapped his fingers, and placed his hand 
over his open mouth, saying to himself 
in a low tone : 

" Look at this elephant track ! See 
what a path is here ! " He followed the 
trail for some time, until within view 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF I^ORY. 



537 



of the trap lie had set the previous day, 
when his excitement became intense, 
for he found the spear was gone, and 
the grass and leaves beneath the snare 
were covered with blood. Without hesi 
tation, he followed the blood - stained 
tracks, until he approached the great ant 
hill, near which he stopped a moment to 
extract a thorn from his foot. He was 
startled by a deep groan, and, cautiously 
stepping forward, he saw his prey lean 
ing its unwieldy form against the mound. 

" Lo-o-o ! It is the evil one, Litoi Li- 
nene ! " (Big Ears) gasped loko to him 
self, excitedly. 

Silently watching the animal, to de 
cide in his own mind upon the best 
mode of spearing him in a vital part, he 
firmly gripped his heavy spear, the haft 
of which was fully eight feet long, and 
stepped softly forward until within reach 
of the left shoulder of the unconscious 
animal. With steady nerve he poised 
his weapon, and with a mighty plunge 
drove the keen-bladed spear deep into 
the elephant s heart, and sprang away 
among the trees. With a shrill, trump 
eting cry of pain, Litoi Linene stag 
gered to his feet, swayed forward, quiv 
ered, and fell to the ground lifeless. 

loko, after waiting a few moments to 
satisfy himself that 
the animal was dead, 
calmly stepped forth 
and raised a cry that 
echoed through the 
woods, and which 
soon brought several 
of his companions to 
the spot. Without 
any further sign of 
excitement he quietly 
busied himself in cut 
ting his barbed spear 
from the carcass. He 
then examined the 
one large tusk and 
the decayed stump of 
its fellow, remarking 
to his companions, 
who were now arriv 
ing : 

"Now the evil spirit 
is dead. Litoi Linene 
will lead no more dev 
ilish elephants to our 
plantations." 



In a very short time the scene became 
indescribable. Excited men with sharp 
knives commenced cutting lumps of 
meat from the still warm carcass, and 
throwing them to the eager women and 
children, who crowded around with 
baskets, quarrelling like wild animals 
over the possession of each piece of flesh 
that was thrown among them. The sav 
ages hearts were filled with joy at the 
prospect of a huge feast. 

That night, under cover of the dark 
ness, loko, all alone, buried the one 
heavy tusk of Litoi Linene in a swamp 
far from the village, so that only he him 
self knew of the place of concealment. 
He hid the tusk according to the tribal 
custom, for in the Aruwimi districts the 
people of neighboring villages are sel 
dom good friends, and they all have a 
habit of attacking each other at odd 
times in order to capture men, women, 
and children for cannibal purposes. As 
tusks of ivory have an acknowledged 
value, equal to that of a human be 
ing, it is customary for the members 
of each village to conceal in the forests 
as many tusks as they can obtain, so 
that they may be in a position to re 
deem, if permitted, any of their com 
panions who may be unfortunate enough 




Carrying Ivory Down Country. 



538 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF IVORY. 



to fall into the hands of their hostile oped the swamp every evening after sun- 
neighbors, set, and hung over the tall reeds like a 
For five years the tusk lay hidden silken canopy, until long after sunrise. 




Captain Deane Defending the Stanley Falls Stati 



beneath the foul mud and long grass 
in the dismal swamp. No human foot 
ever ventured into the treacherous quag 
mire, and only at rare intervals small 
parties of natives, darting among the 
forest trees in search of wild honey, or 
in an exciting chase of bush-buck, broke 
the silence. 

In the oppressive heat at midday a 
solitary buffalo, in search of a cool bath, 
would sometimes flounder in the mud, 
or a small herd of elephants, strolling 
idly through the forest in single file, led 
by the father of the party, an irritable 
old bull elephant, would occasionally 
wade clumsily through the deepest part, 
splashing the black mud over each other, 
and flapping their great ears to drive 
away the swarms of flies that hovered 
around their heads. 

A dense, white, miasmatic fog envel- 



During the five years that the tusk lay 
hidden in the swamp, but little change 
had taken place in the village of Yabuli. 
The direction of the paths had been 
somewhat altered, as many of the huts 
had been rebuilt ; for, being composed 
of light materials, such as fine grass and 
leaves, with the lighter framework of 
cornstalks, they soon become rotten, 
and it is necessary to repair them after 
every rainy season, and to rebuild the 
huts every few years. 

It is a noteworthy feature that through 
out central Africa, the savages erect no 
permanent buildings. Stones are never 
used except to support their earthen 
ware cooking-pots over the fire. Noth 
ing is lasting, and when a village is 
deserted, either on account of an epi 
demic of small-pox, or perhaps by a 
defeat in warfare, the only evidences of 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF Il/ORY. 



539 



its ever having existed a few years after 
ward, are a few tall palm - trees, and a 
few cassava plants, which, from neglect, 
have grown into small trees. There are 
no mounds of earth to mark any event 
in their history. They have no tribal 
records, like the New Zealand Maoris, 
for instance. They live in complete 
ignorance of the outside world, not 
even understanding the language of the 
tribe in the very adjoining country. 
Their doctrine is the survival of the fit 
test. Strength and cunning are qual 
ities that command the most respect 
among these poor, heathenish creatures. 
Every man s hand is against his neigh 
bor, and throughout the country man s 
worst enemy is man. 

It happened one day that the occu^ 
pants of a fishing canoe returned to Ya- 
buli in a great state of excitement. 
They had been down the river fishing, 
near the village of Basoko, which is sit 
uated at the confluence of the Aruwimi 
and the Congo, and they had heard won 
derful accounts of a fight that had taken 
place a few days before, between the 
fierce men of Basoko and a party of 
strangers, who were drifting down the 
Congo River in war canoes. The story 
of this remarkable adventure had been 
greatly embellished, according to Afri 
can custom, by the friendly Basoko, who 
related it to the Yabuli fishermen, and 
they, in their turn, quite naturally, ren- 



come ! come !) which the fishermen call 
ed out long before their canoe reached 
the bank. 

" The chief of the strangers was cov 
ered with cloth, and his face was white, 
and it shone like sun-light on the river," 
said they. 

" Ekh ! what strange things," the 
crowd exclaimed. 

" The stranger-chief had only one eve." 

"Lo-o-o!" 

" It was in the middle of his forehead." 

"A-yah! a-yah," roared the crowd, 
clapping their hands. " When the Ba 
soko went out on the river in their war 
canoes to fight and capture the stran 
gers, they cried "Meat! meat!" for 
they intended eating their bodies, but 
they were not to be captured, and they 
killed many of the Basoko with sticks, 
which sent forth thunder and lightning. 
They spoke words in a strange tongue. 
They wore red cloth, and blue cloth, 
and their heads were covered with white 
cloth. They have drifted on down the 
river and passed the brave Basoko with 
jeers." 

At the end of each of the fishermen s 
sentences, the crowd uttered exclama 
tions of wonder. The old women, al 
ways superstitious, raised their voices 
and said that the evil spirit was at the 
bottom of it all, and that a day of trou 
ble was coming to all the country. 
Whole days were spent in excited talk 




Down the Congo to the Coast. 



dered the recital still more grotesque, 
when they repeated it to the crowd of 
eager listeners who thronged the river 
bank, attracted by the cries of 

" Uku-uku-u, uku-uku-u, u-u " (come ! 



about the strangers, for never in their 
recollection had they heard of such peo 
ple before. 

Now this man, this chief of the stran 
gers, whose white face they said shone 



BBBF 




THE TALE OF A TUSK OF I^ORY. 



541 



like " sunlight on the river " was none 
other than Stanley, with his gallant lit 
tle band of Zanzibar men. At the time 
of his passing Basoko, he had spent up 
ward of two years travelling in central 
Africa, engaged in solving the great geo 
graphical problems which had hitherto 
puzzled the world, and to which the 
l3rave-hearted Livingstone had devoted 
so many years of his valuable life, dying 
in harness when upon the threshold of 
success. 

At this time there was established at 
Nyangwe the advance post of the Arab 
slave raiders from the East Coast, under 
the leadership of the famous Tippo Tib, 
who, soon after Stanley s departure down 
the Congo, persuaded his companions to 
set out on the same journey. They re 
cruited a large number of fighting men 
from different parts of the Many em a 
country, and fought their way down the 
river as far as the cataract, which is now 
familiarly known as Stanley Falls, where 
Tippo Tib established himself as chief 
of the Arabs. Large bands of these 
Manyema were despatched from Stanley 
Falls in different directions, after the 
fashion of blood-hounds, to obtain tusks 
of ivory from the natives by whatever 
means they chose. 

Bands of marauders are still carrying 
on their barbarous business, armed with 
old "Tower" muskets purchased by their 
Arab chiefs at Zanzibar in exchange for 
ivory, before measures were taken by 
England to prevent the traffic in arms 
and gunpowder. These bandit parties 
usually consist of two or three hundred 
armed men under the leadership of Was- 
wahili cutthroats from Zanzibar. As 
a rule, each of these parties is divided 
into sections, different Arabs contribut 
ing ten or twenty armed men, each with 
one man of higher caste elected as leader. 
Tippo Tib usually contributes the largest 
number of men and appoints the leader 
himself. 

After an absence of many months, 
when one of these companies returns to 
headquarters with slaves and ivory, the 
booty is divided among the Arabs ac 
cording to the number of men contribut 
ed by each. The ivory was, until quite 
recently, sent up-river to Nyangwe in 
canoes, and thence it was carried over 
land to the East Coast by large slave 
VOL. VIII. 55 



caravans, the journey occupying between 
six months and a year. 

During all these eventful days in the 
history of central Africa, Litoi Linene s 
tusk lay unheeded in the swamp. With 
the new generation all recollection of the 
elephant Litoi Linene had died away, 
and his massive booes had long since 
become hidden in the long grass and 
brushwood that had rapidly grown up 
from the soil that his carcass had en 
riched. Even the existence of his tusk, 
the only substantial relic of his former 
greatness, had almost been forgotten by 
everybody except loko. 

While the chief topic of conversation 
with the large majority of the villagers 
was still about the powerful whiteman s 
daring journey past the dreaded Basoko, 
yet a few men, including loko, often 
spoke of the evil elephant. Although 
since its death several elephants had 
been killed by means of spear-snares 
and pit-falls cunningly concealed with 
light brushwood, yet no one had ever 
obtained such a large tusk of ivory from 
any of the other elephants as from Litoi 
Linene, and another reason for attach 
ing such importance to the death o f this 
animal was the belief that loko had ex 
terminated the power to effect evil that 
Litoi Linene had been credited with 
possessing. Since his death their plan 
tations had been comparatively undis 
turbed by big game, and this fact alone 
went far to encourage the belief that 
they had disposed of an evil spirit. 

Soon after Tippo Tib s occupation of 
Stanley Falls in 1879, rumors reached 
Yabuli and the neighboring villages 
of oppression and persecution by the 
Manyema. Chiefs met together to en 
quire of each other the reason of this 
invasion. Less than three years after 
Stanley s fight with the Basoko at the 
mouth of the Aruwimi, the Manyema 
mercenaries of the Arabs attacked and 
destroyed several villages higher up the 
same river, having travelled overland 
from the Congo through the dense for 
ests below Stanley Falls ; and descending 
the Aruwimi River in canoes they laid 
waste all the villages by the way, cap 
turing men and women and imposing 
fines of ivory for their redemption upon 
those of the natives who were fortunate 



542 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF Il/ORY. 



enough to escape to the woods. Although 
every precaution was taken by the peo 
ple of Yabuli to guard against surprise, 
they instinctively felt impending evil 
and a gloom settled over the village 
affecting young and old alike. They all 
appeared to realize their isolated posi 
tion, escape being impossible as their 
neighbors were at enmity with them 
and with each other, and the poor 
wretches lived in a condition of fear bor 
dering upon panic. 

At last the evil day arrived. Early 
one morning, just before daybreak, they 
were suddenly startled by the loud re 
ports of the Manyema guns. The forest 
around the village appeared alive with 
armed men who rushed among their 
dwellings from all sides, firing reckless 
ly, sometimes in the air, into the doors 
of the huts, and at the panic-stricken 
savages, who rushed toward the woods 
for shelter. A few of the braver natives 
stood their ground, and hurled spears 
and knives at their assailants, but one 
by one they dropped, shot by their 
brutal enemy. After firing their muzzle- 
loading muskets many of the Manyema 
rushed upon the natives and clubbed 
them with the butt end of their guns. 
The women encumbered with their chil 
dren, whom they were bravely trying to 
carry off to the shelter of the woods, 
were soon overtaken by the Manyema, 
who roughly threw them to the ground 
and bound their arms and legs. Nearly 
two-thirds of the women and children 
were captured, including the favorite 
wife of loko ; but many of the men and 
a few women managed to escape to the 
woods. loko, although wounded by a 
slug of copper from a Manyema musket, 
had escaped. During the day the fugi 
tives in the forest gradually congregated, 
and by nightfall they had formed a few 
rough huts with light brushwood and 
broad leaves which, when fastened to 
gether in rows by the stalks, each row 
overlapping the other, formed a suffi 
cient shelter from the rain and the 
heavy dews which fall at night. This 
primitive encampment in the forest was 
a considerable distance from their vil 
lage, now completely in the possession 
of the Manyema. 

The leader of the Arab buccaneers, 
Muini Khamici, had taken up his quar 



ters in the largest hut, which happened 
to be the property of poor loko ; and 
a rough stockade of brushwood was 
placed around the huts, in order to 
guard against a night attack from the 
natives who had escaped. 

The bodies of the slain had been thrown 
into the river, and the captured women, 
naked, and trembling with fear, many of 
them with their arms tied behind them, 
were grouped together, and placed in 
charge of Manyema head men. Others 
of the marauding band proceeded from 
hut to hut collecting the trifles of do 
mestic furniture used by the natives, 
consisting chiefly of small wooden stools, 
mats, cooking-pots, and ivory pestles, 
used for pounding cassava. 

A few days after the Manyema had at 
tacked Yabuli, they released two of the 
captive women to convey a message to 
the fugitives in the forest. These women 
were selected as being of little value, for 
they were old and feeble. Women are 
very lightly esteemed by the natives, and 
are mere slaves, whose duty is to bear 
children, cultivate the soil, and prepare 
food for their masters. 

" Go to your men, who have sought ref 
uge in the forest," said Muini Khamici, 
the bandit leader. " Tell them their 
women are alive, and that we will set 
them free when they bring us the tusks 
of ivory that they have hidden in the 
woods ; we will surrender a woman for 
each tusk. If they do not come to us 
with ivory before the fifth day from 
now, we shall take the women to another 
country and sell them to people who will 
kill and eat them. Kwenda ! " 

When the two poor old women fully 
realized they were free, they darted into 
the woods, one after the other, displaying 
wonderful agility in picking their way 
through the dense undergrowth, and 
they finally halted, breathless, and trem 
bling with excitement. 

" Oh, ma-ma ma-a-a ! " they cried, in 
a wailing monotone, as they cowered on 
the ground, until, recovering strength 
and courage, they resumed their way, 
now calling loudly, now listening for a 
response from their friends, who were 
camped in the forest. At last, hearing 
an answer in the distance to their echo 
ing calls, they started off in that direc 
tion, and were soon in the midst of an 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF Il/ORY. 



543 



eager crowd. It was a pitiful picture, 
the meeting of these poor women with 
the fugitives, who were all excited, and 
fearful of every sound in the woods 
around them. 

The women were too bewildered to 
answer all their questions at first ; but 
they finally managed to explain their 
message ; and then the men, in anger, 
snapped their fingers and ground their 
teeth. loko sat apart from his noisy 
companions, in moody silence, for his fa 
vorite wife, Kaolenge (the Strong One), 
with her baby, had been captured by 
the Manyema ; and his heart ached at 
being separated from the only being for 
whom he had ever felt the slightest sen 
timent. The African savage is appar 
ently incapable of any constant affection, 
but occasionally he does possess a tender, 
though rugged, regard for a favorite wife, 
loko had almost given up hope of recov 
ering his Strong One ; but now, that he 
knew by what means he could redeem her, 
his spirits revived, and he determined 
to offer the Manyema his most valuable 
possession, the tusk of Litoi Linene. 

In the dead of night, with a fire-brand 
to light him through the forest, loko 
wended his way to the swamp, where 
the tusk had been so long buried. After 
prodding the soft mud with his spear, 
until striking a hard substance, he dis 
covered the object of his search ; and 
with considerable labor he succeeded in 
unearthing his tusk. Lifting the bur 
den upon his powerful shoulders, and 
picking up his spear and fire-brand, 
which he blew into a glow, he returned 
to the camp and lay for the remainder 
of the night by the side of his treasure, 
his heart beating fast with excitement at 
the prospect of dealing with the treach 
erous Manyema on the morrow. 

At the first ray of dawn he wakened 
his companions to tell them of his inten 
tion of testing the truth of the Man- 
yema s message by offering the tusk of 
Litoi Linene in exchange for his wife 
and child ; and they all agreed, if 
loko s undertaking proved successful, 
they would unearth their hidden tusks 
to redeem their own women and chil 
dren. When loko drew near the Man 
yema stockade, his companions, who had 
followed to see the result of his errand, 
hid themselves behind the trees at the 



edge of the forest, in order to escape, if 
necessary. It was daylight by this time, 
and the Manyema were moving about 
among the huts. 

"Naonga!" (I say) called loko from 
the woods. " Is it true that our women 
are alive ? " 

"It is indeed true," replied Muini 
Khamici, who was well acquainted with 
the Aruwimi dialects. 

loko called again from the woods : "I 
bring an elephant s tusk for Kaolenge 
and her child ; but first let me hear her 
voice, that I may know you speak truly." 
After a short consultation a woman s 
voice called from the village : 

" I am Kaolenge. Oh, loko, I am your 
Kaolenge." 

loko then stepped boldly forward, and 
laying the tusk upon the ground, he re 
treated again behind the trees. Several 
of the Manyema pointed their guns to 
the forest to protect themselves from 
any treachery on the part of the natives, 
whilst others rushed for the tusk, which 
they carried to Muini Khamici, who 
stood by the entrance to the stockade. 

Orders were then given to free Kao 
lenge, and when the bonds were cut from 
the poor woman s arms, she caught up 
her baby, fled like a deer to the forest, 
crying piteously. loko seized her by 
the wrist and led her farther into the 
forest, when she fell cowering upon the 
ground at his feet, sobbing deeply, as 
she clasped her baby tightly to her breast. 

During the next few days, many other 
women were ransomed by their masters, 
and when there was no longer any pros 
pect of obtaining more ivory from Ya- 
buli, Muini Khamici and his gang evac 
uated the village, taking with them the 
remaining slaves men, women, and 
children. They were now bound for 
Stanley Falls, having obtained the 
amount of ivory expected of them by 
the Arabs. 

Crossing the Aruwimi River in native 
canoes, the caravan, which now num 
bered about three hundred people, two- 
thirds of whom were slaves, started on 
an overland march to the Congo River, 
which was reached at a place called 
Yangambi. This journey occupied five 
days, and the forests through which they 
traversed were dark and gloomy, the 
undergrowth being so thick in some 



544 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF I1/ORY. 



places that they frequently had to follow 
the beds of small streams, and elephant 
paths whenever they found them leading 
in a south easterly direction. 

The tusk of Litoi Linene, being too 
heavy for one man to carry, was lashed 
to a pole and borne by two slaves. The 
captive women carried the lighter tusks 
and a large collection of native utensils, 
consisting principally of small wooden 
stools, ivory pestles, cooking pots and 
grass mats, all of which were the rec 
ognized perquisites of the Manyema, 
who themselves carried only their guns 
and ammunition, and acted as guards to 
the caravan, while their wives, who w r ere 
also from the Manyema country, carried 
fowls, baskets of maize, long stalks of 
sugar-cane, and other provisions, all 
stolen from the native villages. 

When they reached Yangambi, the 
whole company embarked in native ca 
noes and were paddled up to Stanley 
Falls, four days journey, by natives who 
were on friendly terms with the Arabs. 
At Stanley Falls the slaves were dis 
tributed among certain Arabs planta 
tions, and the ivory was piled up in a 
hut where Tippo Tib divided the spoil 
between the Arabs who had a share in 
the expedition. Tippo Tib selected his 
own share with his customary shrewd 
ness, and included the tusk of Litoi 
Linene, which he presented to a favorite 
wife of his harem, who concealed it in 
one of the dark rooms of his mud tembe, 
where for nearly six years it lay, covered 
with mats and rubbish, and was appa 
rently forgotten. 

During these years many memorable 
events took place, the most noteworthy 
being the fight of Captain Deane, the 
representative of the Congo Free State 
and his little garrison against the Arabs. 
Tippo Tib, was at that time absent from 
Stanley Falls, and Kachid bin Moham 
med, the son of Bwana Nzige, Tippo 
Tib s partner, took this opportunity to 
declare open hostilities against Captain 
Deane, who had plainly manifested his 
intention of doing all in his power to 
prevent their brutul treatment of slaves 
there, and a four-days battle was the 
consequence. Deane, himself, fired his 
Krupp guns, and had it not been for the 
defective cartridges for the Snyder rifles 
of his men, which caused them to desert 



down the Congo in canoes, Deane and 
his brave companion, Lieutenant Du- 
bois, would have held the position, but 
on the fourth days fighting they, with 
five faithfuls, were forced to fire the sta 
tion and escape to the forests. Dubois 
was drowned in wading across a branch 
of the Congo, and Deane, with his five 
faithful followers suffered terrible pri 
vations in the forests, until gallantly 
rescued by Captain Coquilhart. 

A few months after Deane s fight with 
the Arabs, Tippo Tib was appointed 
Governor of Stanley Falls district in the 
service of the Congo Free State, and in 
1888, a year afterward, European trad 
ers from the lower Congo first visited 
Stanley Falls in their steam launches, 
and with cotton cloth, brass wire, and 
various other bartering goods, are still 
buying from the Arabs large quantities 
of ivory, every tusk of which is wrung 
from the unprotected savages by perse 
cution, intimidation, and bloodshed. 

Tippo Tib had in the meantime dis 
carded his once-favorite wife, and Litoi 
Linene s tusk was confiscated and was 
among the first that were sold to the 
white trader, and soon it was stowed 
away with the others in the hold of the 
little river steamer which travelled down 
the Congo to Stanley Pool at the rate of 
seventy miles a day, past the riverside 
villages of thousands upon thousands of 
savages, stopping each evening at sun 
set alongside the forest bank, where, by 
the flickering light of camp-fires, the 
crew of the steamer cut dry wood into 
short lengths to provide fuel for the en 
gine s furnace, and all night long merry 
songs of men and sounds of axes echoed 
through the dark silent forest. 

Five hundred miles separates Stanley 
Falls from Bangala, and although there 
are several very populous districts on 
either side of the river, yet there is no 
real trade carried on by the natives, ex 
cept an occasional traffic in slaves and 
ivory. Below Bangala, however, for six 
hundred miles as far as Stanley Pool, 
there is quite an organized trade in 
ivory between the tribes living along the 
river banks and the Bateke middlemen 
of Stanley Pool, who sell the ivory to the 
lower Congo caravans that travel over 
land to the European trading-stations 
on the coast. 



THE TALE OF A TUSK OF ll/ORY. 



545 



After sixteen days journey down the 
Congo, the little steamer dropped anchor 
in Stanley Pool, and the tusks of ivory 
that had been all that time stowed in the 
dark hold were taken ashore and placed 
under guard in a rude structure that 
served for a store-house ; for up to the 
present the European traders have not 
been able to erect any permanent build 
ings for want of the necessary materials. 
The ivory did not remain here long, for 
as soon as natives could be engaged to 
carry it down country, the tusks were 
brought out, marked, and placed in a 
row. At a given signal the carriers, who 
had been keenly watching these pro 
ceedings, rushed wildly forward in order 
to select the lightest tusks, and soon all 
were appropriated, except the tusk of 
Litoi Linene, which no one volunteered 
to carry on account of its weight. The 
trader tried in vain to persuade different 
men to take it, but they emphatically 
shook their open hands and one man said : 

" Ve, ve, yae wzito bene mundili, 
kulenda kwami ko, sea mona mpassi 
nyingi kuna ngila." 

(No, no, it is very heavy, whiteman ; I 
cannot carry it, I should see too much 
trouble on the path.) 

Eventually it was arranged that this 
tusk should be lashed on a pole and car 
ried by two men, each being paid the 
same amount of cotton cloth as if carry 
ing a full load. The caravan consisted 
of fifty men and boys, all belonging to 
the Bakongo tribe, under a headman or 
Kapita. 

From Stanley Pool the series of cat 
aracts, which extend a distance of two 
hundred miles to Matadi, render it 
necessary to transport merchandise, 
ivory, and all other loads, overland, and 
small companies of men are recruited 
from different parts of the lower Congo 
country, under a responsible headman, 
to carry the burdens on their heads and 
shoulders. This journey is divided into 
stages of a hundred miles each, and a 
transfer is made at Manyanga, as the 
people above and below this place are 
not always on good terms with each 
other, although they are apparently of 
the same tribe and speak the same 
language. The first stage of this over 
land journey from Stanley Pool to 
Manyanga occupied six days, and the 



little caravan wended its w r ay up and 
down hills which afford beautiful views 
of the distant country and the mighty 
Congo surging and eddying between its 
precipitous banks. But scenic magni 
ficence is unnoticed and unappreciated 
by the Bakongo carrier, whose sensual 
tastes are more influenced by a gaudy col 
ored loin cloth, or a feast of elephant beef. 

At sunset each day, the little party 
halted by a stream, and after collecting 
a few dry sticks for their camp-fires, 
they sat around with the tusks of ivory 
beside them, roasting peanuts and cones 
of maize which, with a draught of water 
from the stream, constituted their sup 
per. Then, as darkness crept on, they 
covered themselves with their flimsy 
loin cloths and wearily stretched out on 
the ground to sleep. 

During the night, as gusts of cold 
wind or a shower of rain awakened them, 
they would stir up their fires and crouch 
beside them, shivering with chattering 
teeth. At dawn they awoke, stretched 
themselves, yawned, arranged their loin 
cloths, and shouldering their tusks of 
ivory and arranging under their arms 
their little bags containing provisions 
and tobacco pipe, they started on the 
march again. 

At Manyanga the ivory was transferred 
to another caravan, which journeyed 
seven days over steep hills, through deep 
swamps, and across numerous small 
rivers, until Matadi was reached. The 
ivory was then placed on board a river 
steamer, which conveyed it in two days 
to Banana, the trading depot at the 
mouth of the Congo. Here Litoi Linene s 
tusk was stored away with hundreds of 
others that had previously been sent 
down from the far interior, until the 
arrival of an ocean steamer, which con 
veyed the whole accumulation to Liver 
pool, where it was shortly afterward sold 
by auction. Litoi Linene s tusk, which 
had passed through so many strange 
phases of life, was now consigned to an 
ivory carver and turner, who ingeniously 
converted its hard substance into billiard 
balls, paper-knives, and various articles 
for the toilet table. And when the 
turner s work was finished, a little mound 
of ivory dust beneath his lathe was all 
that remained there of the tusk of the 
evil-spirited elephant Litoi Linene. 



THE DEATH-DAY OF CARDINAL NEWMAN. 
By Aubrey de Vere. 

THY ninety years on earth have passed away: 
At last thou restest mid that heavenly clime 
Where Act is Kest, and Age perpetual prime: 

Thy noblest, holiest work begins this day, 

Begins, not ends ! Best Work is Prayer ; and they 
Who plead, absolved from bonds of Space and Time, 
With lordliest labor work that work sublime, 

Order our planet with benignest sway. 

So work, great Spirit! Thy toils foregone each year 
Meantime bear fruit ! Thousands but hymn thee now ! 
Thy laureates soon will bend a brightening brow 

O er tomes of thine ; on each may drop a tear 

For friends that o er blind oceans pushed their prow 

Self-cheated of a guiding light so clear. 



CARDINAL NEWMAN. 

By Inigo Deane. 

LOUDEK than roar her own reverberant seas 

Around the white sea-cliffs more full than they 
Of tumult and harsh discord night and day 

Uprising, England s voice for centuries 

Has smitten the ear of God ; but melodies, 

Strong ones and true, have still not failed her; they 
Up through the din wind still their silvery way 

And God for earth s marred harmonies appease. 



Of such, sweet-springing from a blameless heart, 
And perfect grown with length of many days, 

The music that we ceased but now to hear; 

That fuller swelled and sweeter year on year 
Until it rose a marvellous hymn of praise 

And with the nine-choired choral strain found part. 




DR. MATERIALISMUS. 

By F. J. Stimson. 




WAS born and lived, 
until I came to this 
university, in a small 
town in Maine. My 
father was a graduate 

of College, and 

had never wholly dis 
solved his connection with that place ; 
probably because he was there not un 
favorably known to more acquaintances, 
and better people, than he elsewhere 
found. The town is one of those gentle- 
mannered, ferocious-minded, white wood 
en villages common to Maine ; with two 
churches, a brick town-hall, a stucco ly- 
ceum, a narrow railway station, and a 
spacious burying- ground. It is divided 
into two classes of society : one which in 
stitutes church-sociables, church-dances, 
church-sleighing parties ; which twice a 
week, and critically, listens to a long and 
ultra-Protestant, almost mundane, essa} r - 
sermon ; and which comes to town with, 
and takes social position from, pastoral 
letters of introduction, that are dated in 
other places and exhibited like marriage 
certificates. I have known the husbands 
at times get their business employments 
on the strength of such encyclicals (but 
the ventures of these were not rarely 
attended with financial disaster, so pass 
ports only hinder honest travellers) ; the 
other class falling rather into Shake 
speare clubs, intensely free-thinking, but 
calling Sabbath Sunday, and pretending 
to the slightly higher social position of 
the two. This is Maine, as I knew it ; 
it may have changed since. Both classes 



were in general Prohibitionists, but the 
latter had wine to drink at home. 

In this town were many girls with 
pretty faces ; there, under that cold, con 
cise sky of the North, they grew up ; 
their intellects preternaturally acute, 
their nervous systems strung to break 
ing pitch, their physical growth so back 
ward that at twenty their figures would 
be flat. We were intimate with them in 
a mental fellowship. Not that we boys 
of twenty did not have our preferences, 
but they were preferences of mere com 
panionship ; so that the magnanimous 
confidence of English America was jus 
tified ; and anyone of us could be alone 
with her he preferred from morn to mid 
night, if he chose, and no one be the 
wiser or the worse. But there was one 

exceptional girl in B , Althea Hardy. 

Her father was a rich ship-builder ; and 
his father, a sea-captain, had married 
her grandmother in Catania, island of 
Sicily. With Althea Hardy, I think, I 
was in love. 

Tn the winter of my second year at 
college there came to town a certain 
Dr. Materialismus a German professor, 
scientist, socialist ostensibly seeking 
employment as a German instructor at 
the college ; practising hypnotism, mag 
netism, mesmerism, and mysticism ; giv 
ing lectures on Hegel, believing in Hart- 
mann, and in the indestructibility of 
matter and the destructibility of the 
soul ; and his soul was a damned one, 
and he cared not for the loss of it. 

Not that I knew this, then ; I also was 



548 



DR. MATERIALISMUS. 



fascinated by him, I suppose. There 
was something so bold about his intel 
lectuality, that excited my admiration. 
Althea and I used to dispute about it ; 
she said she did not like the man. In 
my enthusiasm, I raved to her of him ; 
and then, I suppose, I talked to him of 
her more than I should have done. Mind 
you, I had no thought of marriage then ; 
nor, of course, of love. Althea was my 
most intimate friend as a boy might 
have been. Sex differences were fused 
in the clear flame of the intellect. And 

B College itself was a co-educational 

institution. 

The first time they met was at a coast 
ing party ; on a night of glittering cold, 
when the sky was dusty azure and the 
stars burned like blue fires. I had a 
double-runner, with Althea ; and I asked 
the professor to come with us, as he was 
unused to the sport, and I feared lest he 
should be laughed at. I, of course, sat 
in front and steered the sled ; then came 
Althea; then he ; and it was his duty to 
steady her, his hands upon her waist. 

We went down three times with no 
word spoken. The girls upon the other 
sleds would cry with exultation as they 
sped down the long hill ; but Althea was 
silent. On the long walk up it was 
nearly a mile the professor and I 
talked ; but I remember only one thing 
he said. Pointing to a singularly red 
star, he told us that two worlds were 
burning there, with people in them ; 
they had lately rushed together, and, 
from planets, had become one burning 
sun. I asked him how he knew ; it 
was all chemistry, he said. Althea said, 
how terrible it was to think of such a 
day of judgment on that quiet night; 
and he laughed a little, in his silent way, 
and said she was rather too late with her 
pity, for it had all happened some eighty 
years ago. "I don t see that you cry for 
Marie Antoinette," he said; "but that 
red ray you see left the star in 1789." 

We left Althea at her home, and the 
professor asked me down to his. He 
lived in a strange place ; the upper floor 
of a warehouse, upon a business street, 
low down in the town, above the Kenne- 
bec. He told me that he had hired it 
for the power; and I remembered to 
have noticed there a sign " To Let One 
Floor, with Power." And sure enough, 



below the loud rush of the river, and 
the crushing noise made by the cakes 
of ice that passed over the falls, was a 
pulsing tremor in the house, more strik 
ing than a noise ; and in the loft of his 
strange apartment rushed an endless 
band of leather, swift and silent. " It s 
furnished by the river," he said, "and 
not by steam. I thought it might be 
useful for some physical experiments." 

The upper floor, which the doctor had 
rented, consisted mainly of a long loft 
for manufacturing, and a square room 
beyond it, formerly the counting-room. 
We had passed through the loft first 
(through which ran the spinning leather 
band), and I had noticed a forest of glass 
rods along the wall, but massed together 
like the pipes of an organ, and opposite 
them a row of steel bars like levers. 
"A mere physical experiment," said the 
doctor, as we sank into couches covered 
with white fur, in his inner apartment. 
Strangely disguised, the room in the 
old factory loft, hung with silk and furs, 
glittering with glass and gilding ; there 
was no mirror, however, but, in front of 
me, one large picture. It represented 
a fainting anchorite, wan and yellow be 
neath his single sheepskin cloak, his 
eyes closing, the crucifix he was bearing 
just fallen in the desert sand ; support 
ing him, the arms of a beautiful woman, 
roseate with perfect health, with laugh 
ing, clear eyes resting on his wearied 
lids. I never had seen such a room ; 
it realized what I had fancied of those 
sensuous, evil Trianons of the older and 
corrupt world. 

"You admire the picture?" said Ma- 
terialismus. " I painted it ; she was my 
model." I am conscious to-day that I 
looked at him with a jealous envy, like 
some hungry beast. I had never seen 
such a woman. He laughed silently, and 
going to the wall touched what I sup 
posed to be a bell. Suddenly my feel 
ings changed. 

"Your Althea Hardy," went on the 
doctor, " who is she ? " 

" She is not my Althea Hardy," I re 
plied, with an indignation that I then sup 
posed unreasoning. " She is the daugh 
ter of a retired sea-captain, and I see 
her because she alone can rank me in 
the class. Our minds are sympathetic. 
And Miss Hardy has a noble soul." 



DR. MATERIALISMUS. 



549 



" She has a fair body," answered he ; 
" of that much we are sure." 

I cast a fierce look upon the man; 
my eye followed his to that picture on 
the wall ; and some false shame kept me 
foolishly silent. I should have spoken 
then. . . . But many such fair car 
rion must strew the path of so lordly a 
vulture as this doctor was ; unlucky if 
they thought (as he knew better) that 
aught of soul they bore entangled in 
their flesh. 

" You do not strain a morbid con 
sciousness about a chemical reaction," 
said he. " Two atoms rush together to 
make a world, or burn one, as we saw 
last night ; it may be pleasure or it may 
be pain ; conscious organs choose the 
former." 

My distaste for the man was such that 
I hurried away, and went to sleep with 
a strange sadness, in the mood in which, 
as I suppose, believers pray ; but that I 
was none. Dr. Materialismus had had 
a plum-colored velvet smoking-jacket 
on, with a red fez (he was a sort of beau), 
and I dreamed of it all night, and of the 
rushing leather band, and of the grind 
ing of the ice in the river. Something 
made me keep my visit secret from Al- 
thea ; an evil something, as I think it 
now. 

The following day we had a lecture on 
light. It was one in a course in physics, 
or natural philosophy, as it was called 

in B College ; just as they called 

Scotch psychology "Mental Philosophy," 
with capital letters : it was an archaic 
little place, and it was the first course 
that the German doctor had prevailed 
upon the college government to assign 
to him. The students sat at desks, 
ranged around the lecture platform, the 
floor of the hall being a concentric in 
clined plane ; and Althea Hardy s desk 
was next to mine. Materialismus began 
with a brief sketch of the theory of 
sound ; how it consisted in vibrations 
of the air, the coarsest medium of space, 
but could not dwell in ether ; and how 
slow beats blows of a hammer, for in 
stance had no more complex intellect 
ual effect, but were mere consecutive 
noises ; how the human organism ceased 
to detect these consecutive noises at 
about eight per second, until they re 
appeared at sixteen per second, the low 



est tone which can be heard ; and how, 
at something like thirty-two thousand 
per second these vibrations ceased to be 
heard, and were supposed unintelligible 
to humanity, being neither sound nor 
light despite their rapid movement, 
dark and silent. But was all this en 
ergy wasted to mankind? Adverting 
one moment to the molecular, or rather 
mathematical, theory first propounded 
by Dernocritus, re-established by Leib 
nitz, and never since denied that the 
universe, both of mind and matter, body 
and soul, was made merely by innumer 
able, infinitesimal points of motion, end 
lessly gyrating among themselves mere 
points, devoid of materiality, devoid also 
of soul, but each a centre of a certain 
force, which scientists entitle gravitation, 
philosophers deem will, and poets name 
love he went on to Light. Light is a 
subtler emotion (he remarked here that 
he used the word emotion advisedly, as 
all emotions were, in substance, alike 
the subjective result of merely material 
motion). Light is a subtler emotion, 
dwelling in ether, but still nothing but 
a regular continuity of motion or mole 
cular impact ; to speak more plainly, 
successive beats or vibrations reappear 
intelligible to humanity as light, at some 
thing like 483,000,000,000 beats per sec 
ond in the red ray. More exactly still, 
they appear first as heat ; then as red, 
orange, yellow, all the colors of the spect 
rum, until they disappear again, through 
the violet ray, at something like 727,- 
000,000,000 beats per second in the so- 
called chemical rays. "After that," he 
closed, "they are supposed unknown. 
The higher vibrations are supposed un 
intelligible to man, just as he fancies 
there is no more subtle medium than 
his (already hypothetical) ether. It is 
possible," said Materialisrnus, speaking 
in italics and looking at Althea, "that 
these higher, almost infinitely rapid vibra 
tions may be what are called the higher 
emotions or passions like religion, love, 
and hate dwelling in a still more subtle, 
but yet material, medium, that poets and 
churches have picturesquely termed heart, 
conscience, soul" As he said this I too 
looked at Althea. I saw her bosom 
heaving ; her lips were parted, and a 
faint rose was in her face. How wom 
anly she was growing ! 



550 



DR. MATERIAL1SMUS. 



From that time I felt a certain fierce 
ness against this German doctor. He 
had a way of patronizing me, of treating 
me as a man might treat some promising 
schoolboy, while his manner to Althea 
was that of an equal or a man of the 
world s to a favored lady. It was custom 
ary for the professors in B College 

to give little entertainments to their 
classes once in the winter ; these usually 
took the form of tea-parties ; but when 
it came to the doctor s turn, he gave 
a sleighing party to the neighboring 
city of A , where we had an elabo 
rate banquet at the principal hotel, 
with champagne to drink ; and returned 
driving down the frozen river, the ice 
of which Dr. Mismus (for so we called 
him for short) had had tested for the 
occasion. The probable expense of this 
entertainment was discussed in the little 
town for many weeks after, and was by 
some estimated as high as two hundred 
dollars. The professor had hired, be 
sides the large boat-sleigh, many single 
sleighs, in one of which he had returned, 
leading the way, and driving with Althea 
Hardy. It was then I determined to 
speak to her about her growing intimacy 
with this man. 

I had to wait many weeks for an op 
portunity. Our winter sports at B 
used to end with a grand evening skat 
ing party on the Kennebec. Bonfires 
were built on the river, the safe mile or 
two above the falls was roped in with 
lines of Chinese lanterns, and a supper 
of hot oysters and coffee was provided 
at the big central fire. It was the fixed 
law of the place that the companion in 
vited by any boy was to remain indis 
putably his for the evening. No second 
man would ever venture to join himself 
to a couple who were skating together 
on that night. I had asked Althea many 
weeks ahead to skate with me, and she 
had consented. The Doctor Materialis- 
mus knew this. 

I, too, saw him nearly every day. He 
seemed to be fond of my company ; of 
playing chess with me, or discussing 
metaphysics. Sometimes Althea was 
present at these arguments, in which I 
always took the idealistic side. But the 
little college had only armed me with 
Bain and Locke and Mill ; and it may 
be imagined what a poor defence I could 



make with these against the German 
doctor, with his volumes of metaphysi 
cal realism and his knowledge of what 
Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, and other 
defenders of us from the flesh could say. 
Nevertheless, I sometimes appeared to 
have my victories. Althea was judge ; 
and one day I well remember, when we 
were discussing the localization of emo 
tion or of volition in the brain : 

" Prove to me, if you may, even that 
every thought and hope and feeling of 
mankind is accompanied always by the 
same change in the same part of the 
cerebral tissue ! " cried I. " Yet that 
physical change is not the soul-passion, 
but the effect of it upon the body ; the 
mere trace in the brain of its passage, 
like the furrow of a ship upon the sea." 
And I looked at Althea, who smiled up 
on me. 

"But if," said the doctor, "by the 
physical movement I produce the psy 
chical passion? by the change of the 
brain-atoms cause the act of will ? by a 
mere bit of glass-and-iron mechanism 
set first in motion, I make the prayer, 
or thought, or lovefolloiv, in plain suc 
cession, to the machine s movement, on 
every soul that comes within its sphere, 
will you then say that the metaphor of 
ship and wake is a good one, when it is 
the wake that precedes the ship ? " 

" No," said I, smiling. 

" Then come to my house to-night," 
said the doctor ; " unless," he added 
with a sneer, "you are afraid to take 
such risks before your skating party." 
And then I saw Althea s lips grow blood 
less, and my heart swelled within me. 

" I will come," I muttered, without a 
smile. 

" When ? " said the professor. 

" Now." 

Althea suddenly ran between us. fc You 
will not hurt him ? " she said, appeal- 
ingly to him. " Remember, oh, remem 
ber what he has before him ! " And here 
Althea burst into a passion of weeping, 
and I looked in wild bewilderment from 
her to him. 

" I vill go," said the doctor to me. " I 
vill leafe you to gonsole her." He spoke 
in his stronger German accent, and as 
he went out he beckoned me to the 
door. His sneer was now a leer, and he 
said : 



DR. MATERIALISMUS. 



551 



" I vould kiss her there, if I vere you." 

I slammed the door in his face, and 
when I turned back to Althea her pas 
sion of tears had not ceased, and her 
beautiful bright hair lay in masses over 
the poor, shabby desk. I did kiss her, 
on her soft face where the tears were. 
I did not dare to kiss her lips, though I 
think I could have done it before I had 
known this doctor. She checked her 
tears at once. 

" Now I must go to the doctor s," I 
said. " Don t be afraid ; he can do me 
or my soul no harm ; and remember 
to-morrow night." I saw Althea s lips 
blanch again at this ; but she looked at 
me with dry eyes, and I left her. 

The winter evening was already dark, 
and as I went down the streets toward 
the river I heard the crushing of the ice 
over the falls. The old street where the 
doctor lived was quite deserted. Trade 
had been there in the old days, but now 
was nothing. Yet in the silence, com 
ing along, I heard the whirr of steam, 
or, at least, the clanking of machinery 
and whirling wheels. 

I toiled up the crazy staircase. The 
doctor was already in his room in the 
same purple velvet he had worn before. 
On his study table was a smoking supper. 

"I hope," he said, "you have not 
supped on the way ? " 

" I have not," I said. Our supper at 
our college table consisted of tea and 
cold meat and pie. The doctor s was of 
oysters, sweetbreads, and wine. After 
it he gave me an imported cigar, and I 
sat in his reclining-chair and listened to 
him. 

I remember that this chair reminded 
me, as I sat there, of a dentist s chair ; 
and I good-naturedly wondered what 
operations he might perform on me I 
helpless, passive with his tobacco and 
his wine. 

" Now I am ready," said he. And he 
opened the door that led from his study 
into the old warehouse-room, and I saw 
him touch one of the steel levers oppo 
site the rows of glass rods. "You see," 
he said, " my mechanism is a simple 
one. With all these rods, of different 
lengths, and the almost infinite speed of 
revolution that I am able to gife them 
with the power that comes from the 
river applied through a chain of belted 



wheels, is a rosined leather tongue, like 
that of a music-box or the bow of a 
violin, touching each one ; and so I get 
any number of beats per second that I 
will." (He always said will, this man, 
and never wish.) 

"Now, listen," he whispered ; and I 
saw him bend down another lever in the 
laboratory, and there came a grand bass 
note a tone I have heard since only in 
32-foot organ pipes. " Now, you see, it 
is sound." And he placed his hand, as 
he spoke, upon a small crank or gov 
ernor ; and, as he turned it slowly, note 
by note the sound grew higher. In the 
other room I could see one immense 
wheel, revolving in an endless leather 
band, with the power that was furnished 
by the Kennebec, and as each sound 
rose clear, I saw the wheel turn faster. 

Note by note the tones increased in 
pitch, clear and elemental. I listened, 
recumbent. There was a marvellous fas 
cination in the strong production of 
those simple tones. 

" You see I hafe no overtones," I heard 
the doctor say. " All is simple, because 
it is mechanism. It is the exact repro 
duction of the requisite mathematical 
number. I hafe many hundreds of rods 
of glass, and then the leather band can 
go so fast as I will, and the tongue acts 
upon them like the bow upon the violin." 

I listened, I was still at peace ; all 
this I could understand, though the 
notes came strangely clear. Undoubted 
ly, to get a definite finite number of 
beats per second was a mere question of 
mathematics. Empirically, we have al 
ways done it, with tuning-forks, organ- 
pipes, bells. 

He was in the middle of the scale al 
ready ; faster whirled that distant wheel, 
and the intense tone struck C in alt. 
I felt a yearning for some harmony, 
that terrible, simple, single tone was 
so elemental, so savage ; it racked my 
nerves and strained them to unison, 
like the rosined bow drawn close against 
the violin-string itself. It grew intensely 
shrill ; fearfully, piercingly shrill ; shrill 
to the rend ing-point of the tympanum ; 
and then came silence. 

I looked. In the dusk of the adjoin 
ing warehouse the huge wheel was whirl 
ing more rapidly than ever. 

The German professor gazed into my 



552 



DR. MATERIALISMUS. 



eyes, his own were bright with triumph, 
on his lips a curl of cynicism. " Now," 
he said, " you will have what you call 
emotions. But, first, I must bind you 
close." 

I shrugged my shoulders amiably, 
smiling with what at the time I thought 
contempt, while he deftly took a soft 
white rope and bound me many times 
to his chair. But the rope was very 
strong, and I now saw that the frame 
work of the chair was of iron. And even 
while he bound me, I started as if from 
a sleep, and became conscious of the 
dull whirring caused by the powerful 
machinery that abode within the house, 
and suddenly a great rage came over 
me. 

I, fool, and this man ! I swelled and 
strained at the soft white ropes that 
bound me, but in vain. ... By God, 
I could have killed him then and there ! 
And he looked at me and grinned, 
twisting his face to fit his crooked soul. 
I strained at the ropes, and I think 
one of them slipped a bit, for his face 
blanched ; and then I saw him go into 
that other room and press the last lever 
back a little, and it seemed to me the 
wheel revolved more slowly. 

Then, in a moment, all was peace 
again, and it was as if I heard a low, sweet 
sound, only that there was no sound, 
but something like what you might 
dream the music of the spheres to be. 
He came to my chair again and unbound 
me. 

My momentary passion had vanished. 
" Light your cigar," he said, " it has 
gone out." I did so. I had a strange, 
restful feeling, as of being at one with 
the world, a sense of peace, between 
the peace of death and that of sleep. 

" This," he said, " is the pulse of the 
world ; and it is Sleep. You remember, 
in the Nibelung-saga, when Erda, the 
Earth spirit, is invoked, unwillingly she 
appears, and then she says, Lass mich 
schlafen let me sleep on to Wotan, 
king of the gods ? Some of the old myths 
are true enough, though not the Chris 
tian ones, most always. . . . This 
pulse of the earth seems to you dead 
science, yet the beats are pulsing thou 
sands a second faster than the highest 
sound. . . . For emotions are sub 
tler things than sound, as you sentimen 



tal ones would say ; you poets that talk 
of heart and soul. We men of 
science say it this way : That those bodi 
ly organs that answer to your myth of a 
soul are but more widely framed, more 
nicely textured, so as to respond to the 
impact of a greater number of move 
ments in the second." 

While he was speaking he had gone 
into the other room, and was bending 
the lever down once more ; I flew at his 
throat. But even before I reached him 
my motive changed ; seizing a Spanish 
knife that was on the table, I sought to 
plunge it in my breast. But, with a 
quick stroke of the elbow, as if he 
had been prepared for the attempt, he 
dashed the knife from my hand to the 
floor, and I sank in despair back into 
his arm-chair. 

" Yes-s," said he, with a sort of hiss of 
content like a long-drawn sigh of relief. 
" Yes-s-s I haf put my mechanik quick 
ly through the Murder-motif without 
binding you again, after I had put it 
back to sleep." 

" What do you mean ? " I said, lan 
guidly. How could I ever hope to win 
Althea away from this man s wiles ? 

" When man s consciousness awakes 
from the sleep of the world, its first mo 
tive is Murder," said he ; "you remem 
ber the Hebrew myth of Cain ? " and he 
laughed silently. " Its next is Suicide ; 
its third, Despair. This time I have 
put my mechanism quickly through the 
murder movement, so your wish to kill 
me was just now but momentary." 

There was an evil gleam in his eye as 
he said this. 

" I leaf e a dagger on the table, because, 
if I left a pistol the subject would fire 
it, and that makes noise. Then, at the 
motion of Suicide you tried to kill your 
self : the suicide is one grade higher 
than the murderer. And now, you are 
in Despair/ 

He bent the lever further down and 
touched a smaller glass rod. 

" And now, I will gife to you I alone 
all the emotions of which humanity 
is capable." 

How much time followed, I know not ; 
nor whether it was not all a dream, only 
that a dream can hardly be more vivid 
as this was than my life itself. First, 
a nightmare came of evil passions ; after 



DR. MATERIALISMUS. 



553 



murder and suicide and despair came 
revenge, envy, hatred, greed of money, 
greed of power, lust. I say "came," 
for each one came on me with all the 
force the worst of men can feel. Had I 
been free, in some other place, I should 
inexorably have committed the crimes 
these evil passions breed, and there was 
always some pretext of a cause. Now 
it was revenge on Materialismus him 
self for his winning of Althea Hardy ; 
now it was envy of his powers, or greed 
of his possessions ; and then my roving 
eye fell on that strange picture of his 
I mentioned before ; the face of the 
woman now seemed to be Althea s. In 
a glance all the poetry, all the sympathy 
of my mind or soul that I thought bound 
me to her had vanished, and in their 
place I only knew desire. The doctor s 
leer seemed to read my thoughts ; he 
let the lever stay long at this speed, and 
then he put it back again to that strange 
rhythm of Sleep. 

" So I must rest you a little between 
times," he said. " Is my fine poet con 
vinced ? " 

But I was silent, and he turned an 
other wheel. 

" All these are only evil passions," 
said I, " there may well be something 
physical in them." 

" Poh I can gife you just so well the 
others," he sneered. "I tell you why I 
do not gife you all at once " 

"You can produce passion," I an 
swered, "but not love." 

"Poh it takes but a little greater 
speed. What you call love is but the 
multiple of passion and cosmic love, 
that is, gravitation." 

I stared at the man. 

"It is quite as I say. About two 
hundred thousand vibrations make in 
man s cerebrum what you call passion ; 
about four billion per second, that is 
gravitation, what the philosophers call 
will, the poets, cosmic love ; this comes 
just after light, white light, which is the 
sum of all the lights. And their multiple 
again, of love and light, makes many 
sextillions, and that is love of God, what 
the priests name religion." ... I 
think I grew faint, for he said, " You 
must hafe some refreshments, or you 
cannot bear it." 

He broke some raw eggs in a glass, in 



some sherry, and placed it by my side, and 
I saw him bend the lever much farther. 

"Perhaps," I spoke out, then, "you 
can create the emotion, or the mental 
existence whatever you call it of God 
himself." I spoke with scorn, for my 
mind was clearer than ever. 

" I can almost," he muttered. " Just 
now I have turned the rhythm to the 
thought millions, which lie above what 
you call evil passions, between them 
and what you call the good ones. It is 
all a mere question of degree. In the 
eye of science all are the same ; mor 
ally, one is alike so good as the other. 
Only motion that is life; and slower, 
slower, that is nearer death ; and life is 
good, and death is evil." 

" But I can have these thoughts with 
out your machinery," said I. 

"Yes," said he, "and I can cause 
them with it ; that proves they are me 
chanical. Now, the rhythm is on the 
intellectual-process movement ; hence 
you argue." 

Millions of thoughts, fancies, inspira 
tions, flashed through my brain as he 
left me to busy himself with other 
levers. How long this time lasted I 
again knew not ; but it seemed that I 
passed through all the experience of 
human life. Then suddenly my think 
ing ceased, and I became conscious only 
of a bad odor by my side. This was 
followed in a moment by an intense 
scarlet light. 

"Just so," he said, as if he had noted 
my expression ; "it is the eggs in your 
glass, they altered when we passed 
through the chemical rays ; they will 
now be rotten." And he took the glass 
and threw it out the window. "It was 
altered as we passed through the spec 
trum by no other process than the 
brain thinks." 

He had darkened the room, but the 
light changed from red through orange, 
yellow, green, blue, violet ; then, after a 
moment s darkness, it began again, more 
glorious than before. White, white it 
was now, most glorious ; it flooded the 
old warehouse, and the shadows rolled 
from the dark places in my soul. And 
close on the light followed hope again ; 
hope of life, of myself, of the world, of 
Althea. 

"It is the first of the motions you 



554 



DR. MATERIALISMUS. 



call virtuous," came his sibilant voice, 
but I heeded him not. For even as he 
spoke my soul was lifted unto faith, and 
I knew that this man lied. 

"I can do but one thing more," said 
he, "and that is love." 

"I thought," said I, "you could make 
communion with the Deity." 

" And so I could," he cried, angrily, 
" so I could ; but I must first give my 
glass rod an infinite rotation ; the num 
ber of vibrations in a second must be a 
number which is a multiple of all other 
numbers, however great ; for that even 
my great fly-wheel must have an infinite 
speed. Ah, your loft with power does 
not give me that. . . . But it would 
be only an idea if I could do that too, 
nothing but a rhythmic motion in your 
brain." . . . 

Then my faith rose well above this 
idle chatter. But I kept silence ; for 
again my soul had passed out of the 
ken of this German doctor. Althea I 
saw ; Althea in the dark room before 
me ; Althea, and I had communion with 
her soul. Then I knew indeed that I 
did love her. 

The ecstasy of that moment knew no 
time ; it may have been a minute or an 
hour, as we mortals measure it ; it was 
but an eternity of bliss to me. . . . 
Then followed again faith and hope, and 
then I awoke and saw the room all radi 
ant with the calm of that white light 
the light that Dante saw so near to God. 

But it changed again to violet, like 
the glacier s cave, blue like the heavens, 
yellow like the day ; then faded through 
the scarlet into night. 

Again I was in a sea of thoughts and 
phantasies ; the inspiration of a Shake 
speare, the fancy of a Mozart or a Ti 
tian, the study of a Newton, all in turn 
were mine. And then my evil dreams 
began. Through lust to greed of 
power, then to avarice, hatred, envy, 
and revenge, my soul was driven like a 
leaf before the autumn wind. 

Then I rose and flew at his throat 
once more. "Thou liest!" I cried. 
" Heed not the rabble s cry God lies 
NOT in a rotting egg ! " 

I remember no more. 

When I regained consciousness it was 
a winter twilight, and the room was 



cold. I was alone in the doctor s study 
and the machinery in the house was 
stilled. ... I went to the eastern 
window and saw that the twilight was 
not the twilight of the dawn. I must 
have slept all day. . . . As I turned 
back I saw a folded paper on the table, 
and read, in the doctor s hand : 

" In six hours you have passed through 
all the thoughts, all the wills, and all the 
passions known to devils, men, or angels. 
You must now sleep deeply or you die. 
I have put the lever on the rhythm of 
the world, which is Sleep. 

"In twelve hours I shall stop it and 
you will wake. 

" Then you had better go home and 
seek your finite sleep, or I have known 
men lose their mind." 

I staggered out into the street and 
sought my room. My head was still 
dizzy, my brain felt tired, and my soul 
was sore. I felt like an old man ; and 
yet my heart was still half-drunk with 
sleep, and enamoured with it, entranced 
with that profound slumber of the world 
to which all consciousness comes as a 
sorrow. 

The night was intensely cold ; the 
stars were like blue fires ; a heavy ox- 
sledge went by me, creaking in the 
snow. It was a fine night for the river. 
I suddenly remembered that it must be 
the night for the skating party, and my 
engagement with Althea. And with her 
there came a memory of that love that I 
had felt for her, sublimated, as it had 
been, beyond all earthly love. 

I hurried back to my room ; and as I 
lit the lamp I saw a note addressed to 
me, in her handwriting, lying on my 
study table. I opened it ; all it con 
tained was in two phrases : 

" Good-by ; forgive me. 

" ALTHEA." 

I knew not what to think ; but my 
heart worked quicker than my brain. 
It led me to Althea s house ; the old 
lady with whom she lived told me that 
she had already started for the skating 
party. Already? I did not dare to 
ask with whom. It was a breach of 
custom that augured darkly, her not 
waiting for me, her escort. 

On my way to the river I took the 
street by the house of Materialismus. 



DR. MATERIALISMUS. 



555 



They were not there. The old ware 
house was dark in all its windows. I 
went in ; the crazy wooden building- 
was trembling with the Power ; but all 
was dark and silent but the slow beat 
ing of the Power on the Murder pulse. 

I snatched up the Spanish dagger 
where it still lay on the table, and 
rushed out of that devil s workshop and 
along the silent street to the river. Far 
up the stream I could already make out 
a rosy glow, the fires and lanterns of 
the skating party. I had no skates, but 
ran out upon the river in a straight 
line, just skirting the brink of the falls 
where the full flood maned itself and 
arched downward, steady, to its dissolu 
tion in the mist. I came to the place 
of pleasure, marked out by gay lines of 
paper lanterns ; the people spoke to me, 
and some laughed, as I threaded my 
way through them ; but I heeded not ; 
they swerving and darting about me, 
like so many butterflies, I keeping to 
my line. By the time I had traversed 
the illuminated inclosure I had seen all 
who were in it. Althea was not among 
them. 

I reached the farthest lantern, and 
looked out. The white river stretched 
broad away under the black sky, faintly 
mirroring large, solemn stars. It took 
a moment for my eyes, dazzled by the 
tawdry light, to get used to the quiet 
starlight ; but then I fancied that I saw 
two figures, skating side by side, far up 
the river. They were well over to the 
eastern shore, skating up stream ; a mile 
or more above them the road to A 
crossed the river, in a long, covered 
bridge. 

I knew that they were making for that 
road, where the doctor doubtless had a 
sleigh in waiting. By crossing diagon 
ally, I could, perhaps, cut them off. 

" Lend me your skates," I said to a 
friend who had come up and stood look 
ing at me curiously. Before he well 
understood, I had torn them off his feet 
and fitted them to my own ; and I re 
member that to save time I cut his an 
kle-strap off with the Spanish knife. A 
moment more and I was speeding up 
the silent river, with no light but the 
stars, and no guide but the two figures 
that were slowly creeping up in the 



shadow of the shore. I laughed aloud ; 
I knew this German beau was no match 
for me in speed or strength. I did not 
throw the knife away, for I meant more 
silent and more certain punishment 
than a naked blow could give. The mur 
der motive still was in my brain. 

I do not know when they first knew 
that I was coming. But I soon saw 
them hurrying, as if from fear ; at least 
her strokes were feeble, and he seemed 
to be urging, or dragging, her on. By 
the side of the river, hitched to the last 
post of the bridge, I could see a single 
horse and sleigh. 

But I shouted with delight, for I was 
already almost even with them, and 
could easily dash across to the shore 
while they were landing. I kept to my 
straight line ; I was now below the last 
pier of the bridge ; and then I heard a 
laugh from him, answering my shout. 
Between me and the bank was a long, 
open channel of rippling dark water, 
leading up and down, many miles, from 
beneath the last section of the bridge. 

They had reached the shore, and he 
was dragging her, half reluctant, up the 
bank. In a minute, and he would have 
reached his horse. 

I put the knife between my teeth and 
plunged in. In a few strokes of swim 
ming I was across ; but the ice was shelv 
ing on the other side, and brittle ; and 
the strong stream had a tendency to 
drag me under. I got my elbows on 
the edge of ice, and it broke. Again I 
got my arms upon the shelving ice ; it 
broke again. I heard a wild cry from 
Althea I cursed him and I knew no 
more. 

When I next knew life, it was spring ; 
and I saw the lilac buds leafing by my 
window in the garden. I had been 
saved by the others some of them had 
followed me up the river unconscious, 
they told me, the dagger still clinched 
in my hand. 

Althea I have never seen again. First 
I heard that she had married him ; but 
then, after some years, came a rumor 
that she had not married him. Her 
father lost his fortune in a vain search 
for her, and died. After many years, 
she returned, alone. She lives, her 
beauty faded, in the old place. 



LIFE AND NATURE. 

By Archibald Lampman. 

I PASSED through the gates of the city, 
The streets were strange and still, 

Through the doors of the open churches 
The organs were moaning shrill. 



Through the doors and the great high windows 

I heard the murmur of prayer, 
And the sound of their solemn singing 

Streamed out on the sunlit air. 



A sound of some great burden 

That lay on the world s dark breast, 

Of the old, and the sick, and the lonely, 
And the weary that cried for rest. 



I strayed through the midst of the city 
Like one distracted or mad. 

" Oh, Life ! Oh, Life ! " I kept saying, 
And the very word seemed sad. 



I passed through the gates of the city, 
And I heard the small birds sing, 

I laid me adown in the meadows 
Afar from the bell-ringing. 



In the depth and the bloom of the meadows 
I lay on the earth s quiet breast, 

The ilex fanned me with shadows, 
And the cuckoo sang me to rest. 



Blue, blue was the heaven above me, 
And the earth green at my feet ; 

" Oh, Life ! Oh, Life ! " I kept saying, 
And the very word seemed sweet. 





Tne Doctor. 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 

WEITTEN, DRAWN, AND ENGRAVED 

By Frank French. 



CLANG ! clang ! rang out the double 
stroke of the front -door gong, 
with that startling exaggeration 
of sound which the stillness of midnight 
lends to unexpected clamor. I was in 
stantly aroused to complete wakefulness, 
and lay staring blindly into the velvety 
darkness which was distinctly palpable 
VOL. VIII. 56 



about me. The room was an unfamiliar 
one. I could not remember upon which 
side of the bed I had got in, and in the 
panicky condition which the harshness 
of my sudden awakening had induced, 
I lay longing to fix my eyes upon some 
familiar object which would aid me in 
locating myself. Meanwhile I strained 



558 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR, 



my ears to hear what answer would be My host was a country doctor, and I 

given to the midnight intrusion. now realized that all appeals for help 

I had but an instant to wait. The in physical distress from the country 

sound of the raising of a window upon round converged at that front door, 




The Village Street. 



the floor below me was heard, and al 
most simultaneously the clear and deci 
sive tones of a voice: "Well who s 
there, and what do you want ? " 

The answer to this peremptory chal 
lenge came in earnest but subdued 
tones, the purport of which I could not 
make out. 

"Ill go," said the first voice, and the 
window fell abruptly. 

The wind, which seemed to be rising, 
suddenly drove a volley of raindrops, 
rattling like hail, upon the tin roof of 
the piazza under my window, solving 



and were liable to be heard at any 
moment. Heavens, what a night for 
one to venture out over those rough 
mountain-roads ! The doctor must have 
got into his clothes very quickly, for it 
seemed but a few moments before his 
firm footstep was heard in the hall. 
The door opened and closed after him. 
His heels smote upon the stone walk 
confidently, as a circular spot of light 
from his lantern came in view, crossed 
and recrossed fantastically by black 
shadows from his legs, as he walked in 
the direction of the barn. Another 



/r3fcz.*.b 




The Old Furnace Chimney 



for me the problem of locality. I has- short interval followed, and I caught, 
tily rose, and groping my way to the above the noise of the wind and rain, 
window stood peering blindly out. the sharp rattle of a wagon-wheel as it 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



559 



clashed against some ledge 
or bowlder ; then all was op 
pressively quiet again, save 
the ticking of the clock and 
the noise of the elements 
without. 

In a previous hasty visit 
to this mountain-country I 
had seen something of the 
dangerous character of the 
roads, which straggle, with 
many abrupt and unexpected 
turns, down precipitous hills, 
over bridges, and through 
dense, dark woods. Huge 
bowlders contract the wheel- 
way here and there to such 
narrow limits that good and 
careful horsemanship is 
needed, even in the light of 
day, to pass them without ac 
cident. Half-asleep and half- 
awake I lay filled with appre 
hension lest the good luck 
which had so long attended 
the doctor should desert him 
on that dark and dreary 
night, and that we should 
have the horror of finding 
him on the morrow, wound 
ed and bleeding perhaps 
dead with the splintered wreck of his 
buggy strewn about him. Should he 
escape the dangers of the road, I 
thought, he will have to face the black- 
winged messenger on some mountain 
threshold, and wrestle with all the 
strength which forty years of training 
have given him, if happily he may van 
quish the unwelcome guest, and so 
sprinkle the lintel of the cottage-door 
with potent drugs that even the relent 
less Angel of Death shall see the sign 
and pass over. 

When I woke a flood of rosy light 
enveloped me, and before I opened my 
eyes I could feel that the storm had 
passed. My room was charmingly pretty, 
in the white and pale-green enamelled 
furniture, ornamented with circular pan 
els upon which were painted the most 
radiant little landscapes, flanked on 
either side by the gayest of flowers. At 
the windows, curtains of thin lace, with 
large floral designs, undulated gracefully 
as the morning air stole fresh and sweet 
through the half-open slats of the win- 




m 



Uncle Amos. 

dow-blind. Outside, the musical voice 
of a young girl called " Chick, chick, 
c-h-i-c-k, chick, chick, chick, c-h-i-c-k," 
and the chickens could be heard rushing 
madly, and with great squall and clatter, 
tumbling over each other in the race. 
The sheep-churn kept up an intermittent 
thumping as it went round sometimes 
fast, sometimes slow now stopping al 
together till the lazy animal in the tread 
mill was stirred to renewed activity by 
the little housemaid. The robins and 
the orioles sang gayly from above, and 
a mother-sparrow came at short inter 
vals to feed her noisy little ones in the 
quince-tree just under my window. 

Throwing open my window - blind, 
there was revealed a scene of dazzling 
beauty. Each wet and glistening leaf 
in the garden below was a mirror to re 
flect the sunlight, while a noble sugar- 
maple stretched her shapely arms above 
me. 

At the breakfast-table the doctor, clad 
in an old green dressing-gown, appeared, 
looking as fresh and radiant as if his 



560 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



slumber had not been disturbed. He was 
upward of sixty years old, with thor 
oughly well-knit frame, his carriage as 
straight as an arrow ; face florid, smooth- 
shaven, and furrowed with wrinkles, 




The Dominie. 

which gave wonderful firmness and 
sprightliness to the expression ; clear, 
large, bright gray eyes ; neatly brushed 
silvery hair ; a voice clear, crisp, elec 
tric ; all of him so compact, thoroughly 
well-seasoned, and active, that his very 
presence was a tonic. 

The doctor was reared in the indus 
trious out-of-door life of a country lad, 
and thus was laid the foundation of a 
vigorous and sturdy constitution. His 
active mind refused to be content with 
the simple cares and thoughts of a purely 
rural occupation. The voice of science 
had for him an alluring charm, and re 
sulted in his choosing the healing art as 
a profession. At the close of a credita 
ble career as a student in New York, he 
was rewarded with a " sheepskin," and 
immediately asked himself, " How shall 
I get to work ? " Up among the hills of 
his native NCAV Jersey was an opportu 



nity to buy out a country practice. And 
with the good common-sense which was 
his birthright, he reasoned : " If I hang 
out my shingle here in the city, with no 
influential friends to aid me, I may have 
to sit and wait for my hair to turn 
gray before anyone will have con 
fidence enough in me to send for 
me ; on the other hand, if I go 
up there, they will have to send 
for me and take what I give them, 
or go without." Then, too, he 
loved the country life. Memories 
from childhood filled his heart 
with longing, and he left the city 
with its confining walls with but 
slight misgiving. He established 
himself in a little building, ten 
feet by twelve. The first floor 
had two rooms, one of which 
served as office and the other as 
dining-room and kitchen. Here, 
in solitude, he began his profes 
sional life. The first day of his 
practice found him in the saddle 
from sunrise to sunset ; and in 
the middle of the night he was 
called out to travel an unfamil 
iar mountain-road, with no guide 
but the footprints of the messen 
ger who had summoned him, in 
the otherwise trackless snow. In 
those days the spice of danger 
was not wanting to season his 
daily rounds, as savage beasts 
still roamed about those forests. As he 
was attending a patient late at night 
over by Green Pond, a big wild-cat was 
brought into the house by a man who 
said it was one of a pair which he had 
encountered in a tree down the road 
under which the doctor drove, unarmed, 
on his homeward way. 

One night, after a hard day s ride, he 
came home through a blinding snow 
storm, and as he passed the farm-houses 
with their cheerful lights, he longed to 
bury his chilled limbs beneath the warm 
comforters of his attic bed. With some 
trepidation he dismounted at his office- 
door, to find upon the slate an urgent 
call to a house back over the hills a half- 
mile beyond that from which he had 
just returned. Weary and cold, he re 
traced his way. The snow had been 
gaining steadily, and soon his horse s 
recent footprints were obliterated. The 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



561 




Mr. Cobb. 



lights in the farm-houses had been ex 
tinguished, the snow was drifting badly, 
and he was often obliged to dismount 
and lead his unwilling horse through 
the snow-banks. What was his disgust 
on finding the house to which he had 
been summoned dark like the rest, and, 
after much ineffectual shouting and an 
gry hammering with whipstock upon 



the door, he came to the conclusion that 
" they had got well and gone to sleep ;" 
he had that long and painful journey to 
remember without even the consolation 
of charging a fee for it. 

Some of the more intelligent of his 
neighbors encouraged him with helpful 
kindness, but many felt that a beardless 
boy could not fill the place of the wise 



562 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



old physician who had left them ; others cessor] had been here, my child would 
still, openly said, " they would not have not have died." He went back to his 

lonely office cut to the heart and then 
^PTsc-.v he realized, as never before, that the life 

^vL- f a country doctor was one of profound 

self-sacrifice. 



It was many years after the incidents 
here recorded that we sat down together 
to a tempting breakfast. The doctor 
ate sparingly, but to my astonishment 
his repast consisted largely of a cup of 
coffee and a cucumber, cut longitudinally 
in quarters and dipped in salt, which 
gave evidence of a digestion equal to 
any emergency. The little office, with 
its collections of bones, and its myste 
rious jars with their dreadful contents 
preserved in alcohol ; its round, musty 
boxes, big and little ; and its dusty bot 
tles of all sizes, was long ago desert 
ed for a comfortable and cheery home 
across the road, at whose hospitable 
board presides a refined and gentle -bred 
lady no longer young, but bearing in 
her face and figure the unmistakable 
traces of youthful grace and beauty not 
yet faded away. Broad acres of farm 
and woodland have gradually been ac 
quired ; and, though the doctor takes 
no active part in the farm-work, he 
keeps thoroughly posted upon all mat- 




him to doctor a cat." The first of these 
he eagerly counted as friends, the sec 
ond he hoped to win over in time ; but 
with the last, the mischief-makers, who 
openly traduced him, he had no pa 
tience. 

Alas for them, when compelled by 
necessity to send for the doctor. He 
treated them with the same conscien 
tious skill which always characterized 
his professional work, but the mustard- 
plasters and the Spanish flies he used 
were not mixed " with relish suited to 
the sinner s taste." Isolated as he 
was from experienced physicians, and 
obliged to rely wholly upon himself, 
he suffered keenly. He found that the 
cases he was called on to treat scarcely 
ever proved to be the exact counter 
part of those recorded in the books. 
Often he found himself at his wit s 
end to meet the symptoms with the 
proper drug ; and yet conscious that 
he must not betray the slightest confu 
sion or want of faith in himself or his 
remedies. After the death of a little 
child, whose case he had followed with 
the most patient care and the most 
determined effort to save it, he was 
told: "If old Dr. K [his prede 




The Snake-bite Doctor. 



ters pertaining to it ; and his life has 
a rural and agricultural, as well as a 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



563 



professional, side. After breakfast I 
strolled out into the dewy garden, and, 
passing the entrance to the cellar, caught 
a glimpse of the doctor s wife, with 
sleeves tucked up, taking golden-hued 
butter out of the churn ; then wandered 
to the barn to take a look at the horses, 
and from Charlie, the stable-man, learned 



break his neck ; but he only laughed at 
me, and said he could see all right, and 
I believe he could. I swan I think doc 
tor can see in the night, like a cat. 
He s foolish, though, to risk himself that 
way, and he won t git no pay for it nei 
ther. Another mouth to feed, and them 
Paisleys as poor now as Job s turkey." 




Cobb s Meadow. 



the history of the night, and was re 
joiced to know that, instead of the Angel 
of Death, the Spirit of Life had been 
abroad in the storm, and had left a rosy 
baby in care of a rough cottager among 
the hills. 

But it was evident that the poetic 
side of the affair did not appeal to Char 
lie. " The doctor spoils his horses for 
driving," said he, as he stood in the 
stable-door glancing over his shoulder at 
the animals as they munched their grain. 
"Sometimes he lets them jog along 
just as they like ; then again he drives 
in quite some hurry. Now last night 
he drove that Frank horse out over the 
road toward the mountain as if the Old 
Harry was after him, and it was so dark 
you couldn t see your hand before your 
face. I hollered after him that he d 



Presently the doctor appeared, walk 
ing with a quick, elastic step puffing a 
cigar, and carrying in his hand his chest 
of medicines equipped for the road in 
wide straw-hat and linen duster. 

" Which way this morning ? " On my 
assuring him that I had no especial pro 
gramme, he said: "If you ve nothing 
better to do, come along with me. I m 
going to take a long ride this morning. 
You can take your sketching traps along, 
and I ll put you down anywhere you 
like and take you up again when I come 
back. But, of course, you know there 
is some uncertainty as to when that will 
be, for I never know when I start out 
what time I ll get home again." I as 
sured the doctor that I did not mind a 
few miles walk in the country, and that 
I would take my chances about getting 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



565 



home again. He stowed his kit and mine 
away under the buggy -seat, glanced 
sharply at the hold -back straps, and 
smilingly beckoned me to get in. I put 
my arm behind the doctor, on the top of 
the cushions at the back, so as to give 
him elbow-room for driving, and we 
jogged along, very comfortable and very 
happy, down steep hills crossed by 
abrupt and jerky " thank-you-inams," 
through little dells, up, up again over 
steep and precipitous hills, while upon 
either side, stretching away like great 
waves, were the blue mountains, and 
nearer, the rocky farms, divided by mas 
sive stone-walls, buried out of sight in 
many places by wild roses in full bloom. 
The daisies which fringed the roadway 
were bowing in the breeze, the sunlight 
gleamed upon the buckles of the har 
ness, and rippled upon John s sorrel 
niane and forelock. The moisture still 
lay heavily upon the foliage, and as we 
dipped down a slope into a cool, shady 
nook, an overhanging branch whisked 
against the buggy-top, throwing in our 
faces a sparkling shower of dew. Har 
vesters, busy in the fields, greeted the 
doctor familiarly as we passed. 

Presently a woman in a sun-bonnet 
hailed the doctor from the doorway of 
a cottage, where she evidently had been 
watching for him. 

" I want you to stop, doctor, and pull 
Addie s tooth ; she s had the toothache 
ever since you was by here last Friday." 
The doctor pulled up suddenly, cranked 
the wheel, handed the lines to me, drew 
off his gloves, and alighted. Pulling his 
chest from beneath the seat he selected 
a forceps, which he carried openly in his 
hand as he stepped quickly up the foot 
path. Addie was called out, and at the 
doctor s direction seated herself on the 
edge of the stoop, with her feet upon 
the ground. The mother stood with 
her hands upon her hips, looking calmly 
on, while the doctor took the patient s 
head between his knees, adjusted the 
instrument, and with a hasty wrench 
the offending tooth was out. " Not 
much time lost about that," said the 
doctor, as he shook the tooth from the 
forceps. 

The woman followed him to the buggy, 
and asked if Mrs. Fineman would like a 
nice chicken ; the doctor said he thought 
VOL. VIII. 57 



she would. "I ll bring her down a nice 
fat one the next time I go to the ridge. 
I m a little short of money now." " All 
right," said the doctor, as we drove 
away. At the next house the butcher s 
cart was drawn up, its white canvas top 
with long hood extending backward to 
shield Joe Beach from the sun while 
cutting up his meat. A tidy little wom 
an stood in a dainty attitude holding 
back her freshly starched print skirts, 
as if afraid of soiling them, as she bar 
gained with the vender. She came for 
ward with a hearty, " How de do, doc 
tor ah ! a friend of doctor s," as she 
shook my hand with the cordiality of 
an old acquaintance. "That s a good 
recommend. Any friend of doctor s is 
a friend of ours. Like to have you 
come in, but don t s pose it s any use to 
ask doctor ; you can t never get him in 
unless you re sick. We did get him 
here once last winter to supper, after 
Jennie got well, and such a jolly time 
we had ! we kep him all the evenin 
play n euchre. Jennie made the milk- 
punch, and she said she was going to 
give him as strong a dose as any he 
ever give her, but it didn t bother him 
any." 

A soft flutter of feminine attire, ac 
companied in cooing tones by " N-i-c-e 
o-l-d J-o-h-n," called my attention to a 
delightful apparition. John stood with 
outstretched neck, his bony face clasped 
by girlish hands, and a dimpled cheek 
lay caressingly against the white blaze 
in his forehead, while blond ringlets 
strayed gracefully about. The mischiev 
ous and laughing eyes of an overgrown 
child of thirteen shot timid glances from 
ambush behind the straps and blinds of 
the headstall, decked by her on either 
side with wild daisies. 

Meanwhile the doctor was visibly fid 
geting under the woman s running fire 
of compliments. " Get away from my 
horse s head there, Jennie, or I shall run 
over you," he said, testily, as he raised 
his whip. " I can t sit here all day." 

The doctor s frown burst into a laugh 
as Jennie sprang lightly from the road. 
Swish went the whip, the buggy gave a 
jerk and whirled quickly past her ; while 
she, with the boldness engendered by 
the sudden flight of the enemy, threw a 
kiss in our direction. 



566 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



Farther on we passed a comfortable 
little farm-house. The doctor drew his 
head back into the shade of the buggy- 
top as if to hide, but without avail, for 
when we were opposite the house the 
window was raised and a voice called 
out : 

" Ain t you comin in to - day, doc 
tor?" 

" Can t stop to-day, Louis. You ve got 
pills enough to last a few days yet. I ll 
call next time." A shade of disappoint 
ment overspread the shrunken face as 
we moved away. The doctor explained 
to me that the man was incurably ill 
with a malady beyond the reach of drugs, 
but hope still lingered that he would be 
a well man again. " I can do nothing 
for him, but he thinks I can, and insists 
upon my calling every time I pass, and 
I have to listen to his hopeful account 
of the good my pills are doing him he 
does not know that they are made of 
bread." 

I ventured to ask if this did not savor 
just a trifle of humbug. 

" Of course it s humbug, but would 
you have me strip this poor man of his 
only pleasure and deprive him of hope ? 
Day after day he looks for my visit, and 
dreams of the cure which he expects will 
follow." 

We emerged from a beautiful bit of 
shady roadway into a little clearing in 
a mountain gorge, and found ourselves 
flanked on either side by a deserted 
house. "This spot," said the doctor, 
"was some fifty years and more ago, the 
scene of busy activities." A huge stone 
chimney, with a beautiful arched open 
ing, came into view a most pictur 
esque ruin. 

"There," said the doctor, "you see 
the remains of the old iron forge, the 
last relic of a dead industry. Before 
my time this glen was alive with men 
and mule-teams carting iron ore to be 
smelted here. Immense fires roared up 
through the throat of that old chimney, 
where now the swallows build their 
nests." 

We turned in to the door-yard of a 
dilapidated house, which bore in its lines 
something of the grace of early colonial 
architecture, and still held, in spite of 
its desolation and neglect, a flavor of old- 
time dignity. George Kimball stood in 



the doorway waiting to inquire about a 
sick friend over in Cannisteer ; tall, lank, 
with heavy black mustache, eyes like an 
eagle, and with slouched hat pushed back 
from his forehead, he looked the hardy 
woodsman that he was ; and in spite of 
the roughness of his dress his face was 
alight with good-nature and intelligence. 
I asked him how he managed to get 
a living up in that wilderness. " Oh," 
said he, " where a man is born and brung 
up in a place he can knock a livin out 
of most anything." 

After agreeing upon a signal to be 
used on his return, the doctor left me to 
enjoy a happy hour clambering over the 
rocks down by the mad stream, and gaz 
ing up at milky-white cascades, as un 
disturbed and lonely as if in the heart of 
the White Mountains, while, in reality, 
only a little more than two hours travel 
from New York. Just above the ruin 
of the forge is a silvery fall, surrounded 
by massive rocks which have been worn 
by the action of the water into the sem 
blance of gigantic human skulls. Curv 
ing over in its rapid descent it flashes in 
the sun, then plunges with a crash into 
the " dark hole," eighty feet below, where 
it turns around in the eddy, then rushes 
gleefully on, laughing at the crumbling 
remains of oak and hickory logs, the 
remnants of a dam which was able to 
restrain its resistless energy for a brief 
time only. 

When we entered the house, on our 
return, the doctor examined the slate in 
the front hall to see if there were any 
calls. With a happy expression, he said : 
" Not much sickness now ; we have to 
give them a rest once in awhile." After 
dinner, the doctor lighted his pipe and 
sat himself comfortably in his easy-chair 
to look over the papers and medical 
journals which lay on the sitting-room 
table. He was just calmly settled when 
the pestering bell rang. The interview 
that followed was a very short one, and 
the doctor came back slamming the 
door in high dudgeon. 

" There is a man whose family I have 
attended ever since he came to this town, 
some ten years, going to them at all 
hours of day and night, and furnishing 
medicines, as we country doctors have 
to do, and I can t get a cent out of him, 
though he is well able to pay. Where a 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR. 



567 



man can t pay, I am never hard on him. 
I have poor men here who come around 
once in a while and offer to do a day s 
work on the farm, or bring a little prod 
uce butter, eggs, honey, or something 
of the sort and in that way show a dis 
position to meet their obligations, and 
so long as a man does the best he can, 
that is all I ask. But this scalawag 
probably has the money in his pocket 
now. I ll let them all die before I go 
into his house again ! I ve told him 
that lots of times, and it don t do any 
good ; but I must draw the line some 
where." 

In the meantime he was bustling about 
the room, and going to the little medi 
cine-closet to replenish phials from his 
case. Then picking up his hat and 
gloves he walked quickly out, with the 
remark : " But it s the children this 
time. It isn t their fault, and I can t 
let them suffer if I can help it." 

As the doctor drove away, I strolled 
with my sketch-box to the meadow, and 
on my return passed neighbor Cobb, 
seated under " his own vine and fig-tree," 
reading the newspaper. " Wall," said 
he, looking keenly at me, " didn t I 
see you with doctor this mornin ? You 
peddlin pills with him? What have 
you been lookin at so much down in my 
medder ? Makin a sketch of the wil- 
lers and the reflections in the brook 
eh ? Comin around, by m by, with a 
map of my farm to sell, I s pose. Wall, 
if I d only knowed you s comin I d a had 
them willers cut down and the medder 
all cleaned up for ye." 

Of course I protested against the cut 
ting of the willows. 

" Oh, yes, I must cut them willers. I 
can t have no medder o mine all clut 
tered up like that." 

After tea came the evening rest upon 
the piazza. The doctor, tilted back in 
his comfortable arm-chair, enjoyed his 
pipe, and as he sent curling rings of 
smoke upward, he remarked : " I like a 
cigar when I am riding, but when I get 
home and can take a good smoke, I like 
a pipe, and good strong tobacco, too 
the strongest I can get. How pleasant 
Saturday night must be for a hard 
working farmer. It s a hard life, this 
toiling all day in the harvest-field, and 
they get very poorly paid for it." In his 



sympathy for his neighbors, the good 
doctor forgot that in all the forty years 
that he has practised among them he 
had not one hour that he could call his 
own. 

Uncle Amos came along and seated 
himself somewhat timidly upon the 
porch. He had a troubled look, which 
he vainly tried to conceal. I imagined 
that he wanted the doctor s sympathy 
and advice on some subject entirely 
apart from the province of medicine, 
and discreetly walked away. As I 
passed the little church the sexton was 
brooming the walk in preparation for 
the Sabbath. The valley below rested 
in a calm, cool shadow, broken only 
here and there by glints of light reflect 
ed from the glassy surface of the little 
Pequannock Biver, which, in its sinuous 
course through the meadow, appeared 
and disappeared. Over across the mead 
ow, on the other side of the river, Will 
Maver was cradling rye. It was late, 
but he kept at his task ; the windrows 
faded out of sight in the gloom and dis 
tance the mower s white shirt only was 
visible by the time his work was done. 
He gave a merry shout as the last stroke 
was delivered, and went singing home 
ward. 

As I retraced my steps and came near 
the house I saw a horse and wagon in 
front of the door, and a group of men 
lifting a comrade, who was apparently 
helpless, from the vehicle. There was 
much suppressed excitement in the lit 
tle knot of men the doctor was in the 
midst grave and calm. All eyes were 
centred upon the young man, who was 
being carried tenderly to a seat upon 
the piazza. He was a handsome, mus 
cular young farmer, his face was livid, 
and to the doctor s words of encourage 
ment his only answer was, "I know I 
shall die." The young man had been 
entertaining some friends at his farm 
house, back on the mountain, and to 
rest his tired feet after the labor of the 
day had put on a pair of low slippers, 
and as his friends started to go, he, with 
his little daughter, walked a few rods 
across lots with them, and stood saying 
their adieus, when he saw gliding through 
the grass, directly toward his little Ethel, 
one of the dreaded and deadly pilot- 



568 



A DAY WITH A COUNTRY DOCTOR, 



snakes. Without a moment s hesitation 
he jumped upon the reptile, aiming at 
its head ; but not calculating correctly 
the speed of the serpent he missed the 
head, and as his foot fell some inches 
beyond, upon the body, the snake threw 
its head backward, burying both fangs 
deep in the flesh on top of the foot. 
The puncture of the flesh was accom 
panied by a sharp, stinging sensation, 
and he felt that he had received his 
death-wound ; but the natural desire to 
"bruise the serpent s head" overcame 
every other consideration, and, lifting 
a stone, he crushed, his enemy. His 
friends realized his danger, and after 
giving him immense draughts of whis 
key they took him in the wagon to the 
doctor. The only accredited rival the 
doctor has in this region is old Pete 
Foss, the snake-bite doctor. He is a 
blacksmith, in a little hamlet called Foss- 
ville, about three miles distant. His 
father s kindness to an Indian, many 
years ago, was rewarded with the secret 
of an unfailing remedy for poisonous 
snake-bites, and on the death-bed of the 
father this secret had been intrusted to 
the son, with the earnest injunction to 
keep it inviolate, as, if known to an 
other, its virtue would depart. The 
country people thereabout put implicit 
faith and confidence in the snake-bite 
doctor. My host, the regular prac 
titioner, knew that if any patient of his 
should die of snake-bite he would never 
be forgiven for not sending for Pete 
Foss, and immediately advised that he 
be called. When he came it was evi 
dent, from his consequential manner, 
that he felt the importance of his secret. 
He immediately bound a white-oak 
with tightly about the young man s 
knee, saying that the swelling would 
never go above it, but it was of great im 
portance that the ligature should be of 
white oak. He did not approve of the 
whiskey treatment that had preceded, 
but applied his ointment to the wounds, 
and assured the patient that if the white- 
oak with was allowed to remain, and 
the ointment used as directed, he would 
come out all right, and the young man 
was taken home. During the night the 



doctor was sent for in haste, and the 
young man was reported dying. He 
found the leg below the knee terribly 
swollen, and immediately cut the white- 
oak with, which allowed the swelling 
to spread upward, and the young man 
recovered, the honor of the cure being 
shared between the snake-bite doctor 
and the regular practitioner, with the 
former, as usual, decidedly in the lead. 

Sunday is a busy day for the doctor. 
A good many people put off being sick 
till Sunday, especially in hay ing- time, 
and the calls began to come in early. 
So the narrow buggy went down the 
road, and did not return till late. Sun 
day-school was in session, and the chil 
dren sang : 

" Day of all the week the best, 
Emblem of eternal rest. 

A group of young women in white 
came out into the little burying-ground, 
and through my open window I could 
hear gossip and laughter, as they picked 
their way among the gleaming white 
headstones. Then a party of ladies 
dressed in deep mourning appeared. 
Standing apart was a young couple 
chatting in a sheepish way. A small 
girl, with curiosity abnormally developed, 
pretended to read the inscription on a 
tombstone near by, while she absorbed 
the conversation. The cabinet organ 
was played again, and the children, with 
the older people in the church, sang, 
" He will carry you through." The voice 
of good Dominie Thompson rolled out 
in stirring tones as he sought Divine 
guidance and blessing for the beloved 
children of his flock. 

As I bade my friend good-by on the 
morrow I invited him to try and arrange 
to visit me for a few days during the 
winter, when I hoped to entertain him 
in the city, urging that it would be a 
change which, in duty to himself, he 
ought to take. Whether my invitation 
held any allurement for him thus briefly 
to leave his patients I do not know, but 
he answered : " Old boy, that would 
never do ; (sotto voce) they d all get well." 




JERRY. 



PAKT SECOND (CONTINUED). 




CHAPTEE X 

we live, O we live 
And this life we would survive 
Is a gloomy thing and brief, 
Which, consummated in grief, 
Leaveth ashes for all gain : 
Is it not all in vain ? " 

OW strangely the way 
had been opened ! 

Jerry could not ac 
count for it ; could 
not understand Joe s 
action in the matter. 
Since the beginning 
of his enterprise he 
had been wearying himself over the 
problem of how to get an engineer and 
assayer, and have the mine opened be 
fore the railway and the general rush of 
immigrants should come. 

The new "finds" which had been 
made had been sufficient to give work 
to those who had come already ; who 
had toiled down the long stretch of 
plain that lay between the rival towns 
and the place where the railway was 
crossing the mountains ; they had drift 
ed slowly down with the circulars of the 
Durden s Commune in their hands, and 
had passed Eureka by ! 

Durden s had smiled over this ; and 
Jerry had gotten a post-office list and 
mailed his circulars to every postmaster 
in the East ; and looking back he had 
laughed at the demoralization caused by 
the first notice he had had of emigrants 
coming to him. Now he saw the ad 
vantage to be reaped from his notoriety, 



and put aside his fears. Only he must 
be prepared : the mine must be opened; 
the railway must be extended to Dur 
den s, and timber and tools must be 
ready for the building of houses. And 
how was all this to be accomplished? 

He had grown thin and worn think 
ing it over by day and by night, and 
seeing no solution. Suddenly, the way 
had opened before him plain and 
straight, with not one difficulty to per 
plex him. 

It was yet three months to the day 
on which the railway had promised 
to reach Eureka ; and though railway 
promises were seldom kept, yet even 
four months, if they took so long, was a 
short time. Still, going immediately, he 
might accomplish all his work and get 
back in time to meet the incoming tide 
of people. Another thing that he had 
worked for and had gained was the de 
fection of one of the doctor s imported 
land-surveyors, a young fellow named 
Greg, whom Jerry had discovered to be 
the son of one of the Eureka syndicate. 
After identifying Greg, Jerry worked 
hard for him, and at last won him from 
Eureka to Durden s by the fair method 
of showing him the new " finds," and by 
allowing him to look over the Durden s 
land that lay up the long, dark gorge. 

So Greg had come over ; had bought 
a lot, and had built a little house for 
himself ; telling the doctor that as he 
had come to seek his fortune, he must 
go where he saw the best opportunity 
of making it. 

This was a serious blow to Eureka, 



570 



JERRY. 



and more of the inhabitants sold their 
little lots and brought their houses over 
to Durden s. 

And now Greg was the very man 
Jerry needed ; he could vouch for the 
promise of Durden s, and for Jerry s 
honesty of purpose and success. Greg 
was the very man ! 

Already he had written a letter to a 
leading paper in the East, telling them 
the truth about Jerry and Durden s. 
Telling how that Jerry had been driven 
into the position he had taken ; telling 
of his honest aversion to the land spec 
ulation ; telling of the wonderful suc 
cess of the little colony he had under 
taken to care for and protect the little 
colony that had left Eureka because it 
had felt itself wronged. 

Greg was young himself, scarcely so 
old as Jerry ; and all his youthful en 
thusiasm had gone out to Jerry when 
he heard from Jerry s lips the story of 
Jerry s venture. It was after he had 
agreed to buy land in Durden s that 
this history was told him, for Jerry 
would not, however much he needed 
Greg, win him on any but practical 
grounds. 

But now Greg was heart and soul a 
" Durdenite," and wrote his letters with 
all the fervor of a new adherent. 

Jerry was a hero ; Jerry was a genius ; 
Jerry was quixotically honest and strong. 
And the greedy-pocketed old men of 
the Eureka syndicate looked in each 
other s eyes with solemn doubt as they 
read the ardent letter. Could it be that 
they had made a mistake and been de 
ceived ? 

And a communication of serious im 
port began its journey out to the doc 
tor. 

And now when the way seemed so 
clear for Jerry to go East, Greg rose to 
still greater importance. He could give 
Jerry letters to his father, who was pres 
ident of the railway, and so could se 
cure him a hearing in the Board ; also 
he could introduce him and his enter 
prise to numbers of fabulously rich men. 

Durden s was enthusiastic, and Greg 
was elected to the town committee im 
mediately, and was appointed also one 
of three commissioners who were to reg 
ulate things during Jerry s absence. Dan 
Burk, Dave Morris, and Greg were the 



three ; and Jerry felt sincerely thank 
ful that Greg was there, for could he 
have trusted either of the others ? But 
to Jerry, Joe s action was a mystery still, 
for immediately on Burk s making the 
suggestion that Jerry should go East, 
Joe had volunteered the money. 

" What little I se got is agoin to be 
yourn, Jerry," he said, " an youuns mise 
well tuck it now if youuns wants it." 

The old man was smoking in his 
regular place near the fire, and did not 
turn his face toward the two who were 
talking near the table. 

Dan came to the fire quickly. 

"What s that, pard?" he asked. 

" I say as I se got the money fur Jerry 
to go," Joe answered slowly, taking his 
pipe out of his mouth and looking up 
into Dan s face. "I ain t got much," 
he went on, looking into Dan s eyes 
steadily, as if defying some accusation 
he saw there, " but it s all to be Jerry s 
when I se gone, an he kin hev it now 
if he hes a min to it ; thet s what I 
says ? " 

Jerry sat quite still, suffering more 
acutely than ever before in his life. His 
conduct seemed to blacken to the dark 
ness of sin as he listened to Joe s words. 
He had thought himself so true, and 
Joe so false ; himself so magnanimous, 
and Joe so avaricious as to hold back a 
whole community for his own gain when 
he refused to give the name of the own 
er of the mine. 

And now ; now after he had cut the 
old man off from all interest or knowl 
edge of his plans or hopes ; after this 
he had come forward and had given all 
his hardly won savings that the venture 
might not fail and that Jerry s fortunes 
might be secured. 

What could Jerry say ? 

He sat still with one hand shading 
his eyes from the light : and Dan Burk, 
standing silent by the fire, looked anx 
iously from one to the other. There 
was a long silence while Jerry repented 
and Joe smoked ; then Jerry rose and 
stood behind Joe s chair. 

" I thank you very much, Joe," he 
said, and the two practical minds, lis 
tening, wondered why his voice trembled 
so, "and if ever the Community suc 
ceeds," he went on, " they will have you 
to thank." 



JERRY. 



571 



" Orl right," and Joe moved his pipe 
to the other side of his mouth. 

Even Dan was embarrassed in the si 
lence that followed Joe s words, and 
shuffled his feet uneasily for a moment, 
until Jerry suggested that he should 
call a meeting of the town committee 
for the next morning in order that these 
plans should be laid before them. 

" An say thet he pays hisn s own 
way," Joe put in ; " an don t name Joe 
Gilliam s title, cause Durden s ain t 
nothin to me, an I ain t nothin to Dur 
den s." 

" All right, pard," Dan answered, "an* 
the day after thet, Mr. Wilkerson, you 
kin start ; " then more slowly, " an you 
kin have my nag to ride to the pass." 
Then Dan said good-night and went 
away, and Joe and Jerry were left alone 
together. 

It was a painful moment to the young 
man : he could not change the fact that 
Joe had told a lie about the ownership 
of the mine ; he could not blame him 
self for not ignoring or not condon 
ing the falsehood, and without implying 
some such action what would he say ? 

" An if youuns ll stay thar awhile, an 
spen orl the money 111 gie youuns," 
Joe said, breaking the silence so sud 
denly and unexpectedly that Jerry start 
ed, " an spen it on seein orl that is to 
be sawn ; an on gittin orl the books 
an good cloze like Paul ; if youuns ll 
do as I say bout this, 111 show youuns 
engynar orl thar is in Durden s Mine ; 
an I ll do it, sure." 

Jerry listened with a growing won 
der in his mind ; what could be Joe s 
motive ? But he promised, and at the 
meeting next day made a speech in 
which he announced his plans with 
such clearness and precision, and show 
ed such a firm conviction of their suc 
cess, that Mr. Titcomb, the editor of the 
Eureka Star, who had been invited to 
attend the meeting, rose and declared 
his intention of moving his whole busi 
ness to Durden s if the committee would 
permit ; and of changing the name of his 
paper from the Eureka Star to the Dur 
den s Banner I And the permission be 
ing given instantly, the meeting broke 
up with cheers and a general congratu 
lating of all parties. 

The news was all through both towns 



before the sun set ; the news that Mr. 
Wilkerson was going East with letters to 
Mr. Greg s father ; that he was to ask 
for an extension of the railway to Dur 
den s, and to bring back an engineer to 
reopen Durden s Mine. Further, that 
the Star, the pride and glory of Eureka, 
was going to desert them for Durden s, 
and be called the Durden s Banner ! 

Even the doctor looked grave when 
this news reached him, but he said no 
word. Large sums had been spent in 
buying the land about Eureka, and in 
laying it out ; large sums had been 
spent in extending the Eureka Mine 
in improving the machinery and in rais 
ing the wages of miners ; and larger 
sums still in bringing lumber from long 
distances that the emigrants might have 
it for building. 

And now must all this fail could it 
fail? Was it possible that he was to 
be thwarted by Jerry s venture, that at 
first had seemed so small and so wild as 
to be ridiculous? 

At first he had watched with some 
amusement what he thought to be the 
vagaries of a very young man s course ; 
withdrawing all counsel and sympathy 
that the course might be untrammelled. 
Later, he watched with interest, and a 
growing appreciation of Jerry s power 
over men ; but now there was some 
wonder, and a little anxiety mixed with 
his opinion of his protege. Would the 
little waif he had trained and educated 
succeed at his expense, and at Paul s ? 

He rose from his chair and marched 
up and down the room as in the old 
days when Jerry came to learn his let 
ters. 

Strange results had come from that 
long day s watch up on the mountain 
side, when he had waited to save the 
boy s life ; strange results, with stranger 
things yet to come ; and the doctor felt 
a growing irritation within him, and 
a determination not to be conquered. 
He must go East and fight the battle 
there. 

But Eureka was almost discouraged. 

The land-agents had bought in at 
very high prices all the lots the depart 
ing inhabitants would sell ; had built 
houses, and fences, and laid out garden 
plots and small fields ; had improved 
the one street, and re-established a shop 



572 



JERRY. 



on a more decent footing than Dave 
Morris s shop had ever occupied ; final 
ly, had white-washed the whole town 
until it shone and gleamed far across 
the plain. All this was very well : and 
all about Eureka s outskirts was the 
doctor s vast tract, staked off in streets 
and lots that were all neatly numbered 
with white numbers on little black 
boards, giving it the appearance of a 
Government graveyard. But in spite 
of all these advantages Eureka was 
standing still. The land-agents, shaken 
in their belief of her future success, 
watched with great anxiety the few scat 
tered emigrants coming up the plain 
from where, to the south of them, the 
railway was crossing the mountains ; 
watched them solicitously ; even went 
out to meet them, but only to find the 
Durden s circular in their hands, and a 
Durden s man guiding them on to the 
daring little town. 

When Greg left. Eureka there was a 
general failing in spirits ; but when the 
news came of the defection of the Star, 
their hopes followed their spirits, and 
the people began one by one to go to 
the doctor, where he lived in the midst 
of Durden s prosperity, to ask his opin 
ion. 

"Things look dark," he answered 
them gravely, "but I think I can right 
them by going East ; and I shall go as 
soon as I can put things in a condition 
to be left." 

And Paul, fuming and fretting, curs 
ing his fate and Jerry s impudence, 
grew thin, and white, and worn with 
hatred. It was the first time in his life 
that he had ever been thwarted except 
in the doctor s training ; the first time 
that he had been unable to dictate terms 
save in that one never-to-be-forgotten 
battle when he and Jerry met, and Jer 
ry conquered. Was this greater battle 
of later life to have this same termina 
tion? 

It should not, if he died in the strug- 

fle ! And one of them would have to 
ie, for it was a struggle that could end 
only with life. 

Meanwhile, he declared that he could 

not live in Durden s without the doctor, 

and during his absence would go over 

to Eureka and stay with Engineer Mills. 

So the old place was shut up for the 



first time in more than twenty years ; 
for it was as long ago as that that an 
unknown man had ridden into the town, 
and bought old Durden s house, paying 
cash for it ; a fact that had raised him 
to a great height in the estimation of 
the people, and also had put hope in 
their desponding hearts : for the mine 
was closed, and they were out of work, 
and without a leading spirit among 
them. 

For more than twenty years the doc 
tor had lived there, lost to his former 
life and friends ; lost to all the world 
save the little circle about him. And 
now he was going back to his old haunts, 
to look in eyes that would scarcely know 
him ; to clasp hands whose touch he had 
almost forgotten ; to hear voices whose 
tones would bring back to him times 
and things he had striven through all 
these years to bury ! 

After he had given his word that he 
would go he walked the library back 
and forth the live night long back and 
forth back and forth : and open on 
the table the picture of the fair face 
Jerry had seen. The face he loved to 
look on the face that had wrecked his 
life but not the face that haunted him. 
The face that haunted him was the face 
of one whom he had deserted whose 
sad eyes had looked at him last from 
behind convent bars. 

And now he was going back, he 
would see her again, the woman he had 
loved to his ruin he would hear her 
voice would touch her hands once 
more would have to say farewell and 
come away once more would have to 
fight to the death the remorse and the 
longing that had darkened all his days ! 

Would the battle be as hard would 
it hurt him now as it had done once ? 

Still, he must go. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? . . . 

Thus much of this will make black, white ; 
foul, fair ; 

Wrong, right ; base, noble ; old, young ; cow 
ard, valiant. 

Ha, you gods ! why this ? What this, you 
gods ? Why this 

Will lug your priests and servants from your 
sides ; 



JERRY. 



573 



Pluck stout men s pillows from below their 
heads : 

This yellow slave . . . 

Will knit and break religions ; bless the ac 
cursed ; 

Make the hoar leprosy ador 1 d ; place thieves, 

And give them title, knee, and approbation, 

With senators on the bench." 



IT was a bewildering scene that lay 
spread before Jerry s eyes ; and nothing 
that he had ever read or imagined had 
prepared him for it. 

He had seen many strange things 
since he had left Durden s in the early 
dawn of a cloudy day, with a valise 
borrowed from Greg strapped on be 
hind his saddle, and all the gold Joe 
had given him converted into a check on 
Greg s father. It was safer than to travel 
with so much loose gold, Greg said. 

"An jest youuns tell youuns par, 
Mr. Greg, to gie Jerry jest as much 
money as he hes a min to spen ," Joe 
had said, when at last he had been 
brought to trust the check, " an what 
he gies Jerry over thar I ll gie youuns 
over har ; cause Jerry s my boy, jest like 
youuns is hisn." 

And Greg had promised, while Jerry 
protested, until Joe came near enough 
to whisper : 

" If youuns don t spen the money, I 
ain t agoin to show no way to the mine ; 
and don t youuns furgit it." 

So Jerry said no more, and Greg 
added a postscript to his letter of intro,- 
duction, saying that Jerry was to have 
unlimited credit, himself standing se 
curity for the money. 

More than this, Greg had written to 
his father to take Jerry to his own 
house during his stay in the city. The 
letters had gone the day before, imme 
diately after the meeting of the com 
mittee ; and also a telegram to Greg s 
brother to meet Jerry on his arrival. 

So Jerry had started on his journey 
with a feeling that he would meet friends 
at the other end ; but even with this 
assurance he had many more doubts and 
difficulties in his mind than he had had 
long ago, when he set forth, a poor, 
friendless, half-starved little creature, 
on the one journey of his life. 

The first car he travelled in from "the 
Pass to the first station on the other 
side, where the regular trains came in, 



was a battered box-car that seemed 
strangely like an old friend ; and if only 
it had been full of loose hay he would 
have imagined himself back in his old 
trousers and ragged shirt, with his lit 
tle bundle under his arm. Poor little 
wretch ! 

At the end of the journey, when he 
was transferred to a ferry-boat, and felt 
the shiver and the thud of the engine 
heard the clang of the bell, and watched 
the water slipping by he remembered, 
with a pity that was pain, the deadly 
terror of the friendless child. And how 
wonderful his escapes had been ! sure 
ly he had been spared for something. 

Then in the rush on the docks he had 
seen a face so like Greg s that he felt 
as if a piece of Durden s had reached 
this great centre of life before him. 

He was sure it was Greg s brother, 
and introducing himself was warmly 
welcomed, and then stowed away in a 
carriage that seemed to run on velvet 
wheels. 

" Of course you know you are to stay 
with us," the young man said; "my 
father and mother are very anxious to 
meet you, and to hear about Charlie ; 
indeed, my mother wanted to come 
down after you herself." 

" Your mother ! " Jerry repeated, 
" how very kind ! " Then he fell to won 
dering how a civilized mother and chil 
dren behaved to each other. 

It all had been very strange to him ; 
the grand house that seemed so deadly 
still after the din of the street ; the 
stately woman with kind brown eyes 
like her boy s, and soft gray hair, who 
came forward to meet him with both 
hands held out in welcome ; and soft 
lace and ribbons and silk floating about 
her almost like a cloud. 

Then afterward the tailor had been a 
strange experience ; and his new clothes 
a still stranger one ; and he laughed 
as he looked at himself, and wondered 
if Joe would know him. 

It had been stranger than any fiction 
he had ever read ; but this sight that 
stretched before his eyes now was the 
strangest of all ! 

The glittering horseshoe of lights and 
brilliant colors ; the soft rustle of silk 
en garments ; the shimmer of jewels ; 
the delicate faces that seemed to beam 



574 



JERRY. 



and smile from every side, and that all 
seemed beautiful ; the graceful courtesy 
of the men, who bowed or rose or sat as 
some fair woman willed ; it was marvel 
lous to him ! 

And this was what education and civ 
ilization did for the human race ; this 
was what gold wrought ? 

He sat silent and observant ; watch 
ing from his place in a silken-lined box, 
with a jewelled fan in his hand, that 
he had been taught laughingly by the 
fair girl at his side to wave gracefully ; 
watching while his heart sank within 
him, as he wondered how his daily life 
would seem when this dream was ended. 
Ended, and he had gone back to live 
with those creatures among whom he 
had grown up : those creatures who yet 
were men and women with the same 
hearts, and souls, and humanity as these 
people ; those dirty drunkards and 
bedraggled drudges out in Durden s 
and Eureka were free and equal ; had 
rights and votes ; had everything except 
money ! 

No wonder the world worshipped 
money ; no wonder there was magic 
in the gleam of gold ; no wonder men 
toiled and slaved for it. What were 
life worth lived as those poor creatures 
lived it out where he had come from ? 
Who would not rather die striving for 
the glittering power, than sink to such 
degradation ? He had read and thought 
about life as he was living it now ; he 
had watched the doctor and Paul, and 
the differences between them and the 
people about them ; and now he was 
among people who were as they were 
people with soft voices and gentle 
ways : and he longed with a bitter long 
ing to have been born one of them. 

" Honest toil," and " self-made men," 
and all the other cries built up to com 
fort those who could not do better, rang 
very false in his ears. Good things and 
to be commended, of course ; and he 
hated himself and cursed his low blood 
that must be the cause of these weak 
longings. 

Yet he knew that many of those about 
him were newly risen to this grade of 
life ; that to them he looked as they did; 
and, successful, he would command, to 
all appearances, a station equal to theirs: 
this was all true and yet ? 



He watched Mrs. Greg as she sat, an 
exquisitely finished picture of what a 
woman should be ; if he had had such a 
mother ! 

The thought died in its birth his 
mother ? His face burned ; no love 
could have been truer than hers none 
could do more than she had done for 
the one she loved she had died for 
him. 

Suddenly the lights about him were 
darkened ; the hum of voices was hushed, 
and from some unseen place he heard 
the sweetest sounds that ever had come 
to his ears. The cries of the wild creat 
ures that he used to hear in the white 
winter nights when the snow lay all over 
the dead land ; the wail of the wind as 
it swept up and down the gorges, whis 
pering humanly among the black pines; 
the blackness of the mine and the water 
that dropped forever ; and the stream 
that fell from the far sun - lightened 
heights into the blackness of the gorge, 
its voice was there too, and its white 
hands thrown up in despair ! He heard 
it all in the music that stole about him ; 
rising, sweeping over the silent host of 
people ; falling, sighing down to a far- 
off whisper. 

And all his longings were there ; and 
all his fears and hopes ; and all the 
tumult of his soul seemed to thicken 
and darken, until he longed to hold up 
his hands like the falling stream, and 
cry aloud ! What was it that made him 
find in that music a tone that told all 
the loneliness of his life ; all the pa 
thetic pain, and hunger, and fear of his 
childhood ; the love of his mother, and 
her wild cry as she caught him from his 
death ; the wistful look he remembered 
in her eyes ; it was all there in that 
music played for the rich, and the happy, 
and the beautiful ; and what right had 
he to find his poor ragged life there ? 

Slowly the beautiful picture that hung 
before him rolled silently away ; the 
music faded from about him ; and the 
people on the stage began a mimic rep 
resentation of life. It was well put on 
the stage, the critics said, and all the 
parts were well sustained. Jerry could 
not tell ; but he heard every word, and 
to him it was all real ; real joy, real sor 
row, and at the end real failure and de 
spair. He lived through it all, and when 



JERRY. 



575 



the curtain rolled down again, he was 
sorry that the people about him spoke 
to him. 

" We will wait for the farce," they said, 
"the play was too sad to finish the 
evening with." So they waited, and the 
music floated about them once more. 

Something drew his eyes caused 
him to look up he never knew what 
the power was ; but opposite him, look 
ing down on him, was a face that surely 
he knew ; a face that was neither old 
nor young ; but it held his eyes. 

How was it he knew it so well ? how 
was it that, like the music, it mingled 
with all his memories, so that it seemed 
a part of them ? 

"Who is she?" he asked of Miss 
Greg. 

" I do not know," she answered. " We 
have lived here only a little while, and 
do not know many people." 

Through all the silly farce, that only 
provoked him, he w r atched the face that 
haunted him so strangely, and mixed 
itself in with his past. He had no eyes 
for the girl who sat with this almost 
phantom woman ; he had no eyes for 
anything but the exquisitely sad eyes 
that now and then looked at him so 
earnestly. 

Who was she ? how and where had 
he ever seen her ? And while he puzzled 
the evening wore away, and they drove 
home through the glittering streets to 
an entertainment given in his honor. 

"You area lion, Mr. Wilkerson,"Mrs. 
Greg said, kindly, " so many have read 
of you in connection with the gold fe 
ver in Eureka, and with the new rail 
way ; and since you have founded a rival 
town and mine, the interest in you has 
doubled." 

"And Paul Henley, do you know 
him ? " Jerry asked, while his heart beat 
a little faster for her words. She shook 
her head. 

" Only through my son s letters," she 
answered, " and Charles does not seem 
very favorably impressed," she went on 
in a lower tone ; "he says that Mr. Hen 
ley s temper was never very pleasant, 
but since your success he has been un 
bearable ; because, I suppose, you have 
outwitted him and his guardian so en 
tirely." 

Then the people began to arrive, and 



Jerry was introduced to numbers of 
portly gentlemen and slim dandies to 
anxious mammas and pretty daughters, 
and discovered that all he said was lis 
tened to with the most marked attention, 
so marked that almost it embarrassed 
him. 

The older men plied him with ques 
tions as to what he had done, and what 
were his intentions for the future ; but 
here his natural reticence helped him. 
What he had done he told frankly 
enough ; what the plans for the future 
were, he told them, was not his secret. 

But as the evening wore on Jerry 
found himself more and more the attrac 
tion. Bewilderingly the truth began to 
dawn on him that he was a success ; 
that in the eyes of these people he was 
a rising man ; that these men who had 
millions at their command looked on 
him with confidence, because in their 
estimation he had proved himself clever 
enough to outwit their trusted agent, 
and so undermine a plan that was sup 
ported by all these millions. Could 
all this be true ? had he done it, and 
how? 

"And the railway, will I be granted 
an extension of that ? " he asked. 

Then they shook their heads and rub 
bed their fat chins, and said that this 
question was now before the Board ; and 
they would give Mr. Wilkerson a hear 
ing just as soon as their man should be 
on the ground to state the case for Eu 
reka. And it would not be long now, 
as he had telegraphed that he would be 
with them shortly. 

The doctor was coming ! 

Jerry passed his hand over his eyes 
as if to clear them. 

At last they were to meet face to face, 
and tell their stories openly ; at last he 
would hear an explanation from this 
man he loved so well ; this man for 
whom he would so readily give his life ! 

Then the evening was over, and the 
people went away, and Mrs. Greg said 
an especially gentle, kind good-night to 
him. 

" How proud your mother would have 
been ! " she said, with her jewelled hand 
on his arm, and in her soft eyes bright 
tears of sympathy. 

His mother. 

And he looked into her face with a 



576 



JERRY. 



strange pain tugging at his heart ; he 
had forgotten his mother, and this stran 
ger remembered her. 

" She is dead," he said, slowly, "dead 
long ago." 

Dead long ago poor, weary mother ; 
poor, wornout drudge, that this fine lady 
would not have looked at dead in his 
place ! 

And turning away he went to his room, 
while all the pride and triumph faded 
from him. 

CHAPTEE XV. 

"Who calleth on thee, Heart ? World s Strife, 
With a golden heft to his knife ; 
World s Mirth, with a finger fine 
That draws on a board in wine 

Her blood-red plans of life ; 
World s Gain, with a brow knit down ; 
World s Fame, with a laurel crown, 
Which rustles most as the leaves turn brown 
Heart, wilt thou go V " 

DAY after day passed for Jerry in 
sight-seeing ; in dinners and lunches ; 
suppers and operas ; plays and drives. 
Each director of the railway entertained 
him, and many people besides who had 
children to place well in life. And Mr. 
Greg gave him careful instructions and 
advice as to the tone to take with each 
important person he met ; and Jerry 
heeded with rare wisdom, and being 
possessed of much natural tact, was win 
ning day by day more and more favor 
and influence. 

In company he found himself remem 
bering and copying the doctor in his 
ways and words, and Paul too ; almost 
it seemed to him that he was a different 
person ; he could not be the same Jerry 
who fed the pigs, and chopped the wood, 
and cooked Joe s supper. With money 
slipping like water through his fingers ; 
going for all sorts of things of which he 
had not known until now, but that now 
seemed necessities ; with each day brim 
ful of change, and pleasure, and luxury 
he wondered how he had lived the 
narrow life of the past ; and he won 
dered how much money Joe had. 

For now, at any cost, he must have 
money. The thought had grown into 
a desire ; the desire had spread into a 
longing a longing that pervaded every 
moment of his life. A thirst he had 
called it once, when speaking to the 



half-starved creatures in Eureka. Hard 
words for those poor wretches who had 
no greater longing for gold than these 
grand people. And now, as if in judg 
ment, the thirst for gold was on him ; 
the fatal plague-spot had appeared, and 
had spread until to him success meant 
life failure meant death ! 

And so many chances against him still. 
At last one day they said that the doctor 
had come. Two weeks, that had seemed 
like two years, had passed by him in this 
new life ; and now came the climax and 
Jerry wondered as to the results. 

He had never lived before : he knew 
this now when he felt the fever in his 
blood that made him long to face and 
conquer the world ! He longed for the 
hearing that would be given him be 
fore the Board ; he longed to tell his 
story, and watch that grave, severe face, 
whose calm he had never seen broken. 

Long ago he had been chilled by this 
calm, and had learned to keep his dreams 
in the quiet of his own heart. 

"You are a dreamer, Jerry," the doctor 
had once said, "and dreamers are never 
practical." 

Now he would have a chance to prove 
himself ; now the doctor would find that 
he had made standing-room for himself 
among these worldly men, who were 
nothing if not practical money-gatherers. 

More practical in their winning and 
hoarding than poor old Joe was, who 
toiled day by day in the bowels of the 
earth ; closer in their transactions than 
stingy Burk ; more anxious about their 
gains than besotted Morris ! Yes, even 
among these he had made himself a 
success ; and the doctor would see it, 
and feel it, and hear it on all hands. It 
was worth ten years of life, this success 
that was as much social as it was financial. 

The music was more beautiful, if that 
were possible, than it had been since 
the first evening he heard it : and the 
scene, though more familiar, was equally 
bright. Jerry leaned against the side 
of the box, with a gay party all around 
him, who were impatient that the play 
should be over and leave them free for 
the ball that was to follow. 

But to Jerry the music came as of old 
it came to Saul ; and he listened thank 
fully, while the burning spirit within 
him was laid to rest. Yet the music 



JERRY. 



577 



seemed in some sort to take its keynote 
from the thoughts that held him ; seemed 
to vibrate and quiver with the struggle 
that would fill the next day. For on 
the following day he was to plead his 
cause to stand or fall before the man 
for whose commendation he would have 
done anything. Would he be able to 
rouse him ; once to shake him from that 
calm ; once to make him break his self- 
control ? 

He looked up to the box opposite, 
where he had always looked for the face 
he had not seen since the first night, but 
that nevertheless had haunted him ; he 
looked up now 

Now, and almost a story was told him 
almost a mystery was revealed. She 
was there, looking up into the doctor s 
eyes. 

Jerry drew a long breath ; he knew 
now where he had seen her face ; he re 
membered even the shape of the case, 
and the red of the morocco ; he remem 
bered the trick of the little catch, and 
the face that had met his eyes. 

" There is your friend up there with 
Henley s mother," Mr. Greg said, bend 
ing over Jerry ; " it was strange her hus 
band should give away his boy Paul, give 
him away so that his own mother should 
never see him again ; " then Mr. Greg 
turned away to answer some remark. 

Paul s mother ? 

Jerry could not account for the invol 
untary shudder that had thrilled him 
at Mr. Greg s words. Why should he 
object to this woman being Paul s moth 
er ; why should he feel as if for her 
sake he must hate Paul ? The fact of 
her being Paul s mother would account 
for the doctor s interest in Paul ; for one 
glance as they stood together told Jerry 
that the doctor loved her. If so, why 
should not they finish their story now 
that she was free ? And could it be 
this that had silenced the life of this 
man that had driven him out from his 
place in the world? Just for the love of 
this woman who had meanwhile loved 
and married another? Jerry shook his 
head. 

This could not be all ; there was 
something deeper than this, something 
no mortal eye could see some over 
whelming sorrow to warp so strong a life. 

And Jerry seemed to see the long, low 



house, without fence or garden, with the 
black mountains for a background, and 
the wide plains stretching shadowless in 
front. He could see the dim library ; he 
could see the flickering of the fire-light, 
and hear the clanking of the doctor s 
spurs as he strode up and down. Which 
was real, that lonely home on the plain, 
or this life, that seemed to have caught 
the glamour from the " Golden Age ? " 

And this man, so perfectly dressed, 
standing with such easy grace, so at 
home amid all this richness, was this 
the real man, or was the reality the one 
he had known out yonder in his rough 
hunting-suit ? 

Which was the real man which was 
the real life? And Jerry s mind wan 
dered during the play ; and the music 
mingled and wove its way through all 
his thoughts and questions. 

But the next day would tell all ; the 
next day, that would stand a mark for 
ever in his life ! 

And a cold, dreary day it was, with 
the rain falling down persistently on 
the drenched world. Trickling in little 
streams from the omnibus drivers hats, 
and from their thin horses ; falling mer 
cilessly on the poor scraps of humanity 
hunting greedily in the garbage barrels ; 
making hasty little runlets around the 
corners of the pavements ; and seeming 
as if striving with its thousand little 
tones to drown the noises of humanity. 

Jerry stood watching the passers-by 
watching the omnibus men and horses 
watching the drenched barrel-pick 
ers. They were very pitiful, the blurred 
pictures he saw between the rain-drops 
that trickled slowly down the shining 
plate-glass windows. This was the wrong 
side of the gilded picture of city life, 
the wrong side of which he had read, but 
as yet had not seen. These figures were 
some of the poor creatures who were 
crowded out of life ; who were pushed 
to the wall to die ; who were looked on 
as surplus population that had no right 
in the world ; who should never have 
been born, and for whom disease and 
starvation were the only remedies. 

These were the people he had planned 
to help ; these were the people for whom 
he wanted the land saved, the people 
no one cared for, who had no chance in 
life. Had he stood to his purpose ? 



578 



JERRY. 



He moved his hand across his eyes 
slowly. 

In all these weeks he had had but one 
thought the success of his venture as a 
speculation ; and now he was pledged 
almost to have no other thought. 

Having accepted favors from these 
rich people, he was under bond, almost, 
to succeed ; had promised almost that 
money should be made for them from 
Durden s. If the railway went there his 
plan would succeed ; if the railway went 
there it would be to make money for 
these rich people. 

As a looker-on how he would have 
despised such a state of things, how 
he would have launched all his power 
against such seeming injustice ! Yet as 
an actor he was bound and held down, 
a slave to the money of these people, to 
the money that had become a necessity 
to him. 

More and more gloomy his thoughts 
became as he stood in the rich, warm 
room, looking out on the falling rain 
that seemed to sing a requiem for the 
darker side of life. 

How would the day end how would 
he stand to-morrow at this hour? It 
was in vain that he made an effort to 
arrange the words he would say they 
slipped away from him hopelessly; he 
could trust only that when the time 
came his excitement would help him. 
But through all one thought haunted 
him one thought that he was afraid 
would take all his strength away and 
leave him without a case the thought 
that he had not been true to his earlier 
purpose. He had begun to work for 
the good of his own class ; now he was 
working only for the success of his ven 
ture. Its success might mean the good 
of the people, but he knew that if it did 
not mean this, he would pursue the 
success just as eagerly. He had not 
been true. 

So he brooded gloomily, looking out 
on the falling rain, and behind him the 
women near the fire conversed in their 
soft tones, and worked their useless 
embroideries. 

He had no right as yet to such a place 
as this in the world ; he had not been 
born to it, nor as yet had reached it 
through any work of his own. Joe and 
the doctor had brought him up and 



educated him through a pure sense of 
"mercy and loving-kindness;" he was 
now spending Joe s money, and by its 
power holding an undeserved position 
in society. He felt that he was an im 
postor, and the feeling had driven him 
into telling his story to these kind 
women. He had tried to tell it truly ; 
he had tried not to soften any of the 
roughness, nor to lessen any of his ob 
ligations ; and yet, when he finished, 
they gave him the gentlest sympathy; 
and Mrs. Greg s eyes had filled with 
tears over the poor little ragged waif ! 

"Think if my boys had suffered so," 
she said. 

Was this a woman s natural way, Jerry 
wondered, to take the pathetic part of a 
life and spread it over all the sins and 
wickednesses; were women always so 
merciful? He did not know enough of 
women to draw any conclusion ; but he 
felt sorry that he had said anything, it 
made him feel weak and pitiful, as if 
he had been complaining, or asking for 
sympathy. Among men it would have 
been different: how he had arrived at 
his present position, to whom he was 
indebted, would make no difference to 
men ; all they would want to hear would 
be how he intended to make a success 
of his town. It would be no concern of 
theirs whose lives or teachings served 
as his steps to success ; their only ques 
tion would be, Is he successful, and how 
much advancement can we count on 
from this man s success? If he ruined 
the doctor in this struggle, if he took 
from old Joe the one occupation and 
joy of his life, it would be nothing to 
these men nothing to the greedy crowd 
watching out in Durden s, following close 
on his heels with hungry eyes fixed on 
his every movement, ready with grasping 
hands to tear him down if he but seemed 
to fail them for a moment ! 

He looked out at an old, bent, ragged 
creature stirring in a refuse barrel; 
hooking out scraps of meat, mouldy 
bones, decayed vegetables ; fishing in 
the dust-barrel of the Gregs ; and Mrs. 
Greg s eyes were still wet with tears 
over the story of his life. 

Suppose Joe had wept only? 

He turned from the window and 
walked hurriedly down the room ; he 
was becoming more and more vile every 



JERRY. 



579 



moment. How could he think of any 
thing except the kindness of these peo 
ple ; and that if he failed he would have 
no better place in the world than the 
beggar he had been watching. Never ! 
never while he had life and strength ; 
never while he had a mind to conceive 
and guide would he yield one inch of 
this position he had stormed. He must 
lead he would lead; he would have 
this money that made the world so 
beautiful to those who gained it; that 
left all bleak and cold to those who 
were worsted in the fray. And some 
must fall in this wild, grinding conflict ; 
a man could take care only of himself ; 
and with all their efforts some could not 
accomplish even this. This was the new 
lesson he had learned from the civilized 
and educated. 

Then Fred came to tell him that the 
carriage was ready, and it was time to 
go ; and Mrs. Greg insisted on his but 
toning his overcoat more securely, and 
Isabel pinned a pansy in his button-hole, 
"lou must succeed," she said, while 
Fred laughed at them for having any 
doubt. 

"The old gentleman has had a fresh 
letter from Charlie," he said, by way of 
comfort, "and he intends reading it to 
the Board before Wilkerson begins his 
speech. 

"Then I will not fail," Jerry answered, 
while a new light came into his eyes ; 
his eyes that had never lost the wistful 
look that had won him so much in his 
life; "it will seem like a piece of the 
old life come to urge me on to better it 
and to help it up ; " then he and Fred 
went away, and Isabel waved a farewell 
from the window. 



CHAPTEK XVI. 

<k Be strong, 

Take courage ; now you re on our level now ! 
The next step saves you ! I was flushed with 

praise, 

But, pausing just a moment to draw breath, 
I could not choose but murmur to myself 
Is this all ? all that s done, and all that s 

gained ? 

If this then be success, tis dismaller 
Than any failure. " 

IT was a handsome room in which the 
Board met ; richly furnished and warm, 
and with plenty of light and space. But 



this day it was a little crowded, for 
many of the stockholders were there to 
hear and vote on the road being ex 
tended to Durden s. 

They were a little late, Fred and Jerry, 
and Mr. Greg, who was chairman, was 
impatient over the delay. 

"Do not look anxious," Fred said, as 
they mounted the stairs, "else they will 
think it a personal matter." 

Jerry started a little, the advice was 
so good, and mentally he thanked Fred 
for it. Aloud he said : " Our being late 
does not look like too great anxiety." 

And truly, as he entered the great 
room, with a smile on his lips and a 

Eansy in his button-hole, he did not 
>ok troubled. The doctor watched him 
curiously as he came in tall, well- 
made, easy in his movements, meeting 
all with an air of quiet equality ; being 
cordially welcomed by the great bankers 
and stockbrokers and railway men, and 
seeming to think nothing of it. 

Could this be Jerry? His clothes fit 
ting him perfectly ; with even an air of 
distinction about him ; and, stranger 
than all, come to meet him on equal 
ground come to cross swords with 
him ! 

Things had changed marvellously. 

Then their eyes met, and Jerry felt 
the hot color creep slowly up into his 
face as he remembered the day that now 
seemed so far away the day when this 
man had shaken him off so coldly. But 
he had a clew to the secret now ; he 
had found it the night before in that 
woman s face. She had absorbed the 
doctor s heart and life ; and he, Jerry, 
was only a part of the missionary work 
he had done either to fill up his life 
or as atonement for something in his 
past. 

This last was a new thought, and 
flashed like a stream of light on Jerry s 
mind ; and he turned to look again on 
this man who puzzled him so. What 
was hidden in that life ; hidden behind 
the inscrutable sadness of that 
cold face ? 

A bow was all their greeting, and 
they took their seats the width of the 
room apart. Only a moment ; then the 
meeting was called to order, and Mr. 
Greg rose to say that, before introduc 
ing his young friend Mr. Wilkerson, he 



grave, 



580 



JERRY. 



wished to read a letter he had received 
that morning from his son, who being 
in Durden s could give the latest news. 

Then he read a letter telling of the 
success of everything that had been 
touched ; that the new lodes increased in 
richness as they went deeper ; that even 
if the old mine were not reopened, and 
even if the road was refused them, it 
would pay to transport by wagon all 
that the town needed, and all that she 
would have to export. That it was an 
ascertained fact that much of the gold- 
dust purporting to come from the Eu 
reka Mine had been gathered in Dur 
den s Gorge and sold to Engineer Mills. 
Then the young man added : " Never 
shall I cease to thank Mr. Wilkerson 
for the opening he has given me, and 
for the way in which he showed me my 
best advantage. He used no persua 
sions, he asked me only to look for my 
self and decide on the truth of his rep 
resentations. Now, I consider myself a 
rich man in owning the land I at pres 
ent hold in Durden s Gorge." 

There was a little murmur when Mr. 
Greg finished ; and it was moved that 
Mr. Wilkerson should now state his 
case and his wants. 

It was a tremulous, exciting moment 
for Jerry ; he had never made a speech 
in his life save to the people in Eureka, 
and how would he do it? One mo 
ment he paused, and in that moment 
heard an inimical stockholder say in an 
aside : 

"I suppose his talent lies in address 
ing mobs." 

The blood sprang into Jerry s face as 
he laid aside his overcoat and mounted 
the platform where Mr. Greg sat. The 
aside had made him angry ; they should 
not scoff at him ; he would make his 
speech and carry his point. 

He shook himself a little, as if his 
clothes were not quite in their usual 
place ; then drawing himself up, he put 
his hands in his pockets and looked out 
quietly over his audience. 

He knew nothing of the usual eti 
quette of bowing first to the chairman 
and then to his hearers ; he knew noth 
ing of beginning, "Mr. President, and 
gentlemen of the Board ; " he knew 
nothing of gestures ; he knew only that 
he had something to say, and must say 



it convincingly or fail ; and that these 
people were willing that he should fail. 

"I heard a gentleman say a moment 
ago," he began, and his voice rang clear 
and fresh, and a little angry, " that he 
supposed my talent lay in addressing 
mobs ; it may, or it may not ; but I can 
say truly that in all my life I never have 
made a speech save to what this quiet 
company would call a mob. I saw them 
called a mob in your newspapers, where 
I had the honor of being called their 
leader ; and both about me and about 
them a great mistake was made. They 
were poor, and they were ignorant, if 
that constitutes a mob ; and they were 
human creatures who had been wronged; 
and, rightly, this should have converted 
them into a mob," the color in his face 
deepening, and his eyes flashing as he 
looked over the upturned faces. " Those 
poor people had lived in that far-off, 
lonely region for more than twenty-five 
years ; a region that had ceased to have 
even the excitement of being on the 
frontier or near an agency ; had lived 
there on scanty wages, contented with 
the thought that if any good days ever 
came, they would have their share in 
them. The good days came, and they 
were pushed aside ! They had been im 
provident, had been wasteful, had been 
ungrateful to one who had spent much 
money and time in helping them ; and 
they deserved to be pushed aside ? 

" Perhaps, but remember that they 
were as ignorant as beasts mentally 
and morally they were blind ! 

"Long before this issue I had deter 
mined to help them ; determined, if 
such a thing were possible, to raise the 
whole class, because it is the class I 
spring from," and he looked straight 
across at the doctor, who was watching 
him intently. "So these people be 
lieved me, that I was their friend ; be 
lieved I meant to work for them, and 
yet I had to abuse them roundly had 
to knock one man down before I could 
make them see things as they should 
see them for their own good" and a 
hearty " Good enough ! " that sounded 
strangely like a Eureka comment, came 
from some one in the audience. " May 
be all this made them a mob," he went 
on, "but they are quiet enough now. 
They followed the advice given them, 



JERRY. 



581 



and held their lands in Eureka until the 
price offered was as high as it could be 
forced ; they then sold, and bought the 
land held for them in Durden s Gorge ; 
and they got it, good gold -land, for 
half the price which had been paid them 
for their lots in Eureka. 

" We then elected a town committee, 
printed circulars which we sent to every 
post-office in the East, opened three 
new finds within a quarter of a mile of 
each other ; and we stopped the sale of 
liquor. 

" This is what we have done without 
capital ; the money to buy the land and 
the old mine was advanced by a man 
who made it selling gold-dust to the 
Eureka Mine ; he has been selling them 
gold-dust ever since the Eureka Mine 
was first opened," he paused a moment, 
arrested by the intent look on the doc 
tor s face ; " this man s name is Daniel 
Burk," he added, while the interest 
faded from the doctor s eyes. " For the 
future we need an engineer to open the 
old mine, which has been closed for all 
these years only because the people 
were superstitious. The original owner 
disappeared in the mine, and the people 
deserted it. 

" If we can secure an engineer, I and 
others have pledged ourselves to go 
with him to the end of the tunnel in 
order to reassure the Durden s people ; 
the new miners who come in will not 
heed the old story. But we need ma 
chinery, and a competent man to direct 
us. You have spent millions in seriding 
your railway out to this gold region, 
and already you have made millions 
from the speculation : this is well, but 
it is better still to know that a little 
farther on there are as many more mill 
ions waiting for you : extend your rail 
way to Durden s, and take stock in 
Durden s Mine. 

"If you will not help us," and he 
paused a moment, "we can wait, and 
grow slowly ; we can save money until 
we have enough to open the mine with 
out outside help ; then the tide of im 
migration will flow in on us, and we will 
succeed in spite of all odds, and dictate 
terms to Eureka and to you." 

Now they applauded him, and he felt 
his heart rise up within him. 

"For or against Eureka," he went on, 
VOL. VIII. 58 



" I have nothing to say ; and most un 
intentionally was I led into making the 
towns rivals. I heard of the railway and 
I warned the people against the land- 
sharpers ; I warned them, and explained 
to them that simply holding the land 
they had would bring them money in 
the end. I persuaded them that to buy 
land as speculation only, so depriving 
the poor, who were coming out to find 
room enough to live, of all hope of new 
homes, was a sin. Suddenly, enough 
land was secured to make a new town, 
and their little lots seemed valueless ! 
It was hard, and I did not blame them 
that they turned on me. Then I had to 
seek something for them, and like a 
revelation it came to me to build up 
Durden s again and I will do it," 
proudly, " for when failure means death 
success will be fought for hardly ! 
These people have put all they own in 
Durden s, and cannot hope to make 
another venture if this fails them. 

"If you will help us, it will be the 
best investment you ever made. If you 
turn from us, we will be patient." 

Then he sat down, amid a clapping of 
hands and words of commendation, and 
waited with a sick heart to hear what 
the doctor would say. 

Would he undo him? Were there 
any points kept in abeyance that would 
pull down his whole venture? His 
speech had not been as good as the 
words he had said to the poor people 
out in Eureka ; he was not as angry, he 
was not as earnest, he felt trammelled 
and bound; the people and the occa 
sion seemed unreal, and the life about 
him was a sham! They had enough, 
these people ; and should be compelled, 
not begged, to help those who needed. 
Something, surely, was very wrong with 
humanity ! 

" Mr. President, and gentlemen of the 
Board," the doctor began, standing in 
his place, "all that Mr. Wilkerson has 
said is true, perfectly true. But all 
that I have written you of the Eureka 
Mine is true also. That Engineer Mills 
has bought gold from outsiders is no 
wrong ; and it was not to be expected 
that he should label each little lot. The 
land that was bought around Eureka is 
my private affair ; and if it fails I shall 
be the only loser. As to extending the 



582 



JERRY. 



road to Durden s, I can see no objec 
tion to it ; and as I have at heart also 
the greatest good of the greatest num 
ber, I hope it will be done. The work 
of Mr. Wilkerson needs no word from 
me ; his plans have been well conceived, 
well executed, and surprisingly success 
ful. You cannot lose anything by in 
vesting in Durden s Mine ; nor will you 
lose anything that you have invested in 
Eureka. 

" I have come here at the request of 
the land-agents who have invested in 
Eureka. They have been very much 
disheartened by Mr. Wilkerson s suc 
cess. 

"They have not capital enough to 
enable them to hold the land they have 
bought. If they sell at a loss it will 
injure the reputation of the town, and 
for a time the mining interests. I came 
to advise for their good, and for your 
good, that the company buy the lots 
the agents now hold, and hold them as 
private property. The two towns will 
be one eventually and their interests 
be merged into each other : one cannot 
grow without helping the other ; and 
for the sake of the money which already 
you have invested in Eureka, I strong 
ly advise that the land values be not al 
lowed to decline. 

" I have with me a map of the town 
and of the number of lots that will have 
to be bought in, also their values. I 
can vouch that no higher price has 
been put on the lots than the agents 
paid for them." 

Then he sat down, amid a surprised 
silence. 

Where was the expected struggle be 
tween these rival towns and leaders? 
Where was the great excitement that 
had possessed the company when they 
met? Where was Jerry s enthusiasm? 

He sat quite still through it all ; lis 
tened while the short, quiet sentences 
fell so coolly and calmly ; felt that he 
had made a fool of himself, and discov 
ered a slow, dull anger creeping through 
him. 

The two towns to be made one ; their 
interests to be identified ; only that 
Durden s was allowed to grow first ! 

Where was the opposition? What 
could he do? Whom could he antago 
nize? And he had not injured Paul; 



but only a private venture of the doc 
tor s, about which he knew as little now 
as at the very first. 

No explanation had been made ; no 
light had been thrown on anything, 
save on the one fact that his attack on 
the doctor had served only to strengthen 
Paul s fortunes ; for, of course, it was 
more safe that the company should own 
the town of Eureka than that chance 
adventurers should hold the land. Of 
course the company would see that the 
town succeeded ; and if they extended 
the railway to Durden s, and put their 
money in the Durden s Mine, there 
could be but the one issue for the whole 
matter the towns would be made one, 
and their fortunes rise and fall together. 
And from the first the doctor had in 
tended this had foreseen it. 

He longed to be alone ; he longed to 
walk for miles and miles ; maybe he so 
could still this throbbing anger that 
was increasing every moment ; he wished 
that the people in front of him had been 
the poor Eureka mob that he might 
abuse them! 

How had this thing happened ; how 
had he been such a blind fool ? 

All about him there was a hubbub 
of voices ; a group gathered about the 
doctor; a group about Mr. Greg, and 
close packed about himself Jerry found 
the mass of the company. 

Congratulating him shaking hands 
with him telling him that his success 
had brought Eureka and the Directors 
to terms, and that now his fortune was 
secure. 

So it was ; and he talked and laughed 
and shook hands, and understood that 
his point was gained, although no official 
action had been taken as yet. 

Then he and Fred found themselves 
outside in the pitiless rain that still 
fell ; but a liveried servant held an um 
brella over them, and the carriage waited 
with open door. 

The ladies were enchanted, and at 
lunch Mr. Greg rubbed his fat white 
hands over the morning s work. 

"And you can go to the ball to-night, 
my boy," he said, patting Jerry gently 
on the shoulder, "feeling yourself rich 
because of the land you own in Dur 
den s." 

Rich because of the land he owned ! 



JERRY. 



583 



A new and dreadful realization came 
to Jerry he owned no land. Durden s 
might make millions, and not one cent 
would come to him ! 

The room and all its beautiful furni 
ture seemed to waver for a moment. 

Dan Burk Dave Morris Charles 
Greg indeed, every man in Durden s 
was secure in his possessions, secure in 
the protection of the Commune. 

He only had been left out. 

Blind to everything except the suc 
cess of his venture and the triumph 
over Paul Henley and the doctor, he 
had forgotten himself until now now 
when all the best land had been sold, 
and not one foot of it his. 

And even if it were still there, he 
had no money to buy it with. He 
was spending money fast enough now, 
but it was Joe s money, which he had 
bargained to spend that the old man 
might be persuaded to show the safe 
way into the mine. Once back in Dur 
den s he would not have a cent. 

He dressed for the ball with a heavy 
heart. How could he rectify this mis 
take? 

He was still more of a lion in the 
glittering assembly where he was taken 
at the end of the exhausting day; for 
besides the wit and wisdom he had made 
evident, it was said that he possessed 
acres of undug gold ! 

So, of course, he was courted and 
smiled on, and Isabel Greg was looked 
on as the young woman most likely to 
capture the prize. Even beautiful Edith 
Henley looked with interested eyes on 
this "ruffian" and "wretched ragamuf 
fin" of her brother s letters. He was 
a success, and surely looked like a gen 
tleman; and the next day she wrote 
Paul a letter that roused every evil 
passion of his nature an innocent let 
ter, save that it was full of Jerry s 
success and the doctor s compromise. 

And under all these admiring eyes 
poor Jerry stood, longing for one mo 
ment s quiet where he could collect his 
thoughts, and look his situation in the 
face. To betray his position or his 
anxiety by word or look would be ruin ; 
for after such an acknowledgment who 
would believe anything but that the 
whole scheme was a fraud. It was not 
usual for men so to leave themselves 



out of reckoning ; and these people 
would not believe him. 

Poor Jerry ! he longed to be back in 
the wilds where a man could look as he 
felt, and where every man carried law 
and redress in his belt. There one was 
free, here one was bound by a thousand 
little fetters that galled at every turn. 

At last his chance came ; for a mo 
ment he stood alone, and in that mo 
ment he stepped, through a long window 
near which he stood, into a conserva 
tory. 

All about him beautiful flowers, and 
at great distances the dim lights inside, 
the throb and swell of the music ; out 
side, the stony street, the cold wind, 
and the rain falling ceaselessly. 

He sat alone in a dark corner with 
his face down in his hands, trying to 
still the tumult within him saying over 
and over to himself that he must be 
calm and strong, for now a great ques 
tion lay before him. 

" The land you own makes you a rich 
man " these words had never left him, 
nor the knowledge that had come with 
them the knowledge that he was as 
destitute now as when Joe had picked 
him up. 

His head sank lower. 

More destitute : then he had been 
conscious of cold and hunger only ; now 
he was filled with knowledge, and knowl 
edge revealed a thousand wants that 
served to make his poverty infinite a 
thousand wants that all centred in 
money. 

His thoughts paused for a moment, 
and a calm, clear light seemed to shine 
within him. Let all succeed ; let the 
prosperity and the good he had insti 
tuted live and bloom about him live 
and multiply a hundred-fold, yet not 
touch him save through the peace within 
his soul ! Go back to his old ideal 
realize his first high calling show the 
world a man higher than these paltry 
ends of fortune ! 

Sink out of men s minds go back 
to nothingness? And what would the 
world say " A wild dreamer a fool ! " 
Suddenly he lifted his head, for voices 
approached him, and one voice was so 
familiar. 

" Things have not changed, Judith," 
the voice said, " and you are as far from 



584 



JERRY. 



me now as then ; for the wrong I did 
lives still, even if within convent walls ; 
she lives and I ani not free " and a lit 
tle way in front of him Jerry saw the 
doctor standing, holding in his hands 
the hands of the woman whose face had 
so haunted him. 

"I am not free," the deep voice went 
on, "and my life is now too near its 
close for me to hope for freedom, even 
if that hope were righteous." 

" And must your whole life be one 
great sacrifice, Paul?" and the voice 
was so low and sweet that Jerry listened 
to it as he had done to the first music 
he had heard, "one long self-annihila 
tion?" 

"One great expiation, rather, even as 
hers has been," and the doctor put the 
two hands he held together, folding his 
own about them ; " and I must say good- 
by, dear, and this good-by will mean 
forever ! " 

Then they passed on ; and the dim 
lights made broken shadows ; and the 
flowers cast out their sweetness reck 
lessly ; and the distant music rose and 
fell for the glittering throng to dance 
to! 

Good-by forever ! 

The young heart listened with a dim 
sense of the infinite sadness that lived 
in the words; and in the music that 
was meant to be gay in that puls 
ing, throbbing waltz with a minor cry 
through all its chords ! 

This practical, money-getting, soul- 
crushing age is this the music it 
dances to? this proud, hard Nine 
teenth Century that vaunts itself that it 
neither fears nor loves that glories in 
tearing the veil from the " Holy of Ho 
lies" that the mob might be as free to 
touch and see as the " anointed of the 
Lord ; " that analyzes every throb of 
brain and heart ; that laughs faith and 
hope to scorn, holding only certainty ; 
that shuts charity into hospital wards ; 
that teaches the " survival of the fittest ;" 
that tests prayer and crowds down the 
weak and the poor to death and an 
nihilation ; hailing " labor-saving " in 
ventions with a shout of triumph, and 
trusting to disease and death to clear 
the overcrowded garrets and cellars ! 

Clamoring and battling for gold, and 
legislating on the crowded prisons and 



lunatic asylums this great "Iron 
Age " that has no heart save the thud 
of machinery is this the music it 
dances to ? 

Do the eliminated foolish heart and 
soul find their refuge here? Sobbing 
through all the songs and dances cry 
ing out to the throb of beating feet ! 

Do we hear the heart of the Nine 
teenth Century pulsing in its music 
the saddest music the world has ever 
heard? 

CHAPTER XVH. 

"Oh, Soul! 
To stand there all alone 

And without hope ! 
To watch the years come one by one, 
Sad faces from the old days gone 
Eyes full of memories pale and wan 

And hands that grope 

About thy weary heartstrings, without hope ! 
Waking old chords, and long-hushed cries, 

And loving tones 

And warning words, and patient sighs, 
And pleading prayers from long dead eyes, 
And trampled hopes, and broken ties, 
And sins and joys that restless rise 

With smothered groan 

And tears that weigh like lead ! Ay, writhe, 
thou Soul ! " 

THE excitement was all over now, and 
the reaction was a most painful thing to 
Jerry. 

The day before had been one bewil 
dering whirl of astonishing events : the 
success of his appeal ; the revelation of 
the condition of Eureka ; the realiza 
tion of his own position ; and at the 
ball the little scene that had passed be 
fore him like a dream. 

There was a weariness over his body 
and a dull pain in his head when the 
daylight stole through the window, find 
ing him still awake ; turning over and 
over in his mind the chances for his 
future. 

All was accomplished now that he had 
come to arrange : a company had been 
formed called "The Durden s Mining 
Company," the railway was to be ex 
tended, and a mining engineer and as- 
sayer to be sent out. 

All this had been decided the day be 
fore, and there was nothing left to do 
now but for Jerry to go home and put 
things in motion there. 

For Durden s he had been entirely 



JERRY. 



585 



successful ; but for himself what had he 
done? 

He dressed very slowly, for he dread 
ed the time when he must appear as the 
successful man, and longed to go away 
and hide from all whom he knew. The 
rain was still falling, but the scene with 
in was bright enough when Jerry en 
tered the breakfast - room, humming 
softly one of the waltzes that had been 
woven into his thoughts the night before. 

The table with its shining silver and 
glass, and delicate china, and flowers 
that made all sweet ; the fair women ; 
the successful old man reading his paper 
by the fire. Jerry paused a moment to 
take it all in if he had had such a home. 
And yet young Greg left it all to gather 
gold ? He must gather, too, for years 
he must gather, then he could have all 
these fair possessions about him as this 
old man had. 

A pleasant " Good-morning ! " greeted 
him as he sat down; and a " By the way, 
Wilkerson," from Mr. Greg as he laid 
his paper across his knees. 

Jerry looked up quickly. 

"You had better let me take stock 
for you to-day in your mine," laughing ; 
" you are bound to take it, you know, 
in order to give us confidence." 

" Of course," Jerry answered, while 
there flashed through his mind the 
memory that he had nothing. 

" Your credit with me is unlimited," 
Mr. Greg went on, "those were Mr. 
Gilliam s instructions." 

"I know," and the cup that Jerry 
took from Isabel s hands trembled as he 
put it down. 

" How much shall I put you down for ? " 

The point-blank question was start 
ling, and Jerry paused a moment : it 
seemed hard that Joe s savings should 
have to go to buy shares in a mine that 
for more than twenty years he had 
worked alone. 

" Of course the stock is bound to 
rise," Mr. Greg went on, "for we can 
make it rise : in two weeks it shall have 
doubled its value ; after that, much will 
depend on how you manage things in 
Durden s ; but now " 

" I will take as much as I can get," 
Jerry said, quietly. 

" As much as you can carry ? " Mr. 
Greg suggested, doubtfully. 



Jerry shook his head. 

" As much as I can get," he repeated, 
with a smile ; "I know Durden s, and I 
should like to own the whole thing." 

Mr. Greg rose and stood before the 
fire, brushing his hair back with a quick, 
nervous motion, while a new expression 
seemed to change and sharpen the 
whole shape of his face. 

" Are you in earnest ? " he asked, slow- 

iy. 

Jerry stirred his coffee quietly. 

"I am," he answered. " I know Dur 
den s." 

Mr. Greg walked the length of the 
room and back again. Was this young 
man trying to play the game on the 
company that the company intended 
playing on Wall Street ? 

" Do you know how these things are 
worked up in the market ? " he asked, 
pausing near Jerry s chair. 

" No," Jerry answered, while he won 
dered if they could hear the thumping 
of his heart, "no, I know nothing of 
such things ; but I know Durden s, and 
I know that Gorge cannot be exhausted. 
You can gather gold forever, and never 
find the last," with a laugh ; " almost 
one drinks it in the water, "and the eyes 
that looked up into Mr. Greg s glittered 
with a new light and the old man 
turned away. 

" I shall come out there myself," Fred 
put in ; "you and Charlie shall not have 
it all your own way." 

Mrs. Greg shook her head. 

"One is enough out there, Fred," she 
said ; " put your venture somewhere 
else." 

"I shall make a fortune and then 
draw out," Fred answered. 

"And I shall stand to it and make 
millions ! " and there was an exultant 
ring in Jerry s voice that gave Mr. Greg 
more confidence in the venture than the 
visible gold would have done. " I will 
gather in piles and piles of gold," the 
young man went on, while the color 
crept up his dark face, and the light in 
his eyes gleamed brighter, " I will pile it 
up as I used to pile the chips when I 
cut wood," the old simile coming back to 
him that had been in his mind when he 
stood alone in the midnight, high up 
among the rocks the old simile that 
had been with him when the thirst for 



586 



JERRY. 



gold first seized him " and if I get so 
much, it will not be worth any more to 
me than the chips," he added, with a 
sadder tone creeping into his voice. 

" Hurrah for you ! " and Fred put 
back his head with a hearty laugh. 
"Mr. Western Millionaire growing mel 
ancholy because he is apt to have money 
scattered about him like chips very 
good ! " and he laughed again. 

Jerry looked up slowly. 

" What will be left for me to do when 
I have enough ? " he asked. 

Mr. Greg shook his head slowly, fold 
ing up the paper. "We never get 
enough," he said, " it is a want that is 
never satisfied." Then to Jerry, "Will 
you come down to the office later ? " 

" Yes, Mr. Greg, by twelve," and the 
door closed on the old man, grown 
more thoughtful over the Burden s ven 
ture ; and the young people and Mrs. 
Greg were left alone. 

" Remember the matinee at two," Isa 
bel suggested. 

" I will," Jerry answered, slowly, " as 
it is my last." 

" Your last ! " came in three different 
voices. 

Jerry nodded. 

" I must get back now as quickly as 
possible," he said, " to gather in all 
those millions Fred laughs at" they 
had grown very friendly in the time 
they had been together, and had fallen 
into the way of saying "Fred" and 
" Jerry," for Jerry, somehow, seemed to 
be one of them "and you must have 
all your packages for Charlie ready to 
day, for I shall leave in the morning." 
And he walked to the fire. 

"We shall miss you so much," Mrs. 
Greg said, kindly, while Isabel looked 
into her cup pensively. "You have 
come to seem like one of my own boys," 
she added. 

" And you have been so kind to me," 
Jerry answered, coming and standing 
close at her side, " you have shown me 
what a home and a mother can be." 

And strangely across his memory there 
drifted the vision of a humble grave 
built round with rails, and covered in 
with brush ! 

Then he went down among the crowd 
ed offices; up and down the narrow 
streets ; in and out the great Exchange 



way? 



where lives and souls are bought and 
sold ; in and out, learning the way in 
which great ventures are put on the 
market : signing away hundreds, and 
running up the value of Durden s even 
in the mind of Mr. Greg. 

Then to the luxurious lunch and glit 
tering theatre, where the music throb 
bed, and humanity imitated its own 
sorrows and joys ; pictured misery for 
happy people ; and made false mirth for 
the weary and heavy-laden. And Jerry 
listened as to a dear voice that he would 
never hear again it was the last time ! 

And out in the far-off blackness of 
Durden s Mine an old man struggled 
vainly almost. It was very dark "a 
darkness that could be felt " he had 
heard that read from the Bible once ; 
and he put out his long arms vaguely. 

He was very weary and weak, for his 
food had given out long ago ; he did not 
know how long ; and his light had gone 
too ! He put his hand over his face as 
if he needed more darkness, and a little 
groan broke from his lips. 

Had old Durden died in this 
Some one had said that he had set out 
to hunt for the Indian way into the cave, 
and never had come back. Maybe he 
had died just here, and had not fallen 
into the hole : and maybe his bones, 
grown white and dry, were close beside 
him! 

A great shudder went over the crouch 
ing form, and the long arms felt about 
on the ground hurriedly; but all was 
smooth and cold. 

If he sat here he would starve; he 
must go on or die ! 

Die ! die, shut up in this black dark 
ness without a voice to comfort him or 
a hand to give him strength ; without a 
soul to breathe a prayer or tell him God 
was good! 

He flung his arms up, and clasped his 
toil-worn hands together. 

"My God my God!" he cried, and 
the hoarse, deep voice rolled back and 
forth through the black rents and 
chasms. " Good God, cuss the damned 
gole cuss it cuss it!" and the wild 
prayer faded away in a faint whisper. 

Once more he sat quiet, with his head 
down in his hands. If he sat still he 
would starve ; he would die here in this 



JERRY. 



587 



darkness; anything would be better 
than that! And he crawled on slowly 
on his hands and knees. He was afraid 
to walk afraid he would step off some 
awful chasm and for days lie maimed 
and dying. So he moved cautiously, 
and the movement gave him hope. 
Why should not this long passage, that 
seemed so endless, be that lost entrance 
to the cave? 

It always tended upward ; this was 
what made him so weary ; it was always 
going up and up ; it had not dipped for 
a long time now, he could not say for 
how long. 

But he had prayed, too, earnestly ; God 
could not let him die here. 

"An Nan, her prayed fur me too," he 
whispered, then crawled more slowly as 
the thought came to him that it made 
no difference that he had hidden safely 
such store of gold ; and again his whis 
per fell on the silence, "Orl fur gole, an 
it can t he p me now, not now an it 
can t he p me when I se dead an gone 
notter cent ! " 

On and on through the darkness, 
slowly, painfully. 

" An* I se done sent Jerry to larn to 
love gole ! Oh, God, I never knowed I 
never knowed !" sobbing as he crawled, 
with the penitent tears dropping on the 
hard, smooth floor. Tears that were too 
hopeless for such old eyes to shed. 

On and on, muttering to himself; 
praying aloud ; stopping to feel about 
nervously for the bones of the dead man 
that he might find anywhere the poor 
old man who had died for gold, as he 
might die if his strength gave out be 
fore he reached the end. 

Was there any end? 

He had heard the doctor say that all 
through these mountains there were 
long caves and cracks that often had no 
openings. It was strange how every 
thing he had ever known or heard came 
back to him now ; he remembered even 
things his mother had told him when 
he was a little boy. He remembered 
the first furrow he ever ploughed, and 
how across it the sunshine slanted up 
the hillside to the door where his sisters 
fed the chickens ; and the spring where 
all the washing was done. He could 
remember the wooden trough his father 
had placed there, and the gourd that 



was always near. And the tubs were 
blue, he remembered that distinctly ; 
and the soft lye-soap was kept always 
in an open gourd. And Jim Mabry had 
given Liza Jane a ring, and she took it 
off always before she washed the clothes 
because it turned her finger black. Yes, 
he could remember it all as if it were 
yesterday ; remembered it as he crawled, 
and prayed for his life in the awful dark 
ness. 

A poor old man who had nothing to 
show for his days save a hoard of gold ! 

Poor little Nan, she used to come 
there, too, to wash clothes at the spring, 
and had "given her word" there, and 
Preacher Howls had married them ; poor 
little Nan ! 

And again in the bitterness of his 
memories he cast himself down on the 
rocks. 

"My God my God, I never knowed ! " 

Would God help him now? It had 
been so long since he had prayed. Yes, 
and he gathered himself together once 
more, and urged his much-tired strength 
to its utmost limits. 

He was old, and he was weary and 
weak from hunger ; and an awful thirst 
burned in his throat. That was what 
made him think of the old spring and 
the dry, brown gourd. Ah, that was 
the sweetest, freshest water he had ever 
tasted. 

Oh, for only a mouthful! Then the 
awful memory came to him of the rich 
man down in hell crying for a drop of 
water. He had heard a preacher read 
that once. All his money could not help 
him then burning up with thirst and 
fire, and praying for one drop of water. 

Had many people died for gold? Ju 
das yes, that was the name Judas sold 
his God for money ; Judas, he remem 
bered that now. He had heard the 
doctor read that once to poor Lije 
Milton when he was sick ; and Lije had 
died for gold! Lije? A deeper groan 
broke from him, and he cast himself 
down on the floor. 

"An I he pped to skeer Lije!" he 
cried, beating on the rocks with his 
clenched hands. "Oh, God, it were 
the gole done it the gole done it!" 
writhing in his remorse. "I never 
knowed as it would a -killed him I 
never knowed ! " 



588 



JERRY. 



Then lie lay quite still ; he had thought 
of Lije before, and the thought had 
driven him on and on until he had come 
too far to turn back; and now, if he 
thought of him again, he would be too 
weak to go on ; he would lie where he 
was and die. And if he died in here 
the doctor would give Jerry the paper 
that told where to find all his money ; 
and Jerry would take it and love it, and 
he would not be there to tell him of the 
awful curse that came with the love of 
gold. He must get out if he could, to 
warn Jerry ; and he raised himself and 
crawled on. 

Little Nan had said that God did not 
make gold ; that the devil made it and 
put it in all the cracks of the earth to 
buy men s souls with ; and it was true. 
How many dug through days and nights 
down under the earth, bringing up gold, 
and yet men never had enough. 

Little Nan was right; God did not 
make gold. 

Poor little Nan ! But God would help 
him, because she had prayed for him so 
often. Yes, God would set him free 
from this black hole this cursed mine 
that had murdered all who entered it 
God would surely set him free. 

His breath seemed to leave him his 
lifted hands touched a wall in front of 
him ! 

Was it so? Had he not turned in 
some way and touched the side wall? 

He was afraid to feel and make sure ; 
for suppose the passage stopped here ! 
He could not go back, he had not the 
strength ; besides, after he had left the 
cave a long distance he had come to a 
place where the way was very narrow, 
and hung over a stream that roared 
until it confused him, and now he was 
so weak he would fall in. 

Must he feel all about him, and find 
that cold stone wall? He drew himself 
together and put his face down between 
his knees. 

" Oh, God ! she were good she were 
good," he pleaded, "an she prayed fur 
rne ; Oh, God ! she prayed fur me." 
What else could he pray? what else did 
he know? One had prayed for him 
long ago, when life was fresh and 
strong, and he knew she was good, and 
God must have heard her prayers 
surely. 



He put his hands out cautiously the 
poor, work - hardened hands that had 
done many kindly deeds, which the ter 
rified heart did not seem to remember 
now, when in his dire distress all his 
mistakes and sins loomed up before him. 

Poor old weary, trembling hands ; 
surely God would set them free ! 

Carefully he felt over the wall on one 
side, across the low roof, down the 
other side, then again up to the roof. 
He knew which side he had come from ; 
he knew that behind him stretched that 
endless black passage ; but in front ? 

He paused with his hands above him, 
touching the roof 

" She were good, God, and she prayed 
fur me," he said. 

Then slowly down in front of him he 
moved his hands slowly slowly and 
the wall was there ! A moment he 
paused one moment when all his life 
seemed to rise and sweep before him ; 
all his lif e, and all the faith he had had 
that for her sake, the one creature who 
had loved and prayed for him for her 
sake God would save him her sake who 
had been good ! 

All came over him now, and he was 
shut in here to die by inches to die ! 

" Oh, God ! A long, wild cry a last 
supreme appeal in his agony, and he 
fell forward against the wall the wall 
that shut him in from life and hope ! 

The sinking sun shone clear and red, 
wrapping the plain in a rose-stained 
cloud of light, and sending long rays of 
gold up to the highest peaks, tinting and 
glorifying all the scarred, storm-beat 
en mountain-side. It beautified Eureka, 
lying still and white on the plain, and 
Durden s, climbing bravely up the gorge; 
and far up among the cliffs it touched a 
thin slab of rock that had been pushed 
from its place, and in its fall tearing 
from their hardly-won homes all the 
lichens and little vines that had grown 
about its edges. The sun touched all 
this very gently, making silver lights in 
the gray hair of the old man lying face 
down across the fallen slab, with his 
long arms stretched out above his head. 

Was he dead, lying there half in and 
half out the black hole ; had he died in 
his search for the way that was lost so 
long ago ? But at last he had found it : 



JERRY. 



589 



high up among the cliffs overlooking the 
wide plains and busy towns, overlooking 
his own little home, and in touching 
distance, almost, of the place where he 
had buried his little Nan ! 

In a dip in the rocks, where the earth 
had so gathered and deepened that even 
some trees could grow there there she 
had chosen to be buried ; and now very 
near the old man was the rough head 
stone he had put up, with her name 
clumsily chipped on the surface. 

The sun touched that, too, and the 
little shadowy pines. 

Had Joe made his last find right there 
by her grave ? 



CHAPTER XVIH. 

" The past rolls forward on the sun 
And makes all night." 

" HAS the doctor come ? " and young 
Greg looked anxiously in Paul s face as 
he opened the door of the doctor s house 
in answer to Greg s knock. 

" Yes," and the door was opened wide 
enough for Greg to enter. 

Down the long hall he went, and into 
the library, where the glowing fire was 
grateful after the keen November winds 
that swept across the plain. 

The doctor rose, holding out his hand 
to Greg. 

"How are you?" he said; then, "I 
left your family quite well." 

" Thank you," Greg answered ; " I 
heard from home to-day ; but it is a great 
er satisfaction to hear of them from 
one who has seen them face to face." 

"Won t you stay and dine with us?" 
the doctor went on, when they were 
seated. 

Greg shook his head. 

"I cannot this evening, thank you," 
he said ; " I have come to you on very 
anxious business. Old Gilliam" the 
doctor looked up quickly "is in a very 
precarious state, I think." 

"Fever?" 

" No, nor can I satisfy myself at all as 
to what ails him," Greg answered. "He 
was missing for two or three days. I 
know this, because Wilkerson begged 
me to go up and see him every evening, 
and I did until a little while ago he was 



missing for four consecutive evenings. 
I felt uneasy, but I did not like to make 
inquiries, for he is such a peculiar old 
man ; so I waited until four days ago, 
when I went up and found him in this 
strange condition. He eats very little, 
and refuses to leave his house or to 
give any account of his health. His 
only admission is that he wants to see 
you, and he wants Wilkerson. Can you 
come ? " 

" Of course ;" and the doctor gave or 
ders for his horse. "Wilkerson ought 
to be here this evening," he went on, 
" for he was to leave New York twelve 
hours after I did." 

" That is fortunate," Greg said, in a 
relieved voice, " for the old man will not 
last much longer." 

" Is it so bad as that ? " and the doctor 
paused in his preparations ; " you really 
think the old man is going ? " 

Greg nodded, and the doctor made 
more haste. 

" Perhaps you had better go back to 
him," he said to Greg, " and I will fol 
low ; have you brandy ? " 

" Plenty," rising ; "I have kept him 
alive on it." Then he went away, and 
Paul, leaning gloomily against the man 
telpiece, asked if the doctor would be 
gone all night. 

" Probably, " was answered, shortly ; 
then he gave orders to a servant to take 
a horse to Eureka for Jerry ; to make a 
point of meeting the wagon that came 
in, and to tell Mr. Wilkerson to make 
great haste. Then he was gone in the 
falling evening, gone as swiftly as might 
be up the lone trail. 

Was the old man going out on the 
" lonely road " to-night, he wondered ; 
the old man who was only a gray-headed 
child ; the old man who had come to 
seem a part of the place, almost like one 
of the storm-battered rocks, so gray and 
quiet was he. He had known him so 
many years, he would miss him. 

It* was strange how things fell out in 
this life ; the old man going just when 
Jerry, the pride of his heart, was begin 
ning his career. 

" And Jerry will be successful," he 
said to himself, buttoning his coat more 
closely against the cold wind ; "he 
knows how to manage men ; but he 
stands in a dangerous place." 



590 



JERRY. 



The lamp was burning brightly, and 
the fire was flashing brilliantly into ev 
ery corner of Joe s house when the doc 
tor entered. The clock ticked busily ; 
the dog breathed heavily in his corner ; 
Greg sat still near the fire ; and on his 
bed, fully dressed, old Joe lay with his 
eyes closed, and his hands crossed on 
his breast. 

" Well, Joe," and the doctor laid aside 
his coat and hat as he stood by the bed, 
then put his slim white hand on the 
old man s hand, grown so thin and trem 
ulous ; "how is it you are sick?" he 
asked. 

"I ain t sick, doctor," and the dim 
eyes opened slowly, "I m jest called, I 



am. 



" When, Joe ? " looking down sadly. 

" It ain t a-been long sence ; but I ve 
done sawn orl my sins, I hev, an God s 
done sawn em too," panting wearily, 
" an I m jest a-waitin to see Jerry ; jest 
a-waitin fur thet, cause I ve got a word 
fur Jerry, I hev." 

"Will you drink this?" and the 
doctor held some brandy to the white 
lips. 

" I ll drink it for youuns, doctor ; but 
I ain t a-goin to say nothin tell Jerry 
gits har," drinking slowly ; " he s a-com- 
in , I kin feel it, he ain t fur ; " then he 
lay down again with a long, tremulous 
sigh. 

" Kin youuns read to me, doctor ? " 
he asked, after a little ; " Jerry s gotter 
leetle Bible sommers sommers roun 
on the shelf." 

And the doctor found it, the little 
black Bible he had given Jerry to teach 
him the way to the " Golding Gates " 
poor little child. 

The deep voice read on and on ; the 
fire-light flickered over the rough walls ; 
the young man sat still and listening, 
and the old man on the bed breathed 
heavily. At last, far off, the clang of a 
horse s hoofs on the rocky path, and a 
silence fell in the house all were- lis 
tening. Again the sound came sharply 
on the wind, and the old man rose on 
his elbow. 

"It s Jerry," he said; "I knowed I 
were a-f eelin of him ; I knowed he warn t 
much fur ; I knowed as I were called f ur 
to-night, an he d come," and the deep- 
set eyes lighted up strangely ; " gie me 



a leetle dram, doctor, cause I hes sum- 
pen to say ; " then he lay quiet again un 
til the doctor poured out the brandy 
and raised him to drink it. 

" An I reckon Jerry s powerful hong- 
gry," the hoarse voice went on, "power 
ful honggry, an thar s bread thar, but 
thar ain t nary time to eat now, I mus 
talk fust ; I ve got sumpen to say." 

Nearer came the ringing of the horse s 
hoofs, nearer and nearer ; as fast as any 
horse could come on such a night up 
such a path ; at last it stopped at the 
door that Greg held open, and Jerry 
stood among them. 

" Lord ! " and Joe passed his hand 
slowly over Jerry s face, then down over 
his shoulder and arm " Jerry," he mut 
tered, "leetle Jerry a gentleman a rale 
gentleman; " then he closed his eyes, and 
Jerry looked anxiously from one to the 
other of the watchers. 

The doctor shook his head ; and Jerry 
bent low over his old friend, with a dull 
pain growing up in his heart how had 
this happened had he had anything to 
do with it ? 

" How did you get sick, Joe ? " he 
asked, softly. 

Joe shook his head slowly. 

"I ain t agoin to tell youuns thet, 
Jerry, ner nobody ; nobody ain t agoin 
thar no mo no mo " Then he opened 
his eyes slowly, "Youuns is got the pa 
per, doctor ? " he asked. 

" Yes, Joe." 

" Gie it to Jerry when I m done bu 
ried ; an bury me up yonder by my 
Nancy Ann leetle Nan, I calls her ; thar 
ain t no gole thar whar she s a-layin ; 
an hev it writ on the stone as this is Joe 
Gilliams s las find hev it writ jest thet 
away." Then rousing up suddenly he 
grasped Jerry s hands, his eyes burning 
brightly, and his breath coming thick 
and fast : " Thar s damnation in the gole, 
Jerry, and death in the mine ! Don t 
go thar don t go thar. An , Jerry, I 
done sent youuns over yander to larn to 
love money, an to see what it could buy, 
an to larn to love it ; but don t youuns do 
it, Jerry, don t," with pitiful entreaty in 
his eyes and voice ; " my soul ll never res 
if youuns gits honggry fur gole ; an I 
ain t agoin to tell youuns whar I got 
mine ; I ain t agoin to tell ! " taking his 
hands from Jerry s and wringing them 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 591 



together as he sat propped up against 
the doctor s shoulder ; " an I m rale glad 
youuns is done gotter lot of folks in the 
mine to shar an shar alike I m glad," 
his voice falling lower, " an the way is 
mighty easy to find if youuns never 
tu ns to the lef never to the lef ; thet s 
death death ! " closing his eyes. 

The doctor put some brandy to his 
lips and he swallowed it with difficulty. 

" I were honggry fur gole," he mut 
tered, " honggry ; an leetle Nan ud cry 
when I were gone orl day pore leetle 
Nan ! I sees her a heaper times a-layin 
thar buried in the gole-dust an it s 
a-chokin her an the leetle un ! " starting 
wildly, " a-chokin her an her can t git 
it out it s in her eyes, an in her mouth 
her mouth ! " struggling and wringing 
his hands. " Leetle Nan, I ll bresh it out 
bresh it out." Slowly the voice faded. 



Greg covered his face with his hands ; 
the doctor prayed, with his lips close to 
the old man s ear ; and Jerry stood white 
and still as a stone. 

Slowly the death-dimmed eyes opened; 
the words of the prayer had reached the 
darkened mind "Fur Jesus sake?" 
Slowly, " Leetle Nan usen to say thet ; I 
hearn her in the night-time fur Jesus 
sake " then he lay quite still, listening 
to the low voice. The breath came 
slower and slower the chest heaved 
laboriously the hard, brown hands 
twitched nervously. One more breath 
was it the last ? 

The old face looked gaunt and gray 
the sunken eyelids quivered ; again a 
long, tremulous breath ; the eyelids lifted 
slowly, and a whisper swept past them : 

" Thar s death in the mine, Jerry ; " 
then all was still. 



(To be continued.) 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 

By Robert Brewster Stanton. 



FROM the mountain peaks above, 
many have looked down into the 
almost unknown depths of the 
Grand Canon of the Colorado River of 
the West, and while wrapt in admiration 
and amazement at the picture spread out 
before them, have longed for a nearer 
view of the foaming waters and roaring 
cataracts of what appeared to them as 
but a silver thread winding its silent 
way among the caverns, so many thou 
sands of feet below. 

It has, however, been the good fortune 
of but few to be able to journey at the 
bottom of these canons, along the only 
path that is yet open to man the raging 
waters of the river itself and to look 
up at the beauties and wonders that 
nature has formed, piled one upon the 
other, seemingly to the blue of the sky 
above ; or to live among the stupendous 
gorges and caverns that have been cut 
out of the very bowels of the earth, as 
this mightiest of rivers has carved for 
itself a pathway from the Rocky Moun 
tains to the sea. 



When, in the spring of 1889, I took 
charge of the survey for a railway line 
along this river, from Grand Junction, 
Col., to the Gulf of California, I consid 
ered myself favored. Previous to this 
time no party had traversed these can 
ons, except that of Major J. W. Powell, 
in 1869, and no one had ever made a 
continuous trip along the waters of this 
river from its head to its mouth. 

With a naturally sanguine disposition, 
I had no conception of the dangers and 
hardships to be encountered in a jour 
ney by boat down a river that has a de 
scent of over four thousand two hun 
dred feet, and in a distance of less than 
five hundred miles contains five hun 
dred and twenty rapids, falls, and cata 
racts. 

In order to intelligently understand 
the subject, we shall, for a moment, 
glance at the map on page 593. It will 
be seen that the Colorado River is formed 
by the junction of the Grand and the 
Green Rivers. After running through 
the territories of Utah and Arizona, it 



592 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



forms the boundary between Arizona on 
the east, and Nevada and California on 
the west, and empties into the Gulf of 
California in the Mexican State of So- 
nora. The distance from Grand Junc 
tion to the Gulf, by water, is about 
one thousand two hundred miles. The 
mountain portion of the Colorado is 
arbitrarily divided into various canons. 
Commencing at its head, Cataract Canon 
is forty-one miles long, Narrow Canon 
nine miles, Glen Canon one hundred and 
fifty-five miles, Marble Canon sixty-five 
miles, and the Grand Cailon two hun 
dred and eighteen miles. 

What is meant when we call the gorges 
and valleys through which this river runs 
by the name of caiions ? Captain C. E. 
Dutton, and there is no better authority, 
in his report on the physical geography 
of the Grand Canon district, says : 

The common notion of a canon is that of a 
deep, narrow gash in the earth, with nearly 
vertical walls, like a great and neatly-cut 
trench. There are hundreds of chasms in the 
plateau country which answer very well to this 
notion. It is, perhaps, in some respects, unfor 
tunate that the stupendous pathway of the 
Colorado River through the Kaibabs was ever 
called a canon, for the name identifies it with 
the baser conception. From the end of Point 
Sublime the distance across the chasm to the 
nearest point in the summit of the opposite 
walls is about seven miles. A more correct 
statement of the general width would be from 
eleven to twelve miles. It is somewhat unfort 
unate that there is a prevalent idea that, in some 
way, an essential part of the grandeur of the 
Grand Canon is the narrowness of its defile. 

Who can measure the force or com 
prehend the power that has cut these 
chasms, many miles long, many miles 
wide, and from a few hundred to six 
thousand two hundred feet deep ? 

Cataract and Narrow Canons are 
wonderful, Glen Canon is beautiful, 
Marble Canon is mighty ; but it is left 
for the Grand Canon, where the river 
has cut its way down through the sand 
stones, the marbles, and the granites of 
the Kaibab Mountains, to form those 
beautiful and awe-inspiring pictures 
that are seen from the bottom of the 
black granite gorge, where above us 
rise great wondrous mountains of bright 
red sandstone, capped with cathedral 
domes and spires of white, with pin 
nacles, and turrets, and towers, in such 



intricate forms and flaming colors that 
words fail to convey any idea of their 
beauty and sublimity. 

Our first expedition was organized by, 
and under the immediate charge of, Mr. 
Frank M. Brown, the President of the 
Kailroad Company. When I took charge 
of the engineering work, the prepara 
tions were all complete, the boats bought 
and shipped to the river. We started 
from Green Kiver Station, Utah, May 
25th, with a party of sixteen men and 
six boats. The story of our journey as 
far as Lee s Ferry has been told, and I 
shall not repeat it. 

Cataract Canon, in its 41 miles, has 75 
rapids and cataracts, and 57 of these are 
crowded into 19 miles, with falls in 
places of 16 to 20 feet. Being thrown 
into the water bodily almost every day, 
and working in water almost up to one s 
armpits for weeks at a time, guiding 
the boats through whirlpools and ed 
dies, and when not thus engaged, carry 
ing sacks of flour and greasy bacon on 
one s back over bowlders half as high as 
a house, is not the most pleasant class 
of engineering work to contemplate 
except as a " backsight." 

We had lost much of our store of 
provisions by the upsetting of our boats 
while running the rapids, boats that 
were too light and too frail to stand the 
rough usage of such waters. It was 
necessary to go upon short rations. 
With a party of five I was ahead, push 
ing on the survey, while the rest of the 
men brought on the boats and supplies. 
On the evening of June 15th, we reached 
a portion of the river where it was im 
possible for us to run our line without 
the assistance of the boats, and we 
turned back to meet them. That very 
afternoon another accident had sunk to 
the bottom of the river all our provi 
sions, except a sack and a half of flour, 
a little coffee, sugar, and condensed 
milk. 

The flour was immediately baked in 
to bread, without either salt or yeast of 
any kind, and the whole of the food 
divided equally among the men. Ar 
rangements were made for one boat s 
crew to go with President Brown down 
to the placer mines at Dandy Crossing, 
some thirty-five miles, for supplies. 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 593 



MAP SHOWING 

THE 

Course of the 
COLORADO KIVER, 

AND 

LOCATION OF ITS 
Principal Canons 




The scarcity of food, and the separat 
ing of the party, alarmed the men, and 
nearly all of them wished to abandon 
the work at once. Knowing that if we 
abandoned the survey then, we could 
not return to it, and feeling sure that 
we could carry on the work to Dandy 
Crossing with what we had, I deter 
mined not to leave without an effort 
to complete the survey, if enough men 
would remain to assist me. My first 
assistant engineer, John Hislop, and C. 
W. Potter, together with our colored 
cook, G. W. Gibson, and colored steward, 
H. C. Richards, volunteered to remain. 

The next morning eleven of the party 
started down river, leaving five of us 
and one boat. For six days we toiled 
VOL. VIII. 59 



on, continuing the survey at the rate of 
four miles per day, with one small piece 
of bread, a little coffee and milk for our 
morning and evening meal, and three 
lumps of sugar and as much river water 
as we wished at noon. Under such 
circumstances the true nobleness of 
men s characters comes out. The men 
worked on without a murmur, carrying 
the survey over the rocks and cliffs, on 
the side of the canon, and handling the 
boat through the rapids of the river. At 
night, when they laid down on the sand 
to sleep, after a meal that was nine- 
tenths water and hope, and one-tenth 
bread and coffee, it was without a com 
plaint. Those who could stand the 
privations best divided their scanty 



594 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



store with those who suffered most. At 
the end of the sixth day we were met by 
a boat, towed up the river, with provis 
ions. Our suffering was over, except 
from the effects of eating too much at 
the first meal. 

We soon reached Dandy Crossing, and 
with new provisions pushed on to Lee s 
Ferry, a party under Mr. W. H. Bush 
being left to bring on the survey. We 
reached Lee s Ferry, 150 miles below 
Dandy Crossing, July 2d. The next day 
President Brown started on horseback 
for Kanab, Utah, for supplies to take us 
through the remainder of the trip ; for it 
was decided that Mr. Brown and myself, 
together with six others, Hislop, Mc 
Donald, Hausbrough. Richards, Gibson, 
and Photographer Nims, should go on 
and make an examination of the lower 
canons, take notes and photographs, but 
without an instrumental survey. 

On the morning of July 9th, Mr. 
Brown and the supplies having arrived, 
we started into the unknown depths of 
Marble Canon, with three boats and our 
little party of eight. 

The first day s run of ten miles was 
made without danger, making two heavy 
portages around the rapids at Badger 
and Soap Creeks. That night we camped 
at the lower end of the Soap Creek 
rapid. President Brown seemed lonely 
and troubled, and asked me to sit by his 
bed and talk. We sat there late, smoking 
and talking of our homes and our jour 
ney on the morrow. When I awoke in 
the morning Mr. Brown was up, and as 
soon as he saw me said, " Stanton, I 
dreamed of the rapids last night, the first 
time since we started." After breakfast 
we were again on the river in very swift 
water. Mr. Brown s boat, with himself 
and McDonald, was ahead, my boat, get 
ting out from shore with some difficulty, 
was a little distance behind. In two 
minutes we were at the next rapid. Just 
as we dashed into the head of it, I saw 
McDonald running up the bank waving 
both arms. We had, for a few moments, 
all we could do to manage our own boat. 
It was but a moment. We were through 
the rapid, and turning out into the 
eddy. I heard McDonald shout, "Mr. 
Brown is in there." I looked to the 
right, but saw nothing. As our boat 
turned around the whirlpool on the left, 



the note-book which Mr. Brown always 
carried shot up on top of the water, and 
we picked it up as we passed. 

Mr. Brown s boat was about one-half 
minute ahead of mine. His boat went 
safely through the worst part of the 
rapid, but in turning out into the eddy 
an upshooting wave, so common in that 
river between the current and the whirl 
pools and eddies on the side, upset it 
without a moment s warning. Brown 
was thrown into the whirlpool, while 
McDonald was thrown into the current. 
McDonald as he came up saw Brown on 
the side of the current, and shouted to 
him, " Come on." He answered with a 
cheerful "All right." McDonald, carried 
down by the stream, " was three times 
thrown under by the terrific tossings of 
the mad waters," and with great effort 
reached the left bank, where the cur 
rent rushed upon the shore at a sudden 
turn to the right. As soon as he recov 
ered himself he saw Brown still in the 
whirlpool, swimming round and round. 
Rushing up the bank he shouted to 
us for help. In that whirlpool poor 
Brown battled for his life, till exhausted 
in the fight he sank, a hero and a martyr 
to what some day will be a successful 
cause. 

A noble man, and a true friend, he had 
won the love of everyone associated with 
him. We sat that whole day watching 
the ever-changing waters of that rapid 
its whirlpools and eddies ; but we did 
not realize, till the darkness gathered 
around us and we turned away to go to 
our camp, that we should never again 
see the face of our noble-hearted leader. 

In this world we are left but little 
time to mourn. We had work to do, 
and I determined if possible to com 
plete the whole of that work. With 
this intention we started out next morn 
ing. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday 
we pushed on with our usual work, 
shooting through or portaging round 
twenty-four bad rapids, getting deeper 
and deeper between the marble walls. 
After a quiet rest on Sunday, Monday 
morning found us at the head of two 
very rough and rocky rapids. We port 
aged both of them. While the pho 
tographer and myself took our notes 
and pictures, the boats were to go on 
through the lower end of the second 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 595 



rapid to a sand-bar, a half-mile below, loss, our force too small to portage our 
It was easy walking for us along the boats, and our boats entirely unfit for 
bank. The first boat got down with such work, I decided to abandon the 
difficulty, as the current beat hard trip, with then and there a determina- 
against the left cliff. My boat was the 
next to start. I pushed it out from 
shore myself with a cheerful word to 
the men, Hausbrough and Richards. 
It was the last thev ever heard. The 




The Quiet Waters of Glen Canon. 



current drove them against the cliff, 
under an overhanging shelf. In trying 
to push away from the cliff the boat 
was upset. Hausbrough was never 
seen to rise. Richards, a powerful man, 
swam some distance down stream. The 
first boat started out to the rescue, but 
he sank before it reached him. 

Two more faithful and good men 
gone ! Astonished and crushed by their 



tion, as soon as a new outfit could be 
secured, to return and complete our 
journey to the Gulf. 

From then our only object was to 
reach a side can on leading to the north, 
through which to make our retreat. 

Just above Vassey s Paradise, in the 
deepest part we had seen, we camped 
for our last night in the canon. The 
sad thoughts of the past few days 



596 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



crowded in upon us. A great storm 
was gathering over our heads. The 
rain was falling in a steady shower. 
No shelter below ; not a dry blanket or 
a coat. About forty feet up on the 
side of the marble cliff I saw a small 
cave, with a marble shelf projecting over 
it. With some difficulty I climbed up 
to it. It was hardly large enough for 
my body, and not long enough for me 
to stretch fully out ; but I crawled in, 
and, worn out by the work and excite 
ment of the day, soon fell asleep. 

About midnight I was awakened by 
a terrific peal of thunder, and around 
me and over me raged one of the most 
awful storms it has been my fate to 
witness. I have seen the lightning play 
and heard the thunder roll among the 
summit peaks of the Rocky Mountains, 
as I have stood on some rocky point 
far above the clouds, but nowhere has 
the awful grandeur equalled that night 
in the lonesome depths of what was to 
us death s canon. 

The lightning s flash lit up the dark 
recesses of the gorge, and cast ghastly 
shadows upon cliffs and sloping hill 
sides ; and again all was shut in by 
darkness thicker than that of Egypt. 
The stillness was only broken by the 
roar of the river as it rushed along be 
neath me. Suddenly, as if the mighty 
cliffs above were rolling down against 
each other, there was peal after peal of 
thunder striking against the marble cliffs 
below, and, mingling with their echoes, 
bounding from cliff to cliff. Thunder 
with echo, echo with thunder, crossed 
and recrossed from wall to wall of the 
caiion, and rising higher and higher, 
died away among the side gorges and 
caverns thousands of feet above my 
head. For hours the tempest raged. 
Tucked away as a little worm in a cleft 
in the rock, the grandeur of the storm 
spoke as to the Psalmist of old ; and 
out of the stillness came a voice mightier 
than the tempest, and said, "Be still 
and know that I am God." 

On the 18th of July we took up our 
retreat. Preparing even then for our 
return, we cached our large stock of 
provisions and supplies in a marble 
cave. By 2 P.M. we were out of the can 
on, and on the plateau 2,500 feet above. 



That night, favored by the rains of the 
past few days, we camped by a pool of 
water on what is usually a dry waste. 
Next day we came to a cattle ranch. 
With a team from there, and the kind 
ness of the Mormon settlers, we soon 
reached Kanab. Through the extreme 
courtesy of Bishop Mariger, of Kanab, 
we were enabled in a few days to be 
once more at our homes. 

On reaching Denver I immediately set 
about preparing for a new expedition to 
complete our survey to the Gulf. But 
it was not till November 25th that we 
again started for the river. I had learned 
a lesson during the summer. Our sec 
ond outfit was vastly different from the 
first. It consisted of three boats twenty- 
two feet long, four and one-half feet beam, 
and twenty-two inches deep. These were 
built of oak, from plans of my own, with 
ribs one and one-half by three-quarters 
of an inch, placed four inches apart, and 
planked with one-half inch oak, all riv 
eted together with copper rivets. Each 
boat had ten separate air-tight compart 
ments running all round the sides. The 
best cork life-preservers were provided 
for all the men, and they were required 
to wear them whenever they were upon 
the water. All stores and provisions were 
packed in water-tight rubber bags made 
expressly for the purpose. 

We started from the mouth of Cres 
cent Creek, just above Dandy Crossing, 
December 10th, having hauled the boats 
and supplies by wagon one hundred and 
twenty miles from the railroad. From 
there we had two hundred miles of the 
old journey to go over again. That 
through Glen Canon was the easiest of 
the river, and was good training for 
the new men. The party consisted of 
twelve men, four of whom had been on 
the first expedition. My boat, No. 1, 
the Bonnie Jean, had for crew Harry 
McDonald, Langdon Gibson, and Elmer 
Kane ; No. 2, the Lillie, Assistant En 
gineer John Hislop, Photographer Nims, 
Reginald Travers, and W. H. Edwards ; 
No. 3, the Marie, A. B. Twining, H. G. 
Ballard, L. G. Brown, and James Hogue, 
the cook. 

Our trip through Glen Canon was like 
a pleasure trip on a smooth river in au 
tumn, with beautiful wild flowers and 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 597 



ferns at every camp. At Lee s Ferry we 
ate our Christmas dinner, with the table 
decorated with wild flowers picked that 
day. 

On December 28th we started to trav- 



fortable as possible till the next day, 
when we loaded one of the boats to 
make him a level bed, and constructing 
a stretcher of two oars and a piece of 
canvas, put him on board and floated 




A New Outfit for a Corps of Railroad Engineers. 



erse once more that portion of Marble 
Gallon made tragic by the death of three 
of our companions the summer before. 
On the next Tuesday we reached the 
spot where President Brown lost his life. 
What a change in the waters ! What was 
then a roaring torrent, now, with the 
water some nine feet lower, seemed from 
the shore like the gentle ripple upon a 
quiet lake. We found, however, in going 
through it with our boats, there was the 
same swift current, the same huge eddy, 
and between them the same whirlpool, 
with its ever-changing circles. 

Marble Canon seemed destined to give 
us trouble. On January 1st our photog 
rapher, Mr. Nims, fell from a bench of 
the cliff, some twenty-two feet, on to the 
sand beach below, receiving a severe jar, 
and breaking one of his legs just above 
the ankle. Having plenty of bandages 
and medicine, we made Nims as corn- 



down river a couple of miles running 
two small rapids to a side caiion which 
led out to the Lee s Ferry road. 

The next day, after finding a way out 
on top, I walked thirty-five miles back 
to Lee s Ferry for a wagon to take Nims 
where he could be cared for. But then 
came the tug of war the getting of 
Nims up from the river, one thousand 
seven hundred feet to the mesa above. 
Eight of the strongest men of the party 
started with him early Saturday morn 
ing, and reached the top at 3.30 P.M., 
having carried him four miles in dis 
tance and one thousand seven hundred 
feet up hill, the last half-mile being at 
an angle of forty-five degrees up a loose 
rock slide. 

In two places the stretcher had to be 
hung by ropes from above, while the 
men slid it along a sloping cliff too 
steep to stand upon, and in two places 



598 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 




The Depths of Marble Canon Looking up River 



it was lifted up with ropes over perpen 
dicular cliffs ten and fifteen feet high. 
The party reached the top, however, 
without the least injury to themselves 
or the sick man. 

Late on Sunday we bade Nims good- 
by, leaving him in charge of Mr. W. 
M. Johnson, of Lee s Ferry, and we 
returned to our camp in the canon be 
low. Nims s departure was a great loss 
to the expedition. His work fell to me, 
and the remainder of the photographic 
work (some seven hundred and fifty 
views) was done without preparation or 
previous experience. 

We continued our journey over the 
same part of the river that we had trav 
elled last summer, till January 13th, 
when we reached Point Ketreat, where 
we left the can on on our homeward 
march just six months before. We 
found our supplies, blankets, flour, sug 
ar, coffee, etc., which we had cached in 
the marble cave, all in good condition. 
From the head of the Colorado to Point 
Retreat we had encountered one hun 



dred and forty-four rapids, not counting 
small draws, in a distance of two hun 
dred and forty miles. From Lee s Ferry 
to Point Retreat there are forty-four 
rapids, in a distance of thirty miles. 
With our new boats we ran nearly all 
of these, and portaged but few ; over 
many of them our boats had danced 
and "jumped at the rate of fifteen miles 
an hour, and over some, by actual meas 
urement, at the rate of twenty miles per 
hour. To stand in the bow of one of 
these boats as she dashes through a 
great rapid, with first the bow and then 
the stern jumping into the air, and the 
spray of the breakers splashing over 
one s head, is an excitement the fascina 
tion of which can only be understood 
through experience. 

We stopped two days to complete our 
railway survey around a very difficult 
point, and on January 15th our boats 
were repacked, and we were ready to 
start down into the " Great Unknown." 

This part of Marble Canon, from Point 
Retreat for thirty-five miles down to 
the Little Colorado, is by far the most 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 599 



beautiful and interesting cafion we have 
yet passed through. At Point Retreat 
the marble walls stand perpendicularly 
300 feet from the water s edge, while the 
sandstone above benches back in slopes 
and cliffs to 2,500 feet high. Just below 
this the canon is narrowest, being but a 
little over 300 feet from wall to wall. 
As we go on, the marble rapidly rises 
till it stands in perpendicular cliffs 700 
to 800 feet high, colored with all the 
tints of the rainbow, but mostly red. In 
many places toward the top it is honey 
combed with caves, arches, and grottoes, 
with here and there a natural bridge left 
from one crag to another over some side- 
wash, making a grotesque and wonderful 
picture as our little boats glide along 
this quiet portion of the river, so many 
hundred feet below. 

At the foot of these cliffs, in many 



still on them. The next morning we 
buried them under an overhanging cliff. 
The burial service was brief and simple. 
We stood around the grave while one 
short prayer was offered, and we left him 
with a shaft of pure marble for his 
headstone, seven hundred feet high, 
with his name cut upon the base ; and in 
honor of his memory we named a mag 
nificent point opposite Point Haus- 
brough. 

From Point Hausbrough to the Little 
Colorado the canon widens, the marble 
benches retreat, new strata of limestone, 
quartzite, and sandstone come up from 
the river, and the debris forms a talus 
equal to a mountain slope. Here the 
bottoms widen into little farms covered 
with green grass and groves of mesquite, 
making a most charming summer picture, 
in strong: contrast with the dismal nar- 



jpi. . 

%>1 




Some Ancient Cliff Dwellings in Marble Canon 
Eight Hundred Feet above the River. 



places, are fountains of pure 
sparkling water gushing from the 
rock in one place, Vassey s Para 
dise, several hundred feet up the 
wall and dropping among shrub 
bery, ferns, and flowers, some of 
which even at this time of year 
are found in bloom. 

Ten miles below Point Eetreat, as we 
went into camp one evening, we discov 
ered the body of Peter M. Hausbrough, 
one of the boatmen drowned on our trip 
last summer. His remains were easily 
recognized from the clothing that was 



row canons above. And as we pass the 
valleys of the Nan-co-weap and the 
Kvvagunt the contrast is more strongly 
brought out. Here, among green grass 
and summer flowers, yonder, far up the 
valley on the lofty mountains covered 



600 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



with their winter mantle of pure white 
snow for a background, stand out sharp 
points of scarlet sandstone, and the 
darker green of the cedar and pine is 
heightened in color by the rose-tinted 
light which the morning sun flashes over 
the eastern walls of the caiion. 

We reached the end of Marble Canon, 
at the mouth of the Little Colorado, 
January 20th, and slept that night in the 
Grand Caiion. 

This first section of the Grand Caiion, 
from the Little Colorado to the begin 
ning of the Granite Gorge, some 18 
miles in distance, is one of great inter 
est. The whole section seems to have 
been upturned, tumbled over, and mixed 
in every imaginable shape, some of the 
oldest and newest formations standing 
side by side, showing most gorgeous 
coloring of mineralized matter, from 
dark purple and green to bright red and 
yellow. The river runs through quite 
a wide valley, with bottom lands and 
groves of mesquite. The top walls of the 
canon are miles and miles apart, and 
hills and knobs rise between the river 
and the walls beyond, these being sepa 
rated by deep washes and gulches run 
ning in every direction. 

At this point we met one lone pros 
pector and his dog the only human 
being we found in any of the cailons for 
a distance of 300 miles. 

We soon reached the Granite Gorge 
of the Grand Cafion. This has a peculiar 
form of its own. Unlike the towering 
masses of granite of some of the canons 
of the Rocky Mountains, its walls start 
from the water s edge with generally a 
few feet 10 to 50 of vertical cliff, and 
then slope back in a ragged irregular 
slope, 800 to 1,200 feet, at an angle 
varying from a few degrees to forty-five 
degrees from vertical, with some small 
patches jutting out boldly into the river, 
and towering hundreds of feet high, 
forming almost perpendicular cliffs ; or 
rather, more accurately speaking, they 
form buttresses and towers to the gen 
erally sloping walls. 

On top of this granite, some little way 
back from the crest of the slope, is a 
dark-brown and black stratum of hard 
sandstone standing generally vertical, 
fifty to one hundred feet high. Cut up 
into small points, and black rounded 



knobs, it has the appearance of a black 
beaded fringe running the whole length 
of the granite, and in keeping, both in 
form and color, with the gloomy depths 
of the narrow gorge below. 

Above this formation the various stra 
ta of limestone, quartzite, marble, and 
bright red and white sandstone pile up 
on each other in receding steps, cut 
into every imaginable shape by side- 
washes and caiions, till the whole main 
caiion is from six to twelve miles wide 
at the top. 

Into this narrow granite gorge, on 
January 24th, we rowed our boats with 
caution. The fall of the river for the 
first ten miles averages twenty-one feet 
per mile (the greatest average fall, ex 
cept in a portion of Cataract Caiion), 
and this is contracted into individual 
falls and rapids of greater depth and 
more powerful in the concentrated 
strength of their raging waters, than 
any upon the whole river, with the ex 
ception of two at the extreme lower end 
of the canon. 

With this same care we worked on 
slowly and cautiously, making but short 
distances each day, running such rap 
ids as were considered safe, letting our 
loaded boats down by lines from rock 
to rock over some, and portaging our 
whole stock of supplies, and lifting our 
boats over the rocks in others. We 
moved on thus till January 29th, when 
we came to the greatest fall in the river 
put down in government reports as 
eighty feet in one-third of a mile. Over 
the upper end of this rapid we let all 
three boats down by lines in safety, but 
as we started to repeat this for a further 
distance, the Marie was caught by a 
cross current, swept in against the rock, 
turned half on her side, filled with water, 
and was jammed tight between two 
sunken bowlders. 

With a line tied around their waists 
and two men holding it on shore, first 
one man and then another (for the 
water is so cold one can stay in it but a 
few minutes) went out upon the boat, 
waist-deep in the rushing waters, and 
with grappling-hook and line secured 
nearly all the load of provisions, blank 
ets, etc. Only two sacks of provisions 
were swept away by the current. But 
the boat, though we worked hard at her 




The Narrow Gorge below Kanab Wash, Grand Canon. 



602 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 




Getting an Unloaded Boat down a Rapid with Lines. 



till dark, we gave up as lost, and lay 
down to sleep, if possible, literally upon 
the sharp edges of the broken granite 
rocks. 

That night the river rose two feet, 
and lifted the boat loose, so that early 
the next morning by a little hard work 
we got her out. But such a boat ! one 
side half gone, and the other smashed 
in, yet her keel not broken. We pulled 
her upon the rocks and at once set to 
work. We cut four feet out of her 
centre, drew the two ends together, and 
with five days hard work we had a new 
boat. In those five days we were not a 
moment without the awful roar of that 
mighty torrent in our ears, with hardly 
wood enough to cook our meals (the 
last two days cooking done with the 
shavings from the broken boat), and the 
ever - returning question which boat 
would go next ? 

On the fourth of February we were 
on the river again. The lower part of 
the rapid was run in safety (and many 



others). February 5th, we passed Bright 
Angel Creek, and on the 6th came to 
the most powerful and unmanageable 
rapid we had met on the river. We 
portaged our supplies, and followed our 
usual method of swinging the empty 
boats down by lines. My boat was to 
go first. The 250 foot line was strung 
out ahead, and the boat was swung into 
the stream. She rode the huge waves 
with ease, and went below the rapid 
without injury. The men and the line 
worked well and payed out smoothly ; 
but when the boat reached the foot of 
the fall, she acted like a young colt 
eager for a play. 

She turned her nose out toward the 
current, and as it struck her, she started 
like a shot for the other side of the 
river. The men held to her doggedly. 
After crossing the current she turned 
and came back into the eddy, and for a 
few moments stood still, just as a colt 
ready for another prance. The men 
rushed down along the rocks to get the 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 603 



line ahead, but before they could get 
far enough, she turned her head again 
to the stream. The men put their wills 
into their arms, and held her once more ; 
she did not cross the current, but on 
reaching the centre dipped her nose 
under as if trying her strength, came up 
at once, rose on a wave, and then, as if 
for a final effort to gain her liberty, 
dived her head under, filled with water, 
and went completely out of sight. In a 
few moments she rose to the surface, 
and slowly and leisurely floated side- 
wise across the eddy toward shore, and 
quietly stopped alongside a shelving 
rock. 

To prevent another such experience 
we adopted Major Powell s plan in such 
cases, of shooting the boat through and 
catching it below. 



against the cliff, sank in the worst part 
of the rapid, and came up in pieces 
about the size of tooth-picks our five 
days labor and our boat gone together ! 

The next morning we carried our 
other boat, the Lillie, over the rocks, 
and got her down in safety. We started 
once more, eleven men and two boats. 
We had good water for two days, and 
went into camp for our Sunday rest, 
after a week of most trying labor. 

Monday morning McDonald, our first 
boatman, left us, starting up a little 
creek for Kanab, Utah, which place he 
reached after a number of days of sev 
ere tramping through the heavy snow 
on the plateau above. The rest of 
the party seemed to take on a more de 
termined feeling that the exploration 
should go on to a final success. Special 




Rebuilding the Marie in the Granite Gorge, Grand Canon. 



The Marie, the rebuilt boat, was praise is due to Mr. John Hislop and 
started first. She rode gracefully the Mr. Keginald Travers, for the deter- 
high waves at the head of the rapid, but mined and manly spirit with which they 
in the middle she turned, partially stepped into new and trying duties, and 
filled with water, shot to one side, struck the perseverance with which they car- 



604 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



ried them through. Hislop, Kane, and 
I spent two days in climbing to the top 
of the canon, and examining the forma 
tions we had passed through, before 
continuing down the river. 

The great Granite Gorge is about 
forty miles in length. That portion 
from its head to the Bright Angel Creek, 
some fifteen miles, is narrow, dark, and 
gloomy. It stands at the upper gate 
way of the great cafion as if by its very 
frown to keep back the intruder, and 
guard from vulgar eyes and sordid 
greed the grandeur, the beauty, and 
hidden treasure of the lower canon. 
At the Bright Angel Creek everything 
changes the granite slopes are natter, 
they are of a softer black granite, cut in 
to sharp pinnacles and crags, and seem 



beautiful hillsides, of variegated black, 
gray, and green. 

At the side caiions, and from the bends 
of the river, the upper portions of the 
whole gorge are brought into view, show 
ing the great marble and sandstone cliffs, 
benched back far away from the river, 
while mountains jut in close between 
the side canons and washes nearly a 
mile and a quarter in height. As we 
sail along the smooth stretches betw r een 
the rapids, each turn brings some won 
derful picture more beautiful than the 
last. As we look down the river, or up 
a low side canon, with the placid water 
between its polished walls of black, and 
gray, and green, for a foreground, there 
rise above the dark sandstone, tier up 
on tier, bench upon bench, terrace upon 




A Waterfall from Firs 



inch, Grand Canon. 



more as if formed 
stratified slate. 

The canon grows more and more pic 
turesque and beautiful the farther we 
proceed. The granite has lost its awful 
and threatening look, and slopes back in 



of very coarsely terrace, stepping back farther and far 
ther, and higher and higher, and in im 
mensity of height and proportion seem 
ing to tower almost over our heads. First 
above the dark sandstone come the flat 
tened slopes of the lime and mineralized 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 605 




After the Storm in Grand Canon. 



matter, in horizontal layers of yellow, 
brown, white, red, and green. 

Then rise sheer walls of stained marble 
one thousand feet or more, the lower 
portions yellow, brown, and red, the col 
oring of red growing brighter as it nears 
the top. Above this, smaller benches of 
marble, at the top of each a little mesa 
covered with green bunch grass and 
bushes, and above these a dozen or more 
terraces of scarlet and flame-colored 
sandstone, stained on their outer points 
with black, and the little benches be 
tween them relieved by the bright green 
of the greasewood and bunch grass, the 
whole crowned with perhaps a couple of 
thousand feet of the lighter gray, yel 
low, and white sandstone ledges, capped 
by pinnacles and spires, turrets and 
domes, in every imaginable shape, size, 
and proportion. With all their slopes 
covered, and their tops fringed with 
pine, cedar, and pinion trees, whose 



dark green stands out in bold relief 
against the banks of pure white snow 
that cover the top and have run down 
into the many gulches along the sides. 

After our climb up the sides of the 
canon, where we spent thirty hours 
without water, we were glad to get back 
to the river. On Wednesday, February 
12th, we again took up our journey with 
our little fleet of two boats, each with a 
new helmsman. W T e portaged by two 
long, rocky rapids, and late in the after 
noon reached rapids Nos. 261 and 262, 
one close following the other. 

We climbed over a high point of the 
cliff to examine them. The first has im 
mense waves, but is clear of rocks ; but 
in the centre of the second are a num 
ber of bowlders above water, and below 
them one large rock fifty feet wide, 
sloping down into the water on the up 
stream side. Up this slope the waters 
roll as they divide into the channels on 



606 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



either side. We believe the right-hand 
channel to be the best, and decide to 
run both rapids. We start into the first 
in good shape, the men pulling with all 
their might to give us steerage-wa} r . 



the quieter waters below, we turn to look 
for our other boat. It is nowhere in 
sight. We pull quick to the shore. As 
we jump out, we see the cook on top 
of the great rock in the centre of the 




Below the Great Volcano. 



The waves prove higher than any we 
have tried with our loaded boats. Stand 
ing in the bow of the first boat the ex 
citement is wild. .On to the first wave 
we go, and, impelled by the speed of 
the oarsmen, added to a twenty-mile- an- 
hour current, as our boat rises over it 
she shoots fairly out into the air, and 
drops on the top of the next smooth 
wave with a loud report, and the strain 
ing of every timber in her frame. 
The third wave is breaking high in the 
air. Our boat, dropping into the trough, 
dips her head, and we go clean through 
the solid part of the breaker, and come 
up on the other side half filled with 
water. In a moment we are shot by the 
great rock in the centre of the channel, 
so close that only the rebounding waters 
keep us from striking. As we glide into 



stream, frantically waving his hat. We 
jump back into the boat, and pull out 
into the stream, ready to pick up the 
other four men as they float down ; but 
in a moment they all appear on top of 
the rock. We pull up into the eddy 
behind the rock to help them. Their 
boat, turned broadside in trying to make 
the right channel, has been caught by 
the main current and landed high and 
dry on the sloping side of the rock, and 
the men step out without injury. 

With some difficulty we got the boat 
off, with no other damage than being 
full of water. We were soon bailed out, 
and went into camp in a pretty well 
soaked condition. 

From the southern portion of Powell s 
plateau to the mouth of the Kanab 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 607 



Wash, the canon assumes an entirely 
new form. The granite, except in a few 
patches, has sunk under the river, and 
the softer strata of sand and limestone, 
which formed the great slopes above the 



2,000 and 3,000 feet overhead, and those 
beyond reaching to a height of over 
6,000 feet, and its long swinging green 
slopes, with the quiet waters sparkling 
in the sun at their foot ; for the rapids 







Below Diamond Creek, Grand Cane 



granite, have come down next to the 
river, and rise from the water s edge in 
great talus slopes, from 300 to 600 feet 
high, at a general angle of forty degrees 
from vertical. The high cliffs of mar 
ble and red sandstone bench back from 
the tops of these slopes. Although these 
outer peaks and cliffs have drawn in 
close upon the river, the canon itself 
that is, the inner gorge is much wider 
than above, the width being measured 
between the tops of the great talus 
slopes. The river is broader, and it 
sweeps in gentle curves at the foot of 
the talus, which is covered with bushes, 
bunch grass, and large mesquite groves. 
On many of the long stretches where 
the river can be seen for several miles, 
the picture is one of charming beauty 
with the walls of bright colors towering 



are much less frequent and the stretches 
of still water are growing longer and 
longer. 

In this section, for a few days, we had 
almost all the rainy weather we experi 
enced during the whole winter. As the 
clouds gathered thick, they hung down 
low in the gorge, shutting out from 
view all the upper cliffs. The rain 
poured down in torrents, but it seemed 
lost in the immensity of the chasm. As 
the clouds rose we were treated to scenes 
rare and beautiful in the extreme. Over 
the brink of the upper walls came first 
one and then another hundreds of 
little streams, shooting far out into the 
air, and dropping hundreds and hun 
dreds of feet over the cliffs, breaking 
up into sparkling spray before they 
struck the bench below. These formed 




Under the Shadow of the Great Volcano, Grand Canon. 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 609 



thousands of smaller rivulets as they 
dropped farther and farther down, till 
the whole of the bright scarlet walls 
seemed hung with a tapestry of silver 
threads, the border fringed with white 
fleecy clouds which clung to the tops of 
the walls, and through which the points 
of the upper cliffs shone as scarlet tas 
sels. As the sun broke through some 
side gorge, the canon was spanned from 
side to side, as the clouds shifted their 
position, with rainbow after rainbow, 
vying to outdo in brilliancy of color the 
walls of the canon themselves. 

From the Kanab Wash, for about 
twenty miles down, is perhaps the nar 
rowest and deepest part of the great 
inner gorge. The sandstones and lime 
stones have sunk under the river, and 
the marble and upper sandstones have 
come close into the water. At the bot 
tom, the gorge is from 150 to 200 feet 
wide, and the river runs between vertical 
walls vertical, however, for only about 
eighty feet up and fills the whole space 
from wall to wall. 

The walls of this portion of the canon 
(and it comes nearer being a true canon 
than any other part of the river) rise 
above the water 3,000 feet, and they 
are almost vertical. The benches are 
narrower, and the vertical cliffs between 
the benches higher, than in any other 
section. And yet, strange to relate, 
from one end of this section to the other, 
there is a bench about thirty feet above 
high water, running almost parallel with 
the grade of the river, of solid marble, 
and wide enough to build a four-track 
railroad upon. 

The night before we reached Kanab 
Wash, the river rose four feet ; it con 
tinued to rise for two days and two 
nights. How much the total rise was is 
not certain, but somewhere from ten to 
twelve feet. Just below Kanab Wash 
there is a rapid, a mile and a half long. 
On Tuesday morning we started down 
this rapid. We made the mile and a 
half in just four and a half minutes. We 
then had for some time few rapids, but 
a rushing, singing current, forming ed 
dies, whirlpools, and back currents, fear 
ful to contemplate, much more to ride 
upon. 

About 2.30 P.M. we heard a deep, loud 
roar, and saw the breakers ahead in 
VOL. VIII. GO 



white foam. With a great effort we 
stopped upon a pile of broken rock that 
had rolled into the river. When we 
went ahead to look, much to our sur 
prise, the whole terrible rapid that we 
had expected to see had disappeared, 
and there was only a rushing current in 
its stead. While we stood wondering, 
there rose right at our feet those same 
great waves, twelve to fifteen feet in 
height and from one hundred to one 
hundred and fifty long across the river, 
rolling down stream like great se& 
waves, and breaking in white foam with 
a terrible noise. We watched and won 
dered, and at last concluded that this 
was the forefront of a great body of 
water rolling down this narrow trough 
from some great cloud-burst above. * 
Believing that discretion was the better 
part of valor, we camped right there on 
that pile of rocks, fearing that, although 
our boats would ride the waves in safe 
ty, we might be caught in one of these 
rolls just at the head of a rapid, and, un 
able to stop, be carried over the rapid 
with the additional force of the rushing 
breakers. 

The next morning, to our surprise, we 
found the flood had begun to recede. 
After an early breakfast we started on 
what proved afterward to be the wildest, 
most daring, and exciting ride we had 
on the river the canon so narrow, the 
turns quick and sharp, the current rush 
ing first on one side and then on the 
other, forming whirlpools, eddies, and 
chutes. Our boats caught first in one, 
then in the other ; now spun round like 
leaves in the wind, then shot far to the 
right or left almost against the wall ; 
now caught by a mighty roll, and first 
carried to the top of the great waves, 
and then dropped into the trough of the 
sea with a force almost sufficient to take 
away one s breath. Many times we nar 
rowly escaped being carried over the 
rapids before we could examine them, 
making exciting and sudden landings 
by pulling close to shore, and with bow 
up stream rowing hard to partially 
check our speed, while one man jumped 
with a line to a ledge of rocks, and 
held on for his life, and ours too. At 
last we round a sharp turn and see a 

* The cloud-burst had occurred on the head-waters of 
the Little Colorado, as we learned some weeks later. 



610 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



roaring, foaming rapid below, and as 
we come in full view of it we are caught 
in a mighty roll of flood waves. We try 
to pull out to an eddy it is all in vain, 
we cannot cross such a current. We 
must go down over the rapid. In try 
ing to pull out our boats are turned 
quartering with the current, and in this 
position we go over the rollers and 
through the breakers up to the head of 
the rapid. 

When we find we must go over the 
rapid, with great effort we straighten 
the boats round and enter in good 
shape, bow on. It lasts but a moment. 
The cross-current strikes us, and we go 
broadside over the worst part of the 
rapid. Crouched down in the bottom, 
it is as much as we can do to keep from 
being tossed out as the boats roll from 
wave to wave. They are entirely un 
manageable, and as we strike the whirl 
pools below we are spun round like a 
top ; but finally, at the end of the rapid 
our little boats float into an eddy as 
quietly and gracefully as swans. 

About eleven o clock we reached more 
open country. For about ten miles, 
down to the great volcano, the canon 
with its wide river, and broad, high tal 
us slopes, and receding benched walls, 
is identical with that above the Kanab. 

Wednesday night we camped under 
the shadow of what remains of that 
wonderful and awful volcano. It is dark 
and gloomy now. As I lay in my bed, 
I looked up through the moonlight at 
its now silent crater frowning down 
upon us, and tried to picture to myself 
the scenes of centuries ago, when it first 
belched forth its molten rock and poured 
it down for miles and miles through 
the valley, and into the surging torrents 
of this wild river. Who saw it ? Who 
heard it ? Did any but the eye of God 
look down upon the seething, boiling 
terrors of that time, as that upper river 
of molten fire ran down into that lower 
river of melted snow ? 

The appearance of the whole country 
changes a short distance above the vol 
cano. From there for a distance of 
some thirty-five miles, everything has 
been torn and rended. The solid cliffs 
of marble which have stood up so grandly 
are now in shreds. The former pinna 
cles and spires have tumbled and gone. 



Great vaults are seen where mountains 
have dropped into the bowels of the 
earth, and toppled over as they fell. 
The whole upper country looks but the 
sad and awful reminder of its former 
greatness. 

We had now been on our journey 
over three months, and our provisions 
were getting low. We had had no meat 
or sugar for two weeks. The greatest 
privation of all we had smoked up all 
our tobacco. We were all anxious to 
reach Diamond Creek, where we expect 
ed to get new supplies from the railroad 
at Peach Springs. We were up early and 
worked late. Rapids were thick and 
some of them heavy ; but we dashed on 
and into the breakers without stopping, 
for the water was still high, and the 
channels clear, and all we could suffer 
was to get a wetting, and this we did at 
almost every run. 

The weather was colder than any we 
had experienced during the winter. In 
the early morning, when covered com 
pletely by the spray of the breakers as 
we shot through them, we became en 
cased in a thin sheet of ice. Photo 
graphing under such circumstances was 
a little out of the regular order, for the 
first operation before exposure was to 
build a fire and thaw the ice off the 
instruments. However, we made rapid 
progress the last two days portaged 
one great rapid and ran fifty-five others, 
and landed at the mouth of Diamond 
Creek late on the evening of March 1st. 

We remained at Diamond Creek ten 
days, replenishing our supplies and 
completing our survey up and down 
the river. Here the party was reduced 
to eight by the departure except of 
Ballard of the crew of the lost boat. 

About two miles above Diamond Creek 
begins the second Granite Gorge. It 
extends for some twenty-five or thirty 
miles, and is almost identical with that 
at the upper end of the canon, except 
that the buttresses on the sloping walls 
are higher and more bold, and the short, 
perpendicular granite cliffs are more fre 
quent. 

On the morning of March 12th we 
were again on the river to complete the 
remaining fifty-three miles of the Grand 
Canon. This granite section, like that 



THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 611 



above, proved the most difficult to navi 
gate. The water, though not having so 
much fall for miles as that above, is 
in places confined between such narrow 
walls, is concentrated into such steep 
and powerful rapids and falls, its dash 
ing current is torn up by so many more 
and more powerful whirlpools, sucks, 
and eddies, that it seemed, although we 
had escaped the dangers of the upper 
river, as though these few remaining 
rapids would vanquish our little fleet 
and our whole party. For there were rap 
ids and falls where there was no choice 
left but to shoot through them. It was 
physically impossible to go around them 
without abandoning the river. 

On the first day s run, boat No. 2 nar 
rowly escaped complete wreck against 
the cliff at the side of the rapid we were 
running. That day and the morning of 
the next were passed in running a suc 
cession of sharp and heavy rapids, with 
many lighter ones interspersed. All of 
these, though clear of rocks, were full 
of heavy waves, which seemed to take 
delight in dashing their foaming crests 
over us, keeping us wet from morning 
till night. About three o clock in the 
afternoon of the second day we came to 
rapid No. 465 in a part of the gorge 
where two streams enter directly oppo 
site each other. The bowlders have 
washed into and down the river, form 
ing three dams across it. These make 
three drops or falls in the one great 
rapid, that in all has a fall of perhaps 
thirty feet. On the right side is a per 
pendicular cliff, fifty to one hundred 
feet high, extending two-thirds of the 
length of the rapid. On the left side 
is a perpendicular cliff of one thousand 
feet or more in height, and extending 
the whole length of the rapid. The 
current, turned from the right side by 
the large number of bowlders from that 
creek, dashes, after passing over the 
first fall, against the left cliff, just at the 
head of the second fall, and is thrown 
back with awful force, and, as it meets 
the current from the right, curls up in 
angry waves fifteen to twenty feet high, 
first from one side and then from the 
other. From this the whole current is 
thrown against the right wall, as it 
curves out into the stream, just at the 
head of the third fall. 



We climbed up on the right or lower 
cliff, and carefully looked it over. It 
took but a few moments to see that 
there was no way to get our boats or 
supplies around this rapid. It must be 
run. There was not a moment s hesi 
tation. Every man went back to the 
boats and jumped in. They were soon 
ready for the plunge. For the first time 
on the expedition I took my note-book 
from my pocket and put it inside my 
inner shirt, and buttoned it up tight, 
and retied my cork jacket. 

In a moment we were at the head of 
the first fall, and over or through a half 
dozen huge waves, and approaching the 
second fall. As I looked down into that 
pit of fury, I wondered if it were possible 
for our boats to go through it and come 
out whole, and right side up. I had no 
time for a second thought. We were in 
the midst of the breakers. They lashed 
us first one side and then the other, 
breaking far above our heads, and half 
filled our boat. For a second we were 
blinded with the dashing, muddy waters. 
In another second we were through and 
out, and right side up. I turned to look 
to see if all the men were safe. They 
were all in their places ; but our boat, 
though right side up, had been turned 
quartering with the current, and we 
were being carried with fearful force 
toward the right cliff. Every instant I 
expected to be dashed against the cliff 
ahead, where the whole current of water 
was piled up in one boiling mass against 
the solid granite ; but just as I thought 
the last moment had come, our sturdy 
Scotch helmsman, Hislop, gave the boat 
a sudden turn, and, assisted by the re 
bounding wave, we went by the cliff, and 
I shouted to the men : " That s good ! 
that s good! We are past!" But the 
words were hardly out of my mouth 
when, as we rounded the point into the 
third fall, our boat, thrown in by a huge 
wave, crashed into a rock that pro 
jected from the shore, and she stopped. 
We were all thrown forward. The boat 
filled with water, sank upon the rock, 
and stuck fast. Wave after wave in 
quick succession rolled over us. I tried 
to straighten myself up, when a great wave 
struck me in the back, and I was washed 
clean out of the boat into the whirlpool 
below the rock. For an instant I knew 



612 THROUGH THE GRAND CANON OF THE COLORADO. 



nothing ; but as I was drawn down my 
consciousness returned, and as I was car 
ried by that whirlpool, down, down, down, 
I wondered if I should ever reach the 
bottom of the river. The time seemed 
an age. The river seemed bottomless. 
In a few moments I was caught as by 
two forces one around my legs, and 
another around my back and twisting 
in opposite directions ; they sent me 
whirling away, and I was shot to the 
surface fifty feet (I am told) down the 
rapid from where I went in. 

I caught my breath just in time to be 
carried under the next big wave com 
ing out again in the lighter waves at the 
lower end of the rapid. Thanks to my 
cork jacket I floated high above the 
water, but was carried along through 
the swiftest of the current. 

The second boat fared better than 
ours. She came over the falls much in 
the same way, but not being turned 
round in the second fall, she kept her 
course better, and although she only 
missed our stranded boat about two feet 
as she passed, came through without 
a scratch. She was caught in the eddy 
at the foot of the third fall, but final 
ly came down stern foremost and soon 
overtook me at the end of the rapid ; 
and Edwards and the cook jerked me 
into the second boat as mercilessly as I 
was dashed from the first. 

The damaged boat soon got off the 
rock, and, although she had a hole in 
her side eighteen by ten inches, she 
could not sink. The men rode down 
in her to where they could land. We 
hauled her out, and in an hour put on 
a temporary copper patch. 

We started again, and in search of 
wood ran another roaring, tumbling 
rapid, and went into camp late with 
plenty of wood and a pile of granite 
bowlders to sleep among. 

Every man was wet from head to foot, 
almost every blanket soaked. We had 
a hot supper and sat around our camp 
fire and smoked many pipes of tobacco 
they were comforting and at last 
we wrapped ourselves in our wet blank 
ets and lay down for the night. 

From the end of the Granite to the 
Grand Wash Cliffs, the canon is but a 
repetition of the lower end of Marble 



Canon. The granite and sandstones 
have sunk below the river, and the 
great talus slopes below the limestones, 
and marbles stretch down to the water s 
edge, with large flats covered with bush 
es and trees. In one point it differs : 
Numerous springs run down the sides 
at every possible position and height 
above the river. Some dropping over 
cliffs and precipices in pure white foam 
ing cascades, others trickling down in 
little streams through acres of green 
moss and ferns, and a hundred varieties 
of wild flowers ; while others, gushing 
out near the river s edge in torrents 
of boiling water, form a beautiful pict 
ure. 

From the great volcano on down the 
canon, for many miles, the bright flam 
ing color of the upper sandstone is 
gone, and the whole coloring is of duller 
red and brown ; but in this lowest sec 
tion some little of the scarlet and flash 
ing beauty has returned. 

The noble marble cliffs, rising from 
the top of the talus slopes, are cut by 
many side canons and streams, so that 
they stand up in mountains almost 
overhanging the river. The grandeur 
and beauty of this lower section is hard 
ly surpassed by any other part of the 
river. 

One would think that after travelling 
through six hundred miles of these 
canons, one would be satiated with beau 
ty and grandeur, but in this fact lies the 
charm. Of the six hundred miles no 
two miles are alike. The picture is ever 
changing from grandeur to beauty, from 
beauty to sublimity, from the dark and 
frowning greatness of its granite walls, 
to the dazzling colors of its upper cliffs. 
And I stood, in the last few miles of the 
Grand Canon, spellbound in wonder and 
admiration as firmly as I was fixed in the 
first few miles in surprise and astonish 
ment. 

Our last Sunday in the canon was 
truly a day of rest. After a week of the 
hardest and most exciting w T ork, wet 
from morning till night, with well- 
soaked blankets every night for a bed, 
it certainly was a pleasure to spread 
our beds, our clothes, and ourselves out 
in the sun and do nothing. 

At 9.15 A.M., Monday, March 17th, 
we merged from the Grand Canon into 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



613 



an open country, and on a peaceful and 
quiet river. 

What a change ! What a relief ! 
What a joy ! Our task virtually accom 
plished, our dangers all left behind, 
and now (humanly speaking) a certain 
ty, which we never felt before, of once 
more seeing our families and dear ones 
at home ! With our camp that night 
beside a quiet, gently -flowing river, 
with not a sound to disturb, it is no 
wonder that we went to sleep with 
thankful hearts, and overslept ourselves 
in the morning. 

I had looked forward to the journey 
from the Grand Wash to the Gulf, a 
distance of some six hundred miles, as 
of quiet and uninteresting monotony. 
How I was mistaken ! The broad and 
fertile valleys and sloping hill-sides, only 
awaiting the hand of man, the irrigating 
ditch, and a market, to turn them into 
lovely homes and rich-producing farms ; 
the Bowlder, the Black, and the Mojave 
Canons, rivalling in beauty some of the 
larger canons above ; the great Cotton- 
wood, Mojave, and Colorado Valleys, 
with their miles upon miles of rich level 
plains and gently sloping hills, bounded 



on every side by the curious and intri 
cate fringe of the Opal, the Black, and 
the Dead Mountains, formed a panorama 
of beauty and surprise that was charm 
ing and instructive in the extreme. 

We passed the Needles, Fort Mojave, 
and Yuma. With a clearance for our 
fleet from the custom-house at Yuma, 
we entered the Republic of Mexico, and 
on the 26th of April reached tide-water 
at the head of the Gulf of California. 
Here we left our boats, and to me it was 
a sad parting. Noble little craft, the 
Bonnie Jean and the Lillie ! they had 
carried us and our stores now nearly 
twelve hundred miles, and had grace 
fully danced over the waves, the torrents, 
and cataracts of this wildest of rivers, 
and never once had been upset. 

And their gallant crews ! It is enough 
to say they never met a danger or diffi 
culty but what they were as ready to 
enter it as they were quick to con 
quer. 

We rested a day, and then, accepting 
the courtesy and four-mule teams of 
Senor Andrades, returned overland to 
Yuma, where, on April 30th, the party 
was disbanded. 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 

By Mary Cadwalader Jones. 



WITHIN the memory of most of 
us nearly every family boasted 
some member who was said to 
be a "born nurse," who came to the 
fore in times of sickness, and whose 
labor of love was sometimes shared by 
a paid outsider, usually a motherly body 
supposed to have a great deal of expe 
rience. But that time is past, and now 
no one who can afford a trained nurse 
thinks of taking a patient through an 
illness without one, any more than a 
captain willingly takes his ship through 
a dangerous channel without a pilot. 

This means that a new trade or pro 
fession has been created for women, 



and it may be told once more that they 
owe it to one of the noblest women of 
her time. 

At the close of the Crimean War the 
passionate gratitude of the English peo 
ple to Florence Nightingale found ex 
pression in a great public meeting, at 
which fifty thousand pounds was sub 
scribed as a testimonial to her. She 
refused, however, to take it for herself, 
and at her request it was devoted to a 
foundation which was quaintly termed 
"An Institution for the Training, Sus 
tenance, and Protection of Nurses and 
Hospital Attendants," in connection 
with St. Thomas s Hospital, London : 



614 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



and thus the first English training 
school for nurses was started in June, 
1860. 

Accounts of this great reform, which 
spread in England from year to year, 
reached this country more or less vague 
ly, but were without result until, in 
1872, the men and women belonging to 
that branch of the State Charities Aid 
Association which visited the sick in 
Bellevue Hospital felt that they could 
not do any good or lasting work until 
the existing system, or want of system, 
should be entirely changed. The nurses 
were too few in number, nearly all illit 
erate, some immoral, and others intem 
perate, and had sought their places 
simply as a means of livelihood, and not 
because they had any aptitude for, or 
knowledge of, their profession. The 
members of the Bellevue Association 
therefore applied to the Commissioners 
of Charities and Correction for permis 
sion to establish a school for nurses 
at Bellevue Hospital, pledging them 
selves to pay the additional salaries and 
all other expenses of a better class of 
women and to put two more nurses in 
each ward. The consent of the Medical 
Board of the hospital, to whom the 
Commissioners referred this appeal, 
having finally been given to what many 
physicians considered a doubtful ex 
periment, the Bellevue Training School 
for Nurses was started on May 1, 1873, 
with a superintendent and five nurses, 
having five wards under their care. 

In 1890 the school has 62 pupils and 
has graduated 345, while as a direct out 
growth of that modest beginning there 
are three other great schools in New 
York alone. These are the New York 
City, which has 64 pupils and has grad- 
uted 263 ; the New York Hospital, with 
48 pupils and 192 graduates ; and Mount 
Sinai, with 50 pupils and 111 gradu 
ates. There are also smaller schools in 
the city, but, great or small, Bellevue 
must always be honored as the pioneer. 
Her graduates are at the head of most 
of the important schools and hospitals 
in the country, and have even gone so 
far afield as England, Italy, and China. 

The next school to be established was 
the New York City, which was started 
by the Commissioners of Charities and 
Correction in 1877, and is entirely sup 



ported by the City. Until last year it 
was known as the Charity Hospital 
School, because it began there, but as it 
grew its work spread until the old name 
was misleading and had to be changed. 
It is now the largest and in some re 
spects the most important of all the 
schools, as it nurses five different hospi 
tals Charity and Maternity on Black- 
well s Island, the Infants Hospital on 
Randall s Island, Gouverneur at Gou- 
verneur Slip, and Harlem, at the foot of 
East 120th Street, the two last being 
accident or emergency hospitals, while at 
Charity the cases are largely chronic. 
Besides the pupils of the school, there 
are thirty-two permanent trained nurses 
at Charity and Randall s Island, making 
nearly a hundred in all, for whom the 
superintendent is directly responsible, 
and over whom she has full authority. 
The other schools in the city are sup 
ported from the funds of the hospitals 
which they nurse. 

I have said that nursing is a trade or 
profession, for it is really both being 
a trade, in that it exacts manual skill 
and dexterity, and a profession because 
it requires mental ability, judgment, 
and progressive knowledge. The hos 
pital is therefore at once a workshop 
and a college, with this essential differ 
ence, however, that its scholars exist 
because it has need of them, not they of 
it. So much talk has been made about 
nursing as a noble " vocation " that it is 
easy to lose sight of the fact that hospital 
training schools are run first of all be 
cause hospital patients must be taken 
care of. When Florence Nightingale 
led her little band of workers out of 
England it was not in order that women 
should have a new vocation, but because 
men were dying like flies in the hos 
pitals at Scutari, and the women who 
started the Bellevue School did so be 
cause they found the hospital could be 
well nursed in no other way. 

In most of the schools the nurses 
receive each $10 a month during the 
first year of their service, and $15 the 
second, and at the present time there 
is some discussion as to whether they 
should be paid at all, or should give 
their time in return for their profes 
sional training, as the house physicians 
do. This seems reasonable enough to 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



615 



an outsider, but in the first place much 
of a nurse s work is of a routine kind, 
repeated far oftener than is necessary 
for her education, and such as a doctor 
is rarely called upon to do, and in the 
second, the most desirable pupils are 
those who could be self-supporting out 
side the schools, and will not be a bur 
den on their families while in them. 
In this country there is a large class of 
conscientious and industrious women 
whose education and early associations 
lead them to look for some higher and 
more thoughtful labor than household 
service or work in shops, who have re 
ceived the good education of our com 
mon schools, and who are dependent on 
their own exertions for support. These 
women can be trained to make the best 
possible nurses, and it is the unanimous 
opinion of the superintendents of the 
large schools that it would be false 
economy to seek to deprive such pupils 
of the small salary which now keeps 
them independent during two years of 
very hard work. 

We will suppose that a woman of this 
kind has decided to go into one of the 
large schools, and has applied to the 
superintendent for information. She 
receives in return a circular giving the 
rules, requirements, and course of study, 
and in due time finds herself with other 
candidates waiting for examination in 
the superintendent s office. When her 
turn comes, and if her credentials are 
satisfactory, the superintendent usually 
talks to her a little while in order to 
find out what grade of nurse she is like 
ly to make ; for candidates are admitted 
only on their own merits, and where 
there are more applicants than vacancies 
it is important to secure the best. A 
short examination in spelling, dictation, 
and simple arithmetic follows, and also 
in reading aloud, but this is often passed 
over if the candidate is evidently too 
nervous to do herself justice. 

Various experiments have been tried 
as to Examining Boards, but the best 
result is always gained by choosing a 
good superintendent, and then leaving 
her free to select her own nurses, with 
out fear or favor, from those who pre 
sent themselves, as she must train, disci 
pline, and live with them for two years, 
and has therefore every reason to take 



only those who are likely to do her 
credit. 

Apart from articles in professional 
journals, much that has been written 
about hospital life is apt to strike one 
familiar with it as somewhat vague and 
sentimental, and there may therefore be 
some interest in the following sketches, 
by pupils now in the New York City 
Training School. The first gives a gen 
eral outline of the work. 

" We each begin our duty in the hos 
pital as probationers on a month s trial. 
That beginning is very new to most of 
us ; quite unlike anything in our pre 
vious lives. Before entering the school, 
some of us may have imagined that we 
had a peculiar fitness for nursing, even 
if we did not consider ourselves bom 
nurses. We may have made up our 
minds that we knew how to make a. 
poultice, and to care for the sick by 
being kind to them and ventilating 
their rooms. We may possibly have 
read Miss Nightingale s " Notes " and so 
are quite sure that we know something 
of nursing ; but that the hospital train 
ing will give us a sort of standing, and 
therefore it will be a desirable thing to 
have. As we proceed with our training 
we discover that we did not know how 
to make a poultice, nor how best to care 
for a sick person. Some of us, again, 
know nothing at all about nursing, but 
we are not required to know anything. 
A head nurse prefers to train the raw 
material, so to speak, in her own way. 
What is required is that the probationer 
be receptive, that she be intelligent and, 
above all, active ; and in case she has 
any knowledge of nursing, or ideas, or 
opinions, if she is discriminating she 
will keep them to herself. 

We have no dreaming time ; there is 
no place for sentiment, and very little 
for sympathy in the ordinary sense of 
the word. Were we to sympathize with 
all the woes that we see we should be 
used up, we should die. 

A probationer enters the ward for 
the first time, and is introduced to her 
head nurse. She is then probably set to 
do some simple piece of work, such as 
arranging a closet or folding clothes 
and the like. On the next day she will 
have her regular duties to learn. As 



616 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



the afternoon goes on she may find her 
self looking at the clock watching for 
5.30 P.M. to come so that she may go 
off duty, and she has, probably, a bad 
headache. There is a hospital atmos 
phere, produced by the smell of drugs 
and other unavoidable odors, percepti 
ble to a fresh nose ; there are strange 
sights and sounds which, combined, 
give a sort of shock for the first day. 
The new nurse may not be able to sleep 
that night, and by the end of the week 
she may find herself crying in bed, with 
pain in* her feet and legs. These little 
ailments she keeps to herself. She is 
anxious to give satisfaction, and she has 
to do unquestioningly all that she is 
directed to do. A head nurse is nearly 
always considerate, if necessary helping 
her through with her work and encour 
aging her. 

Time goes on and the probationer be 
comes a junior, a senior, and finally a 
head nurse, and as we proceed with our 
training, each day, if we will, we can learn 
something ; we gain confidence in our 
selves and others gain confidence in us. 

I suppose we are rather an ordinary 
class of young women. We never talk of 
ideals ; we may not even think of them ; 
perhaps we have not any. We are essen 
tially matter of fact ; we have to deal 
with human beings and with facts. Our 
two years service to most of us is a 
means to an end, and that a material 
one, viz.: the earning of money. Some 
one told us at our commencement that 
we had done w r ell to have chosen a pro 
fession which would not go out of fashion 
and which could not be done by ma 
chinery. That is a good start anyway. 
I am speaking of us as a whole ; in the 
school we are told we cease to be indi 
viduals. That does not mean that we 
become automatic, for, I suppose there 
is no calling for women which needs 
more personality, more individuality. 

Whatever may have been the rush, 
monotony, or otherwise of our day (and 
there are some days in which everything 
seems out of joint), when our time to be 
relieved comes, we go away from the 
hospital, and if we choose we need not 
give it another thought for the next 
twelve hours. Out of the hospital we 
have not a care, unless it is for ourselves ; 
we know how to appreciate our leisure ; 



we are cheerful and apparently happy, 
and sometimes frivolous ; in fact, we 
are quite sisterly, as behooves all good 
nurses to be. 

Our training is divided into what 
we call " services." We have so many 
months training in the different services. 
They are medical, surgical, maternity, 
gynaecological, eye, skin and throat, and 
the care of infants. About six months of 
our time is spent on night duty, spread 
over the two years in periods of about 
six weeks duration. The large wards of 
Charity Hospital have each four nurses 
two juniors, one senior, and a head 
nurse. In the emergency hospitals a 
nurse has usually the charge of a ward 
by herself, with a supervising nurse over 
all. There are also "special cases," 
the patient having a room to himself, 
and a day and a night nurse appointed 
in charge. We each have our prefer 
ences and our dislikes, which are of no 
account as far as the distribution of the 
services is concerned ; it makes us 
something to talk of, but we are under 
discipline ; we go where we are sent. 

We begin our duties in a large ward 
of Charity Hospital. The probationer 
will have charge of one side of the ward, 
with the care of from ten to fifteen 
patients and all belonging to them. The 
head or senior nurse will go round with 
her and work in with her for the first 
time. She is shown how to make the 
beds, to change all soiled linen ; how to 
remove a very sick patient from one bed 
to another ; how to cover a patient and 
save her from fatigue while sitting up 
to have her bed made ; the best way for 
her to get in and out of bed ; to keep an 
eye on the beds that the patients are 
able to make themselves, and so on 
throughout the details of the morning s 
work. The latter part of the day is 
taken up with waiting on the patients 
and keeping her side in order all the 
time. The probation month is especi 
ally a time of learning something new ; 
a good deal has to be got into that 
month ; afterward things come more 
by degrees. Should the probationer be 
accepted, she becomes a junior nurse 
and has the same kind of work for about 
three months. She then goes on night 
duty; she is "on the landing" as we 
ca.ll it, that is, has charge of the two or 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



617 



three of the wards opening on to that 
landing. The junior nurse is feeling 
somewhat independent and consequen 
tial by this time. She does not have to 
act by herself ; there is always an ex 
perienced nurse on the top floor to whom 
she can refer in case of emergency or 
otherwise. 

A nurse may never have been up all 
night in her life before, so the first night 
is rather exciting and anxious ; she is 
very wide awake until about two or three 
o clock in the morning when the effort 
to keep awake is really painful. A 
night nurse does not sleep, that goes 
without saying, and should she doze 
when all is quiet she has always one ear 
open. Imagine a rather young nurse 
peering around the 1 irge ward with the 
aid of an antiquated lantern. Shall I 
ever forget that lantern ? It would 
throw all shadow and the least possible 
ray of light and anywhere but where it 
was wanted. Sometimes its miserable 
little light would go out and the wick 
have to be pricked up and relit, then 
it would spit and splutter as though it 
meant to burn well, but somehow it 
never would, and the gas burnt low on 
the landing. When I think of that 
lantern I can go all through my night 
duty over again. We have a helper 
to fetch and carry for us, and she can 
be very useful in many ways. She may 
be as " good as a nurse " or she may 
have a fancy for gossiping with her 
friends during the day and so prefer to 
sleep at night, and such a " lady " is 
rather a trial. 

The patients have a way of dying at 
night, in spite of the very best efforts 
of the nurse to keep them alive until 
morning. Some helpers " never could 
go anigh a dead body," but they " don t 
mind fetching the things and stand 
ing outside of the screen." It requires 
considerable nerve on the part of the 
nurse to " lay out " a patient in the small 
hours of the morning ; when the wards 
are silent and gloomy there is some 
thing uncanny about it ; there is not 
much of the " beauty of death " in these 
cases, but we get used to it after a time. 

When we become more experienced 
we have our emergency hospital night 
duty. We occasionally speak of this in 
rather strong language ; we call it " that 



awful night duty," " that dreadful night 
duty." Here is where a nurse s mettle 
comes in. She has long hours four 
teen, and besides the care of the pa 
tients she has the real " ward work " to 
get done before eight o clock in the morn 
ing. The patients in this hospital are very 
sick ; there are no " chronics," the nurse 
has critical cases to watch, and upon her 
devotion and judgment the life of the 
patient may depend. Here the doctors 
are hard worked both day and night, 
and the nurse, if she is considerate, is 
very reluctant to call the doctor, and so 
often has an anxious time. Some of 
the cases that come in during the night 
are truly heart-rending. The burnt 
cases are the worst ; if they are not too 
badly hurt their sensibility is acute and 
they suffer dreadful agony. At about 
five o clock the nurse begins to feel 
rather badly. She has to brace herself 
up and put on a big spurt to get through 
the morning s work, and perhaps at eight 
o clock she will go to bed without her 
breakfast. 

A senior nurse s duties are somewhat 
different from those of the juniors. To 
begin with, she feels herself of some 
importance ; she has charge of linen 
closets ; she sees to the giving out of the 
food and gives out the medicines ; when 
the doctors make rounds, if there is time 
she accompanies the head nurse ; she 
makes herself acquainted with the state 
of the patients, and often has to be in 
charge of the ward. 

To anyone not initiated into the ways 
of medical men, " giving out the medi 
cines " might mean a spoonful of some 
thing in a little water. A medicine list 
is an appalling undertaking at first, 
there may be thirty names on the list, 
some patients having as many as five or 
six different medicines ; in fact, it prac 
tically amounts to one-dose prescriptions. 
Different quantities are given drops, 
drachms, ounces, and so on. W T ith some 
practice and with someone to take the 
medicines around quickly a nurse can get 
through the list accurately in a remark 
ably short time, say fifteen to twenty 
minutes, but this is not often done ; we 
usually take our time. (A nurse has 
learnt something of the properties and 
doses of the medicines in her class.) 

When a nurse has charge of a ward, 



618 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



or becomes a head nurse, any notions 
she may have had of her importance as 
a senior disappear. She feels herself 
responsible, and is responsible for the 
condition of the ward, the care of the pa 
tients, the instruction of the nurses, in 
fact for whatever is done or neglected. 
The doctors rely upon her for the faith 
ful carrying out of their orders, and alto 
gether she needs a good deal of judg 
ment and tact. 

After receiving the notes of the night 
nurse and seeing that all the work is 
going on well, the head nurse goes 
round, note-book in hand, and inquires 
into the state of each patient ; she ques 
tions them and listens to what they 
have to say ; she also makes her own 
observations. In this way the nurse be 
comes acquainted with her patients, 
while she reports everything of note to 
the doctors. 

There is an etiquette observed in the 
wards, but it is not very oppressive ; the 
nurses on duty are subordinate to the 
doctors for the time being, and every 
thing goes on with order and decorum. 
This may sound stiff and formal, but it 
is not so ; it is only the fitness of things. 
We usually all work well together and 
there is seldom any friction. 

The patients in Charity Hospital are 
the very poor of the city ; some of them 
are only morally sick and needing a 
home ; they puzzle the doctors to make a 
diagnosis. Most of their sickness, as we 
nurses know, has been brought on by 
over-work, poverty, drunkenness, lazi 
ness, and the like, but some are worthy 
and deserving persons. 

Often when a patient comes into the 
hospital she enters a moral atmosphere 
which is new to her. She is cleaned and 
made fairly comfortable ; she has to drop 
many of her old habits of speech, and be 
a decent member of the hospital for the 
time being. If she is not too degraded 
she can see what is expected of her at 
once. We seldom have any trouble with 
the patients and rarely hear an improper 
word. A nurse never need submit to 
insubordination ; on her complaint the 
patient is dismissed, but a very sick 
patient is seldom beyond endurance. 

They are often very witty, and if we 
are in the mood we can get lots of fun 
out of them. They are also very reli 



gious. They thank God for everything ; 
everything is the will of God their sick 
ness, their troubles, their death ; it never 
seems to occur to them that they might 
have a will of their own. In one way 
they have not much variety ; they usually 
object to soap and water. 

As a rule the nurses are as good to the 
patients as they can be. Many of them 
remain in the hospital for a long time, 
and a nurse has the opportunity of 
showing them small kindnesses, perhaps 
writing a letter or giving them a gar 
ment or a few cents to pay their car fare. 
In those tedious cases of phthisis where 
the treatment is only palliative a nurse 
can be much to the patient. 

The patients in the emergency hos 
pitals are somewhat different ; they are 
mostly of the mechanic class, and usually 
quite sick. That means business and 
getting them well, and they pass on. 
They are not so poor ; they can even 
offer us money, either by way of bribe or 
reward. I heard of a nurse having the 
handsome sum of ten dollars offered to 
her, and I once came near having a 
pair of diamond ear-rings, only the pa 
tient changed his mind and would not 
undergo the operation." 

The " helpers " spoken of in this sketch 
are women sentenced to the workhouse 
on BlackwelTs Island for terms varying 
from three days to six months, and for 
such offences as drunkenness, vagrancy, 
and fighting in the streets. From the 
workhouse they are sent to do the scrub 
bing, laundry work, etc., in the institu 
tions controlled by the Commissioners 
of Charities and Correction, who are 
obliged by law to use their labor. Most 
of them are the sodden, frowsy creatures 
who huddle into the prison van after the 
laconic "ten days" of the police jus 
tice, but they are "all ages of bad eggs," 
as one of them once said to me, and 
taken together they form a curious class. 
They are most punctilious in always 
speaking of each other as "ladies," and 
the much -abused word is somewhat 
amusing when applied to a stout virago 
with a variegated eye. 

Drunkenness, their common vice, and 
the cause of all their woe, is delicately 
alluded to as a " weakness " or a " fail 
ing," and some of them seem rather 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



619 



proud of the number of times they have 
been " sent up," while others regard it 
as the inevitable. Once I had to pass a 
woman who was scrubbing in a doorway 
at Charity, and as she moved her pail I 
recognized her and said, " What, Mary, 
are you here again? I thought you 
weren t coming back." Her face feU as 
she answered, "Yis, m m, I thought so 
too," and then she brightened up and 
said proudly, " But it was the iligantest 
wake you ever see." 

Some of them again are decent and 
quiet enough when not possessed by the 
devil of drink, and it often happens that 
one of this better class will stay on as a 
helper after her sentence has expired, 
perhaps feeling that she is protected 
from herself while the river is between 
her and her boon companions, but soon 
er or later she is missing some day, she 
has " gone over," and if she comes back 
it is in the prison boat. 

Here follows the journal of an ordi 
nary day at Charity Hospital, by one of 
the head-nurses : 

" Time : 7.30 A.M. 

Scene : Ward 3, Medical. Beds all 
unmade, a few patients up these have 
faces washed and hair combed the 
majority in bed with this duty still to 
be performed for them. A part of the 
floor at the front of the ward has been 
scrubbed. Mary, one of my prison 
helpers, is washing dishes at the table, 
and Bridget, the other, is taking soiled 
clothes from a large can and sorting 
them for the wash. 

The atmosphere contains none too 
much oxygen ; this can be explained by 
saying that the night-nurse is finishing 
her work in one of the other wards, and 
the patients in her absence have taken 
the precaution to close all of the win 
dows for fear of taking cold. After giv 
ing an order for the windows to be let 
down, I take up the night notes and read : 

Murphy Died at 3 A.M. 

Ryan Temperature, 108 ; pulse, 120 ; res 
piration, 30. Antifebrine, grains iii., and 
other medicines given as ordered. Poultice 
applied last at 6 A.M. 

Patient passed a very restless night. 

And so on, through the other cases in 
the ward. These notes are signed by 



the night nurse, who now comes in with 
the keys, looking pretty well fagged. 

" Good-morning ; I am sorry I have 
kept you waiting for the keys, but I 
have been so busy I could not get down 
sooner. Had a death in Ward 4, as 
well as the one here, and a patient in 
Ward 6 suffering from delirium tre- 
mens, besides the ordinary work." 

I now go over to where my assistants 
are putting on their caps and aprons 
and getting together the things neces 
sary for work. Miss W. and Miss A. 
are here, but where is Miss H. ? Miss 
W. answers : 

" She was called up last night to go 
on the maternity service. The superin 
tendent missed you, and asked me to 
tell you that another nurse could not be 
spared to-day." 

Oh, dear, thirty-two patients in the 
ward, and five of them so helpless that 
they have to be fed and cared for like 
babies, two pneumonia cases, and the 
usual number of phthisical and rheu 
matic subjects. Well, well, grumbling 
won t do the work, so we ll have to 
make the best of it. 

Each of my assistants, armed with a 
pile of clean sheets and pillow-cases, 
proceeds to the lower end of the ward 
and commences the task of getting beds 
made, while I go to write the list of 
clothes for the laundry. Bridget counts 
the clothes while I stand by and take 
down the number of each of the differ 
ent articles. This done, they are tied in 
large bundles and sent to the wash-house. 

Now the medicines are to be given 
out. I measure and prepare them, 
while a convalescent patient carries 
them round to those in bed. My list is 
a long one, and it takes fully thirty-five 
minutes before they are all distributed, 
the bottles wiped off, and the medicine 
closet put in order. My next move is 
to take a list of medicines which need to 
be renewed, and leave it ready for the 
doctor s signature. It is now twenty- 
five minutes past eight, and Miss A. and 
Miss W. are making as good progress as 
possible at their respective sides ; for it 
must be remembered that a nurse has 
often to stop what she is doing to at 
tend to the wants of some particular 
patient, or to carry out an order if the 
time is due. 



620 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



The "railroad beds"* are still un 
made. Occasionally we have a conval 
escent patient who can do this part of 
the work very well. We had one in 
this ward last week, but alas, for the 
frailty of human nature, she showed a 
disposition to quarrel with the other 
patients on very small pretexts, so she 
was dismissed. With a rueful thought 
of what might have been, I go to work 
at the beds. A patient goes ahead and 
strips them for me. We work with all 
our might, and they are finished at ten 
minutes past nine. The side beds, too, 
are nearly finished. This part of the 
work necessarily takes much longer, as 
sick patients have to be placed in chairs 
and wrapped up in blankets, or, if they 
are too weak, lifted into other beds, so 
that their own can be made. 

My next work is to take morning 
temperatures ; when I have finished this 
I see a large tin can standing near my 
table. It contains crackers, butter, 
eggs, and sugar. These have to be put 
away in their proper place, and the 
quantity noted. Now, I must write my 
diet-sheet, and order the supplies neces 
sary for to-morrow. It is twenty-five 
minutes past nine, the beds are all 
made, the stands in order, the floor 
swept, and the table scrubbed. The 
junior nurses are about through with 
washing faces and combing heads, and 
it is now high time that I should make 
a round of the ward and find out if 
there is any change in the patients 
condition to which the doctor s atten 
tion should be called. 

While this has been going on the 
gruel and milk have been standing on 
the table, and the distribution of this 
falls to my share to-day also, as I have 
no senior nurse. Each bed-patient who 
cares for it is served with a portion on 
a tray ; afterward the walking patients 
seat themselves at the table and take 
theirs. Now the doctors come in to 
make their morning visit, the house- 
doctor is told of any special complaints ; 
he examines these patients, also any 
new ones who may not yet be under 
treatment, and leaves the new orders on 
my book. 

* A " railroad bed " is one that is unoccupied during 
the day, and therefore, as it were, "shunted 1 and only 
rolled out at night. They stand close together in the 
middle of the ward. 



While doing this work all morning, I 
have been trying to keep an eye on what 
my helpers are doing, and now take this 
time to make a thorough inspection of 
all parts of the ward, bath-room includ 
ed. In the meantime the special diet 
has been divided among the patients 
needing it most. At eleven o clock 
tonics are given out, afterward egg- 
nogs and milk-punches are made and 
distributed. 

We now begin to breathe freely the 
worst pressure is over if we get no new 
patients. Our hopes along that line are 
doomed to disappointment, for the help 
ers from the women s bath-room now 
announce the arrival of two new pa 
tients, and Miss W. disappears to super 
intend their bathing. 

I am congratulating myself on not 
having a "stretcher case " at any rate, 
when two men come in with one. Miss 
A. quickly places screens round a bed, 
and a rubber sheet over the clean bed 
clothes. The woman is lifted on the bed, 
and her temperature, pulse, etc., taken. 
Her own clothes are soon removed, and 
a warm sponge -bath given and hair 
combed. These operations have effect 
ed a wonderful change in her appear 
ance, and she now looks a little more 
like a Caucasian, whereas, before the 
bath, she might have belonged to one 
of the darker races of mankind. 

The doctor is notified that there are 
three new patients in the ward. It is 
twelve o clock ; Miss A. and I go to din 
ner, and leave Miss W. to superintend 
the patients noonday meal, and give out 
medicines afterward. We return at 
one o clock, and Miss W. goes, with the 
right to remain off duty till four o clock. 

The ward is now to be swept again 
and put in order for the afternoon. 
This is hardly accomplished when two 
huge bundles of clothes are carried in, 
and in ten minutes time two more. 
These have to be sorted and counted. 
Before we proceed to the folding of 
them the afternoon milk and other ex 
tras are given out. That done and the 
table cleared, we fold the clothes as 
quickly as we can. In due time this is 
finished, Miss A. is making a poultice 
in the bath-room, and I am putting the 
clothes in the closet, when someone 
calls "Nurse, nurse!" I turn to see 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



621 



where the sound comes from, and no 
tice several patients pointing to a bed 
in the far corner of the ward. I hurry 
down and find the patient s clothes satu 
rated with blood a hemorrhage from 
the lungs. Screens are immediately 
placed around the bed, cracked ice 
given, and the doctor summoned. He 
comes at once, the flow of blood seems 
to have ceased, medicine is ordered, 
and the doctor goes. The patient s 
clothes are now changed very carefully, 
and she is made as comfortable as pos 
sible. The screens are just put away 
when another stretcher is brought in, 
and Miss W., who has now returned, 
gives the usual treatment. 

It is time for the afternoon tonics, 
and eggnogs and punches are again dis 
tributed ; after this I take advantage of 
a few spare minutes to enter the names 
and addresses of patients in a book 
kept for the purpose. Discharged pa 
tients are also marked off. 

The patients have supper between half- 
past four and five. At half-past five Miss 
A. retires from the ward, the remaining 
time till half-past seven being hers to 
rest. In the meantime the doctor has 
been in and left a few orders. 

The giving out of the evening medi 
cines falls to me, while Miss W. attends 
to the patients needs in other ways. If 
I had a fourth nurse I might be relieved 
from duty ; but it cannot be thought of 
now. This is the evening for carbolizing 
the side beds ; the helpers do this, while 
we follow and restore things to order. 
The rest of the time till half-past seven 
is spent in making patients comfortable 
for the night, and writing down new or 
ders and notes on the patients condi 
tion for the night nurse. We are quite 
willing to deliver her the keys when 
she comes in, and bid her good-night, 
while we go home tired enough to sleep 
soundly." 

Charity Hospital, as I have said, has 
chiefly chronic cases. The work in the 
accident or emergency hospitals is some 
what different, as will be seen by the 
following notes : 

"Leaving the Island at 7 A.M., after 
three-quarters of an hour s ride in boat 
and car, I reach Gouverneur Hospital. 



On my arrival I receive from the night 
nurse both a verbal and written account 
of all that has happened of importance 
during the night arrival of new pa 
tients, serious symptoms which may 
have developed in certain cases, new 
orders which have been given by the 
doctor, or old ones which may have been 
countermanded, etc. 

Then begins the work of the day. The 
ward is thoroughly scrutinized, to dis 
cover little things which the helpers are 
apt to do slightingly, or not to do at all ; 
stands are dusted, clean covers and cur 
tains put on, if necessary ; every patient 
and bed must undergo thorough inspec 
tion. 

Everything is done as quickly as pos 
sible, for the " visiting " may be looked 
for at any time after 9 A.M., and it is 
the ambition of each nurse to have her 
ward spotlessly clean. 

I have six pneumonia cases, who are 
poulticed regularly every three hours ; 
they are also kept on milk diet, and, of 
course, require particular attention. I 
have just finished putting on my last 
poultice when the " visiting " comes in, 
followed by the house surgeons, senior 
and junior. I accompany them to the 
different beds, ready to receive all or 
ders, and impart any information which 
may be required of me. During the 
rounds of the physicians, an ambulance 
call is given ; in due time the man is 
carried in on a stretcher ; I rush to pre 
pare a bed, which consists in turning 
down the covers, and protecting the 
whole with a rubber sheet ; with the 
assistance of one of the helpers the pa 
tient is placed in bed. It proves to be a 
poisoning case. As quick as possible I 
get ready pitchers of tepid water, a pail, 
and a stomach-pump. The doctor then 
begins his operations, and I stand near 
to assist him. If the patient is very 
weak, I administer stimulants hypoder- 
mically ; an emetic is given. Fortun 
ately, the case has been attended to in 
time, and is soon out of all immediate 
danger, although very weak. A little 
boy has been brought in with hand and 
wrist literally pulverized ; the poor little 
fellow s cries are heartrending ; an anaes 
thetic is administered, I carefully sponge 
the blood away from the injured parts, 
get ready the different solutions, gauzes, 



622 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



bandages, splints, etc., and stand near 
to assist in any way that I can. (I took 
care of the little boy for six weeks after 
that, and he was sent home cured, hav 
ing lost but two fingers.) 

Standing by, awaiting his turn, is a 
stonecutter. He must have taken his 
thumb for a stone, for he has simply 
hammered it off. The compression of 
his lips and the pallor of his face give 
evidence of the pain he is suffering. A 
thin piece of skin on one side keeps the 
thumb from being entirely severed from 
the hand ; the doctor replaces it and 
sews it on, but eventually, to save the 
hand, it had to be amputated. 

Fortunately there are no more acci 
dent cases on hand, and I am free once 
more to attend to my other patients. I 
give out the three-hour medicines, re 
new my poultices, and take the tem 
perature, pulse, and respiration of a pa 
tient who came in about an hour ago ; 
but, finding his temperature normal, I 
let him remain seated until the doctor 
comes in. 

After dinner I give out the noon medi 
cines, examine the beds of the helpless 
patients, and find out from them if there 
is anything I can do to add to their com 
fort. After attending to their wants, and 
performing numberless duties which it 
would be impossible to relate, I finally 
feel satisfied that every patient has been 
made comfortable ; then I tear up band 
ages, which are given to the convales 
cent patients to roll ; prepare solutions 
and different kinds of gauzes to be used 
during operations ; in the meantime 
keeping a watchful eye on all around, 
so that no patient shall suffer from want 
of attention. 

About 4 P.M. I have to take the tem 
perature, pulse, and respiration of each 
patient, which, in a ward where there 
are twenty, takes quite a length of time. 
After the temperatures are taken, I see 
that each patient has his supper, then 
write an account of all the orders I have 
received, which are to be continued dur 
ing the night, renew the poultices, give 
out the medicines, see that the ward is 
in perfect order, and am relieved at 6 
P.M. by the night nurse." 

The following is an account of the rou 
tine of a night at Gouverneur Hospital : 



" The night nurse of Gouverneur does 
not often arise with bright face and 
laughing eye, feeling as fresh and happy 
as a lark, at half-past four in the after 
noon of a hot July day, but she scram 
bles out of bed and dons the " stripes " * 
as quickly as possible, that she may not 
be late for the dinner at five o clock. At 
six we get to the wards to relieve the 
day nurses from duty, and are often 
greeted with, " Well, I think you will 
have rather a hard night." 

As I look around the ward I find the 
man in the first bed is a sunstroke case, 
with a temperature of 105, and the 
orders are to keep ice-bags on head 
and abdomen, give ice-baths, and take 
temperature every fifteen minutes until 
the temperature falls below 102. The 
child in the corner has pneumonia and 
has on a jacket poultice of linseed-meal, 
which must be changed as often as it be 
comes cold, and the child watched very 
closely. The delirious patient in the 
other corner is to have an ice-cap on his 
head, which must be kept well filled with 
cracked ice. He has a fracture of the 
base of the skull, and he raves and shouts 
most of the night. 

We have two patients more than we 
have beds, consequently we must pre 
pare four patients to be transferred to 
Bellevue, in order to have beds for the 
patients who will come in during the 
night. 

At nine o clock the doctors make their 
rounds, and oftentimes there are dress 
ings that the doctor has had no time to 
do during the day, and the nurse must 
always be ready to wait upon the doctor 
the moment he enters the ward. 

At eleven o clock there is an ambulance 
call and a man is brought in with three 
stab wounds. He is covered with blood, 
hands, face, and clothing, has a long 
wound on the face, a deep one in the 
shoulder, and a small one in the ab 
domen. The wounds are sewed and 
dressings put on. These dressings are 
scarcely finished, when there comes an 
other call, and the ambulance brings in 
this time a fine-looking young man with 
a deep wound in the forearm. From his 
nervous tremor and restlessness I con 
clude he has been drinking heavily, and 

* The uniform of the school is blue and white striped 
seersucker. 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



623 



this is confirmed when the house sur 
geon gives the order for a " half -ounce 
of the D. T. mixture immediately." 
His wound is dressed, and he is launched 
into bed and tied down. Presently he 
begins to see snakes and all sorts of 
creeping things upon his bed, and he 
wants to get up and eat the man in the 
bed next him. He finally becomes so 
violent that he is put into handcuffs and 
taken to the " alcoholic cells " at Belle- 
vue. 

Then things quiet down for perhaps 
an hour, which time must be devoted to 
the man with sunstroke and the child 
with pneumonia. These, however, have 
not been wholly neglected, for there was 
time to make a poultice for the child, 
and the helper has attended to the bath 
ing of the man, whose temperature has 
fallen only one and one-half degree. 

Now it is time to begin the morning s 
work of the wards, for they must be all 
in order for the day nurse when she 
comes on duty at eight o clock. The 
temperature, pulse, and respiration of 
each patient in the wards must be taken 
and noted upon the chart, also any new 
treatment ordered during the night, and 
anything noteworthy in the condition of 
the patient. Each bed is to be made, 
bed-linen and patient s clothing to be 
changed, if soiled, while the floors are 
swept and washed by the helpers. 

The medicines are given out at various 
times through the night, as each becomes 
due. Then there is the patients break 
fast to look after, and to see that all are 
served who may eat the food, and that 
those who are on special diet may get 
nothing but that allowed them, whatever 
it may be." 

It would certainly seem that these 
women earn ten or even fifteen dollars a 
month besides their board and lodging. 
Here is an account of a serious operation, 
from a nurse s point of view. 

" The nurse is responsible for making 
antiseptic everything connected with an 
operation, except the surgical instru 
ments. She prepares the room, has the 
floor and paint scrubbed, and every table 
and ledge (there is no superfluous fur 
niture) washed with antiseptic solution. 
The dressings are most scrupulously 



prepared, being boiled and soaked and 
wrapped in antiseptic towels, or kept 
until needed in large glass jars. The 
nurse is further responsible for having 
everything in the room which the sur 
geon may possibly want, such as hot 
water, ice, hot-water bottles, stimulants, 
etc., and must be prepared for every 
emergency which, during the operation, 
may possibly arise. The patient is pre 
pared by the nurse, who gives a full 
bath, braids the hair, puts on clean and 
suitable clothing, and arranges her on 
the table, where she is always covered 
with a sheet or a single blanket if neces 
sary. Another nurse helps the doctor 
give the anaesthetic, and in fact, there are 
usually three nurses at an operation of 
any importance, the head-nurse being in 
charge and the other two her aids. She 
herself keeps her best eye on the opera 
tor and stands in a certain place where 
she can readily hand him hot towels, 
sponges, bowls of solution, anything he 
may need. The second nurse watches 
the supply of hot towels, solutions, 
sponges, hot and cold water, etc., while 
the third helps the junior doctor who is 
etherizing the patient, and fetches and 
carries, i.e., empties out water and puts 
it outside the door, where some patient 
is stationed to carry it away and fill up 
empty pitchers. In running an opera 
tion a nurse always aims at having it go 
off without a hitch, and sometimes it 
does, sometimes not. Occasionally an 
operator is unreasonable and asks for the 
moon, and occasionally he makes a mis 
take and loses his head, and then the 
nurses have a poor time of it, being 
blamed if they have no boiling-hot beef- 
tea or brandy when there is no means of 
heating it in the room, the operation 
having already lasted over an hour. A 
doctor, if he is a gentleman, usually 
thanks the nurse after a long operation, 
and then she feels like doing anything 
for him." 

Their hard day over, the nurses go 
to the Home, which is the stone build 
ing at the south end of Blackwell s 
Island. There they have a comfortable 
sitting-room with books and magazines 
and a piano, and in summer they can 
play lawn tennis outside, or rest and 
watch the crowd of boats that is alwavs 



624 



THE TRAINING OF A NURSE. 



going up and down the great river. But 
all the evenings are not given to amuse 
ments, except during July and Au 
gust. The school is divided into junior, 
senior, and graduating classes, and each 
has a " quiz " or lesson once a week, 
and sometimes oftener, which is usually 
taught by the Assistant Superintend 
ent. A skeleton, some large colored dia 
grams, and a manikin who is represent 
ed as if he were skinned, which gives him 
an unpleasant likeness to Marsyas or St. 
Bartholomew, and who takes to pieces 
in a startling manner, are much used 
at these lessons, while some of the phys 
icians and surgeons of the visiting staff 
give lectures to the classes from time 
to time. When at last the two years 
course is over, a board of physicians 
hold the final examination which a nurse 
must pass before receiving her diploma. 

At private nursing a woman receives 
from $15 to $25 a week, which would 
pay her well if she were always busy ; 
but she is subject to be overworked 
for some months and idle for several 
more, and an excellent nurse said re 
cently that she should be satisfied to be 
sure of making $600 a year. 

There are signs that the market is 
beginning to be overstocked. The four 
large schools which I have already 
spoken of have already 911 graduates, 
and every hospital of whatever size must 
now have its training-school, so that 
each year brings a new crop of certifi 
cated nurses, more or less trained, accord 
ing to their capacity and opportunities. 
Some of the schools announce that they 
have many more applicants than they 
can take, from which outsiders have 
naturally been led to conclude that pu 



pils would be willing to come without 
pay, but the superintendents, who are 
already feeling the effects of compe 
tition, know well that any such move 
would be fatal to a really high standard. 
This competition between the schools 
has not been without good results, in 
that it has stimulated the different 
boards in charge of them to greater 
efforts in the direction of comfort in 
the Homes, and a distinct and attractive 
course of instruction ; and it is to be 
hoped that something may be done to 
ward shortening the long hours of work 
in the wards. 

In regard to graduates, the time has 
come when the profession, if it is to be 
such, must be protected. This can best 
be done by the formation of a central 
committee or board, which shall recog 
nize only graduates of standard schools, 
shall take the testimony of their super 
intendents as to the fitness and trust 
worthiness of such graduates, and after 
submitting them to an examination, shall 
give them a degree or diploma not ob 
tainable in any other way. 

The law sets the standard for physi 
cians by recognizing only the degrees 
of certain colleges, which might be dif 
ficult in the case of training-schools, but 
something must be done to indicate and 
to protect the women who have earned 
the best right to live by their trade. 
It is not enough to let the stronger 
crowd out the weaker, as in the case of 
stenographers or telegraph operators, 
because doctors have learnt to expect 
intelligent help from a trained nurse, 
and if she fail them in a critical case, it 
may mean the difference between life 
and death. 





Jack Equipped fo 
Landing as In 
fantry. 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 

By Rufiis Fairclrild Zogbamn. 



is moored close by, between our ship 
and the land, and our officers note cu 
riously the points of difference between 
her and the Yorktown, and calculate, 
with professional interest and impar 
tiality, the chances for and against suc 
cess in a fight between her and a craft 
like our own, both of them being intend 
ed for the same kind of service, and the 
Forbiii being the first foreign vessel of 
a similar class to ours that we have met 
with. Ahead of us, her beautiful taper 
ing masts rising high in air ; the maze 
of rigging, of shroud, rope, and halliard 
taut and shipshape ; her graceful hull 
with the double row of ports ; her 
straight, long bowsprit pointing out 
ward over the pretty figure-head at her 
bows, an old time " line-o -battle " ship 
rests calmly on the water, looking in 
imposing majesty as if invincible, in 
contrast with the black, smoking, low- 
hulled, shark-like craft gliding so noise 
lessly and smoothly by her, but which 
could crush the great ship s sides like 
an eggshell, and send her and her crew 
to the bottom of the sea in an instant 
with one murderous blow of the terri 
ble engines of warfare carried in the 
hold of the pigmy torpedo-boat. 

Everywhere about us the military 
character of the harbor is at once ap 
parent ; not a merchantman anywhere, 
even the swift ferryboats, plying from 
the city to points in the bay, have a war 
like air with their uniformed crews, 
their freights of soldiers and French 
man-of-war s-men. Forts and batteries 
show up amid the dark trees on shore, 
or stand out in bold outline against the 
sky on towering mountain-top, for Tou 
lon is- strongly fortified ; those works 
commanding the approaches from the 
land being garrisoned by and under 
control of the army, while the sea-coast 
defences are confided to the care of the 
naval authorities. From the shore, on 
our starboard quarter, the dropping, 
scattering fire of soldiers at the rifle 
butts mingles with the rattling of drums 
and the occasional blare of a trumpet ; 



in by high, 
rocky hills, their 
bare peaks glisten 
ing white, almost as if 
covered with snow, un 
der the rays of the morn 
ing sun shining through 
the light mist that cov 
ers the placid surface of 
the water, Toulon Har 
bor lies before us, as we 
steam in, under scarcely 
perceptible headway, 
past the ends of the long 
breakwaters, marking 
with their light-towers, 
and defending with their 
circular torpedo batter 
ies, the entrance to the 
great French naval port. 
The authorities have sent a pilot on board 
to guide us in, and his boat, with the 
white-clad crew seated on the thwarts 
and looking up at us, is towed along 
with the ship toward a great white buoy, 
to which she is soon securely moored 
near by our consorts of the squadron, 
and the gig is called away to take the 
captain to the flagship to make his re 
port to the admiral. 

Directly astern grim, dark, majestic 
a huge battle-ship, the Amiral Du- 
perre her murderous - looking, black- 
muzzled guns pointing outward from 
every available place in her towering 
sides and from the turrets on her broad 
decks sits heavily on the water, the 
military masts, with the queer fort-like 
tops, from which machine-guns peep 
threateningly, reflected in the transpar 
ent depths below. Her crew is crowd 
ing the decks ; I hear the bugle notes, 
and the whistling of the boatswain s 
pipes, and the roar of escaping steam, 
floating upward in a white cloud above 
her enormous funnels ; while aft, droop 
ing over the massive stern, the tricol- 
ored standard of France waves sluggish 
ly in the soft morning breeze. Another 
ship, the Forbiii long, narrow, with 
great ram at the bow and raking masts 
VOL. VIII. 61 



626 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 




In the Harbor of Toulon. 



while, farther on, the tapping and bang 
ing of hundreds of hammers on steel 
and iron conies over the water toward 
us from under the huge sheds where 
ships are building, and where swarms 
of smaller craft shore-boats, launches, 
cutters dart about among the men-of- 
war moored in the bay in front. From 
an inner basin, the opening of which I 
can make out from the deck, boats pass 
in and out to the city ; the houses, many- 
windowed and gray, showing against 



the dark verdure of the foot-hills be 
yond. Sweeping around to the left the 
great buildings of the dock-yard raise 
their roofs above a massive dike, behind 
which a forest of masts, mostly without 
yards or rigging of much account, but 
topheavy in appearance with their tur 
ret-like military tops, indicate plainly 
enough the character of the vessels ly 
ing in the basins within. 

" French flagship under way, sir ! " re 
ports the quartermaster on watch. The 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



627 



marine guard hurriedly falls in and is 
paraded on the poop, where a group of 
our officers is standing, and our com 
mander, who has returned to the ship 
meanwhile, points out the big man-of- 
war, as she is seen slowly moving out 
from the head of the harbor, near where 
the Chicago is lying. From the Ameri 
can ship the notes of the " Marseillaise " 
burst out, as the French iron -clad 
sweeps majestically onward ; and as the 
smoke pours from her funnels, and she 
gradually turns her sharp ram seaward, 
slowly gaining headway as she passes 
near us, we recognize the Triomphante, 
the flagship of the China squadron, 
bound outward on a cruise to the antip 
odes. A famous ship the Triomphante, 
formerly flying the flag of the gallant 
Courbet, and in the fight on the Foo- 
Chow River, in the war between China 
and France, she rammed the Chinese flag 
ship at full speed, sinking her. On each 
of our cruisers the marine guard pre 
sents arms as she passes, and, when 
gliding by near us, her band strikes up 
" Hail, Columbia/ her officers, whom we 
see standing on the high bridge forward, 



"drummers" from supply and wine- 
merchants, laundresses and on the 
port side of the deck forward, the " blue 
jackets " are making or renewing ac 
quaintances, for American men-of-war 
seem to be welcome in French waters, 
and some of the older sailormen have 
found former friends among the shore 
people, and are laughingly exchanging 
salutations in most comical French and 
queer-sounding English on one side or 
the other. A pet monkey of the crew 
conies in, too, for his share in the general 
hilarity forward ; some wag among the 
sailors has unchained him, and accus 
tomed as he is to perfect freedom about 
the ship, he makes himself at home as 
usual, to the terror and dismay of one 
or two young laundresses, evidently un 
accustomed to such free and easy ways. 
However, the fun is harmless enough, 
and Jackie s officer, often as much of a 
sailorman in his way as the veriest shell 
back among the crew, rarely interferes 
with his amusements when he is not on 
duty, or does not let his love for a frolic 
carry him too far in a disregard for the 
order and discipline of the ship. 




At the Landing Place, Toulon. 



raise their caps to us in courteous rec 
ognition of our salute. 

Our ship has already been boarded 
by people from shore bumboatmen, 



Order and discipline there must be 
under all circumstances an army or a 
navy cannot exist without them and 
the government of a ship must be admin- 



628 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



istered with a strong hand ; and con 
stant vigilance and firmness on the part 
of the officers in their intercourse with 
their men, the exaction of unquestion 
ing obedience on their part, are absolute 
ly necessary for the successful attain 
ment of their efficiency as a fighting 
force, for the safety of their ship, and for 
the welfare and comfort of every man of 
the crew. It has been my good fortune 
to see much of the life of the military 
forces, both of foreign states and of our 
own country, and as far as my expe 
rience goes I have nowhere met with a 
class of men more conscientious in the 
discharge of their duties toward their 
subordinates, more solicitous of their 
welfare, more capable of the government 
oi the men under their command in a wise 
and considerate manner, than American 
officers, both of the army and navy. 
Nowhere was this spirit more 




A Social Visit Aboard the French Flag-ship. 



evident than on the squadron of evolu 
tion, notwithstanding the reports of 
hardships endured by the men, and of 
undue severity of the discipline on board 
the ships, so industriously circulated for 
a time in the newspapers. To those 
cognizant of the true condition of affairs 
on the fleet some of these reports would 
be almost comical in their absurdity, 



were it not for the false impression they 
are calculated to convey to the mind of 
the public. For instance, one account 
describes how the poor sailors are shiv 
ering in " white working clothes," while 
the officers are buttoned up to their 
chins in their ulsters. Now, as a matter 
of fact, the " white working clothes " 
are put on over the usual clothing of the 
sailorman, and the naval uniform reg 
ulations specially direct that in cool 
weather, whenever the working dress is 
used which it habitually is at sea it 
" shall be worn over a suit of blue," 
thus affording an additional protection 
against the cold. Consequent upon the 
new conditions of things in service on a 
modern warship, there is a change in 
the sailor s life at no time an easy one 
that perhaps is not altogether to his 
liking. "It is hard to teach an old dog 
new tricks," and to the seaman accus 
tomed to the 
life on board 
one of our 
antiquated 
wooden ves 
sels w T here 
there is noth 
ing new for 
him to learn, 
and where 
the routine 
is so much a 
matter of 
habit with 
him that the 
fulfilment of 
his daily du 
ties becomes 
a sort of sec 
ond nature 
to him the 
oft-recurring 
drilling at 
the new ap 
pliances o f 
warfare and 
the complicated machinery of all kinds, 
absolutely necessary to familiarize him 
with the novel character of his work, may 
seem irksome. In getting the ship in 
fighting trim clearing decks for action 
in the fire-drill, in handling the new 
and improved ordnance, in a dozen differ 
ent evolutions, the stations of the men, 
their duties, the tools if the word may 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



629 



be permitted that they use are differ 
ent from what they have been accus 
tomed to ; and it must be said to their 
credit that they are speedily learning 
to do away with old habits, and that the 
improvement in the manoeuvres, under 
their watchful and painstaking in struct - 



been freely accorded, and large crowds 
of " liberty men " were to be seen at 
all the ports we visited. Even now a 
group of sailors and marines is gath 
ered at the mast, and, neat and clean, 
in natty blue, one by one they re 
spond to their names and tumble over 




--.-. 3 



The men are speedily embarked." 



ors, is manifest. The squadron of evolu 
tion was specially formed for the purpose 
of instructing officers and men in the 
performance of these duties, and to ren 
der them efficient and competent to man 
war vessels of the most modern types ; 
and, while all hands from command 
ing officers to the " Jack o the dust " 
have been held rigorously account 
able for the proper performance of their 
work, at no time are the drills so severe 
as to be the cause of any real grievance. 
A healthier, finer lot of men than those 
forming the personnel of the squad 
ron it would be difficult to get togeth 
er under the present system of recruit 
ing for the navy, and the comparatively 
small number of desertions so insig 
nificant in so large a body of men as to 
be scarcely noticeable speaks volumes 
for the general well-being of the enlisted 
men of the fleet. With the sole excep 
tion of Gibraltar where the " grippe " 
being at its height on the squadron, 
general liberty was not given, at the 
request, I was told, of the British au 
thorities permission to go ashore has 



the side of the big boat waiting at the 
port gangway to take them to the city 
for a run on shore. 

A busy, " lively " town is Toulon. 
From the great stone quay on the water 
front in the inner port, w T here the land 
ing-place is, narrow and dark streets, 
bordered by high houses, run back to the 
wide boulevard and public squares and 
gardens of the newer part of the city. 
To the left of the quay, as one lands, 
the walls of the dock-yard rise and run 
out, forming one side of the basin, 
where, behind the barrier of booms float 
ing on the water, row on row of torpe 
do-boats lie. Turn to the left, follow 
the quay to the wall, then turn to the 
right again until you come to the dock 
yard gate, where, however, you must not 
enter without a permit from the " Pre 
fecture de Marine." This has been 
granted to the officers of the American 
squadron, and a number of them enter 
through the gate, under the guidance of 
one of the prefet s aides, a polite, dap 
per lieutenant, who hurries the visitors 
through a maze of streets, docks, and 



630 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



houses, like so many sightseers in a 
" personally conducted " tour. To their 
surprise and disappointment they are 
permitted to examine next to nothing, 
are conducted rapidly past any point 
of interest, any great ship lying in the 
basins or in the dry-docks, past the mag 
nificent Spanish battle-ship El Pelayo, 
which has just been finished by the Soci- 
ete des Forges de la Mediterranee at La 
Seyne on the other side of the harbor, 
and which is lying at a dock on the out 
er edge of the yard, and the officers of 
which evidently expect a visit, as one 
or two of them advance half-way down 
the gangway, as if to receive the officers. 
But the French lieutenant, who is prob 
ably as much bored with the whole 
business as certainly are the Americans, 
hurries onward, and soon, having made 
the tour of the yard, parts from them at 
the main gate with much bowing and 
smiling, as if pleased at the completion 
of his task, and leaves a thoroughly dis 
appointed and indignant party of Yankee 
sailors to make disgusted comments in 
more or less vigorous Anglo-Saxon on 
this not very hearty exhibition of of 
ficial hospitality. 

It would, however, be doing a great in 
justice to the representatives of France s 
great navy, to lay much stress on this 
solitary exception to the otherwise cor 
dial and most flattering attentions paid 
to both officers and men of the Amer 
ican squadron by all classes of the 
French service, wherever French ships, 
French sailors, and French soldiers are 
met with on the cruise. Their courtesy 
under all circumstances is extreme, and 
every evidence of good-will toward the 
sister republic is shown to a remark 
able degree. Crowds of French sailors 
and marines gather at the landing-stages 
at the quay where our liberty parties 
land, and it is no unf requent sight to see 
French and Yankee " bluejackets" stroll 
ing, arm in arm, through the streets of 
the town, in high good-humor with one 
another, bent on a frolic, in spite of the 
difficulty of conversing with one another 
except through the medium of an im 
provised sign language. 

A long row of high houses, the shops 
on the ground floor opening out on it, 
forms the background to the quay. In 
front the basin is covered with boats, 



coming in or passing out of the narrow 
opening to the harbor outside, where 
the war-ships are lying, and the floating 
landing-stages are constantly beset with 
man-of-war boats of all kinds, French 
and American, taking in or discharging 
their passengers. A huge hulk an old 
wooden frigate, mastless, and with deck 
roofed over is moored to the shore. 
On it canvas-shirted sailors move about 
or lounge out of the open ports or in 
the doorways of the houses built on the 
deck. It is one of the receiving-ships, 
and a party of recruits in new uniforms, 
bulging canvas clothing-bags over their 
shoulders or lying on the ground beside 
their owners, are being mustered by a 
swarthy, pointed -bearded, ear -ringed 
" quartiermaitre," preparatory to march 
ing on board a big launch lying by the 
gangway. Sailors and soldiers, officers, 
longshoremen, negroes, boatmen, men, 
women, and children, crowd the wide 
promenade, or go in and out of the 
shops and wine -rooms ; all is bustle 
and noise, and a constant kaleidoscopic 
change is taking place in the moving 
throng. With clatter of swinging steel 
scabbards beating their heels as they 
walk, some dandified young officers 
"infanterie de la marine" stroll up and 
clown, their enormous kepis well down 
on their ears, their handsome, dark, well- 
made uniforms contrasting strongly 
with the clumsy, badly cut, and ill-fitting 
clothing of their men, many of whom, 
hands deep in trousers pockets, push 
ing back the flowing skirts of their great 
coats, are standing about the shops or 
on the edge of the quay, looking idly 
out over the water. At the tables, 
under the wide-spread awning in front 
of the Cafe du Commerce, naval officers 
are sipping their coffee or liqueurs, 
chatting together and smoking, in uni 
form and bearing showing a marked 
difference between themselves and their 
comrades of the land service. Every 
where in the crowd French sailors 
some in neat blue broad linen collars 
over their flannel shirts, some in white 
canvas fatigue suits come and go ; 
some carry bundles of all kinds of 
odds and ends, purchased at the shops, 
which display their wares under the 
many-colored awnings over their doors. 
Everything that a sailor can wear or 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



631 



use may be bought here, everything nec 
essary and everything unnecessary, from 
a bo s n s silver whistle to a particolored 
cotton handkerchief, with the picture of 
some celebrated man-of-war printed on 



offer flowers with appealing glances, 
and Jackie, always warm-hearted and 
lavish with his money, is a frequent cus 
tomer. Poor old women white-capped 
or with kerchiefs bound around their 




Entente Cordiale." 



it ; from a pair of rain-boots or a sou 
wester hat to a knife-lanyard. Book 
stands, with bright-covered novels and 
more soberly bound professional works ; 
tobacconists, with every variety of pipe 
and cigarholder that ever tempted sail 
or lad to part with his hard-earned cash ; 
tailor shops, with gorgeous lithographs 
of every army or navy uniform of France 
offer their wares to the passer-by. Pho 
tographs of ships and prints of most 
bloody and fiery battles by sea and by 
land hang in the windows of the wine 
shops ; and at one dingy, shabby, shop- 
front the words " Sing House," scrawled 
on a piece of cardboard nailed on the 
wall, and the banging and clattering 
within of a piano, most outrageously out 
of tune and thrumming out a lugubri 
ous imitation of Yankee Doodle, are evi 
dently intended to lure our American 
blue-jackets to the questionable enter 
tainment afforded by the vicious-looking 
and faded representatives of both sexes 
standing in front of the door. Pale-faced, 
dark-eyed little children girls mostly 



heads box and brush in hand, stand by 
chairs placed at intervals, ready to 
"shine your boots/ and it is amusing 
to hear our sailors sarcastic comments 
as they see some burly fellow, seated in 
a chair, while a gray-haired woman 
kneels on the ground before him, black 
ing his footwear. A line of shoreboats, 
bright little flags waving from the tops 
of their short masts, across which long 
lateen yards are hanging, push their 
high bows against the quay s edge be 
yond the landings for the warships, and 
their owners, weather - beaten, neatly 
clad fellows, politely offer their services. 
They are a sturdy, hardworking, will 
ing lot old man-of-war s-men many of 
them and earn faithfully every penny 
they make in their sometimes arduous 
calling. Still farther along, where the 
crowd is thinning out a little, the ship- 
chandlers and marine merchants ware 
houses stand, until, with a bend form 
ing one side of the square of the basin, 
the quay ends at the line of fortifica 
tions looking landward. 



j* am 




\\ml3 flit ::, 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



633 



It is nearly sunset. The trim young 
coxswain, standing with folded arms 
near the white gig, lying in the water 
alongside the quay, keeps a vigilant eye 
on his crew, lest some one of them the 
attractions of the shops near by too 
strong for him should wander too far 
away to be in his place in the boat at 
the commander s coming ; while the bow- 
oarsman, boat-hook holding on to one 
of the many iron rings fastened in the 
masonry, rolls his quid from cheek to 
cheek, imperturbable and indifferent 
to the friendly sallies of the group of 
Frenchmen soldiers, sailors, and civil 
ians gathered about the boat. One of 
the men lounges on the thwarts, while 
the others, heads together in a little 
bunch, are examining some queer-shaped 
pipes and fish-skin tobacco-bags, just 
purchased by one of their number at 
the tobacconist s hard by. The Chicago s 
steam launch puffs up to the landing 
and takes on board a party of officers, 
stewards, and others, that has been 
awaiting her approach, and with meas 
ured dip of long sweeps, the cutters 
from some of the other ships are pulling 
out harborward. 

The gig s crew jump to their places 
as the captain takes his seat, and I step 
in beside him, and the pretty whaleboat, 
propelled by six pair of brawny young 
arms, is soon flying over the smooth, 
oily surface of the water in the inner 
port, bound once more for the ship. 
Quiet and smooth stretches the bay be 
fore us, as we dart out past the pier 
heads, and the ships lying at anchor, 
seem floating in mid-air, and the head 
lands beyond, where sky and sea-line 
meet, are blue and hazy in the distance. 
Now conies a gentle breeze, just rippling 
the waters, and the sails of the three 
little felucca-rigged boats their bows 
pointed for the town that are coming 
toward us yonder, fill slowly and curve 
outward, sending the bright-colored lit 
tle craft dancing onward. With strong, 
rhythmic, easy stroke, the boat s crew 
sends the gig along, lying on their oars 
a moment as the admiral s barge moves 
past and caps are raised in salute. 
Smoothly we glide along, past the big- 
Chicago s white sides, past huge circu 
lar buoys, anchored to the bottom of the 
bay and serving for moorings for the 
VOL. VIII. 62 



men-of-war. A French whaleboat lies 
by one of them, a man in the bow mark 
ing with great red-crossed signal-flag 
the moorings for the huge iron-clad 
slowly approaching from the sea yon 
der. 

Smoothly we glide alongside our ship 
as the sun, a ball of red fire, gradually 
disappears, and all over the harbor 
trumpets are ringing out, and on the 
flagships the bands are playing, as the 
colors on the war-ships are lowered for 
the day. 

And so a week passes. The wide 
harbor and fair weather afford an ex 
cellent opportunity for boat-drills of 
all kinds, and daily whole fleets of them 
are exercised under oar and sail. The 
regular routine on the squadron is un 
interrupted, in spite of the attractions 
offered on shore, and officers and men 
are kept busy ; the admiral always on 
the alert and watchful, and any careless 
ness, any failure to execute the various 
manoeuvres thoroughly and effectually, 
are sure to be noticed and commented 
upon. It is interesting, also, to watch 
the French torpedo-boats, as they dart 
about the harbor, under command of 
young officers, and to observe the close 
attention paid by French naval men to 
this very important branch of modern 
marine warfare. Scores of these boats 
are kept in readiness for service, and 
new appliances and methods are con 
stantly being experimented with. 

Marseilles is but two or three hours 
journey by rail from Toulon, and al 
though the stay of the squadron here is 
limited, and the life in town and harbor 
so interesting to me, I resolve to take a 
"run" down to the great commercial 
seaport of France. With me in the 
compartment of a carriage in the morn 
ing express is a young Frenchman in 
naval uniform, and a right pleasant and 
entertaining fellow-traveller he turns out 
to be, as, after eying me for a few mo 
ments over the top of the book he holds 
in his hands, he throws it aside, and 
without further ceremony enters into 
conversation with me, inquiring wheth 
er I am not on the American squadron, 
and remarking that it would be stupid 
for two apparently decent sort of men 
to be shut up together in a railway car- 



634 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



riage without attempting to pass the 
time agreeably together. I answer that 
I am accompanying the American ships 
and explain rny status on the fleet, and 
he volunteers the information that he is 
on his way to Cherbourg to join the 
Naide of the North Atlantic squadron, 
and, our mutual introduction to one 
another thus being satisfactorily accom 
plished, we fall to smoking cigars and 
chatting pleasantly together on various 
subjects, and, when we finally enter the 
station at Marseilles, and my new-found 
friend suggests that as he has business 
in the city which will keep him there 
until the departure of the night express 
we meet later on, dine somewhere, 
and spend the evening together, I gladly 
accede to his proposal. He leaves me 
at the door of the hotel, a quiet hostelry 
in the rue Daubagne, to which he has 
accompanied me, and I start off for a 
stroll by myself. 

What a crowd ! What a going and 
coming of carts and wagons, street-cars 
and carriages, as I stand at the junction 
of the Cours Belsunce and the rue de 
Borne with the broad rue Cannebiere, 
on my way to the Old Port at the bot 
tom of the street there, where the masts 
of shipping rise up. How Parisian the 
houses look, with their high fronts, the 
mansards, the long lines of ornamental 
iron balconies, the signs, and the great 
plate-glass windows ! But all resem 
blance to Paris ends with the houses. 
The crowds that fill the streets have a 
character peculiarly their own, and the 
sun shines far more brightly, and the 
sky has a far more brilliant hue than in 
the cold and misty north. People from 
all the countries bordering the Mediter 
ranean swarm on the sidewalks in front 
of the immense cafes with their hundreds 
of little tables ; Turk and Arab, Corsi- 
can and Greek, Spaniard and Sicilian, 
mingle in the crowd, and a dozen differ 
ent languages may be heard in a dis 
tance of as many yards. 

Where the Cannebiere ends at the 
Quai de la Fraternite, I look out, over 
a line of little row and sail boats, on the 
long basin of the Vieux Port ; to my 
right the wall of the broad Quai du Port 
is packed with sailing vessels, sterns or 
bows to the street, thronged with peo 
ple, carts, and tram-cars, and encum 



bered with huge piles of merchandise, 
in barrels, bales, and boxes. The Quai 
de la Rive Neuve, to my left, presents a 
similar appearance, while in front of me 
the port opens to the sea, old Fort St. 
Nicolas on the east, Fort St. Jean on the 
west. The vessels are from every land 
under the sun that sends ships to sea. 
Great, high-decked Englishmen lie side 
by side with traders from distant Bra 
zil ; huge feluccas from the Levant 
fierce, swarthy crews, lying under bright- 
banded awnings on the deck, orange- 
piled crowd in between trim, light- 
sparred yachts ; clumsy Hollanders, big 
Russian barks, round -bowed Germans, 
Italian tartanes, and Spanish schooners 
discharge or take on board their freight. 
From far Pacific islands ships are un 
loading cocoa-nuts, their shells in splin 
tered fragments lying on the paved quay 
in huge piles, where they have been 
thrown by the longshoremen, who, walk 
ing out on long planks pushed from the 
ships sterns, empty great bagfuls on 
the dock ; while others, great hoe-like 
implements in hand, gather the stuff 
together into baskets. Near by a pair 
of great scales a douanier customs 
officer in his blue coat and military 
cap, notes the number of the packages 
as they are weighed and placed upon the 
huge drays with the long string of horses 
standing there to receive their loads. 
The workmen, half-naked, savage-look 
ing fellows, chatter, whistle, and sing at 
their tasks ; dirty children, in the veri 
est apologies for clothes, play in the 
gutters by the sidewalks back where the 
houses stand, and black-browed, un 
kempt women, with handsome faces, 
huge baskets of shell-fish or fruit on 
their heads, or lying on the curbstone 
before them, offer the contents for sale. 
A rope ferry at the end of the Quai 
du Port takes passengers to the other 
side, and I cross over to the drawbridge 
spanning the dirty waters of the Basin 
du Carenage, and walking along a wide 
street, leading past the high walls and 
wide square gates of the barracks of 
Fort St. Nicolas, I enter the well-kept 
grounds of the Chateau du Pharo, a fine 
palace of the time of Napoleon HI., and 
passing its wide front to the terrace 
overlooking the water, enjoy the beauti 
ful panorama stretched before me. At 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



635 



my very feet is the entrance to the Old 
Port, and beyond rise the houses of 
Marseilles. To my right are the bas 
tions of the fortress just passed, oppo 
site to me the square tower and stone 
walls of Fort St. Jean ; sweeping away 
to the west, the New Port shows its 
grand basins, its granite piers, and rows 
of massive warehouses, and the magni 
tude of the business interests, the im 
mense commercial wealth of Marseilles 
is evident to the most careless observer. 
Close by the water-front the domes of 
the cathedral tower above the buildings, 
and the Quai de la Joliette runs, straight 
and broad, along one side of the basin 
of the same name. One after the other 
the great, square, masonry-walled basins 
Basins de la Joliette, du Lazaret, 
d Arene, de la Gare Maritime, the Na 
tional, largest of all are crowded with 
steamships, and the quays and ware 
houses are teeming with life, and the 
sound of voices, the clanking of heavy 
chains, the blowing of steam-whistles, 
the rumble of carts and trains, and all 
the noise of the life and bustle of a great 
seaport rise up to my ears, like the dis 
tant thunder of the ocean on surf -beaten 
shores. On a high hill to the south, the 
golden statue on the top shining through 
the mist of smoke and dust arising from 
the city, the tall tower of Notre Dame 
de la Garde is silhouetted against the 
sky ; out to sea, islands lie the Chateau 
d lf, the old fortress of Francis the First, 
and the He des Pendus, the island of 
the hanged men. 

Promptly at the appointed hour I find 
my new acquaintance awaiting me at our 
rendezvous, spick and span in his dark 
blue uniform and gold braided cap, and 
showing his white teeth under his dark 
mustache in friendly smile, as he greets 
me with outstretched hand. He is in 
great good spirits, has finished all his 
business, has made his purchases for his 
outfit for his long cruise of three years, 
and ready for the dinner, which he has 
already ordered for us at a little table 
in the corner of the salle d manger of 
the Hotel St. Louis. A regular Marseil 
laise dinner ; bouillabaisse, some little 
pates as entree, chicken with a hot 
sauce, in which peppers, tomatoes, and 
fragrant herbs form a savory compound ; 
salad, fruit, and cheese, the whole washed 



down with an excellent vin du Var. One 
of my friends was wont to remark that 
"a good dinner puts a man at peace 
with himself and the world," and nev 
er could this saying have been applied 
to better purpose than to the French 
lieutenant and myself, as, our intimacy 
having increased marvellously under the 
stimulus of the good fare we have en 
joyed, w r e sally forth into the now lamp- 
lit streets in quest of a cafe to enjoy our 
demi-tasses and cigars. We have not 
far to go ; there is an " embarrassment of 
choice," the Frenchman says, and we 
turn in at one of the many wide open 
doors of a resort on the Cannebiere, filled 
to overflowing with a motley crowd, 
good - natured, laughing, and all talk 
ing at once at the top of their voices 
and with much gesticulation, shrugging 
of shoulders, and raising of eyebrows. 
However, everybody is polite and ami 
able, and as my companion and I chat 
together over our coffee I rather enjoy 
the din and movement after the quiet 
and order of life on shipboard. 

The streets are literally packed with 
people as we stroll on the Cours Bel- 
sunce. All Marseilles appears to be out 
of doors, and every foreign seaman in 
the port seems to have come ashore 
to - night. On the broad, tree - covered 
space of the Cours Belsunce the walk is 
black with men, women, and children, 
itinerant vendors of nostrums, lemonade 
and chocolate merchants, g} 7 mnasts and 
mountebanks all have customers or cir 
cles of admiring spectators by the light 
of the electric lamps, and the hurly-burly 
is like that of a country fair. 

So the evening wears away, and we 
find ourselves at the railway station, my 
new sailor friend to take the train for 
the north, I to see him off and wish 
him God -speed on his journey. And 
good luck I certainly do wish for him, 
as he leans out of the window of his 
compartment and waves his hand in 
farewell as the long train drags its slow 
length out of the station, and if some 
day his ship drops anchor in American 
waters I hope I may see him again. 

Day is just breaking one morning as 
having joined the ship once more I 
come out of the cabin and mount to the 
quarter-deck. All is quiet in the har- 



636 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



bor of Toulon ; most of the ships that 
were lying here on the day of our arri 
val have gone to sea, and, save for one 
or two cruisers and the stationnaires, 
as the vessels permanently attached to 
the port are called, our own white beau 
ties are the only men-of-war outside the 
sheltering walls of the dock-yard. The 
Couronne, the old line-of-battle ship, 
is preparing to get under way, and the 
steam, escaping from her pipes is curl 
ing in white clouds through the maze of 
her rigging. On the bridge forward on 
our ship several of the officers are stand 
ing ; the crew has turned out, the ham 
mocks are stowed away, and an occa 
sional sound from the engine-room, and 
the brown haze floating off to leeward 
from the top of the smoke-stack, indi 
cate that we, too, are preparing for sea. 
The Chicago, the Boston, the Atlanta 
also show signs of readiness for depart 
ure ; I can see men forward on the 
decks of all of them, and dark forms on 
the bridges, while the boats at the davits 
all hang inboard. The light grows 
stronger in the east ; to the north ard 
heavy cloud-masses gather threateningly 
on the horizon, and, as the sun rises, 
casting its long glancing rays over the 
bay, the order to cast loose from our 
moorings and get under way is signalled 
from the flag-ship ; as she points her 
nose seaward and leads the way out of 
the harbor, the other vessels follow 
in her wake, all with colors flying, re 
sponded to immediately by the hoisting 
of the flags on all the French vessels in 
sight. 

High, rocky, picturesque the land 
rises from the water ; Fort Coudon, 
on a rugged crag 2,300 feet above us, 
glowing red in the light of the rising 
sun ; gently heaving in long, smooth 
swells the blue Mediterranean stretches 
beyond. Astern of us the Couronne 
emerges from the harbor mouth, shak 
ing out fold after fold of her enormous 
sails to catch the morning breeze. On 
we steam, out from the bay, soon losing 
sight of the houses and forts of Toulon, 
while the Couronne, standing out to 
sea on a course nearly across our sterns, 
drops her hull, with the double line of 
black and white ports, gradually below 
the horizon, until nothing is seen of her 
but the towering squares of her canvas, 



as the sails reflect the light from their 
smooth surfaces. On we speed in col 
umn, one white cruiser following the 
other, past Presqu ile de Cien, and into 
the passage between the high coast of 
the mainland and the lies d Hyeres 
Porquerolles, Port Cros, and du Levant 
rising from the sea on our starboard 
beam. The air is chilly ; the clouds 
gather thicker and thicker, and the 
wind sighs and moans in the rigging, 
and, as we steam out past the islands 
the sea breaks in short choppy waves 
against the sides of our ships. Here 
and there small coasters, sails spread 
and showing their colors as they pass 
near us, pitch and roll, while seaward 
showers of rain chase one another across 
the heaving waters. The coast shows 
dimly through the gathering mists, here 
and there a rugged promontory pushes 
out into the sea, the surf breaking on 
the rocks at its base, while the head 
lands beyond loom through the con 
stantly gathering vapor, appearing and 
disappearing as the squalls succeed one 
another. On we speed, the rain de 
scending in torrents at intervals and 
the wind increasing, coming tearing 
over the water in sudden gusts, cold 
and penetrating. Frejus shows for a 
moment, and He Ste. Marguerite, where 
were imprisoned the mysterious "man 
with the iron mask " and Bazaine, the 
brave but unfortunate marshal of the 
Second Empire. 

Away ahead on the gray horizon dense 
smoke masses are rising, and the word 
is passed that the French fleet is in 
sight. Through the gusty rain-squalls 
we can see the ships approaching, their 
great dark hulls moving over the toss 
ing waves, the thick black smoke from 
their funnels blown by the wind in roll 
ing clouds seaward. Half-hidden in 
bursts of spray flying over her hull 
lying low in the water rakish masts 
waving to and fro as she pitches on 
the swells, a little torpedo despatch-boat 
pushes to the front, like a scout thrown 
out before an advancing column. In 
line, some distance astern of her, the 
leading division three great ironclads, 
veritable monsters steam grimly for 
ward, their rear covered by a gunboat ; 
while following in column three more 
huge floating fortresses ride the waves, 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



637 



pushing them aside with their mighty 
rams, their black sides now rising to 
the light, now falling in shadow, as they 
roll heavily and slowly on 
the seas. Nearer and nearer 
they come in silent gran 
deur, when, as the scout 
flashes by us, and the lead 
ing ship is abreast of the 
Chicago, a burst of flame 
darts from her iron sides, 
and the stars and stripes 
wave at her fore, as her guns 
give greeting to the Ameri 
can cruisers, and the blue 
powder smoke envelops her 
and her consorts in masses 
of drifting vapor. Prompt 
ly the answering thunder of 
the Chicago s ordnance fills 
the air, and as promptly the 
French flagship of the rear 
division sweeping by as 
the five vessels in the van 
wheel to the left in column 
booms out a salute to our admiral s flag. 
On we speed, parting company with 
our French friends, rapidly steaming 
away from us. Antibes, Cannes, are 
passed, until rising boldly from the sea 
the headland behind which our harbor 
lies looms into view and the houses of 
Nice show up all gray and dismal in the 
drizzle of the rain. We round the point 
and enter slowly in between the tree- 
clad hills of Villefranche Bay, where, 
with hospitable courtesy, the French 
admiral in command of the ships lying 
here has sent boats out to meet our 
fleet and to conduct each vessel to her 
moorings. The French men-of-war in 
the harbor form the first division of 
the Mediterranean squadron of evolu 
tion, the other divisions of which we met 
on our run along the coast, and we have 
as our neighbor again the Amiral Du 
perre, the giant battle-ship encountered 
on our arrival at Toulon, which, with 
the other ships of this division, has re 
mained in port to receive our fleet. 
Something like a "squadron of evolu 
tion," this magnificent fleet of French 
men-of-war nine great battle-ships, two 
powerful cruisers, two despatch vessels 
carrying torpedoes, one torpedo cruiser, 
and three regular torpedo-boats. The 
battle-ships are the Amiral Baudin, 
VOL. VIII. 63 



Formidable, Amiral Duperre, Courbet, 
Trident, Redoutable, Vauban, Bayard, 
and the Duguesclin the three last- 




A Detachment of Pioneers, and Hospital Corps. 

named being so-called cuirasses decroi- 
sieres, or iron - clad cruisers, and are 
of the same class of ships as the Tri- 
omphante, whose departure for Asiatic 
waters we witnessed. The three first- 
named are among the largest and most 
powerful ships of the French navy. The 
total number of guns carried in both 
principal and secondary batteries on the 
vessels composing this squadron reaches 
three hundred and one pieces of artil 
lery, from the enormous 37 cm. rifles 
of the Baudin and Formidable to the 
various rapid-fire and revolving cannon 
with which all the ships are armed. Be 
sides this, sixty torpedo-tubes are distrib 
uted throughout the fleet. The speed 
attained by individual vessels runs from 
fourteen knots by the Bayard, to twenty 
knots by the Agile, one of the torpedo- 
boats, and the crews to man them all 
make up a force of five thousand seven 
hundred and fifty men. Note the Ami 
ral Duperre, the Courbet, the great 
Formidable well-named indeed -lying 
near where the Chicago is moored, 
graceful, white, and almost fragile in 
comparison with the black monster her 
neighbor ; see the gray, long, narrow 
Milan, the only ship in port that any of 
our squadron would stand much chance 
in fighting with. Not that it is intend- 



638 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



ed to cast any slur on our fine new ships ; 
splendid specimens of their class they 
are, equal to, if not better than, any 
others of their kind afloat, and com 
manded and manned by American sea 
men, who time and again have proved 
their valor and their skill, and who have 
upheld the honor of the flag in every 
quarter of the globe, by sea and by land, 
in the fire of battle and in dread tropic 
hurricane, ever since an American war 
ship first floated on salt water. 

While it will never be necessary, let 
us hope, for us to maintain anything like 
the enormous fleets of the great mari 
time powers of Europe, still a compari 
son of the actual naval strength of some 
of these powers with the two or three ar 
mored cruisers in process of construc 
tion, the battle-ships not yet even 
planned for which Congress has just 
voted an appropriation ; the handful of 
monitors most of them out of repair ; 
the pitifully inadequate number of tor 
pedo-boats ; the new cruisers, all splen 
did ships but few in number, and the 
twoscore of antiquated wooden vessels 
that go to make up the present naval 
force of the United States, may not be 
inappropriate at the present time, when 
the four cruisers that compose our 



ers, and over one hundred gunboats ; 
France has ready for war forty-four battle 
ships, coast-defence vessels, and the like, 
about one hundred cruisers of various 
classes, twenty-five iron-clad gunboats 
very formidable vessels thirty-nine 
other gunboats, fifteen torpedo cruisers 
and despatch boats, eighteen sea-going, 
and about one hundred and thirty 
other torpedo-boats ; Italy has thirty- 
four battle-ships and iron-clads, forty 
cruisers, one hundred and twenty tor 
pedo-boats, forty-eight of which are 
now building ; the Kussian eagle floats 
over about forty iron-clads, twenty or 
more cruisers, nearly two hundred tor 
pedo and about thirty gunboats ; while 
Germany s young Emperor commands 
twenty-seven battle and coast-defence 
ships, about thirty cruisers, and one 
hundred and fifty torpedo boats in com 
mission and in process of construction. 
In these figures only the fighting ships 
are given ; all the powers, notably Great 
Britain and France, which nations enter 
tain large fleets of transports, have vari 
ous other vessels, such as school-ships, 
yachts, tenders, and the like, to swell the 
grand total. 

A more lovely spot of its kind than 
Yillefranche Harbor it would be difficult 




little squadron are the first ships of 
a new navy that we hope is to rise, 
phoenix-like, out of the ashes of the 
old, and should be considered but as 
the commencement of a fleet, greater, 
stronger, and more powerful than any 
our government has planned. 

Great Britain maintains a fleet of 
sixty-eight great armored ships, about 
two hundred torpedo-boats, ninety cruis- 



to find. Nestling at the base of high 
hills, scarred with ravine and chasm, 
and dotted with groves of dark-leaved 
trees, the ancient town of Villafranca 
rises in gray embattled wall and tower 
from the very edge of the water. Old 
forts and defensive works line the bank, 
and narrow streets of steps climb the 
steep incline. A road, practicable for 
wheeled vehicles, \\inds up the height 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



639 



from the stone pier to the broad highway 
running around the promontory west 
ward to Nice on the one hand, and on the 
other eastward along the Riviera. Direct- 



French flagship tinkle out simultane 
ously with the deep-toned voice of that 
on the Chicago, and are responded to 
by all the other ships ; while the trum- 




Tne New Port, Marseilles. 



ly south the harbor opens, its waters of 
a brilliant yet soft blue, transparent and 
reflecting objects floating upon it with 
startling vividness. To the east the 
shore sweeps around in graceful curve 
to another headland fortress - topped 
and with light -tower on its brink 
forming a little peninsula, covered with 
tree and bush, green from the water s 
edge. The air is soft and balmy, the 
sky without a cloud, and the sea, out 
from the harbor s entrance, stretches, 
glassy and shining bright, save where 
the long swell casts purple shadows in 
the hollows, as it rolls directly into the 
bay, and the Yorktown rocks slowly 
from port to starboard and from star 
board back to port again, gently and 
softly as a cradle. But a cable s-length 
or two away from us the Atlanta s sides 
shine silvery white in the sunlight ; while 
between us and the head of the harbor, 
where the high masts of the flagship 
and the Boston point upward, the black 
iron hulls of the Frenchmen are mir 
rored in the limpid depths. One or two 
fishing boats dark specks on the glit 
tering waves in the offing are moving 
out ; and here and there among the olive- 
trees on the steep hillsides, where pretty 
villas and farm-houses peep out, blue 
smoke from early fires, thin and hazy, 
rises straight upward and melts into 
the clear air. 

Eight strokes on the bell of the 



pets sound, and, like so many firecrack 
ers on the "glorious Fourth," rifles 
pop on the Frenchmen, as the flags are 
raised on both fleets. 

The " first lieutenant " has his sword 
on as he stands by the hatch leading 
below, giving some directions to the 
ship s writer, and one or two of the 
other officers are coming up the ladder, 
buckling their belts or drawing on their 
white gloves. In duck working clothes 
and wat cheaps the men are gathering 
forward ; the bo s n s-mate on the fore 
castle is superintending the rigging up 
of a whip, while some of the men are 
taking apart the carriages of the field- 
pieces which stand on either side of the 
deck. The marines belts on, rifles in 
hand stand together near the port gang 
way ; from the armory apprentices are 
bringing up firearms and equipments ; 
some of the sailors are putting on their 
brown leggings or strapping their car 
tridge or cutlass belts around their 
waists ; while in such of the boats as are 
still hanging from the davits one or two 
of the men of their crews are busied get 
ting them ready for the day s work, and 
all hands are bustling about not to be 
behindhand when the signal to embark 
comes from the flagship a brigade from 
our squadron being ordered to land for 
shore drill. 

Soon the bugles sound, the whistles 
pipe, away go the boats crews. The 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



641 



steam launch lies smoking at the star 
board ladder ; the guns Hotchkiss and 
Gatling hoisted up by the whip, are 
lowered into the boats in the water 
alongside, and in a jiffy the men, armed 
as infantry and artillery, have taken 
their places, and we are soon gliding 
along, one boat after the other, towed 
toward the shore by the little steamer. 
We pass the Atlanta, her crew swarming 
over the sides ; and, coming from the 
Chicago and Boston, we see the long 
lines of cutter, launch, and whaleboat, 
flags flying, well-armed crews filling 
them, swiftly crossing the harbor to the 
landing-place on the eastern side, a 
lovely little cove, where an old stone 
pier juts out into the water, and where, 
by the courtesy of the French Govern 
ment, our forces are permitted to land. 
As we come up to the pier, one after 
the other the boats discharge their loads. 
The cannon are lifted out, the long 
drag-ropes manned, and the batteries 
formed; the infantry companies "fall 
in" quickly and move off along the 
shore toward a winding path leading up 
the precipitous hillsides. Quite a re 
spectable force it is, too, with the blue- 
coated marines and white-clad sailor- 
men, making up a body of infantry 
several hundred strong, four batteries 
of artillery with the best and newest 
types of ordnance, and a detachment of 
pioneers and hospital corps. 

Drums rattling, trumpets sounding, 
the infantry advances in long, solid col 
umns, winding up the hillside between 
dark green hedges and stone walls, 
wheeling to the right on the hard mac 
adam of the highway, until, out from 
under the overhanging branches of the 
trees by the high walls that surround 
the lovely gardens of a pretty villa, the 
troops debouch on to a breezy, brush- 
covered plateau that forms the top of 
the peninsula. The artillery follows 
close behind ; Jackie is used to haul 
ing, and the heavy little fieldpieces are 
jumped along up the steep hillsides like 
nothing at all. 

What a glorious picture, as stretching 
in front of us, where the land beyond 
there stops abruptly, the sea sparkles 
and ripples in the sunshine, royally 
purple in hue, in glowing contrast with 
the sapphire sky, which, cloudless, rises 
VOL. VIII. 64 



like a dome above. To the left and 
rear, sweeping in a bold curve eastward, 
the coast trends away ; Beaulieu clusters 
in garden and olive groves, orange and 
rose trees, palms gracefully drooping 
feathery branches over green hedges; 
huge cliffs tower, naked and grand, 
from the white curving road on the 
strand, and high mountain-tops raise 
mighty crests heavenward. Down be 
low, every stitch of canvas spread, "a 
bark is speeding over the sea," and far 
on the distant horizon to the southward 
a hazy streak of smoke marks the pas 
sage of some steamer bound for Corsican 
harbors. 

Off to the right and left of the road 
the batteries wheel. Away go lines of 
skirmishers, dotting the dark plain with 
spots of snowy white ; bugle-calls ring 
out, commands are shouted, the artil 
lery carriages rattle on the stony road. 
Jackie is "soldiering" with a vengeance, 
not in his signification of the term, by 
which he would imply that "soldiering " 
means shirking hard work, but in true 
military style scrambling over rock and 
bush in the advance or retreat, or prone 
upon the ground on the skirmish line, 
pegging away at an imaginary enemy, 
on the whole, it seems, rather enjoying 
the novelty of his work than otherwise. 
To be sure Jackie s methods his care 
less air, his loose movements, his flow 
ing garments contrast with the trim 
appearance and the precision and regu 
larity with which the soldier does his 
work ; but there is a devil-may-care reck 
lessness about the man-of-war s-man an 
activity and vim in "getting there" 
that is purely his own, and will prob 
ably serve its purpose, as far as the 
sailorman is concerned, fully as well as 
if he were compelled to observe every 
nicety of detail of the drill. Be that as 
it may, it is a fine lot of fighting mate 
rial that composes this brigade, and the 
admiral may well be proud of his com 
mand as no doubt he is as he stands 
there by the roadside, taking no active 
part in the proceedings, but with his 
keen eyes closely observing the progress 
of the manoeuvres and noting every 
movement for future blame or praise. 

Drums rattling, trumpets sounding 
again, the brigade returns to the shore 
and the men are speedily embarked 



642 



WITH YANKEE CRUISERS IN FRENCH HARBORS. 



once more, one detachment after the 
other entering the boats, quietly and in 
excellent order, and pulling back to the 
ships. Although there is no " let up " 
to the drills and duties on the squad 
ron, carnival time has come, and every 
afternoon sees boatloads of liberty men 
leaving the war-vessels for the shore. 
The railway at the head of the bay, 
where the tunnel enters into the moun 
tain s side, is alive all day long with 
trains, every carriage filled with passen 
gers ; on the road leading around the 
point to Nice equipages and wayfarers 
are moving. The streets of the city are 
crowded with people from all classes of 
society, rich and poor, with representa 
tives of every civilized nation in Europe 
and beyond. The beautiful Promenade 
des Anglais, with its border of palms 
running between the roadway and the 
beach, is covered from end to end with 
a dense, slowly moving crowd. The 
windows of the hotels and clubs, gayly 
festooned and decorated stands by the 
walls of the gardens, are filled with 
fashionably dressed men and women in 
beautiful toilets, while in the throng on 
the sidewalks below, railed in from the 
drive, " all sorts and conditions " of 
men, women, and children vie with one 
another in enjoyment of the day. Long 
lines of carriages, flower - bedecked, 
move slowly up one side and down the 
other, the occupants exchanging volleys 
of flowers with the surrounding crowd, 
and the air is heavy with the perfume 
of roses, geraniums, and violets. To 
and fro the people surge ; laughter and 
music from the military bands, stationed 
at intervals on the street, shouts and 
cries, song and applause, the clapping 
of hands at some dexterous hit or 
as some beautifully decorated carriage 
passes, rise in a confused roar from the 
multitude, while everywhere the utmost 
good - humor and hilarity prevail, as 
high and low, mistress and maid, master 
and man, prince and plebeian meet to 
gether for the nonce on a common foot 
ing of equality. Here and there in the 
crowd the broad blue collar and flat- 
topped caps of our sailors form con 
spicuous targets for fair flower-throw 
ers, and Jackie, ever ready for fun, 
enters thoroughly into the spirit of the 
day, and throws his flowers and jokes 



with his neighbors as happy and hilari 
ous as any Frenchman in the crowd. 
Several honest fellows among our men, 
mounted on tricycles they have hired 
somewhere, and puffing at black cigars 
in long holders, ride calmly along with 
the carriages, totally unconscious of 
anything unusual or odd in their ap 
pearance, and oblivious of the attention 
they are attracting. 

On the last days of King Carnival s 
reign fun and merrymaking run riot in 
the streets of Nice. The battle of the 
confetti rages, and from end to end of 
the Quai Massena and the Promenade 
des Anglais, on all the squares and the 
adjacent streets, the mob of maskers 
hold supreme sway. Woe to the luck 
less wight who, in his innocence min 
gles with the crowd in his ordinary 
everyday dress, and his head unpro 
tected by the wire masks to be bought 
at every street corner. The confetti 
flies in showers, and, hard as stones and 
of the size of peas, sting mercilessly 
when they strike uncovered face and 
ears. It is all very well when the at 
tacking party is some bright-eyed girl, 
muffled from head to foot in her dom 
ino ; but when, as is too often the case, 
some ruffianly fellow in the crowd takes 
evil delight in sending a handful of 
miniature grape-shot straight into your 
face with all the force he is capable of, it 
must be confessed that to control one s 
temper is not always an easy matter, 
and I am not surprised to see one too 
obtrusive masker clutched by the pow 
erful hand of an American from the 
squadron a tall, big, quiet man and 
shaken, as a Newfoundland dog would 
shake a rat, until his teeth rattled in 
his head. However, "do in Eome as 
Komans do," and if you will be tempt 
ed to mingle with the crowd on a 
"confetti" day at Nice, wear your old 
est clothes, put a wire cage over your 
head, and keep your hands in your 
pockets ; or else throw cold Anglo-Sax 
on reserve " to the winds," dress your 
self in a ridiculous costume of some 
sort or other and join in the mad folly 
of the time. 

And now one evening I stand on the 
shore looking over the water to the 
shapely cruisers floating there, and feel- 



IN BROCELIANDE. 



643 



ing truly like " a stranger in a strange friends, taking with me kindly recollec- 
land " for the first time since leaving tions of sailor ways and sailor hospital- 

1 J_1 L * T, ~ * J. "J. 11 1 -t t t 



home ; for the time has come for me to 
part from the " White Squadron," and 



ity, and leaving hearty good wishes for 
the welfare of one and all, fore and aft, 



I wave regretful farewell to my sailor from fo c s le to cabin. 




IN BROCELIANDE. 

MERLIN, Merlin, wizard Merlin, 
Days are now like days of old 
I believe the spells they told 

Cast by thee for Vivien, Merlin ; 
Merlin, wizard, hear me now 



Tall the green oaks rise to heaven 
In thy forest, Broceliande ; 

Still they grow and whisper, Merlin, 
In the summer Breton land : 



Cast thy spell upon me, Merlin, 
In the forest Broceliande ; 

Bear me to thy couch of bracken, 
Touch me with thy magic hand, 

Where the million leaflets utter 
Hidden secrets, mystic names, 

And the tall oaks, where they flutter 
Rise to heaven like green flames. 



Like green flames they rise to heaven 
Circlewise the Druids stand: 

Cast their spell upon me, Merlin, 
In the forest Broceliande ; 

With the tall trees ranged above me, 
Standing sentry where I lie 

While I dream her soul could love me 
I may not live, I would not die. 



644 IN BROCELIANDE. 

Then ten-hundred years pass o er me ; 

(Oaks net shadows by my head) 
Then, a thousand years before me 

(When I wake), has she been dead. 



Then, O Merlin, waken, waken, 

Loose mine eyes from thy deep spell ; 

As I waken, listen listen 

Hear what tale my lips shall tell : 

If I look upon the dawning 
Mark the bird upon the wing 

Smile to sunlight, greet the morning, 
Hail like any youth the spring 

If with joy I see the heavens, 

Where the tall oaks toss, tis well ; 

Then, O Merlin, wizard Merlin, 
Loose my heart the mystic spell ! 



But, O Merlin, wizard Merlin, 
If, when thou dost lift thy hand, 

If mine eyes turn down from heaven 
In thy forest Broceliande ; 

Nor the magic oak-tree hideth 
Heaven from me, but a tear ; 

If I ask thee where she bideth, 

She that s dead that thousandth year 

Then, O Merlin, wizard Merlin, 
Cast thy spell on me once more ; 

Net thy shadows oaken-woven 
Closer round me than before ; 

Weave their branches with the sunlight 

Shadow of forgetfulness ; 
Weave with oak-leaves nor with moonlight 

Dreams, no dreams of happiness : 

But, till earth shall pass in fire, 

Fire sink dying into night, 
Night shall brood no dawn-desire, 

Nor God say, Let there be light, 

Merlin, Merlin, never waken ! 

Let thy death-oaks guard my head, 
Lest, by life and by death unshaken, 

My love shall live and the world be dead ! 



Even now, for my love, Merlin 
Work this spell at my command, 

Where thy tall oaks rise to heaven 
Like green flames, in Broceliande. 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



THIED (CONCLUDING) PAPER. 
By N. S. Staler. 




E have now to consider 
the section of English 
North America which 
lies to the west of the 
Mississippi River, a 
region where the un 
der- structure, the to 
pography, and, to a great extent, the 
physiographic conditions which affect 
the advance of man, are determined by 
the Cordilleran system of mountains. 
First, let us note the fact that this 
western section of the continent, at 
least the part of it which is south of 
the Canadian region, is generally charac 
terized by a scanty rainfall. Only on 
the Pacific coast, north of California, do 
we find anything like the annual share 
of moisture which comes to the earth 
in the regions east of the Mississippi. 
East of the Mississippi the annual sup 
ply of rain amounts on the average to 
about fifty inches, a share of precipita 
tion probably unsurpassed in any equal 
ly extensive area in the same latitude, 
unless it be in China. Moreover, the 
seasonal distribution of rain in the part 
of North Ajnerica east of the Missis 
sippi is, on the whole, favorable to the 
interests of agriculture. The greater 
part of the annual fall, it is true, takes 
place in the winter half of the year, 
when it is of the least value to vegeta 
tion ; still almost all the territory is 
entitled by the regimen of the air to 
receive abundant showers during the 
growing season. 

West of the Mississippi the average 
rainfall, though not yet well determined, 
probably does not exceed twenty inches, 
and may in the end prove even less in 
quantity. Moreover, in this section the 
rain is ill distributed ; nearly the whole 
falls in the time between the first of 
January and the first of May, the sum 
mer and autumn being, in a large part 
of the area, times of continued drought. 
From the Mississippi River westward 
this diminution of the rainfall goes on 



rapidly as we approach the Rocky 
Mountains. The most arid section lies 
within the mountainous belt ; on the 
western borders of that district we have 
a narrow strip of country extending 
from southern California, widening to 
the north, wherein the rainfall is suffi 
cient for the needs of a vigorous vege 
tation. In the mountain districts local 
circumstances cause the rainfall to vary 
greatly in amount. There are consider 
able territories tolerably well provided 
with rain, but, as a whole, the region is 
arid. 

The trans-Mississippian portion of 
North America is, from the point of view 
of economic interests, divided into sev 
eral distinct sections. On the east we 
have a strip of country including eastern 
Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, eastern Kan 
sas, Arkansas, and eastern Texas. In this 
section the annual rainfall is sufficient 
to promote the development of grain 
and the other staples appropriate to the 
soil and temperature. Throughout this 
belt the surface is, except in the Ozark 
district of Arkansas and Missouri, sub 
stantially unaffected by mountain-build 
ing forces. The whole of the area af 
fords excellent soils. This section is in 
the main fitted for agriculture. There 
are, however, at several points, as in the 
lead district of Iowa, the lead and zinc 
country of Missouri, the iron district of 
the Ozark, considerable sources of min 
eral wealth. Throughout this section of 
States bordering upon the Mississippi, 
but west of its line, the climatal condi 
tions are apparently favorable to the 
development of our race ; though the 
summers are, in the southern section of 
this district, extremely hot, the winter is 
sharp enough to maintain the physical 
energy of the people. 

West of the country just considered, 
and thence to the eastern boundary of 
the Cordilleras, we have a section where 
the diminished rainfall renders ordinary 
agriculture unprofitable. Now and then 



646 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



a season favors the tillage of grain over 
the most of this vast expanse ; but the 
annual supply of water varies too much 
to make agriculture trustworthy. Along 
the streams irrigation is possible, and a 
small portion of the land may be made 
fertile by this expedient. Still, after all 
such engineering works are constructed, 
at least nine-tenths of the surface will 
remain unsuited to ordinary husbandry. 
Its only use will be for the pasturage of 
herds. 

A great portion of this Cordilleran 
Piedmont district is destitute of moun 
tain ranges. The Black Hills form a curi 
ous outlier on the north, and one or two 
slight disturbances have affected other 
parts of the field. The result is that no 
important mineral resources are revealed 
in this country, except in the detached 
mountain mass of the Black Hills. 

The facts above stated make it plain 
that this great section of the continent 
has a limited future, save by a change 
of climate which it is unreasonable to 
expect, and we fail to see, how it can ever 
be made to afford a dwelling-place for 
large bodies of people. The absence of 
fuel, of timber, and water powers ex 
cludes manufactures. The dryness ren 
ders extensive agriculture impossible, 
and there remains only the chance of the 
scanty industry which comes with a pas 
toral life. 

North of the above-described section, 
within the limits of Canada, and in the 
drainage area where the waters flow 
the north pole toward, we have a large 
territory in the Saskatchewan, the Ked 
River, and the other valleys, including 
an area of about 150,000 square miles, 
where the rainfall is considerably great 
er than it is in the Piedmont district 
of the southern Cordilleras of North 
America. In this section the surface of 
the country is more diversified ; it con 
tains a great many lakes; the larger 
rainfall is marked by the greater number 
and size of the rivers, and there is a brief 
season of growth in which the smaller 
grains and root-crops prosper exceed 
ingly. Although the surface of the 
country is generally level, the rocks are 
sufficiently disturbed to reveal a consid 
erable amount of mineral resources, the 
value of which is not yet known. There 
is no question that this Hudson Bay area, 



as we may term it because its waters 
drain into that basin, is in many ways, of 
agricultural importance. As before re 
marked, it is exceedingly well fitted for 
the growth of certain staples, viz., the 
smaller grains. Unfortunately, the re 
gion is too far north for the extensive 
growth of Indian corn. Moreover, the 
length and severity of the winters make 
it too cold to profit by the rearing of 
horned cattle or of sheep. At present 
the cultivation of small grains secures 
this section a fair measure of prosperity. 
It is to be feared, however, that this is 
but a temporary success, for the reason 
that all the wheat fields in the central 
part of the continent are prone to rapid 
exhaustion from the rude tillage to which 
they are subjected. When the primary 
fertility of the ground is exhausted, it 
is necessary to have recourse to mixed 
farming, to artificial fertilizers, and other 
expedients which are not likely to prove 
profitable in this high northern realm, 
where the population must mainly de 
pend on one class of crops. 

As far as the matter of climate is con 
cerned, this region appears suitable to 
the people derived from the more north 
ern countries in Europe. Scotch, Eng 
lish, North Germans, and Scandinavi 
ans appear to be well accommodated by 
their bodily habits to the rigors of the 
climate. There remains, however, the 
fact, that for nearly one-half the year 
work in the fields of this district is im 
possible, and this with a purely agri 
cultural country is a grave economic 
disadvantage. Therefore, despite the 
present success of this high northern 
settlement, it seems likely that it is 
in the end to become a country of the 
second order, in which, though the popu 
lation may maintain itself and attain to 
a certain diversity, the fullest develop 
ment of life will not be secured because 
of the unvaried nature of the indus 
tries. 

We turn next to the territories con 
tained within the vast area of the Rocky 
Mountains, extending from the Western 
pastoral lands to the border district, 
which lies upon the Pacific Ocean. For 
nearly two and a half centuries after the 
advent of the English settlers upon our 
shores the Cordilleran region remained 
a practically impassable barrier between 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



647 



the settlements of the Atlantic coast and 
Mississippi Valley and the western sea. 
For two hundred years of this period 
the idea that this great natural barrier 
to commerce would ever be broken 
down does not seem to have entered 
into the minds of our people. Even 
after California was settled and the 
prospective importance of the group of 
States on the Pacific coast became evi 
dent, few dared to hope that the great 
American desert and the mysterious 
mountains which lay beyond it would 
ever be made as readily passable as the 
Alleghanies. Nothing shows so well 
the swift advance of man s control over 
terrestrial conditions within the lifetime 
of our generation as the speed with 
which these barriers have been over 
come. The journey from New York or 
Boston to San Francisco is to us a much 
less serious undertaking than it was to 
our fathers to go from the sea-coast to 
the Ohio Valley. 

In northern Mexico, and thence north 
ward to the farthest point where the 
Cordilleras have been explored, the Cor- 
dilleran mountain district has an aver 
age width of about one thousand miles. 
The topography of this region differs 
considerably from that of most other 
important mountain ranges. In the 
first place, the mountains proper rest 
upon an elevated pedestal, so that the 
greater valleys and inclosed table-lands 
often have a height of six or eight thou 
sand feet above the level of the sea. 
This feature causes the climate of the 
region to be generally more rigorous 
than its latitude alone would cause it to 
be. The form of the mountains gives a 
curious type to the topography. The 
predominant ranges extend in a general 
north and south direction, as do those 
of the Appalachian system ; but in the 
Rocky Mountains we have a feature un 
observed in the Appalachian elevations, 
in that there are many subordinate 
ranges having a general east and west 
course. The consequence is that the 
Cordilleran district contains many ex 
tensive elevated valleys, great surfaces 
sometimes of tolerably level floors of 
many thousand square miles in extent. 
Striking examples of these inclosed 
areas are found in the well-known parks 
of Colorado. 



In the last glacial period, when the 
rainfall of this country was far greater 
than at present, this range of mountains 
was by its condition calculated to afford 
a great number of isolated areas having 
a high order of fertility, as is shown by 
the fact that it had great lakes in many 
of its basins, water areas rivalling the 
Laurentian fresh-water seas in extent. 
The Rocky Mountains were probably at 
that time a verdant country, and would 
have been wonderfully well suited to 
the uses of man. At present, however, 
no considerable portion of this region 
is fitted for agriculture, save where it is 
artificially irrigated. 

Although a large part of the Rocky 
Mountain section consists of mountain 
ous peaks, probably nearly one-third 
the total area is well covered by soil 
which, owing to the fact that its re 
sources have not been drained by vege 
tation, is of exceeding fertility. The 
researches of the United States Geo 
logical Survey have made it plain that 
over a hundred thousand square miles 
of this Cordilleran area can be won 
to tillage by storing the winter rains 
in convenient reservoirs and using the 
husbanded waters for irrigation. The 
Mormons have proved in a remarkable 
way the success which attends the appli 
cation of water to the soil, and there 
is every reason to believe that in all 
the important valleys of this country 
there will be extensive areas of land in 
this way won to agriculture. The irri 
gated lands of the Rocky Mountains 
have a very great fertility, and are sin 
gularly enduring to tillage. We may 
fairly assume the arable value of these 
redeemable soils as at least three times 
as great as that afforded by the State of 
Illinois. 

Owing to the great north and south 
range of this Cordilleran system, we 
have within it a vast range of climate, 
so that the products of the artificially 
watered fields may have a great diver 
sity. Thus in Montana and Idaho the 
natural products are grains, grass, and 
the other ordinary tillage crops of this 
country ; while in New Mexico and 
Arizona the finer fruits may be advan 
tageously cultivated. There can be no 
question that the development of the 
irrigation system in the Rocky Moun- 



648 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



tains is sure to give rise to a great many 
definitely limited agricultural popula 
tions, each separated from the other 
by broad fields of arid mountains, which 
here and there will afford employ 
ment to miners. When this condi 
tion of culture is instituted, we shall 
thus have a singular localization of life 
and industry, the like of which cannot 
exist in the other parts of the continent, 
where there are no barriers of a distinct 
sort between the several fertile districts. 

The principal economic basis of the 
Cordilleran life must for many centuries 
rest upon the mining industry. The 
geological development of this section 
from the time the rocks were laid down 
on the old sea-floors, through the periods 
when they were deeply buried and final 
ly uplifted by the mountain foldings, has 
served to prepare a vast range of min 
eral wealth by nature and position well 
suited to the needs of man. So far the 
mining industry of this section is in the 
main turned to the precious metals, and 
we have come to associate the idea of 
mining in this district with the winning 
of gold and silver. Although we as yet 
know comparatively little concerning 
the under-earth resources of this dis 
trict, it is evident that it contains a wide 
range of mineral products, perhaps a 
greater variety than is known to exist 
in any other country, all of which will, 
with the progress of exploration and 
the cheapening of mining costs, become 
the bases of industries. Coal, iron, and 
various alkaline salts, the varieties of 
bitumen, quicksilver, lead, zinc, and a 
host of other substances which have a 
place in our industries, exist in profita 
ble quantities in this region. The fact 
that a large part of the country can be 
made fertile by irrigation, will afford a 
basis for food-supply to the mining pop 
ulation without the distant carnage now 
required to bring it to this field. 

Great as is the measure of man s de 
pendence on the resources of the under- 
earth in the present condition of his 
development, there is every reason to 
believe that this dependence will be 
manifolded within a century from our 
day. "We are evidently nowhere near 
the end of the growth in our mineral 
industries. The underground workers 
are evidently to be, in the century to 



come, something like as numerous as the 
soil tillers. Therefore, in our forecast, 
we must reckon on the development of 
a body of population in the regions of 
the Cordilleras which cannot readily be 
imagined by the traveller who hastens 
through their apparently sterile wastes. 

The general climatal conditions of this 
section give promise that it will afford 
an admirable field for the nurture of 
northern Europeans. Although new 
comers in the highlands generally suffer 
from certain maladies attendant on the 
change of station, the children born in 
the region seem very vigorous, and the 
acclimatized man finds little in his sur 
roundings to contend with. The gen 
eration of success which our race has 
secured in the Cordilleras is a matter of 
no small interest to the philosophical 
student of our country. Until the set 
tlement of this district our Anglo-Sax 
on folk had never come to occupy a 
region of highlands. They were charac 
teristically lowlanders in their origin 
and history, and it was an open ques 
tion whether the blood would prosper 
in such countries. It might have been 
feared that it would have proved unfit 
for mountain life, as it has proved unfit 
for the conditions of the tropics. The 
sight of vigorous children, and young 
men and women of admirable physique, 
who have been bred in the Cordilleran 
highlands, is most satisfactory to those 
who have a keen interest in the future 
of our race. 

On the Pacific slope we have three 
areas which are open to our race the 
Californian, Oregonian, and Alaskan. 
The Californian section, extending from 
the peninsula of southern California 
to the northern borders of California 
proper, is a region of mountain valleys, 
lying in the foot-hill district of the Cor 
dilleran province. In this section the 
rainfall is sufficient to make an exten 
sive and varied agriculture possible ; 
the climate is in general of an admira 
ble quality, and the soil, which occupies 
perhaps one-half the total area, of a great 
fertility. Although such a long shore, 
the coast is poorly provided with har 
bors. The fishing-grounds are not very 
good, and the maritime life is likely to 
be less considerable than along any 
equally extended part of the American 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



649 



coast. On the other hand, the mining 
districts are blended with the tillage 
grounds in such a manner that they 
complement each other. So far the un- 
der-earth resources which have been won 
have been mainly those of the precious 
metals ; there is every reason to believe, 
however, that in the future the grosser 
earth products are to play a very large 
part in the economic success of the dis 
trict and in the diversification of its in 
dustries. A high grade of agriculture, 
exceedingly varied mining, under a cli 
mate which is on the whole favorable 
in its effects on the human frame, give 
promise of admirable conditions for the 
development of a powerful people. 

The district of Oregon, including the 
western portion of that State and the 
neighboring sections of the State of 
Washington, as well as a considerable 
part of the Frazer River district on the 
north, differs from Calif ornia in its more 
humid climate, the proportionately wider 
extent of its tillage grounds, but most 
markedly in the great extent of its in 
land maritime waters, the abundance of 
its harbors and straits, the nurseries of 
seamen. Here, too, the fisheries attain 
a marked value, so that there is a great 
foundation for ocean industries. 

The mining opportunities of the Ore- 
gonian district, though perhaps less con 
siderable than those of the central Cord 
illeras or of California, are still great. 
In this section, from the Frazer Eiver 
to the Columbia, extending back two 
or three hundred miles from the sea, 
we have the most varied opportunities 
for industries which are afforded by 
any portion of the American continent. 
Coal is probably abundant ; there are 
numerous excellent water-powers, and 
the soil within the limits of the humid 
area is very fertile. The forests are of 
good quality and of great extent, and 
the maritime resources appear to have 
a value unequalled on any portion of 
the American continent. The region 
has been blessed by the character of its 
settlers, for they have been derived from 
the most vigorous portion of the race. 
Taking it for all and all, the physiogra 
pher is more disposed to foretell great 
ness for this section than for any other 
equally extensive area on the western 
border of the continent. 



North of the Frazer Eiver, and thence 
to the Yukon, we have a district which by 
its physiography is peculiarly suited for 
a maritime life. In general the character 
of the surface, soil, and climate of this 
region more clearly resembles the Scan 
dinavian peninsula than any other part 
of the American continent ; save that the 
area open to tillage is less considerable 
than in Sweden and Norway, the general 
conditions very closely reproduce those 
of our race s cradle-land. In this field, 
which is destined to have a peculiar 
place in the development of our race, 
agriculture can have but a small part 
in the activities of the people. Indeed, 
with the development of any considera 
ble population, they must depend upon 
the Oregonian and Californian districts 
for their grain-supply. Mining and fish 
ing are the natural occupations for the 
populations which are to be developed 
in this interesting region. 

We have now completed our pro 
posed rapid survey of the physiographic 
conditions which determine, in a gen 
eral way, the development of our race 
on the continent of North America. It 
will be observed that we have excluded 
from consideration the whole of Mexico 
and Central America, the archipelago of 
the Antilles, as well as all the wide ex 
panse of lands neighboring to the Arc 
tic Ocean. The Arctic region does not 
interest us because in the present con 
dition of its climate these territories 
are sterilized by cold, and are therefore 
without the province of our people. 
The southern parts of the continent, 
though offering regions of delightful cli 
mate and great fertility, are also unsuit- 
ed to our race. 

Much has been said concerning the 
change which the European population 
has undergone in the course of gener 
ations from life upon this continent. 
Many persons have maintained that the 
British portion of our population has 
been greatly altered by its experience 
on the continent of North America. 
There has been a good deal of talk 
about the American type of man. He 
is supposed to be a thinner and more 
angular creature than his cousins of 
the parent isle. It has been held that, 
though quicker witted, readier to fit 
himself to circumstances, he has less 



650 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



solidity, less endurance than his ances 
tors from beyond the seas. There can 
be no question that our climate, as a 
whole, differs considerably from the 
conditions of northern Europe, whence 
our race came. It is generally drier, 
the alternating seasons cooler and hot 
ter ; it has, because of its relatively un 
clouded sky, more sunlight. There is a 
natural presumption that such varia 
tions would lead to considerable altera 
tion of the race. It may be that a cer 
tain measure of physical change has 
taken place. 

I propose at once to set forth the 
reasons which lead me to the opinion 
that the change, if it has occurred, has 
been small in amount, and that it has 
not injuriously affected the qualities of 
the people. It is worth while, at the 
outset of our inquiry, to note the evi 
dence which serves to show that racial 
qualities are not always the playthings 
of climate. Fortunately for our argu 
ment we have in this country some 
striking bits of evidence on this point. 
A large part of our population is of 
African descent, mostly derived from 
the Guinea coast, from conditions of 
climate very different from those which 
prevail in the Southern States of North 
America from a social as well as a phys 
ical environment differing vastly from 
what exists in this country. The Afri 
can race has by its transplanting under 
gone a vast change in its conditions. 
The Africans have been, so to speak, on 
the average, upon this soil for nigh two 
hundred years that is, they are as Am 
ericans about as ancient as the white 
population. So far as we can deter 
mine, the several generations of this 
race s life in a totally foreign climate 
has not affected any of their original 
peculiarities. The form, color of the 
skin, character of the hair, the mental 
qualities still remain, so far as we can 
determine, essentially unchanged, except 
so far as the blood has become mingled 
with that of the whites. This stubborn 
ness of race characters is all too little 
appreciated. We commonly neglect it 
in our political considerations, but the 
naturalist cannot omit to consider it in 
his reckonings. 

Although the history of British set 
tlements in torrid regions shows that 



the population of northern Europe is 
not suited to equatorial conditions, there 
is nothing in the experience of the race 
which would lead us to suppose that 
the measure of change undergone in 
passing from the parent country to the 
portion of the United States north of 
the region about the Mexican Gulf 
should produce any marked alteration 
in the racial qualities. It is a difficult 
matter to compare the condition of two 
bodies of people on opposite sides of 
the sea. We cannot trust to the im 
pressions of travel, for no man can re 
tain sufficiently accurate memories for 
such judgments. Here and there, how 
ever, we find certain data which serve 
as indices, and perhaps afford a suffi 
cient basis for an opinion on this point. 
The most important of these facts are 
those pertaining to longevity, as deter 
mined by the experience of life insur 
ance companies, those obtained by the 
measurements of soldiers and sailors, 
and the endurance which such men ex 
hibit in their callings. The results of 
surgical operations serve also to indi 
cate the vitality of the patient, and the 
success attained in games of a sort which 
demand a higher measure of mental and 
bodily vigor, shows something concern 
ing the essential qualities of the men. 
It would be desirable to add to this 
list the measurement derived from the 
intellectual accomplishment of the two 
countries, the success in various walks 
of a learned and imaginative work. Un 
fortunately, this last measurement can 
not be justly applied, for the reason that 
intellectual accomplishment depends not 
so much on native ability as on peculiar 
circumstances of scholarly environment, 
on education, and on the competence of 
the social conditions to stimulate the cre 
ative mind. . . . Shakespeares or 
Bacons possibly may remain with their 
genius unknown even to themselves, 
unless there is the stimulating air to 
quicken the native spark into a flame. 

Taking the conditions which I have 
mentioned in the order in which they 
are presented, we note in the first place 
the conviction on the part of our actu 
aries, the computers who determine the 
measure of insurance risk on human 
life, that the longevity of people in 
America is at least as great as in Europe, 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



651 



and this despite the fact that men s lives 
in this country are more seriously taxed 
than in the Old World. We are sup- 

Eosed to be dying of overwork, but the 
ict is that, witnessed by the duration 
of life in the case of men who have ap 
peared on the records of insurance com 
panies, there is no indication that the 
term allowed to man is growing less in 
this country than it is across the seas. 
On the contrary, the evidence seems to 
point to the conclusion that the Ameri 
can man lives longer than those of the 
same race in the Old World. 

We have next to consider the endur 
ance of American bodies to grave surgi 
cal operations. It is a well-known fact 
that in this country, during our civil 
war, there was a surprising percentage 
of recoveries from gunshot and other 
lesions incurred in battle. I believe it 
is a fact that in no European campaigns 
has the percentage of recoveries ever 
been as great as it was during our civil 
war. Although our surgeons were de 
voted, and the noble auxiliary corps of 
nurses untiring in their efforts to as 
suage the ills of battle, we cannot, it 
seems to me, attribute this remarkable 
percentage of recoveries to remedial 
measures alone. Our surgeons and 
physicians employed in the civil war 
were not in general so weh 1 instructed 
as those of Europe, and the means of 
succor on our battle-fields were probably 
no better than they are in modern days 
in the Old World. It seems to me that 
this fact of ready recovery from wounds 
cannot be explained save by the suppo 
sition that, on the whole, the American s 
body has more recuperative power than 
that of the European. It may possibly 
be that this advantage is due to better 
food, less average consumption of alco 
hol, and in part to the mental activity 
and courage in adversity which is bred 
in our men by their varied activities. 
Be this as it may, the rude experience 
of war seems to indicate that our men 
are as enduring as any from other coun 
tries. The probability that the survival 
from wounds is due in part to the in 
nate condition of our people finds some 
support in the observations of Dr. Brown- 
Sequard, which were communicated to me 
personally some years ago. This gentle 
man, as is well known, is a distinguished 



physician, as well as a physiologist of 
the foremost rank, having a place among 
the famous experts in this branch of 
science who are now the glory of France. 
Dr. Brown-Sequard had observed that 
American animals generally not only 
men, but the lower mammals down to 
the level of the rabbit are much more 
enduring to wounds than the kindred 
forms of the Old World. He regarded 
this peculiar endurance to lesions as the 
result of a difference in the nervous sys 
tem, which made the creatures of this 
country feel the effect of shock much 
less considerably than those of Europe. 
He stated that, in order to produce a 
given amount of destructive effect in 
experimenting on a rabbit, he had to 
make the wounds of the nervous system 
much more severe than in the case of 
European animals upon which he was 
performing the same experiment. In 
his opinion the American man had 
something of the same element of re 
sistance to injuries. 

The next point of evidence is that 
which is afforded by the record of field 
sports in this country and of Europe. 
While the conditions of higher intellec 
tual accomplishment differ so in the two 
countries as to make comparison impos 
sible, the field sports, especially those 
which require at once, as most of them 
do, the effective co-operation of mind and 
body, afford an excellent test as to the 
general condition of our folk in compa 
rison with our English kindred a com 
parison which includes not only the 
human kind, but extends also to the 
companions of man. It is now pretty 
well established that the American horse 
is as good as any of his kindred in the 
world, as is proved not only by the 
race-course, but by the wonderful caval 
ry marches made during the civil war, 
marches in which the sorest part of 
the contest came upon the mounts of 
the soldiery. Our ordinary field sports 
have, except lacrosse, been derived from 
England. Even base-ball, which appears 
as a distinctively American game, is but a 
modification of an English form of sport, 
which is really of great antiquity. The 
field sports which we may compare in 
England and America are the games of 
ball, in which base-ball, because of our 
customs, must take the place of cricket, 



652 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



and foot-ball, which is identical in the two 
countries; rifle shooting, rowing, and 
the ordinary group of athletic sports in 
which single contestants take part. We 
may add to this the amusement of sail 
ing, wherein, however, the quality of the 
structure as well as the nerve and skill 
in management play an important part. 

It is not worth while in this writing 
to make an accurate comparison be 
tween the success attained in the two 
countries in these several out-door 
amusements. It is now clear, however, 
that in them all the American is not a 
bit behind his trans-Atlantic cousins. 
The most of the people have the same 
spontaneous interest in sports as their 
forefathers, and they pursue them with 
equal success. It is unnecessary to do 
so, but we might fairly rest the conclu 
sion as to the un decayed physical vigor 
of our population on that spontaneous 
activity of mind without which games 
are impossible. There are, however, 
two divisions of the proof to which we 
have yet to attend. Among its many 
beneficent deeds the United States San 
itary Commission, which did so much 
to relieve the miseries of our civil war, 
did a remarkable service to anthropol 
ogy by measuring, in as careful a man 
ner as the condition of our knowledge 
at the time permitted, about 250,000 
soldiers of the Federal army. 

The records of these measurements 
are contained in the admirable work of 
Dr. B. A. Gould, a distinguished as 
tronomer, who collated the observations 
and presented them in a great volume. 
Similar measurements exist which pre 
sent us with the physical status of some 
thing like an equally large number of 
European soldiers, particularly those of 
the British army. From Dr. Gould s 
careful discussion of these statistics, it 
appears that the American man is on 
the whole quite as well developed as 
those who fill the ranks of European 
armies. As Dr. Gould s book was printed 
in but a small edition, and is not ordi 
narily accessible to most readers, I ven 
ture to give some of the important con 
clusions which I derive from it. From 
these records it appears that there is a 
considerable difference in the men born 
in different parts of the United States. 
Unfortunately the results include only a 



small part of the Southern troops, and 
for various reasons these measurements 
are less trustworthy in the case of troops 
from those fields. The measurements 
appear to show that the size of man in 
creased, in a general way, as we go from 
the seaboard into the Mississippi Val 
ley. 

About fifty thousand men who were 
subjected to these measurements were 
from the States of West Virginia, Ken 
tucky, and Tennessee. It is a fact well 
known to those who are acquainted with 
the history of these commonwealths 
during the civil war, that the Federal 
army did not receive an even share 
of the most vigorous element of their 
population ; those grown upon the rich 
est soils of these commonwealths, men 
from the blue-grass district regions of 
Kentucky and Tennessee, regions where 
it only needs a little local observation to 
show to be most prolific in well-devel 
oped specimens of humanity, went in the 
main to the Confederate army, for the 
reason that these fertile lands were slave- 
holding districts. Despite this cause, 
which doubtless serves to lower some 
what the average measurements of the 
troops, these two States furnished about 
the best-developed native soldiers who 
appeared in the Federal army. This last 
point is of much importance, for the 
reason that the white population of this 
district derived almost all its blood from 
Britain, in perhaps somewhere nearly 
equal measure from the Scotch and the 
dwellers in the southern portion of that 
island. Moreover, it has been longer 
upon the soil than perhaps any other 
part of the American English. New 
England has been so far affected by the 
immigration of Irish and other Euro 
peans, that it would be difficult to re 
cruit 50,000 men in that region with as 
small an admixture of other than Brit 
ish blood as was secured in the troops 
of Kentucky, Tennessee, and the neigh 
boring States. The admirable develop 
ment of these soldiers has completely 
proved that something like two centu 
ries of Americanizing does not debilitate 
the race. 

Last of all, we have the test afforded 
by the trials of the struggle between 
North and South. War has ever been 
the rudest and the most effective gauge 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



653 



of certain important qualities. The act 
ual advance to which the living beings 
have attained has been in large part 
determined by the measure of resistance 
which creatures have been enabled to 
make against adverse circumstances, not 
the passive inertia of inanimate things, 
but the active and long-continued con 
test in which all the latent powers are 
applied in determined action. The mil 
itary struggles of men are but an ad 
vanced and complicated form of the 
immemorial rivalry of lower creatures, 
out of which, through infinite pain, in 
finite good has been won. There is no 
more searching test of the moral and 
physical development of a people than 
that which is afforded by a great and 
long-continued civil war. That such a 
strife affords a measure of the physical 
endurance, the power which is in the 
people of maintaining determinations is 
manifest. The contact of armies in the 
field gives, moreover, an excellent meas 
ure as to the moral state of the people. 
Nothing so tests the firmness with which 
the motives of sympathy, of justice are 
rooted in men as the temptations which 
campaigns expose them to. 

It is hard, in our ordinary well-regu 
lated societies, to ascertain how far men 
are held to right doing by the machin 
ery of the law, how far their relations to 
their fellows are fixed by their own mo 
tives. The ratio of compulsion to spon 
taneous motives becomes evident when 
the men of the State are marshalled into 
armies. This test was made thorough 
going by the circumstances of our civil 
war. In the first place, the combatants 
fought for more ideal issues than men 
commonly do. It was not for the love 
of chieftains or for conquest, but for 
theories of institutions, of plans for 
States that they contended. No war 
was ever so humanely conducted as this. 
There were grievous things about it ; 
all war is a succession of griefs ; but 
the conduct of the armies in the field 
was more humane than in any other 
similar campaigns which the world has 
known. The interests of women and 
children were almost invariably con 
sidered. The soldiers born upon the 
soil generally carried the civic sense, 
the order of peaceful society, with them 
in march and battle. Good-nature and 



sympathy were written on their banners. 
We have but to compare the struggles 
between the French and Spaniards in 
Florida, or the wars between the Ameri 
can colonies of the British and French, 
to see how humanized our armies were 
under circumstances which, in other 
lands and times, have awakened the 
devil in men. The issue of the combat, 
the perfect accord and loving humor 
which now marks the men who met on 
battle-fields, shows this in the clearest 
possible manner. I take it to be plain 
that the rebellion proves our people to 
have lost nothing in the moral gains 
which the race won in the Old World. 
If we compare the issue of the contest 
with the chronic conditions of dispute 
between Great Britain and Ireland, I 
think we may claim that we have gained 
in the moral qualities which appear in 
the conduct of public affairs. 

The conduct of our armies in the 
field shows clearly that the combination 
of physical vigor and moral earnestness 
which make a good soldier exist in un 
surpassed measure in the men whose 
ancestors dwelt long upon the Ameri 
can soil. 

Some years ago I sought carefully to 
find a body of troops whose ancestors 
had been for many generations upon our 
soil, and whose ranks were essentially 
unmixed with foreigners, or those whose 
forefathers had been but a short time up 
on this continent. It proved difficult to 
find in the Northern armies any com 
mands which served the needs of the 
inquiry which I desired to make. It 
seemed necessary to consider a force of at 
least five thousand men in order to avoid 
the risks which would come from imper 
fect data. In our Federal army it was 
the custom to put in the same brigade 
regiments from different districts, thus 
commingling commands of pure Ameri 
can blood with those which held a con 
siderable percentage of foreigners, or 
men of foreign parents. I found in my 
limited inquiry but one command which 
satisfied the needs of the investigation, 
and this was the First Brigade of Ken 
tucky troops in the rebel army. In the 
beginning of the war this brigade was 
recruited mostly in the slave-holding 
district of Kentucky, its ranks being 
filled mainly with farmers sons. It is 



654 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



possible to trace the origin of the men 
in this command with sufficient exacti 
tude by the inspection of the muster- 
rolls. Almost every name upon them 
belongs to well-known families of Eng 
lish stock, mainly derived from Virginia. 
It is possible, in a similar way, to prove 
that, with few, unimportant exceptions, 
these soldiers were of ancient American 
lineage. Speaking generally, we may 
say that their blood had been upon the 
soil for a century and a half ; that is, they 
were about five generations removed 
from the parent country. 

When first recruited this brigade con 
tained about five thousand men. From 
the beginning it proved as trustworthy 
a body of infantry as ever marched or 
stood in the line of battle. Its military 
record is too long, too varied, to be even 
summarized here. I will only note one 
hundred days of its history in the closing 
stages of its service. On May 7, 1864, 
this brigade, then in the army of Gen 
eral Joseph Johnston, marched out of 
Dalton 1,140 strong, at the beginning of 
the great retreat upon Atlanta before the 
army of Sherman. In the subsequent 
hundred days, or until September 1st, 
the brigade was almost continuously in 
action or on the march. In this period 
the men of the command received 1,860 
death or hospital wounds, the dead 
counted as wounds, and but one wound 
being counted for each visitation of the 
hospital. At the end of this time there 
were less than fifty men who had not 
been wounded during the hundred days. 
There were 240 men left for duty, and 
less than ten men deserted. 

A search into the history of warlike 
exploits has failed to show me any en 
durance to the worst trials of war sur 
passing this. We must remember that 
the men of this command were at each 
stage of their retreat going farther from 
their firesides. It is easy for men to 
bear great trials under circumstances of 
victory. Soldiers of ordinary goodness 
will stand several defeats, but to endure 
the despair which such adverse condi 
tions bring for a hundred days demands 
a moral and physical patience which, so 
far as I have learned, has never been ex 
celled in any other army. I doubt not 
that as satisfactory evidence can be ob 
tained from the records of our Northern 



troops ; indeed my inquiries have clearly 
indicated that if our men from the dis 
tricts settled with purely English blood 
could be made the subject of careful 
study, we would find that the best Fed 
eral soldiers were generally as good as 
these Confederates. 

The foregoing considerations, as well 
as many other points which cannot be 
traced in this brief study concerning the 
effects of climatal and social conditions 
on the American man, have satisfied me 
as I think they will satisfy any other 
unprejudiced inquirer that our race is 
safe upon this continent ; that we need 
have no apprehensions concerning the 
effect of the existing conditions upon its 
development. 

We may safely presume that the cli 
mate and other conditions of our conti 
nent, with perhaps the exception of the 
district about the Gulf of Mexico and 
the Arctic country, are, on the whole, 
as well fitted for the uses of northern 
Europeans as any part of the mother- 
country. We may reasonably conclude 
that it suits the whole Teutonic branch 
of the Aryan race. As to the Latin 
peoples, the case is not so clear. The 
Canadian French are doubtless in the 
main descended from the people of 
northern France. It is likely that a 
large part of their blood is derived from 
the Northmen. There can be no ques 
tion that, with certain limitations, this 
population has been thoroughly suc 
cessful on American soil. The fact that 
they speak a foreign language, and have 
been deprived of education, may account 
for their failure to advance in the intel 
lectual field. They are, however, people 
of vigorous minds and enduring bodies. 
They have developed a fecundity now 
unparalleled in France. They take nat 
urally to laborious occupations, which 
is a proof of physical vigor. We may 
therefore consider the northern French 
man as well fitted to the conditions of 
northern America. The Latin peoples 
about the Gulf of Mexico have not been 
equally successful. The upper class has 
maintained something of its pristine 
quality, but the peasant has not taken 
hold on the soil in a successful way. 
How much of this failure of the Spanish 
and French to attain a high develop 
ment in the region about the Gulf of 



NATURE AND MAN IN AMERICA. 



655 



Mexico and the Caribbean is due to cli 
mate, and how much to the institution 
of slavery, it is impossible to say. 

There remains one important inquiry 
as to the effect of geographic conditions 
on the development of races from be 
yond the sea on the surface within the 
limits of North America, a question of 
the utmost importance to our political 
and social future. We have in this 
country a very large African popula 
tion. Within the limits of the United 
States, the number of people of this 
blood probably exceeds that of any 
other stock, save that from the British 
Isles. As we have previously remarked, 
this race, on the whole, appears to have 
remained substantially unchanged by 
the conditions of the new field. Intel 
lectual contact with the white has doubt 
less led to a certain development in the 
general status of the African, but except 
so far as his blood has been mingled 
with that of Aryan or Indian people, 
the bodily form, and in general the mo 
ral and mental characteristics, have re 
mained substantially what they were 
on the parent continent of this people. 
There are two questions concerning 
this race which are of the utmost im 
portance to the future of our nation 
indeed, to that of all our own people 
in North America. The first concerns 
the natural fecundity of the population, 
their rate of increase from decade to 
decade ; and the second, the limita 
tions which climate may put upon the 
extension of the folk. 

The rate of increase of the negro has 
not yet been ascertained. During the 
conditions of slavery, a satisfactory cen 
sus was impossible. The slaves were 
subject to taxation, and the owners had 
a sinister interest in reducing the num 
bers which were given to the account 
ing officers. The census of 1870, the 
first taken after the overthrow of slavery, 
partly intentionally or by neglect, served 
to underestimate the total number of 
negroes. The next accounting, that of 
1880, was careful, and doubtless gave us 
the first accurate knowledge as to the 
ratio of this element of our population 
to those of European blood. It will not 
be until we obtain returns of the census, 
which has just been taken, that we shall 
know whether the negro is more or less 



prolific than the white. In case it should 
appear that in the extreme southern 
States the negro increases in a greater 
ratio than the whites, the regions in 
which this increase is marked have a 
doubtful future before them, for unless 
the black population can be quickly 
lifted to a higher intellectual and moral 
plane than now characterizes it, those 
parts of the South will be apt to relapse 
into barbarism. The advance of the 
negro to a satisfactory grade in develop 
ment still depends upon his remaining 
in close contact with the superior race. 
If he increases in numbers more rapidly 
than the whites, he is sure to create 
massive communities of his own stock in 
which there can be no certainty as to 
the maintenance of our race motives. 

As to the distribution of the African 
population in this country, though the 
evidence is not clear, it seems that the 
negro is not likely, in the immediate 
future at least, to extend for any con 
siderable distance beyond the limits in 
which his race at present is fixed. There 
is now no distinct movement of the 
blacks toward the North. The scanty 
African population in the old non-slave- 
holding States has mainly accumulated 
in the cities, and would probably die out 
were it not for the occasional accessions 
it receives from the South. Unless the 
rate of increase of the negroes should be 
so great as to crowd them from the 
extreme southern States, we may be 
pretty sure that this population will re 
main in good part limited to a small part 
of our country, to a region which, though 
not unfitted for the occupation of our 
race, is the most undesirable part of the 
country for its development. 

Our review of the physiographic con 
ditions which environ our race on this 
continent makes it tolerably plain that 
North America is well suited for the 
development of northern Europeans. 
We may dismiss the fear that our race 
is to deteriorate in this country. We 
may further put aside the notion that 
we are to be a massive, unvaried people, 
destitute of those differences which by 
their reaction bring about the advance 
of man. It is true that the continent 
is not divided into the separate areas 
which have constituted the cradle-lands 
of the Old World, but it is evident that 



656 



FUGITIVES. 



the wide diversities in occupation will 
institute and maintain variations in the 
character of the people probably in time 
to be as great as those which in the more 
natural state of man depended on pure 
ly geographic conditions. At present, 
while the open structure of our social 
and economic life permits a rapid change 
in the occupations of men, the effect of 
industries dependent on physiographic 
conditions is not much felt ; but with the 
increase and consolidation of our pop 
ulation, we may be sure that vocations 
will become more hereditary. Men will 
follow the occupations of the plough, 
the mine, or the mill from generation to 
generation, and so the communities will 
receive the individualized stamp which 
comes only through ancestral habit. 

In the "beginning mankind was de 
pendent for culture and diffusion main 
ly upon geographic conditions. Each 
tribe was environed by rigid customs 
which fended off its neighbors. The 
movements were necessarily massive, 
for they were to result in displacements 
of pre-existing peoples. Therefore the 
first stages of man s development re 
semble, as regards the conditions of in 
crease and diffusion, those of his lower- 
kindred in the ranks of life. The prog 
ress of intellectual capacity has given 
to certain races a larger measure of con 
trol over their circumstances. Still, even 
in our own centuries, the implantation 



of our race in new lands already pos 
sessed by men has proved a task of ex 
ceeding difficulty. The would-be colon 
ists of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, on the eastern coast of Amer 
ica, found something of the difficulty 
in gaining their foothold which stray 
plants or animals from one flora or 
fauna find when they are cast within a 
foreign field. Even in the present state 
of their development the most advanced 
races of men are limited by the climate, 
and can only dwell where the larger nat 
ure permits. 

For all that we can foresee of the 
future, this dependence of man upon 
the conditions of his environment is of 
an insuperable nature. The good he 
wins he secures by obedience to the 
commands of his mother-earth. Look 
ing back over the history of life upon 
the earth s surface, the physiographer is 
forced to the conclusion that its highest 
estate embodied in the moral and intel 
lectual qualities of man has been, in the 
main, secured by the geographic varia 
tions which have slowly developed 
through the geological ages. Thus our 
continents and seas cannot be con 
sidered as physical accidents in which, 
and on which, organic beings have 
found an ever - perilous resting-place, 
but as great engines operating in a 
determined way to secure the advance 
of life. 



FUGITIVES. 

By Graham R. Tomson. 

THEY say our best illusions soonest fly 
Bright, many-tinted birds on rainbow wing, 
Adown the dim dawn-valleys vanishing 

Long ere our noon be white upon the sky : 

Nay, never so, in sooth ; ourselves go by, 

Leaving the sun that shines, the birds that sing, 
The hazy, golden glamours of the spring, 

The summer dawning s clear obscurity. 

O woven sorceries of sun and shade ! 
O bare brown downs by grasslands glad and green ! 
Deep, haunted woods, with shadows thick between ; 
Young leaves, with every year, new-born, remade ; 
Fair are ye still, and fair have ever been 
While we, ephemera, but fail and fade. 




THE POINT OF VIEW. 



THE immediate cause of these reflections 
will be an old story by the time they are in 
print ; their primary cause is an old story 
already, so old that only men of a certain 
age will altogether understand it. 

Whoever went for an August vacation to 
northern New England and it is curious to 
see how large a proportion of the rest and 
pleasure-seekers the gaunt old arida, nutrix 
gathers home in the summer met every 
where groups of men of fifty and beyond, 
almost always with faces of some charac 
ter, and bearing marks of that indefinable 
something which is nevertheless the native 
American type, going to or from the meet 
ings of the Grand Army of the Republic. 
Dressed in clothes as closely reminiscent 
of the old army blue as the current ward 
robe would furnish, and wearing the black 
felt hat which is the last relic of that pre- 
resthetic uniform ; now and then with a 
wife and complement of well-grown chil 
dren, but oftenest in squads of three or 
four, with cigars or brier-wood pipes, and a 
general aspect of temporarily unattached 
masculinity, they made knots at the coun 
try railway stations, breaking up, as their 
trains started in different directions, with 
deep-voiced laughter over the re-told cam 
paign story of old date, and with much 
hand-shaking and slapping on the back ; 
carrying off who knows how much of a re 
vived consciousness of the meaning of an 
American man, and of the great epic in 
which they had played a part a quarter of 
a century before. 

To those of us who live in political cen 
tres, and are used to seeing too much of 
the type of veteran who developed from the 
VOL. VIII. 65 



bounty-jumper and parades an exaggerated 
Grand Army dress for the same purely pe 
cuniary reasons, the sight of these men is 
a healthy reminder. The newspapers and 
public opinion generally are, rightly, con 
stantly pointing out to us and them if 
they will only hear it that their organiza 
tion is in danger of becoming one of the 
most dangerous tools of demagogues ; and 
the wine of their own memories, which is 
a strong drink for the hardiest, gets into 
their heads when they are together, and 
makes them easily led collectively into 
things which individually they would re 
pudiate. But it is hard to believe that these 
men who have stood for the core of a healthy 
Americanism, with a finer past than even 
they themselves realize, have yet made up 
their minds to sell their birthright for any 
mess of pottage wherewith they can be 
tempted ; or that there will not somewhere 
come out from them a renovating move 
ment that will cast off the Tartuffes and 
Stigginses who have taken advantage of 
their cloak. 

But this is matter for another chapter. 
What I began to say that the sight of 
the Grand Army men recalled was of more 
purely sentimental sort. They were a re 
minder of what comes over a somewhat 
younger man now and then with uncom 
mon force that close to him, and indeed 
among his very companions, lies the line 
of demarcation between those who do and 
do not remember the war ; and a curiously 
sharp line in some respects it is. The ac 
tual veterans stand altogether apart from 
it; it is easy for everyone to understand 
tlieir feeling, who were actors. But what 



C58 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



man of forty-two or three lias not found 
some difficulty in making the man of thirty- 
five or less understand precisely how he 
looks at things, just because of this line of 
difference, which means that one of them 
was a half-grown boy, and the other a child 
during those years between 1860 and 1865 ? 
It is the whole difference between the his 
toric and the reminiscent point of view. 

Sometimes it seems possible that the boy 
of fifteen or sixteen may have received a 
more vivid general impression than the ac 
tors themselves, who were busy with detail 
and even with drudgery, while to him every 
thing was idealized into clear and large out 
lines unobscured right and wrong, large 
issues and no compromises. How with this 
kind of memory are you going to make the 
younger man understand just how real the 
whole of it all is to you? On whichever 
side of Mason and Dixon s line you lived, 
there will always seem to him something 
fanatical in your way of looking at the past, 
and he will have a certain pity, such as 
one might have for a person now liberally 
enough educated who still has lingering in 
him the bias of some early narrow training. 

Of course it is infinitely better so ; and 
he has the fuller inheritance in the very 
thing the war was fought for a country in 
which sectionalism should be a word al 
most incomprehensible. All of which does 
not alter the fact that just behind the actual 
fighters of the battle comes a generation 
whose special legacy of memories is a thing 
not often defined or taken account of, so 
that thinking over it prompted this writ 
ing; a generation who remember as boys 
the long hot Sunday of Bull Eun, when the 
elders came home from church with grave 
or scared faces ; who went out with an awe 
much greater than men s into the hushed 
streets on the day of Lincoln s death. If 
you are one of them, you will have a feeling 
not quite like that of either the veterans 
or your junior, when the country doctor 
the quietest now and most professional of 
men takes you in a moment of confidence 
into his study to show you his sword hang 
ing between the pictures of his corps and 
brigade commanders ; you will have some 
thing more than the historic sense when 
the old man in the corner of the club 
they are rare now takes you home to see 
the painting of his twenty-one-year old 



youngster who was killed in the Wilder 
ness. You did nothing ; your generation 
belongs in a kind of limbo ce riest pas 
magnifique ; mais detail toujours la guerre ! 

THE art of criticism is such a fine thing 
that one must regret its present tendency 
to formulary. It has, I think, such a ten 
dency among us, curiously enough at the 
very moment when elsewhere in France, 
at least it has emancipated itself into 
the license of a mere record of irrespon 
sible impressions ; in England, possibly, 
it is equally irresponsible, but certainly 
not impressionist. With us the novel 
mainly seems to be the victim of this ten 
dency. Our critics do not inquire too 
closely who they are are at the present 
moment nearly unanimous in their preoc 
cupation with prescribing to the novelist 
from the old rules of French unity and 
German objectivity. This would be all 
very well if they were professors in a con 
servatory where novel-writing was taught ; 
but it savors distinctly rather of pedagogy 
than of criticism. And though pedagogy 
may be more important than criticism, it is 
at any rate a different thing. The great 
distinction perhaps between the two is that 
one is mechanical and the other spiritual. 

Mr. Henry James is just now suffering 
at the hands of this mechanical and peda 
gogic criticism. His " The Tragic Muse " 
is acknowledged by those who are at all up 
to it to be, if not a masterpiece, a very dis 
tinguished accomplishment. But it is ob 
jected to on the ground that it lacks unity 
and objectivity, that it is two disparate and 
discordant stories in one ; that British poli 
tics and the stage have nothing in com 
mon, and that the work is full of obiter dic 
ta proffered by the author instead of if 
they must appear at all, rather than be 
relegated to some future essay being put 
into the mouths of the personages of the 
novel. It would be interesting to know 
what Mr. James himself would reply to 
these objections, which are, of course, as 
abstractions, familiar to him. But it may 
be assumed that he would find their source 
in a lack of imagination, a comfortable re 
pose in the literal, a contentment with 
formulary, with a contracted view holding 
out to indolence the deceitful promise of cer 
tainty. In point of fact the noticeable thing 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



659 



about " The Tragic Muse " is its freedom, 
its largeness, its comprehensiveness, the 
size of its canvas. To wish to bring a pict 
ure of these dimensions to one focus, to in 
sist on one vanishing point, is merely to 
wish for another sort of a picture to ex 
hibit one s own limitations in appreciation, 
in fine. It is identical with the literalness 
which objects to the lack of unity in Ka- 
phael and Tintoretto which finds " The 
Transfiguration " a hodge-podge, and " The 
Marriage of St. Catherine" an absurdity. 
They are from one point of view. The 
main thing in criticism, however, is to get 
the proper point of view. 

And in art of any elevation such as that 
illustrated by " The Tragic Muse," for ex 
ample it is far more pertinent to take the 
spiritual than the mechanical point of view. 
A work may seem " in pieces " to the me 
chanical critic, to the devotee of formu 
laries, which really has a spiritual unity of 
very high interest. Perhaps it would be 
well to have both ; but the rational critic 
knows that art as well as life is an affair of 
compromises. The main consideration is 
to secure the essential. In "The Tragic 
Muse " the essential unity of the picture is 
the contrast, in fact the warfare between 
and the relations of the actual and the aes 
thetic world. There is more than one 
strand to the thread of the story ; but there 
is, all the same, a thread. Furthermore, 
what is a picture of life, notably of modern 
life, at least of any group of people whose 
interests and occupations are so highly 
differentiated as those of modern civiliza 
tion, but a picture of heterogeneous ele 
ments ? And, indeed, if one chose to be as 
paradoxically literal as the literalists, one 
might insist that in order to represent mod 
ern life coherently and truthfully, it is posi 
tively necessary to convey the impression 
of heterogeneity. 

As to " objectivity," the other shibboleth 
of the mechanical critics, it is equally 
limited to insist too perfunctorily on this. 
The question here is surely one of degree. 
Mr. Howells struck the key-note of the cur 
rent criticism some years ago in saying that 
the art of fiction was a finer art to-day than 
it was in the time of Thackeray. This de 
liverance has been much criticised and very 
unjustly misinterpreted, but probably what 
exactly Mr. Howells meant by it is conveyed 



in a recent remark of his, objecting to 
Thackeray s habit of " standing around in 
his scene." Now if one were lecturing to 
a class of rising young novelists no counsel 
could be more pertinent than to warn them 
against standing around in their scenes. 
One may imagine the figure they would cut 
there. The scene itself would perhaps lose 
so preponderant is their special cleverness 
over the synthesis of the qualities which 
make up their personality. But this order 
of reflection has very little to do with in 
telligent criticism of Thackeray. What is 
legitimately censurable in Thackeray was 
formulated long ago some time in the six 
ties, was it not? by Taine, who, in singling 
out "Henry Esmond" for praise regretted 
that so great an artist as its author should 
have, elsewhere, proved so much of a 
preacher, and thus sacrificed art to morals 
when the question was one of art. But 
preaching is one thing, and the presence 
even very palpably of the author s personal 
point of view is quite another. And if one 
enjoys the obiter dicta of Colonel Henry Es 
mond relating the story of his life, or of 
Arthur Pendennis, Esq., chronicling the 
Newcome annals, why should not one tol 
erate those of Thackeray himself describing 
the adventures of Mrs. Kawdon Crawley or 
of Mr. Philip Firmin ? The drama and the 
novel are quite distinct literary forms. To 
compel the latter to conform to the condi 
tions of the former is to require it to forego 
one of its greatest advantages over the 
drama, namely, of appealing directly to the 
mind instead of to the eye. What criticism 
has a right to insist upon is that the author 
shall concentrate himself upon his subject, 
instead of, as Thackeray far too often did, 
flying afield after some new game temporar 
ily soliciting his caprice. That understood, 
let him illuminate it in whatever way is 
most consonant with his instinct and feeling, 
if he be a real artist like Mr. Henry James, 
however advisable it may be to prescribe 
"unity " and " objectivity " to beginners in 
his art. 



IF the cynic s doctrine that we derive 
pleasure from the sorrows of a friend con 
tains the element of injustice to human nat 
ure characteristic of most cynicisms, it is 
still incontestably true that a recital of 
woes, real or fancied, from the sufferer s 



660 



THE POINT OF YIEW. 



own lips annoys the friendly listener more 
than it touches him. The very genial and 
gentle French philosopher, Xavier de Mais- 
tre, remarked that a man in confessing him 
self to be unhappy must sooner or later 
become ridiculous. Who does not know at 
least one unconscious humorist of this sort, 
standing always in his own light, and fail 
ing to perceive that the shadow he casts is 
comically distorted? Unhappiness is the 
common lot of man. Each one of us, by 
the date of arrival at the middle of the dark 
wood, has suffered misfortunes enough to 
fill a volume. But he is wise who refrains 
from publishing such a book, even at the 
request of friends. 

We live in an age of self-importance, 
sustained and promoted by methods un 
known to the simple minds of our ances 
tors. The interviewer and the recorder of 
social gossip have artfully created a daily 
want which they themselves supply. If A., 
the millionaire, adds an acre to his estate, 
we ascertain the price paid for it almost 
as soon as he does. We could pass a cred 
itable examination upon the habits of Z., 
the essayist, during working hours ; we are 
thrice familiar with the arrangement of his 
furniture, and have even learned what pens 
he uses. The harm in dwelling upon these 
things is not at first apparent, since we 
burn to know them. This weakness of 
mind induces the belief that our friends 
are eager for similar details about our 
selves, and as a natural consequence, when 
it is our cue to talk, the personal nominative 
does not lack advancement. Egotism, spo 
ken and written, is the fashion as well as 
the failing of our waning day. 

But there is a vast difference between 
the cheerful egotism which is our own, and 
the egotism of discontent from the lips of 
another man. Black Care has perched up 
on the horseman s saddle for centuries, and 
with feminine persistence she will probably 
continue her tiresome journey on the croup 
unto the end of time. She is the Wander 
ing Jewess whom we never encounter, our 
Old Woman of the Sea, insisting upon 
transportation, though satisfied to ride be 
hind. But with all due respect to her sex, 
she should always be left in the stable to 
care for herself as best she may. When 
the rider dismounts to enter the world s 



doors he is the world s guest, and must re 
member the obligation. He has no sort of 
right to bring an unwelcome companion 
with him. I, on the contrary, may justly 
complain when X. and Y., for example, 
borrow my ear only to use it as a receptacle 
for their own misery. Of these two the 
former is a bachelor, still young, apparent 
ly in the best of health, certainly with the 
best of appetites. Yet we never dine to 
gether that he does not play the part of 
spectre at our feast. For him this is the 
worst of all possible worlds, in which no 
thing can go right ; as all by-ways of talk 
lead to the inevitable conclusion, even to 
speak of sunshine is to be warned that rain 
may be expected shortly ; chill follows 
chill, and at length we seem to be sitting 
in a crypt where daylight never comes. Y., 
who is of a certain age, with an equally de 
pressing result tries his utmost to make a 
hypochondriac of me, regaling me with his 
ailments and symptoms, clutching me at 
street corners to impart the name of some 
new remedy. Both men are honest, worthy 
citizens, good friends of mine alike ; but I 
am human, and now at the approach of 
either I slink into a cross-street, or absorb 
myself in the delusive contents of a shop- 
window. 

Do such people, with all their introspec 
tion, ever study themselves ? one wonders. 
Do they ever wonder in silent moments 
what other people think of them ? Proba 
bly not ; for their defect is one of thought 
lessness which a very little consideration 
for others might remove. Such considera 
tion is a pebble flung into the water, draw 
ing notice to itself in an ever - widening 
circle. A few of us only are granted the 
opportunity to perform high exploits in the 
sight of all the world. But everyone may 
do daily and hourly deeds of sacrifice, which 
is the finest thing in the world, after all. 
The youth who held the gnawing fox under 
his robe is remembered merely because he 
kept his anguish to himself; and self-re 
pression is a long step toward the love for 
his fellow-men that made Ben Adhem s 
name lead all the rest. He who begins by 
practising that Spartan virtue may easily 
end by having a greater concourse of mourn 
ers at his funeral than the builder of the 
church which holds them. 




THE PLANK-WAY TO BENTEN CAVE ENOSHIMA, JAPAN. 
[Drawn by Robert Blum.] 



SCRiBNER s MAGAZINE. 



VOL. VIII. 



DECEMBER, 1890. 



No. 6. 



JAPONICA. 

FIRST PAPER.-JAPAN THE COUNTRY. 

By Sir Edwin Arnold. 

THE ILLUSTRATIONS BY ROBERT BLUM. 



THERE are two 
Japans. One 
commenced its 
national life, so says 
mythical history, six 
hundred and sixty 
years before our era, 
with the accession of 
the Emperor Jimmu 
Tenno. The other, 
everybody knows, 
came into existence 
about twenty -three 
years ago, in "the 
first of Meiji." Neither of them can be 
ever at all completely understood even 
by the most intelligent and indefatigable 
foreign observer. You ought certainly 
to have been born under one of the 
great Shogunates, the last of which fell 
amid battle and revolution in A.D. 1868, 
to comprehend in any intimate way an 
cient Japan ; and you should be native- 
bred, a living part of the present brand- 
new order of things, to have a reasonable 
chance of feeling as this people feels 
and looks upon the outer and inner 
world with their eyes. Let nobody, 
therefore least of all a mere travel 
ler venture to theorize too boldly about 
Japan and the Japanese. He is pretty 
sure to go wrong somewhere if he does. 
The first impressions which a fairly in 
telligent stranger may form of men and 
cities, manners and customs, in this de- 







Sir Edwin Arnold s House at Azabu, Tokio. 



lightful but incomprehensible "Land of 
the Rising Sun," have their value if 
carefully recorded, and his conclusions 
may not prove wholly without interest 
about its past, present, and future, when 
he has learned something of the lan 
guage, and discovered how much he can 
never learn upon a hundred intensely 
attractive points. Even the artists have 
not really found out Japan yet ; nor 
realized w r hat color, what novelty, what 
refinement, what remarkable things in 
Nature and Art and Humanity she keeps 
awaiting them in the silvery light of her 
atmospheres, along with all sorts of ab 
surdities and grotesqueries. There are 
many and many landscapes, in the hills 
and along the sea-shores of these fair 
islands which would present a new world 
to real lovers of scenery ; and in the 
little, girlish steps of a musume, cross- 



copyright, 1890, by Charles Scribner s Sons. All rights reserved. 



664 



JAPONICA. 



ing the mats of the tea-house, or trip 
ping down the street on her wooden 
clogs, there is ofttimes a grace of spe 
cial movement a delicate, strange play 
of folds and feet which no Western 
painter has thus far caught, and which 
is something midway between the pac 
ing of fantail pigeons and the musical 
gait of Greek maidens on the friezes of 
the Parthenon. 

The two Japans are, of course, per 
petually blended. The younger nation, 
which has only just come of age, is all 
for railways, telegraphs, and European 
developments, including some of the 
least desirable and profitable. Yet the 
older nation lives on, within and around 
the Japan of new parliaments, colored 
wide-awakes, and Parisian costumes, and 
from time to time fiercely asserts itself. 
My lamented friend, the late Viscount 
Mori, Minister for Japan to Washing 
ton, and afterward to London and one 
of the most enlightened of her modern 
statesmen was assassinated in Tokio 
on February 11, 1889, really as an ene 
my to the independence of his country 
on account of his reforms, but ostensi 
bly because he had lifted up the curtain 
of the shrine at Ise with his walking- 
stick. Only a few weeks back, in a 
neighboring district, the editor of a 
Japanese journal was sentenced to four 
years imprisonment for speaking disre 
spectfully in a leading article about that 
very ancient dignitary the Emperor 
Jimmu. Considering that the poten 
tate in question albeit first of all Mi- 
kados was so vastly remote as to be 
declared grandson or grandnephew of 
the Sun Goddess herself, and is said to 
have conquered Japan with a sword as 
long as a fir-trunk and the aid of a 
miraculous white crow s beak, one would 
think criticism was free as to His Maj 
esty " Kamu-Yamato-Iware-Biko." But 
the Japanese administration generally, 
and the censorship of the press in par 
ticular, will have no trifling with the 
established traditions of Dai-Nippon. 
Japan took from China, along with her 
earliest imported religion (Shintoism), 
a measureless respect for ancestors, how 
ever fabulous ; and, strangely enough, 
while her educated people disbelieve the 
legends of the gods, they seem to accept, 
or, at any rate, demurely repeat, the his 



torical stories which relate how an em 
press stilled the waves of the sea by 
sitting down upon them, and how em 
perors had fishes for their ministers, 
and were transformed into white or yel 
low birds. Afterward, from China, came 
Buddhism, and with it the all-important 
tea-leaf and tea-cup ; and Confucianism, 
if it had features deplorably materialis 
tic, yet inculcated that loyalty to chiefs 
and that reverence and devotion to pa 
rents which have formed the keystones 
of the Japanese social system. 

Nihon or Nippon like our own word 
Japan are corruptions of the Chinese 
Jip-pen, which means " The place the 
sun comes from." Marco Polo s Zipan- 
gu is derived from the same word, for 
it was by way of China that Japan was 
first heard about. In classic Japanese 
the land is styled " O-Mi-Kuni," the 
"Great August Country," and the learn 
ed Mr. Chamberlain gives, among many 
appellatives, yet another name, which 
probably you would not wish me to re 
peat very constantly " Toyo-ashi-wara- 
no-chi-aki-no-naga-i-ho-aki-no-mizu - ho- 
no-kuni " which signifies " The Luxu- 
riaiit-Reed-Plains ; the Land-of-Fresh- 
Rice-Ears ; of a-Thousand-Streams ; of 
Song ; of Five-Hundred-Autumns." It 
should meanwhile interest all Americans 
to be reminded that their great country 
was discovered, quite as an accident, by 
Christopher Columbus on his first trip, 
while he was really looking for Zipangu ; 
which region he still endeavored per 
petually to reach, on all his subsequent 
voyages to America. 

Japan is so broken up, so accident^ in 
surface and contour, that not more than 
fifteen per cent, of her soil lies avail 
able for cultivation, and only two-thirds 
of it has, as yet, been brought under 
the suki and kuwa of the blue-frocked 
Japanese farmer. That hard-working 
person has little or nothing to learn 
from Western science, cultivating his 
land, as he does, with not less skill than 
industry. Half his time is passed knee- 
deep in the sticky swamps of the rice- 
grounds ; but he seems to mind this no 
more than the odors of the liquid manure 
which is so carefully hoarded and dis 
tributed by ladlefuls with rash disre 
gard of the traveller s nose. The climate 
suits him a great deal better than it 



JAPONICA. 



665 




Temple Grounds with Buddhist Shrine, Uyeno Park, Tokio. 



does the mere resident or the tourist. 
Beally it rains far too frequently in this 
otherwise charming Japan, and one can 
indeed scarcely expect any permanent 
dry weather except in autumn. Every 
wind seems to bring rain-clouds up 
from the encircling Pacific to break upon 
the evergreen peaks of Nippon ; while in 
winter, so great is the influence of the 
neighboring Arctic circle, with its cold 
currents of air and water, that Christ 
mas in Kill-Shift which lies in the same 
latitude with the mouths of the Nile 
sees the thermometer sometimes below 
zero. Except for certain delicious pe 
riods of the year, one cannot honestly 
praise the climate of Japan ; but it has 
certainly divine caprices ; and when the 
sunshine does unexpectedly come, dur 



ing the chilly and moist months, the 
light is very splendid, and of a peculiar 
silvery tone, and the summer days are 
golden. For this the tea-plant, the young 
bamboo-shoots, and the other subtropi 
cal vegetation, wait patiently underneath 
the snows ; indeed, all the sun-loving 
plants of the land have lurked, like the 
inhabitants, to " wait till the clouds roll 
by." Some of the most beautiful know 
how to defy the worst weather with a 
curious hardihood. You will see the 
camelias blossoming with the ice thick 
about their roots, and the early plum- 
blooms covered with a fall of snow which 
is not more white and delicate than the 
petals with which it thus mingles. 

The landscape in Japan takes a double 
character, from her subtropical latitude, 



666 



JAPONICA. 



and her Siberian vicinity. The zones winds of ttimes savagely bleak. Tokiohas 
and kingdoms of the North and South 58.33 inches of yearly rainfall, as against 
meet as on a border region, in the beau- 24.76 at Greenwich. Grass lawns, for 
tiful islands. You might think yourself all that, do not turn green until May. 
in Mexico or India on many a July or By an unhappy arrangement of nature, 
August day, for the strong sun and the north winds blow steadily in the win- 
palms and bamboos. April and Octo- ter, and the southerly winds pretty con- 
ber, with peach, azalea, and cherry flower stantly all the summer ; but one must re- 
at one time, and peonies and chrysan- member, while thus generalizing, that 
themums at the others, make one recall Japan is a large and long country, touch- 
Italy and southern England ; and then ing the Arctic circle at the Kuriles, and 
again at December, the bare decidu- the Tropic of Cancer at the Loo-Choo 
ous trees, with dark patches of pine and group, and exhibits, accordingly, many 
laurel, bring to thought Kamchatka or climates. 

Scandinavia. On the whole, though a Countries always seem to me to pos- 
fairly healthy climate, and excellent, sess, as much as individuals, a counte- 
apparently, for children, it must not be nance, features, lineaments, composed 
greatly praised. Autumn and spring in some manner, more easily felt than 
are the best seasons. The June rains defined, of geological, floral, botanical, 
are followed by six sultry weeks called zoological, and other local characteris- 
do-yo, which prove very " muggy " and tics in looks and colors, so that I think 
trying, and from November to March I should know India, Egypt, Norway, 
the cold is extremely bitter, and the Palestine, Italy, Greece, and America, 

in fact, whatever regions I 
may have visited, in whatever 
nook or corner of them I 
chanced to be dropped. So, 
after a while, one forms an 
ideal of the "face of Japan" 
and fair and noble, and 
very fitted to awaken patri 
otic attachment is that face. 
The normal landscape in Ja 
pan is not grotesque, nor in 
the least unnatural, as some 
have perhaps imagined who 
judge it by the screens, the 
fans, and the lacquered boxes 
of its artists. This people 
loves to play with Nature, 
dwarfing her trees, twisting 
them into fantastic forms, fill 
ing a little clay backyard with 
bowlders of granite or lime 
stone ; piling up miniature 
mountains in a bit of a gar 
den, and creating upon them 
minute forests, tiny lakes, and 
bridges for fairies to cross. 
But Japan herself, and at 
large, is as sane and sweet of 
aspect as Scotland or New 
England ; with a general 
cachet about her scenery, less 
of what is wild and grand than 
of what is reposeful, charm 
ing, and gracious. The typi- 




In a Rice-field. 



JAPONICA. 



6G7 







A Little Clay Backyard. 



cal Japanese landscape along the south 
ern shores between Kioto and Tokio is 
distinctly special to the country ; more 
so than the hill regions, which remind 
you of many other wooded and moun 
tainous districts, until you note the veg 
etation closely. Wide flats of land, 
either levelled by alluvial action or care 
fully laid out in terrace along the whole 
course of a valley, are seen marked off 
in regular squares and oblongs for rice 
and other moisture-loving crops. These 
are kept almost perpetually under wa 
ter, divided by narrow banks of earth, 
where the cultivators can just pass in 
single file, and in winter present a 
rather dreary vista of gleaming swamps 
and black rice-roots. At Xagoya, in 
the great military manoeuvres, it was a 
curious spectacle to see a large body of 



infantry suddenly thrown into one of 
these rice-valleys, to cross to the oppo 
site hills in order to deliver an attack 
upon the Emperor s central batteries. 
For soldiers, loaded with arms and am 
munition, the rice-fields themselves were 
impassable, and the four or five thou 
sand men engaged spread out in long 
strings upon every slender bank, like a 
swarm of ants defiling along the lines 
of a chess-board. Overhanging the rice- 
plots are generally hills covered with 
groves of bamboo, fir, paulonia, and 
beech, with long glens running into 
them, which are all terraced for rice 
and wet crops. At the foot of the hills, 
or in single long streets on either side 
of the main road, running beneath them, 
gather the villages, aU on the same 
model, except that the ridge of the 



668 



JAPONICA. 



thatched roof, perhaps, will be differ 
ently fashioned in different localities. 
Some may be newer and cleaner than 
others, some large, and some very 
humble ; but all contain the same kind 
of apartments, raised about two feet 
from the ground, with the clean mats 
which no boot or shoe ever profanes ; 
the sliding-paper, shoji, and amado, or 
rain-shutters, the fire-box, the hanging 
picture on the wall, the pot of flowers 
or bunch of lilies in the bamboo stand, 
and a "Butsamono,"a shrine of Buddha. 
Somewhere amid, or near, the houses 
rises the village temple, being in archi 
tecture merely a rather superior sort of 
hut, but dignified, if Shinto, by a torii, 
a "bird-perch" built across the paved 
way, or steps leading to it. This is a 
gateway of stone posts and a twofold 
lintel, the latter with up-curved ends, 
after the Chinese fashion. If it be a 
Shinto fane, white paper cut in con 
nected squares, and intended to signify 
and to replace offerings of cloth will 
dangle and flutter from the curved stone 
beams. Bound about the shrine which 
will have no image if it be Miya, i.e., 
Shinto, but will disclose a gilded Bud 
dha or one of the Buddhisats if it be 
a tera, a Buddhist holy place is usual 
ly seen a dense and shadowy grove of 
trees bamboos, cryptomerias, black 
and red pines sawara, hi, and inaki 
with the awogiri, from which are man 
ufactured the wooden patterns of the 
Japanese. The old idea was thereby to 
supply timber to repair or rebuild the 
temples ; but as the trees grow older 
they become sacred and are girdled with 
a band of straw rope to denote this. 
Shinto, which is not Confucianism, can 
hardly be called a religion, since it has 
no doctrines, no scriptures, no moral 
code ; originally it was a worship of the 
Powers of Nature, and of ancestors as 
gods. Ama-Terasu, Goddess of the Sun, 
bequeathed to the first and to all suc 
ceeding Mikados a mirror, a sword, and 
a jewel, which used to be guarded by a 
virgin daughter of the ruling emperor 
in the great shrine at Ise. Buddhism, 
entering Japan six centuries after Christ, 
put Shinto aside, or greatly modified it, 
down to A.D. 1700. The Buddhist priests 
assimilated the Shinto gods, and their 
religion became, as it is, indeed, now, 



that of the people at large during all 
this long period. Then lyeyasu, the 
great Shogun, first printed the Confu 
cian classics, and the principles of the 
arch Opportunist of China then mingled 
with the already much \ mixed Ryobu- 
Shinto to contribute the state of things, 
social and civil, which was subverted, 
at least politically, in 1868. Then ev 
erything was commanded to go back to 
"pure Shinto," and to the ancient sys 
tem of the Sun Goddess, but only the 
civil side of this revolution has ever 
really triumphed. Buddhism, in a di 
luted degree, is more than ever the re 
ligion of the nation ; but it is difficult 
to describe how lightly the Japanese 
take the spiritual side of life. They are 
an extremely undevotional people, with 
out being on that account irreligious. 
They blend every Ennichi or Matsuri, 
that is to say, their " Saints days," with 
a fair or festival ; and " divine service " 
consists with them of very little more 
than pulling the rope of the gong at the 
temple entrance, clapping the palms, re 
peating a whispered prayer with bowed 
head, and then throwing a copper coin 
on the matted floor or into the offering- 
box. It is, however, very proper to 
wash the hands before doing all this in 
a stone cistern near the gate, and seri 
ous people often purchase from the 
priests slips of paper inscribed with the 
name of a god, or with the formula 
Nama Amida Butsu, and hang these sa 
cred treasures up at the doors of their 
houses to keep away robbers and fire ; 
or else put them before the family 
shrine along with the little brass lamp 
and the stick of Senko. 

The typical Shinto temple, with its 
emblems, is well described by Mr. Satow. 
All that is visible to the eye of the wor 
shipper is a bundle of paper cuttings 
attached to an upright wand, or a mirror 
in the centre or back of an open chamber. 
But behind the grating in the rear is a 
sanctum, within which not even the chief 
priest may intrude, except on rare oc 
casions, where the emblem of the god 
is kept enshrined, box within box, and 
enveloped in innumerable wrappings of 
silk and brocade. Tradition alone in 
forms people in each case what this 
emblem, or mi-tama-shiro (representa 
tion of the august spirit) is. Sometimes 




A Japanese Girl. 
The little girlish steps of a musume tripping down the street on her wooden clogs. Page 664. 



670 



JAPONICA. 



it will be a mirror, or a sword, a curious 
stone, or even a shoe, the mirror being 
characteristic of the female, the sword 
of male deities. 

Along the southern shores orange and 
lemon trees will be seen upon the sunny 
uplands, and everywhere, indeed, this 
blending of subtropical with temperate 
and frigid vegetation characterizes the 
changeful and charmful face of Japan. 
Barley and rice, bamboo and pines, wild 
weeds of England with thickets of Cor 
sica or California are found growing side 
by side. Dr. Rein has specially named 
this Japanese region "the kingdom of 
magnolias, camellias, and arabias," but 
it is a real paradise of botanists for 
variety. Japan counts, in forest trees 
alone, 165 species and 66 genera, against 
85 species and 33 genera of the continent 
of Europe ; and it is a curious fact that 
eastern America and Japan possess no 
less than 65 genera in common. 

Well does Japan deserve these forest 




Another View of Sir Edwin Arnold s House. 



riches. She knows how to value the 
beautiful variety in the grain of her 
timbers, and to produce with them, in 
house-building, cabinet work and join 
ery, all manner of delightful effects. 
Nowhere will you see in this country 



long as it may in its own fashion. The 
bright and glossy pine-planks, of which 
the houses in every town and village 
are constructed, soon change color, of 
course, under the sun and rain, into the 
subdued gray of weather- worn fir stuff; 
but the general hue is still sober and 
pleasing with the contrast of the black 
and white tiles, the white shoji, the dark 
polished platforms, and spotless mats. 
In the interior of the house the Japanese 
citizen revels in the variety and tints of 
the timbers furnished by his forests. 
He will have a natural cherry-tree trunk 
in the middle of his principal apart 
ment, and pine-stems, merely stripped 
of their bark, at the corners of each 
room ; while the ceiling will perhaps be 
composed of broad planks, selected for 
their beauty, of cryptomeria. A curious 
taste, however, prevails for beams and 
boards of worm-eaten wood. Your Jap 
anese builder or householder loves the 
strange pattern into which the Teredo 
Navalis or the Dak- 
boring insect will 
drill a pile or a 
trunk. He saws and 
planes these just 
enough to show the 
fantastic filigree of 
those strange crea 
tures, and then 
proudly puts them 
up as gate-posts or 
bressumers. He will 
cut a partly hol 
low tree into many 
planks, and glory in 
the quaint patterns 
which he obtains by 
laying these side by 

side together along the front of his 
abode. He knows how to get from cross- 
sections and slices of bark and root all 
kinds of new lines and colors ; and there 
are towns and villages in and about the 
hills, like Yumoto and Miyanoshita, where 



the abomination of wood grained by the scores of shops sell nothing but slabs of 



painter in imitation of something which 
it is not. It is rare even to observe 
paint anywhere placed upon wood at 
all ; even the junks and sampans are un- 
painted and unpitched. A Japanese 
carpenter and shipwright takes care to 
have his wood well seasoned, and then 
leaves it naked and natural, to last as 



carefully sawn timber, and where hun 
dreds of ingenious articles are turned or 
fashioned from every tree and root and 
bark that can be found in the forest. 

Special in their love and use of wood 
the Japanese are also as peculiar and as 
much apart from the West in their re 
gard for, and their dealings with, flowers. 



JAPONICA. 



C71 



But by " flowers " they mean less and 
more than we. They include all hand 
some and ornamental leaves, stems, 




Those who would understand to what 
a pitch Japanese fancy has raised this 
art of flower arrangement should study 





Japanese Wrestling Match. 

branches, and even stumps and roots. 
The blossom is for them, though they 
love color, rather a detail than the central 
point, and a great spray of pine, of cedar, 
or of maple ranks above most of mere 
blooms. There is an aristocracy of 
flowers with them very severely denned. 
The seven princely or primary flowers 
are the Kiku, or chrysanthemum ; the 
narcissus, or Suisen ; the maple, or Mo- 
mi) i ; the cherry, or Sakura ; the peony, 
or Botan ; the wisteria, or Fuji, and the 
evergreen rhodea, or Omoto. The iris 
is also of princely dignity, but must not 
be employed at weddings because of its 
purple color. 



a most erudite article published in the 
Transactions of the Asiatic Society of 
Japan " upon this fascinating subject. 
Without the aid of this, your Japanese 
gardener would, indeed, make you un 
derstand in a very little time, by the 
daily floral adornments which he con 
structs, how little you, as an European 
or American, know upon the topic, and 
what scientific ideas ought to govern it. 
But we must go to Mr. Conder to get a 



672 



JAPONICA. 



just notion of true principles in floral Muitannen. A serene disposition and 
decoration. Those who well understand forgetfulness of care. 




them are declared to possess, by simple 
force of such superior knowledge, the 
subjoined ten virtues : 

Koishikko. The privilege of associ 
ating with superiors. 

Sejijo jdkd. Ease and dignity before 
men of rank. 



On the Hillside at Enoshima. 

Dokuraku ni Ka- 
tarazu. Amusement 
in solitude. 

Somoku ineichi. Fa 
miliarity with the nature 
of plants and trees. 

Shujin aikid. The re 
spect of mankind. 

Chobo fur iu. Con 
stant gentleness of char 
acter. 

Seikon go jo. Healthi 
ness of mind and body. 

Shimbutsu haizo. A 
religious spirit. 

Showaku ribtesu. Self- 
abnegation and restraint. 
What Japanese love and 
strive for in arranging 
flowers is that which they 
value most in all their 
arts, namely, balance 
and beaut} 7 of line. The 
charm of their dancing of which I shall 
hope to speak more at length later on- 
springs from the same " language of 
line, "and he who does not know and feel 
the subtle secrets of this will vainly seek 
to derive from Japanese art of any kind 
the exquisite pleasure it can impart to the 



JAPONICA. 



673 



eye. Your European florist who masses 
together his roses, and gardenias, his 
maiden-hair ferns and calla-lilies, sur 
rounding them with a dish of green, and 
an outer overcoat of lace paper appears 
to the Japanese lover of flowers lower 
than a barbarian. He has lost to the 
Japanese mind the chief charms of 
flowers and leaves, which consist in their 
form of growth, their harmonious asym 
metry, and their natural relations. Every 
school of flower arrangement in Japan 
would scorn his rural bow-pot or guinea 
bouquet, and teach him far nobler 
thoughts. Each school possesses its 
own secret traditions, called Hiden, only 
imparted to the very proficient. The 
most popular of modern floral schools 



keeping in mind the particular season, 
in the proper use of buds, open flowers, 
withered leaves, dew, etc. 

What the floral artist in Japan most 
contemns and avoids is tame duplicated 
symmetry. Nature will have none of it, 
nor he, her scholar. If, as in her but 
terflies and double leaves, she must 
be equilibriated, she redeems it with 
gorgeous color or by a varied back 
or edge to the leaf. But you may bal 
ance asymmetry, which the Japanese 
flower-lover effects by a scientific dispo 
sition of his stems and leave-masses. It 
is not possible to give here the elaborate 
nomenclature of his shins and sos. He 
has names for all important parts in the 
display of his flower-vase : For a triple 




Benten Cave, Enoshima. 



is the Enshin, founded by Kobori Totomi 
no Kami, a servant of the great Shogun 
Tyemasu. This school observes three 
chief rules : The first, called Kioku, is the 
art of giving feeling and expression to 
compositions ; the second, called Shitsu, 
is the art of conveying the particular 
nature of the growth, and the third, 
called Ji, refers to the principle of 



arrangement the terms of Chichi (Fa 
ther), Haha (Mother), Ten (Heaven) are 
used. For the quintuple form, Chiuwo 
(Centre), Kita (North), Minami (South), 
Higashi (East), Nishi (West), also Tsuchi 
(Earth), Hi (Fire), Mizu (Water), Kane 
(Metal), Ki (Wood), also Ki-iro (Yellow), 
Aka (Red), Kuro (Black), Shiro (White), 
Ao (Blue), are all employed. There 



674 



JAPONICA. 



must by no means occur " nagashi," or The lowly craftsman in forwarding his 
long streaming sprays, on both sides of tribute made the humble request that 
the grouping. Certain defects in the so unworthy an object should be em- 




Fuji San. From Gotemba. 



cross-cutting of branches or stalks must 
be needfully guarded against ; " win 
dow-making," when these intersect so as 
to suggest loop-holes; " lattice - mak 
ing," when they cross to give the idea 
of trellis-work. Parallelism is held de 
testable ; it must be presented from no 
point of sight ; and albeit the flower- 
structure is intended to be studied and 
enjoyed where it stands upon the toku- 
no-ma, or "place of honor," from a front 
view, still the composition must endure 
to be regarded with artistic satisfac 
tion from right or left. The vessels or 
stands to receive the flowers obey, in 
their shape and material, certain well- 
fixed rules. Many are very splendid 
pieces of bronze, carved wood, or por 
celain, but this is not imperative. The 
illustrious Yoshimasa, an ancient and 
accomplished patron of this refined art, 
preferred wicker-baskets, after Hakoji, a 
Chinese weaver, had offered him one. 



bellished by an ornamental stand when 
placed before the Regent. Yoshimasa, 
it is said, was so pleased with its simple 
elegance that he ordered it to be placed 
immediately upon the polished dais 
without any stand or tray. Hence the 
custom of dispensing with the stand or 
tray used under similar flower vessels. 
Hakoji returned to his mountain cottage 
and continued his occupation of basket- 
making with the assistance of his daugh 
ter Reshojo, who herself originated a 
basket of somewhat different shape. 
Hence the two kinds of flower Kago, the 
one-called Hakoji gata, and the other 
Reshojo gata. Quite as popular-favored 
a receptacle as any is the simple bam 
boo stick, cut into flower-holders, and 
not less than forty-two methods are sol 
emnly named for notching and shaping 
the cane. They begin with the Shitshi 
guchi gata, or " Lion s-mouth shape," 
and there is the " travelling pillow," the 



JAPONICA. 



675 



" singing mouth," the "shark s jaw," the 
"oar-blade," the "lantern," the "climb 
ing monkey," the " five storeys," the 
"icicle," the "bird-cage," the "" flute," 
the "bridge," the "stork s neck," the 
"bell," the "top," the " cap," the " conch 
shell," the bento, or " dinner box," and, 
lastly, the taki-robori-ryo gata, or "cas 
cade-climbing-dragon s form." The as 
tonishing fertility in invention of the 
Japanese carpenter moulds the natural 
bamboo-cane 
into all these 
shapes for flow 
er and branch 

holders. It is u 

customary to 
suspend behind 
them a tablet of 
wood, lacquered 
black and in 
scribed with a 
poem in golden 



letters. Sometimes the bamboo is cut 
into fantastic forms of boats and rafts 
and junks. Flowers and branchlets are 
disposed in these with symbolical mean 
ings and in strict accordance with nat 
ural propriety. Mr. Conder says : "In 
all compositions, single or combined, the 
special nature and character of the dif 
ferent materials employed are carefully 
kept in mind, and anything at all sug 
gestive of the inappropriate most scru- 




Head ot the Street, Enoshima. Show 
ing the Entrance to the Temple 
Grounds. 



pulously avoided. An 
important distinction is 
made between trees and 
plants, and another dis 
tinction is made be 
tween land and water 
plants. The locality of production, 
whether mountain, moor, or river, con 
siderably influences the arrangements 
in composition. Each flower has its 
proper season or month, and many 
flowers, which continue throughout sev- 




A Street Scene, Enoshima. 

" Strung across the street are little banners that different societies and clubs give to the inn-keepers on passing 
through the town. Every matsuri brings them out by the hundreds. The two men coming down the street are 
pilgrims belonging to some such society or club, tramping to certain places, visiting the temples, etc., and carrying 
a square piece of matting slung loosely from their shoulders. They are dressed in rough white garments that some 
times are quite spotted with the red seal imprints from different temples." ARTIST S NOTE. 



JAPONICA. 



677 



eral seasons, have special characteristics 
peculiar to the different seasons. Such 
different characteristics are carefully 
observed and followed in the artificial 
arrangements, subject, of course, to the 
general rules of art." And again : "In 
combining several species in one com 
position it is laid down as an important 
law that the branches of a tree, techni 
cally called Ki, should never be sup 
ported on both sides by a plant, tech 
nically called Kusa, nor should kusa be 
supported on both sides by Ki. In 
case of a treble arrangement two Ki may 
be combined with one Kusa, but the 
Kusa must not be in the centre of the 
composition. As an example of defec 
tive arrangement may be taken a compo 
sition with an iris (Kusa) in the centre 
and branches of azaleas and camellia 
(Ki), on either side. A correct compo 
sition would be that of the pine (Ki), 
plum (Ki) and bamboo (Kusa), with the 
pine in the centre and the plum and bam 
boo on either side. The plum might 
equally well be placed in the centre, and 
the pine and bamboo on either side." 
Thoroughly to comprehend this intri 
cate and dainty art one must either ob 
serve the daily practice of the Japanese 
flower-composer, who is a veritable poet 
of the parterre, or study the plates 
which enrich Mr. Conder s most admi 
rable article. Here is one illustrating 
the last-mentioned rule and giving an 
idea of the Shin-Gio-So style. 

For these consummate flower-artists 
there are sexes, as has been said, in flow 
ers and foliage, apart from botanical sci 
ence. The front of leaves is male, the 
back female ; buds and over-blown blos 
soms are feminine, full blooms are mas 
culine. These must be fitly wedded, 
having regard to the dignity of rank 
and color, for the colors have also 
respective rank and sex. The idea of 
respective rank is applied principally to 
colored flowers of the same species. In 
most cases the white flower of every 
species takes highest rank, but there are 
exceptions to this. Among chrysanthe 
mums the yellow kind ranks first ; of 
peach blossoms, the pale pink ; of the 
Yamabuki (Kerria Japonica), yellow (al 
though a white species exists) ; of the 
iris, purple ; of the camellia, red ; of 
the wisteria, pale purple in preference 
VOL. VITL 67 



to white ; of the tree peony, red ; of the 
Kikiyo (Platycodon Grandiflora), light 
purple ; of the Shakuyaku (Peonia Albi- 
flora), light red ; of the convolvulus, 
dark blue ; and of the cherry blossom, 
pale pink, take, respectively, first rank. 

Among colors, red, purple, pink, and 
variegated colors are male ; and blue, 
yellow, and white are female. Colors 
which do not harmonize are separat 
ed by green leaves or white flowers. 
Among leaf colors a rich deep green 
ranks first. Common flowers, Zokwa, 
must not be employed ; nor cereals, Go- 
koku ; nor poisonous plants, nor those 
with a very strong odor, and there is a 
long list of blossoms utterly prohibited 
for felicitous occasions a kind of gar 
dener s "Index Expurgatorius " upon 
which figure many a favorite flower of 
the West, such as aster, dianthus, azalea, 
daphne, poppy, magnolia, orchids, gen 
tian, rhododendron, ipomcea, smilax, 
thyma, and hydrangea. Herein, it must 
be confessed, our Japanese masters 
seem rather arbitrary ; but they adduce 
grave reasons for the ostracism of these 




Proper Combination of Species. 

and forty or fifty other denizens of the 
garden. In the Kourei-no-hana, or wed 
ding decorations, red is regarded as 
male, and white as female. Hence, in 
the case of a Muko (a son-in-law adopted 
by marriage into the family of the bride), 
the bridegroom is virtually regarded as 



678 



JAPONIGA. 



the guest of the occasion, and therefore 
the Shin or central line of the floral de 
sign must be of the male color red ; 
while the Soye, or supporting line, is of 
the female color white. On the other 
hand, when a Yome, or bride, is adopted 
into the family of her husband the fe 
male color white, has the central posi 
tion in the arrangement. In both cases 
the stems of the flowers used must be 
firmly connected at the base to signify 
union, and bound with colored ribbon, 
called Mizuhiki. Purple flowers are 
prohibited for weddings, as also willow 
branches and other drooping plants. 
Hanging vases (Tsuru no mono) are also 
to be avoided. 

Each household in Japan has generally 
two shrines one to the Kami, or house 
hold gods of the old Shinto cult, and 
the other to the Hotoke, or spirits of 
deceased relatives, which is Buddhist. 
For arrangements of flowers before the 
Kami a full and powerful composition 
is required. All ugly flowers, those of 
strong odor, or those having thorns, 
are prohibited. A special branch, called 
Kao muke no eda, or facing branch, must 
be used behind the Shin or central line ; 
and before a Buddhist shrine a full and 
crowded composition must be employed 
and the Tamuke no eda introduced. 

It is part of this delicate art to pre 
scribe the way in which the lovely ar 
rangements should be admired and 
praised. Seriously impolite would it be 
to look at the flowers with a fan in the 
hand, or to peer behind the branches 
of the composition ; and you must ex 
press delight softly, as befits the gentle 
company of the blossoms, and with ap 
propriate epithets. Be pleased to call 
white flowers, Kiasha, " elegant ; " blue 
flowers, migoto, "fine ;" red are utsukus- 
hii; yellow, Kekko, i.e., " charming" and 
" splendid ; " and purple blossoms may 
justly be styled Kusumu, " modest." It 
is a great compliment when a guest, who 
is known to be more or less an adept in 
the beautiful science, finds himself invit 
ed by the host to make an extemporary 
arrangement of flowers and sprays. The 
master of the house provides the vase, 
the water, the tray of cut blooms and 
branchlets, the scissors, knife, hemp 
en cloth, and little saw ; altogether 
called Sana Kubari. Should the host 



produce a very rare and valuable vessel 
for the flower arrangement, it is polite 
for the guest invited to make the floral 
arrangement to show diffidence, declin 
ing to use so precious an article on 
the plea of want of sufficient skill. If 
pressed, however, he must attempt a 
simple and unassuming composition. 
When the arrangement is completed the 
host and any other visitors present, who 
have meanwhile remained in the adjoin 
ing room, approach in turn the Toko no 
ma, salute and inspect in the manner pre 
viously described. The scissors are left 
near to the flower arrangement as a silent 
and modest request to correct faults. 
The designer turns to the host, apolo 
gizes for the imperfections, and begs that 
the whole may be removed ; the host 
refuses, saying that the result is every 
thing that could be desired. At such 
flower-gatherings it is particularly recom 
mended that visitors should not attempt 
bold and ambitious designs. Below is 
a result such as a modest connoisseur 
on such an occasion would produce with 
pine, plum-sprays, and the bamboo-hold 
er. Finally, I borrow from Mr. Conder s 
invaluable pages the simplest example he 
gives of the right and wrong way of ar 
ranging an iris-root [p. 679]. If I have 
allowed this fascinating topic to lead 
me into a long digression, it is that the 
Anglo - Saxon w r orld 
may modestly learn 
its utter and hope 
less ignorance of the 
proper use and dis 
position of flowers 
for festal and aes 
thetic occasions. We 
crowd our blooms 
and sprays together 
until they are like 
the faces of people 
in the pit of a thea 
tre ; each lost in the 
press ; a mass, a 
medlev, a tumultu- 
ary throng. The 
Japanese treats each 

" . 

gracious beauty or 

splendor of the gar 

den or of the pool as an individual to 

be honored, studied, and separately en 

joyed. Each suggests, and shall provide 

for his eyes a special luxury of line, suf- 




Plum Branch (Ume) 

Vase of Natural Bamboo 



JAPONIC*. 



679 




Defective Arrangement of 
Iris (Hana shobu). 



ficing even with one branch, one color, 
one species, to glorify his apartment 
and make the heart glad with the wis 
dom and the grace of nature. An ar 
rangement with one 
leaf is attributed to 
the famous artist 
and philosopher, 
Bikiu, who on a cer 
tain occasion having 
observed a fence cov 
ered with convolvuli, 
gathered one flower 
and one leaf, honor 
ably grouping them 
in a vase. On being 
asked why he adopt 
ed so humble a de 
sign, he replied that 
as it was impossible 
to rival nature in its 
magic of design, our 
artificial arrange 
ments should be as simple and modest 
as possible ; even one leaf and one flow 
er were sufficient, he said, to call for ad 
miration. 

The forests and gardens of Japan have 
beguiled me into this discursus about 
her flowers. But besides her green 
mountains, her rice-flats, and her foot 
hills, she displays every variety of land 
scapes, many of them of marvellous 
beauty and picturesqueness though not 
often grand and imposing. Among the 
scenes which will linger in the memory 
of every wanderer in southern Japan 
must first, I think, be mentioned Nikko, 
with the great " hills of the Sun " scat 
tered round about in a country full of 
lovely water-falls, running streams, and 
bright Asiatic moorlands. The dark 
groves of ilex and pine, shutting in there 
the splendid temples, brilliant with 
scarlet and gold and black lacquer, and 
the proud tombs of ancient Shoguns, 
might furnish an artist with subjects for 
many a noble canvas. The road thither 
from Utsunemiya, which few will now 
traverse, because a railway has been com 
pleted thence, has the most majestic 
avenue of giant trees to be seen perhaps 
in all the world. They are cryptome- 
rias, and rise to an average height of 
one hundred feet, with immense trunks, 
and dense, glossy foliage, furnishing for 
leagues and leagues along the narrow, 



shaded road a stately gallery of rugged 
stems and towering crests, along which 
the traveller proceeds in a dim green 
light, as delicious as it is solemn, remind 
ing him of a vast cathedral lighted only 
by windows of one cool, quiet, sombre 
color. Then Kamakura, with the great 
bronze statue of the Buddha Dai butsu 
rising colossal ever the bamboos, oak- 
trees, and magnolia bushes of the sea-bay 
which rolls in by Misaki point. The 
verdant hills here, full of caves and 
cherry orchards and temples, and the 
fertile plains which were once covered 
with cities and castles, and are now 
back again in the charge of Nature, of 
fer a lovely combination of Japanese 
wood and wold, animated by the placid, 
picturesque country life of the people. 
There are mountain -hollows and long 
hill-ranges near Nagoya, which, when I 
saw them, at the military manoeuvres, 
covered with the lilac blossoms and wild 
azaleas, seemed as lovely as the world 
could show ; and again between Kodzu 
and Gotemba, on the Kiyoto-Tokio line 
of railway, there lies a 
stretch of Tyrol - like 
highlands, with rushing 
streams and rocky preci 
pices, the beauty of which 
must linger in the mind 
of the most travelled. Yet 
there are three scenes of 
all the many familiar in 
Japan which will always 
come first, I think, to my 
memory. One is Eno- 
shima, the next my own 
delightful little garden at 
Azabu, in the heart of the 
green and busy capital 
of Tokio, and the third 
the peerless mountain 
Fuji San, with all that 
district from which rises her stately sa 
cred peak. 

The island, or rather the peninsula, 
of beautiful Enoshima somewhat resem 
bles Mount St. Michael on the Cornish 
coast. It is the same abrupt and iso 
lated crag, wooded and crowned with 
buildings, and separated from the main 
land in the same manner by a causeway 
of sand, which is only at very high tides 
covered by the sea. But Enoshima, 
besides being intensely Japanese in 




Altered and Correct 
Arrangement of 
Iris (Hana shobu). 



680 



JAPONICA. 



character, vegetation, and surroundings, 
looks, on both sides, upon a lovely shore, 
a veritable concha d oro, stretching 
eastward along the coast of Kamakura 
and Misaki, and westward round the 
splendid sweep of Tzu. There, from 
the Twamori tea-house is a charming 
though distant view of the Lady of 
Mountains Fuji San and many a de 
lightful hour I have passed sitting on 
the mats of the "Inn of the Grove of the 
Bock" learning to talk Japanese, and to 
admire, as they deserve, the great peak 
of Oyama and Fuji, the queen of all 
eminences. The sandy neck, by which 
you cross from the rice-fields to the 
island, is always lively with groups of 
fishermen and market - people, with 
boats coming and going, and seine nets 
being drawn, with merry choruses, to 
the flats. Entering the rocky islet un 
der a stone torii, you walk up a steep, 
picturesque street one of the oddest 
in the world lined on each side with 
shops where fresh fish is cooked, and 
others where they sell all sorts of arti 
cles made of coral, sea-shells, and vari 
ous products of the ocean. Here you 
may buy, very cheaply, the lovely and 
wonderful hyalo-nema, the rarest of 
sponges, with huge crabs, measuring 
twelve feet between the nippers ; and 
you may dine, on the white mats, from 
such a collection of fish as would stock 
a museum. The awabi is specially taken 
here in great quantities, better known 
as the haMotis, or "Venus-Ear" shell. 
A strip of the membrane of this is put 
into the folded, colored paper noshi 
which accompanies all Japanese gifts, 
the mollusk in question being a symbol 
of long life and prosperity, and also 
representing the fish which used to ac 
company every formal present. When 
you have dined, you will wander by 
many slopes and steps, to the temple 
of the goddess Benten for at the back 
of the island is a cave, formerly inhab 
ited by dragons, who devoured the Lit 
tle children of the neighboring coast. 
But, if legends are true, there appeared 
in a storm one night, two thousand 
years ago, a beautiful lady of divine 
form, who brought the island along 
with her, and, setting it up in its place, 
drove away the dragons and established 
her own worship on the fair rock, as 



Goddess of Beauty and of Mercy. If 
you should hesitate to believe the tradi 
tion, close at hand, in the cemetery of 
Koshigoye village, stands the tomb of 
the rich man who lost all his sixteen 
children by the dragons. No less than 
three times Benten has been seen, rid 
ing on the dreadful creatures which she 
subdued for the sake of her Japanese 
people. On one occasion she was heard 
to say, "All the world is mine, and shall 
belong to beauty and love ! All its be 
ings are my offspring ! Now it is an 
evil place, but I will make all dwell se 
curely and happily in it." It is related 
that one of the ancestors of the Ho jo 
family, Tokirnasa, came to Enoshima to 
pray for his posterity. After three 
weeks of prayer the goddess Benten 
appeared to him, and told him that his 
merits were remembered by her. Prom 
ising a blessing, she vanished into the 
sea, riding upon a dragon. Tokimasa 
found on the ground three scales of the 
dragon-goddess, and, picking them up, 
arranged them in the form of a crest, 
which trefoil of dragon-scales became 
the badge of the Hojd family. Benten 
is usually pictured with a dragon near 
her. Her aspect is always mild and 
motherly. She wears a tiara containing 
a torii. The spot where the dragons 
dwelt is at the back of Enoshima. De 
scending steep steps you reach the 
lower shore, and walk forward and 
round to the left to a cave. In the 
cave, which may be entered without 
danger at low water, is a shrine with 
the usual images, lights, white paper, 
etc. The true and original shrine of 
Benten was formerly kept here, and on 
a certain day in the year priests and 
worshippers, in a great procession, re 
sort to the cave to remove the deity, air 
it, and return it with ceremonies. The 
long passage in the rock is said to have 
been made in digging for gold. Ac 
cording to tradition the cave was an 
ciently the dwelling-place of two white 
dragons. What were these fabled dra 
gons? Not large snakes, for the land 
never produced them ; nor sharks, for 
they do not haunt these waters. At any 
rate, well is the gracious and kindly 
Benten throned and adored on shining 
Enoshima. If you had seen no more of 
Japan and her gentle people than that 



JAPONICA. 



681 



one islet, you must like the land and 
think always of it with attachment and 
gratitude. 

If I name my garden at Azabu among 
the scenes ever to be remembered in 
Japan, it is because it was typical of a city 
residence there, as well as being really a 
pretty spot, and full of " things Japan 
ese." On pp. 663 and 670 are pictures of 
the native house which stood in the gar 
den, and which we occupied for many 
happy months. Provided with an outer 
as well as an inner range of sliding shoji, 
we could make it warm in the winter as 
well as cool in the summer, although the 
outer plass (am ado) would certainly rat 
tle a great deal in a stormy wind or an 
earthquake, this latter phenomenon oc 
curring pretty frequently. A Japanese 
house is really healthy as well as com 
fortable. Being built not in the soil, as 
with us, but above it, and freely venti 
lated by the airiness inseparable from 
its construction, and being entered only 
with bare or stockinged feet, it is always 
sweet and clean. The tatami, the mats, 
of such an abode remain so free from 
dust or dirt that the delicate silks or 
muslins of their kimonos are laid upon 
the floor by Japanese ladies without the 
least fear of soiling them. Cheap to 
build, beautiful in appearance, spotless 
ly pure, and, with proper arrangements, 
eminently salubrious, the Japanese dom 
icile seems to me entirely admirable, and 
in almost all its good qualities rich and 
poor share alike. The palace of the 
emperor and the hut of the Kuruma- 
man are practically on the same plan, 
and even in the smallest tenements I 
have seen apartments so clean, so neat, 
so bright, and so charming that they 
might have been boudoirs for the em 
press instead of the back-room of a mat- 
maker s or a carpenter s abode. 

Japanese servants are excellent, if you 
choose them with discretion, and treat 
them with the established consideration 
of the country. There is a universal 
social compact in Japan to make life 
pleasant by politeness. Everybody is 
more or less well-bred, and hates the 
man or woman who is yakamashu 
noisy, uncivil, or exigent. People who 
lose their temper, are always in a hurry, 
bang doors, swear, and " swagger," find 
themselves out of place in a land where 



the lowest coolie learns and practises 
an ancient courtesy, from the time when 
he wobbles about as a baby upon his 
mother s back. Therefore, to be treated 
well in Japan, as perhaps indeed else 
where, you must treat everybody, in 
cluding your domestics, well ; and then 
you will enjoy the most pleasant and 
willing service. Your cook will doubt 
less cheat you a little ; your jinrickisha- 
man will now and then take too much 
sake, the musmu and the boy s wife will 
gossip all over the place about every 
thing you do ; and the gardener and the 
coachman will fight cocks in the yard 
when your back is turned ; but if con 
scious of your own, you can forgive the 
little sins of others. You can hardly 
fail to become closely attached to the 
quiet, soft-voiced, pleasant people, who, 
as soon as they have learned your ways, 
will take real pleasure in making life 
agreeable to you. A present, now and 
then, of a kimono to the maids, of toys 
and sweetmeats to the children ; a day s 
holiday now and then granted to the 
theatre or the wrestling match, are 
richly rewarded by such bright faces 
and unmistakable warmth of welcome on 
arriving, and of good speed on going, 
as repay you tenfold. Respectful as 
Japanese servants are and they never 
speak except on their knees and faces 
they like to be taken into the family 
conversation, and to sit sometimes in 
friendly abandon with the master and 
mistress, admiring dresses, pictures, or 
Western novelties, and listening some 
times to the samisen and koto, as chil 
dren of the household. 

Tokio is a vast city with a million and 
a quarter inhabitants, the greater part 
of it built on a plain, but full of hills 
and hollows covered with pine and bam 
boo. You may therefore live in the city 
and yet have green gardens and verdant 
scenery all around you, which was our 
happy case at Azabu. The house was 
planted upon a little hill, looking over 
crowded bazaars of wooden huts to many 
other like leafy hills ; and in the ab 
sence of smoke, due to the cleanly char 
coal hibachi, trees and flowers flour 
ished, birds built their nests, and Nat 
ure might be studied almost as well 
there as in the woods and mountains. 
In the morning a colony of great black 



682 



JAPONICA. 



crows, and screaming kite woke us from 
our slumber. All day long the paint 
ed thrush, the starling, tits, chaffinches, 
and wagtails, the latter a most important 
bird in Japanese mythology, with the 
ubiquitous sparrows, played on the lawn 
or in the bamboos ; at evening the storks 
and bitterns flew in long clamorous lines 
from the seashore to the hills. The art 
of the Japanese gardener had turned 
our little plot of a couple of acres into 
the appearance of a large and various 
pleasaunce, with miniature hills from 
which you could see the towering snows 
of Fuji San fish-ponds, rock- works, 
trellised arbors, and clumps of flowers 
and bushes, which gave us an unbroken 
succession of floral wealth. Scattered 
about the grounds were stone lamps 
called Ishi doro, and grotesque demons, 
and quaint water-cisterns in stone with 
Chinese inscriptions. Around these 
first came into bloom, defying snow and 
frost, the beautiful red and white and 
striped camellias. When these had fall 
en the white and pink and rose-red plum 
flowers filled the eye with beauty. Af 
terward the azaleas blazed, like burn 
ing bushes all round the lotus pond ; 
and these were followed by a delicious 
outburst of pale, rose-tinted cherry-blos 



soms, making an avenue of beauty and 
glory all the way from the Shinto tem 
ple at our gate to the front door, where 
were suspended the little, indispensable, 
but useless fire-engine, and the bronze 
gong on which visitors beat with a little 
wooden hammer to announce their ar 
rival. The wisteria and a second crop 
of camellias, and then some red and yel 
low roses took up the running, and the 
maple bushes came out resplendent with 
blood -red leaves ; after which there 
were purple irises and callas flowering 
by the fish-pond, with orange and red 
lilies brighter than the gold-fish swim 
ming in it, and the lawn became covered 
with a pretty little flower called the Ne- 
ji-bana, the pink buds of which, growing 
diagonally and reaching round to get the 
sunlight, twisted the stem into the shape 
of a corkscrew. Thus along with the 
sprays of the firs and loquats and orna 
mental shrubs, our gardener whom we 
christened the "Ace of Spades," out of 
" Alice through the Looking-glass," and 
who wore a blue coat with white drag 
ons upon it was never destitute of de 
lightful- material wherewith to exercise 
the high art, previously described, of 
decorating our rooms after the great 
aesthetic Enshin fashion. 



A/JV-J > 

V./ u ; I -O/ 




A Japanese Gardener. 



HORACE, BOOK III., ODE XXIX. 

TO MAECENAS. 

The Translation by Helen Leah Reed. 

1. 

MAECENAS, scion of Tyrrhenian rulers, 

A jar, as yet unpierced, of mellow wine 

Long waits thee here, with balm for thee made ready 
And blooming roses in thy locks to twine. 

2. 

No more delay, nor always look with favor 

The sloping fields of .ZEsula upon ; 
Why gaze so long on ever marshy Tiber 

Near by the mount of murderer Telegon ? 

3. 

Give up thy luxury it palls upon thee 

Thy tower that reaches yonder lofty cloud ; 

Cease to admire the smoke, the wealth, the uproar, 
And all that well hath made our Borne so proud. 

4. 

Sometimes a change is grateful to the rich man, 
A simple meal beneath a humble roof 

Has often smoothed from care the furrowed forehead, 
Though unadorned that home with purple woof. 



5. 

Bright Cepheus now his long hid fire is showing, 
Now flames on high the angry lion-star, 

Now Procyon rages, and the sun revolving 
Brings back the thirsty season from afar. 



6. 

Seeking a cooling stream, the weary shepherd 
His languid flock leads to the shady wood 

Where rough Sylvanus reigns, yet by the brookside 
No truant breeze disturbs the solitude. 



7. 

Ah, who but thee is busy now with state-craft ? 

Thou plannest for Eome s weal, disquieted, 
Lest warring Scythian, Bactrian, or Persian 

Should st plunge the city into awful dread. 



684 TO M/ECENAS. 

8. 
A prudent deity in pitchy darkness 

The issue of futurity conceals, 
And smiles when man beyond the right of mortals 

His fear about the time to come reveals. 

9. 
Thou should st concern thee only with the present, 

All else progresses as the river flows, 
Which gliding at one time in middle channel 

Toward the Tuscan Sea unruffled goes; 

10. 
Or at another time, herds, trees, and houses, 

And broken rocks to one destruction drags, 
When wild the flood provokes the quiet current 

With noise from neighboring woods and distant crags. 

11. 
Happy he lives, and of himself is master, 

That man who can at night with truth declare, 
"I have lived to-day, to-morrow let the Father 

Make as he will my sky or dark or fair, 

12. 
"It is not his to render vain and worthless 

My happy past the bliss has dearer grown 
That the fleet-footed hour carried with it ; 

The joys that once have been are still my own. 

13. 

"Now upon me, again on others smiling, 

Fortune rejoices in her savage trade 
Of shifting thus at will uncertain honors, 

As stubbornly her mocking game is played. 

14. 

"I praise her when she stays, but if she leave me, 
Fluttering her airy wings in hasty flight, 

I yield her what she gave, and wrapped in virtue, 
In dowerless Poverty find my delight. 

15. 

"Although the mast may crack beneath the South wind, 
I will not rush with many a doleful prayer 

To barter thus my vows, lest all my treasure 

From Tyre and Cyprus should become a share 

16. 
" Of what the greedy sea has in possession ; 

Nay ! then, protected in my two-oared boat, 
With favoring winds, and with twin Pollux guiding 

Safe through the 2Egean tempests I will float." 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 
By Richard Harding Davis. 



RAGS RAEGEN was out of his ele 
ment. The water was his proper 
element the water of the East 
River by preference. And when it came 
to " running the roofs," as he would have 
himself expressed it, he was " not in it." 
On those other occasions when he 
had been followed by the police, he had 
raced them toward the river front and 
had dived boldly in from the wharf, 
leaving them staring blankly and in 
some alarm as to his safety. Indeed, 
three different men in the precinct, who 
did not know of young Raegan s aqua 
tic prowess, had returned to the sta 
tion-house and seriously reported him 
to the sergeant as lost, and regretted 
having driven a citizen into the riv 
er, where he had been unfortunately 
drowned. It was even told how, on 
one occasion, when hotly followed, 
young Raegen had dived off Wakeman s 
Slip, at East Thirty-third Street, and 
had then swum back under water to 
the landing-steps, while the policemen 
and a crowd of stevedores stood watch 
ing for him to reappear where he had 
sunk. It is further related that he had 
then, in a spirit of recklessness, and in 
the possibility of the policeman s fail 
ing to recognize him, pushed his way 
through the crowd from the rear and 
plunged in to rescue the supposedly 
drowned man. And that after two or 
three futile attempts to find his own 
corpse, he had climbed up on the dock 
and told the officer that he had touched 
the body sticking in the mud. And, as 
a result of this fiction, the river police 
dragged the river-bed around Wake- 
man s Slip with grappling-irons for 
four hours, while Rags sat on the wharf 
and directed their movements. 

But on this present occasion the po 
lice were standing between him and the 
river, and so cut off his escape in that 
direction, and as they had seen him 
strike McGonegal and had seen McGon- 
egal fall he had to run for it and seek 
refuge on the roofs. What made it 
worse was that he was not in his own 
hunting grounds, but in McGonegal s, 
and while any tenement on Cherry 
Street would have given him shelter, 
either for love of him or fear of him, 



these of Thirty-third Street were against 
him and "all that Cherry Street gang," 
while " Pike " McGonegal was their dar 
ling and their hero. And, if Rags had 
known it, any tenement on the block was 
better than Case s, into which he first 
turned, for Case s was empty and un- 
tenanted, save in one or two rooms, and 
the opportunities for dodging from one 
to another were in consequence very 
few. But he could not know this, and 
so he plunged in the dark hall- way and 
sprang up the first four nights of stairs, 
three steps at a jump, with one arm 
stretched out in front of him, for it was 
very dark and the turns were short. 
On the fourth floor he fell headlong 
over a bucket with a broom sticking in 
it, and cursed whoever left it there. 
There was a ladder leading from the 
roof to the sixth floor, and he ran up 
this and drew it after him as he fell 
forward out of the wooden trap that 
opened on the flat tin roof like a com 
panion-way of a ship. The chimneys 
would have hidden him, but there was 
a policeman s helmet coming up from 
another companion-way, and he saw 
that the Italians hanging out of the 
windows of the other tenements were 
pointing at him and showing him to the 
officer. So he hung by his hands and 
dropped back again. It was not much 
of a fall, but it jarred him, and the race 
he had already run had nearly taken his 
breath from him. Bags did not live a 
life calculated to fit young men for sud 
den trials of speed. 

He stumbled back down the narrow 
stairs, and, with a vivid recollection of 
the bucket he had already fallen upon, 
felt his way cautiously with his hands 
and with one foot stuck out in front of 
him. If he had been in his own baili 
wick, he would have rather enjoyed the 
tense excitement of the chase than 
otherwise, for there he was at home and 
knew all the cross-cuts and where to 
find each broken paling in the roof- 
fences, and all the traps in the roofs. 
But here he was running in a maze, 
and what looked like a safe passageway 
might throw him head on into the out 
stretched arms of the officers. 

And while he felt his way his mind 



686 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



was terribly acute to the fact that as yet 
no door on any of the landings had been 
thrown open to him, either curiously or 
hospitably as offering a place of refuge. 
He did not want to be taken, but in 
spite of this he was quite cool, and so, 
when he heard quick, heavy footsteps 
beating up the stairs, he stopped him 
self suddenly by placing one hand on 
the side of the wall and the other on 
the banister and halted, panting. He 
could distinguish from below the high 
voices of women and children and ex 
cited men in the street, and as the steps 
came nearer he heard someone lowering 
the ladder he had thrown upon the roof 
to the sixth floor and preparing to de 
scend. " Ah ! " snarled Raegen, panting 
and desperate, "you se think you have 
me now, sure, don t you?" It rather 
frightened him to find the house so si 
lent, for, save the footsteps of the offi 
cers, descending and ascending upon 
him, he seemed to be the only living 
person in all the dark, silent building. 

He did not want to fight. 

He was under heavy bonds already to 
keep the peace, and this last had surely 
been in self-defense, and he felt he could 
prove it. What he wanted now was to 
get away, to get back to his own people 
and to lie hidden in his own cellar or 
garret, where they would feed and guard 
him until the trouble was over. And 
still, like the two ends of a vise, the rep 
resentatives of the law were closing in 
upon him. He turned the knob of 
the door opening to the landing on 
which he stood, and tried to push it in, 
but it was locked. Then he stepped 
quickly to the door on the opposite side 
and threw his shoulder against it. The 
door opened, and he stumbled forward 
sprawling. The room in which he had 
taken refuge was almost bare, and very 
dark ; but in a little room leading from 
it he saw a pile of tossed up bedding on 
the floor, and he dived at this as though 
it was water, and crawled far under it 
until he reached the wall beyond, squirm 
ing on his face and stomach, and flat 
tening out his arms and legs. Then he 
lay motionless, holding back his breath, 
and listening to the beating of his heart 
and to the footsteps on the stairs. The 
footsteps stopped on the landing lead 
ing to the outer room, and he could 



hear the murmur of voices as the two 
men questioned one another. Then 
the door was kicked open, and there 
was a long silence, broken sharply by 
the click of a revolver. 

"Maybe he s in there," said a bass 
voice. The men stamped across the 
floor leading into the dark room, in 
which he lay, and halted at the entrance. 
They did not stand there over a moment 
before they turned and moved away 
again ; but to Raegen, lying with blood 
vessels choked, and with his hand pressed 
across his mouth, it seemed as if they 
had been contemplating and enjoying 
his agony for over an hour. " I was in 
this place not more than twelve hours 
ago," said one of them, easily. " I come 
in to take a couple out for fighting. 
They were yelling murder and po 
lice/ and breaking things ; but they 
went quiet enough. The man is a steve 
dore, I think, and him and his wife used 
to get drunk regular and carry on up 
here every night or so. They got thirty 
days on the Island." 

" Who s taking care of the rooms ? " 
asked the bass voice. The first voice 
said he guessed " no one was," and ad 
ded : "There ain t much to take care of, 
that I can see." " That s so," assented the 
bass voice. " Well," he went on briskly, 
" he s not here ; but he s in the building, 
sure, for he put back when he seen me 
coming over the roof; and he didn t 
pass me, neither, I know that, anyway," 
protested the bass voice. Then the bass 
voice said that he must have slipped in 
to the flat below, and added something 
that Kaegen could not hear distinctly, 
about Schaffer on the roof, and their 
having him safe enough, as that red 
headed cop from the Eighteenth Precinct 
was watching on the street. They closed 
the door behind them, and their foot 
steps clattered down the stairs, leaving 
the big house silent and apparently de 
serted. Young Raegen raised his head, 
and let his breath escape with a great 
gasp of relief, as when he had been a 
long time under water, and cautiously 
rubbed the perspiration out of his eyes 
and from his forehead. It had been a 
cruelly hot, close afternoon, and the 
stifling burial under the heavy bedding, 
and the excitement, had left him fever 
ishly hot and trembling. It was already 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



687 



growing dark outside, although lie could his breath stopped, and he heard, with 
not know that until he lifted the quilts a quick gasp of terror, the sound of 
an inch or two and peered up at the something crawling toward him across 




"He sprang up trembling to his feet 



dirty window-panes. He was afraid to 
rise, as yet, and flattened himself out 
with an impatient sigh, as he gathered 
the bedding over his head again and 
held back his breath to listen. There 
may have been a minute or more of ab 
solute silence in which he lay there, and 
then his blood froze to ice in his veins, 



the floor of the outer-room. The in 
stinct of self-defence moved him first to 
leap to his feet, and to face and fight it, 
and then followed as quickly a foolish 
sense of safety in his hiding-place ; and 
he called upon his greatest strength, 
and, by his mere brute will alone, forced 
is forehead down to the bare floor 



688 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



and lay rigid, though his nerves jerked 
with unknown, unreasoning fear. And 
still he heard the sound of this living 
thing coming creeping toward him until 
the instinctive terror that shook him 
overcame his will, and he threw the 
bed-clothes from him with a hoarse cry, 
and sprang up trembling to his feet, 
with his back against the wall, and with 
his arms thrown out in front of him 
wildly, and with the willingness in them 
and the power in them to do murder. 

The room was very dark but the 
windows of the one beyond let in a 
little stream of light across the floor, 
and in this light he saw moving toward 
him on its hands and knees a little baby 
who smiled and nodded at him with a 
pleased look of recognition and kindly 
welcome. 

The fear upon Baegen had been so 
strong and the reaction was so great 
that he dropped to a sitting posture on 
the heap of bedding and laughed long 
and weakly, and still with a feeling in 
his heart that this apparition was some 
thing strangely unreal and menacing. 

But the baby seemed well pleased 
with his laughter, and stopped to throw 
back its head and smile and coo and 
laugh gently with him as though the 
joke was a very good one which they 
shared in common. Then it struggled 
solemnly to its feet and came pattering 
toward him on a run, with both bare 
arms held out, and with a look of such 
confidence in him, and welcome in its 
face, that Baegan stretched out his arms 
and closed the baby s fingers fearfully 
and gently in his own. 

He had never seen so beautiful a 
child. There was dirt enough on its 
hands and face, and its torn dress was 
soiled with streaks of coal and ashes. 
The dust of the floor had rubbed into 
its bare knees, but the face was like no 
other face that Bags had ever seen. And 
then it looked at him as though it 
trusted him and just as though they 
had known each other at some time 
long before, but the eyes of the baby 
somehow seemed to hurt him so that 
he had to turn his face away, and when 
he looked again it was with a strangely 
new feeling of dissatisfaction with him 
self and of wishing to ask pardon. 
They were wonderful eyes, black and 



rich, and with a deep superiority of 
knowledge in them, a knowledge that 
seemed to be above the knowledge of 
evil, and when the baby smiled at him 
the eyes smiled too with confidence and 
tenderness in them that in some way 
frightened Rags and made him move un 
comfortably. " Did you know that 
you s scared me so that I was going to 
kill you, "whispered Bags apologetically 
as he carefully held the baby from him 
at arm s length. " Did you ? " But the 
baby only smiled at this and reached 
out its hand and stroked Bag s cheek 
with its fingers. There was something 
so wonderfully soft and sweet in this 
that Bags drew the baby nearer and 
gave a quick, strange gasp of pleasure as 
it threw its arms around his neck and 
brought the face up close to his chin 
and hugged him tightly. The baby s 
arms were very soft and plump, and its 
cheek and tangled hair were w y arm and 
moist with perspiration and the breath 
that fell on Baegen s face was sweeter 
than anything he had ever known. He 
felt wonderfully and for some reason un 
comfortably happy, but the silence was 
oppressive. 

"What s your name, little un ? " said 
Bags. 

The baby ran its arms more closely 
around Baegan s neck and did not speak 
unless its cooing in Baegen s ear was an 
answer. " What did you say your name 
was ? " persisted Baegen, in a whisper. 
The baby frowned at this and stopped 
cooing long enough to say : " Mar gret," 
mechanically and without apparently 
associating the name with herself or 
anything else. " Margaret, eh ! " said 
Baegen, with grave consideration. "It s 
a very pretty name," he added, politely, 
for he could not shake off the feeling 
that he was in the presence of a superior 
being. " An what did you say your dad s 
name was," asked Baegen, awkwardly. 
But this was beyond the baby s patience 
or knowledge, and she waived the ques 
tion aside with both arms and began 
to beat a tattoo gently with her two 
closed fists on Baegen s chin and throat. 
" You re mighty strong now, ain t you ?" 
mocked the young giant, laughing. 
"Perhaps you don t know, Missie," 
he added, gravely, " that your dad and 
mar are doing time on the Island and 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



689 



you won t see em again for a month." 
No, the baby did not know this nor care 
apparently ; she seemed content with 
Rags and with his company. Sometimes 
she drew away and looked at him long 
and dubiously, and this cut Rags to the 
heart, and he felt guilty, and unreason 
ably anxious until she smiled reassur 
ingly again and ran back into his arms 
nestling her face against his and strok 
ing his rough chin wonderingly with 
her little fingers. 

Rags forgot the lateness of the night 
and the darkness that fell upon the room 
in the interest of this strange entertain 
ment, which was so much more absorb 
ing, and so much more innocent than 
any other he had ever known. He al 
most forgot the fact that he lay in hid 
ing, that he was surrounded by unfriend 
ly neighbors, and that at any moment 
the instruments of local justice might 
come in and rudely lead him away. For 
this reason he dared not make a light, 
but he moved his position so that the 
glare from an electric lamp on the street 
outside might fall across the baby s 
face, as it lay alternately dozing and 
awakening, to smile up at him in the 
bend of his arm. Once it reached in 
side the collar of his shirt and pulled 
out the scapular that hung around his 
neck, and looked at it so long, and with 
such apparent seriousness, that Rags 
was confirmed in his fear that this kind 
ly visitor was something more or less 
of a superhuman agent, and his efforts 
to make this supposition coincide with 
the fact that the angel s parents were 
on Blackwell s Island, proved one of the 
severest struggles his mind had ever ex 
perienced. He had forgotten to feel 
hungry, and the knowledge that he was 
acutely so, first came to him with the 
thought that the baby must obviously 
be in greatest need of food herself. 
This pained him greatly, and he laid his 
burden down upon the bedding, and 
after slipping off his shoes, tiptoed his 
way across the room on a foraging ex 
pedition after something she could eat. 
There was a half of a ham-bone, and a 
half loaf of hard bread in a cupboard, 
and on the table he found a bottle quite 
filled with wretched whiskey. That the 
police had failed to see the baby had 
not appealed to him in any way, but 



that they should have allowed this last 
find to remain unnoticed pleased him 
intensely, not because it now fell to him, 
but because they had been cheated of 
it. It really struck him as so humor 
ous that he stood laughing silently for 
several minutes, slapping his thigh with 
every outward exhibition of the keenest 
mirth. But when he found that the 
room and cupboard were bare of any 
thing else that might be eaten he so 
bered suddenly. It was very hot, and 
though the windows were open, the per 
spiration stood upon his face, and the 
foul close air that rose from the court 
and street below made him gasp and 
pant for breath. He dipped a wash 
rag in the water from the spigot in the 
hall, and filled a cup with it and bathed 
the baby s face and wrists. She woke 
and sipped up the water from the 
cup eagerly, and then looked up at him, 
as if to ask for something more. Rags 
soaked the crusty bread in the water, 
and put it to the baby s lips, but after 
nibbling at it eagerly she shook her 
head and looked up at him again with 
such reproachful pleading in her eyes, 
that Rags felt her silence more keenly 
than the worst abuse he had ever re 
ceived. 

It hurt him so, that the pain brought 
tears to his eyes. 

" Deary girl," he cried, " I d give you 
anything you could think of if I had it. 
But I can t get it, see ? It ain t that I 
don t want to, good Lord, little un, you 
don t think that, do you ? " 

The baby smiled at this, just as though 
she understood him, and touched his 
face as if to comfort him, so that 
Rags felt that same exquisite content 
again, which moved him so strangely 
whenever the child caressed him, and 
which left him soberly wondering, 
Then the baby crawled up on to his lap 
and dropped asleep, while Rags sat mo 
tionless and fanned her with a folded 
newspaper, stopping every now and 
then to pass the damp cloth over her 
warm face and arms. It was quite late 
now. Outside he could hear the neigh 
bors laughing and talking on the roofs, 
and when one group sang hilariously to 
an accordion, he cursed them under his 
breath for noisy, drunken fools, and in 
his anger lest they should disturb the 



690 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



child in his arms, expressed an anxious 
hope that they would fall off and break 
their useless necks. It grew silent and 
much cooler as the night ran out, but 
Eags still sat immovable, shivering 
slightly every now and then and cau 
tiously stretching his stiff legs and body. 
The arm that held the child grew stiff 
and numb with the light burden, but he 
took a fierce pleasure in the pain, and be 
came hardened to it, and at last fell into 
an uneasy slumber from which he awoke 
to pass his hands gently over the soft 
yielding body, and to draw it slowly and 
closer to him. And then, from very 
weariness, his eyes closed and his head 
fell back heavily against the wall, and 
the man and the child in his arms slept 
peacefully in the dark corner of the de 
serted tenement. 

The sun rose hissing out of the East 
River, a broad, red disc of heat. It 
swept the cross-streets of the city as 
pitilessly as the search-light of a man-of- 
war sweeps the ocean. It blazed braz 
enly into open windows, and changed 
beds into gridirons on which the sleepers 
tossed and turned and woke unrefreshecl 
and with throats dry and parched. Its 
glare awakened Eags into a startled 
belief that the place about him was on 
fire, and he stared wildly until the 
child in his arms brought him back 
to the knowledge of where he was. He 
ached in every joint and limb, and 
his eyes smarted with the dry heat, but 
the baby concerned him most, for she 
was breathing with hard, long, irregular 
gasps, her mouth was open and her ab 
surdly small fists were clenched, and 
around her closed eyes were deep-blue 
rings. Eags felt a cold rush of fear and 
uncertainty come over him as he stared 
about him helplessly for aid. He had 
seen babies look like this before, in the 
tenements, they were like this when the 
young doctors of the Health Board 
climbed to the roofs to see them, and 
they were like this, only quiet and stih 1 , 
when the ambulance came clattering up 
the narrow streets, and bore them away. 
Eags carried the baby into the outer 
room, where the sun had not yet pene 
trated, and laid her down gently on the 
coverlets ; then he let the water in the 
sink run until it was fairly cool, and 
with this bathed the baby s face and 



hands and feet, and lifted a cup of the 
water to her open lips. She woke at 
this and smiled again, but very faintly, 
and when she looked at him he felt fear 
fully sure that she did not know him, 
and that she was looking through and 
past him at something he could not see. 

He did not know what to do, and he 
wanted to do so much. Milk was the 
only thing he was quite sure babies cared 
for, but in want of this he made a mess 
of bits of the dry ham and crumbs of 
bread, moistened with the raw whiskey, 
and put it to her lips on the end of a 
spoon. The baby tasted this, and 
pushed his hand away, and then looked 
up and gave a feeble cry, and seemed to 
say, as plainly as a grown woman could 
have said or written, " It isn t any use, 
Eags. You are very good to me, but, 
indeed, I cannot do it. Don t worry, 
please, I don t blame you." 

"Great Lord," gasped Eags, with a 
queer choking in his throat, "But ain t 
she got grit." Then he bethought him 
of the people who he still believed in 
habited the rest of the tenement, and he 
concluded that as the day was yet so 
early they might still be asleep, and that 
while they slept, he could " lift " as he 
mentally described the act whatever 
they might have laid away for breakfast. 
Excited with this hope, he ran noise 
lessly down the stairs in his bare feet, 
and tried the doors of the different land 
ings. But each he found open and each 
room bare and deserted. Then it oc 
curred to him that at this hour he 
might even risk a sally into the street. 
He had money with him, and the milk- 
carts and bakers wagons must be pass 
ing every minute. He ran back to get 
the money out of his coat, delighted 
with the chance and chiding himself 
for not having dared to do it sooner. 
He stood over the baby a moment be 
fore he left the room, and flushed like a 
girl as he stooped and kissed one of the 
bare arms. " I m going out to get you 
some breakfast," he said. " I won t be 
gone long, but if I should," he added, as 
he paused and shrugged his shoulders, 
" I ll send the matron after you from the 
station-house. If I only wasn t under 
bonds," he muttered, as he slipped down 
the stairs. "If it wasn t for that they 
couldn t give me more n a month at the 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



691 



most, even knowing all they do of me. 
It was only a street fight, anyway, and 
there was some there that must have 
seen him pull his pistol." He stopped 
at the top of the first flight of stairs and 
sat down to wait. He could see below 
the top of the open front door, the pave 
ment and a part of the street beyond, 
and when he heard the rattle of an ap 
proaching cart he ran on down and then, 
with an oath, turned and broke up stairs 
again. He had seen the ward detectives 
standing together on the opposite side 
of the street. 

" Wot are they doing out a bed at this 
hour ? " he demanded angrily. " Don t 
they make trouble enough through the 
day, without prowling around before de 
cent people are up ? I wonder, now, if 
they re after me." He dropped on his 
knees when he reached the room where 
the baby lay, and peered cautiously out 
of the window at the detectives, who 
had been joined by two other men, with 
whom they w^ere talking earnestly. Rae- 
gen knew the new-comers for two of 
McGonegal s friends and concluded, with 
a momentary flush of pride and self-im 
portance, that the detectives were forced 
to be up at this early hour solely on 
his account. But this was followed by 
the afterthought that he must have hurt 
McGonegal seriously, and that he was 
wanted in consequence very much. This 
disturbed him most, he was surprised to 
find, because it precluded his going forth 
in search of food. " I guess I can t get 
you that milk I was looking for," he said, 
jocularly, to the baby, for the excitement 
elated him. " The sun outside isn t good 
for me health." The baby settled her 
self in his arms and slept again, which 
sobered Bags, for he argued it was a 
bad sign, and his own ravenous appe 
tite warned him how the child suffered. 
When he again offered her the mixture 
he had prepared for her, she took it 
eagerly, and Rags breathed a sigh of 
satisfaction. Then he ate some of the 
bread and ham himself and swallowed 
half the whiskey, and stretched out be 
side the child and fanned her while she 
slept. It was something strangely in 
comprehensible to Rags that he should 
feel so keen a satisfaction in doing even 
this little for her, but he gave up won 
dering, and forgot everything else in 



watching the strange beauty of the 
sleeping baby and in the odd feeling of 
responsibility and self-respect she had 
brought to him. 

He did not feel it coming on, or he 
would have fought against it, but the 
heat of the day and the sleeplessness of 
the night before, and the fumes of the 
whiskey on his empty stomach, drew 
him unconsciously into a dull stupor, so 
that the paper fan slipped from his 
hand, and he sank back on the bedding 
into a heavy sleep. When he awoke it 
was nearly dusk and past six o clock, as 
he knew by the newsboys calling the 
sporting extras on the street below. 
He sprang up, cursing himself, and 
filled with bitter remorse. 

"I m a drunken fool, that s what I am," 
said Rags, savagely, "I ve let her lie here 
all day in the heat with no one to watch 
her." Margaret was breathing so softly 
that he could hardly discern . any life at 
all, and his heart almost stopped with 
fear. He picked her up and fanned and 
patted her into wakefulness again and 
then turned desperately to the window 
and looked down. There was no one 
he knew or who knew him as far as he 
could tell on the street, and he deter 
mined recklessly to risk another sortie 
for food. 

" Why, it s been near two days that 
child s gone without eating," he said 
with keen self-reproach, "and here 
you ve let her suffer to save yourself a 
trip to the Island. You re a hulking big 
loafer, you are," he ran on, muttering, 
"and after her coming to you and tak 
ing notice of you and putting her face 
to yours like an angel." He slipped off 
his shoes and picked his way cautiously 
down the stairs. 

As he reached the top of the first flight 
a newsboy passed calling the evening 
papers, and shouted something which 
Rags could not distinguish. He wished 
he could get a copy of the paper. It 
might tell him, he thought, something 
about himself. The boy was coming 
nearer, and Rags stopped and leaned for 
ward to listen. 

" Extry ! Extry ? " shouted the news 
boy, running. " Sun, World, and Mail. 
Full account of the murder of Pike Mc 
Gonegal by Ragsey Raegen." 

The lights in the street seemed to 



692 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



flash up suddenly and grow dim again, 
leaving Rags blind and dizzy. 

"Stop," he yelled, "stop." "Mur 
dered, no, by God, no," he cried stagger 
ing half-way down the stairs ; " stop," 
"stop." But no one heard Bags, and 
the sound of his own voice stopped him. 
He sank back weak and sick upon the 
top step of the stairs and beat his hands 
together upon his head. 

" It s a lie, it s a lie," he whispered, 
thickly. "I struck him in self-defence, 
s help me. I struck him in self-de 
fence. He drove me to it. He pulled 
his gun on me. I done it in self-de 
fence." 

And then the whole appearance of the 
young tough changed, and the terror and 
horror that had showed on his face 
turned to one of low sharpness and evil 
cunning. His lips drew together tightly 
and he breathed quickly through his 
nostrils, while his fingers locked and un 
locked around his knees. All that he 
had learned on the streets and wharves 
and roof-tops, all that pitiable experi 
ence and dangerous knowledge that had 
made him a leader and a hero among 
the thieves and bullies of the river-front 
he called to his assistance now. He 
faced the fact flatly and with the cool 
consideration of an uninterested coun 
sellor. He knew that the history of his 
life was written on Police Court blotters 
from the day that he was ten years old, 
and with pitiless detail ; that what friends 
he had he held more by fear than by af 
fection, and that his enemies, who were 
many, only wanted just such a chance 
as this to revenge injuries long suffered 
and bitterly cherished, and that his only 
safety lay in secret and instant flight. 
The ferries were watched, of course ; he 
knew that the depots, too, were covered 
by the men whose only duty was to watch 
the coming and to halt the departing 
criminal. But he knew of one old man 
who was too wise to ask questions and 
who would row him over the East River 
to Astoria, and of another on the west 
side whose boat was always at the dis 
posal of silent, white-faced young men 
who might come at any hour of the night 
or morning, and whom he would pilot 
across to the Jersey shore and keep well 
away from the lights of the passing fer 
ries and the green lamp of the police 



boat. And once across he had only to 
change his name and write for money to 
be forwarded to that name, and turn to 
work until the thing was covered up and 
forgotten. He rose to his feet in his 
full strength again, and intensely and 
agreeably excited with the danger and 
possibly fatal termination of his adven 
ture, and then there fell upon him, with 
the suddenness of a blow, the remem 
brance of the little child lying on the 
dirty bedding in the room above. 

"I can t do it" he muttered fiercely ; 
"I can t do it," he cried as if he argued 
with some other presence. "There s a 
rope around me neck, and the chances 
are all against me ; it s every man for 
himself now and no favor." He threw 
his arms out before him as if to push 
the thought away from him and ran his 
fingers through his hair and over his 
face. All of his old self rose in him and 
mocked him for a weak fool, and showed 
him just how great his personal danger 
was, and so he turned and dashed for 
ward on a run, not only to the street, 
but as if to escape from the other self 
that held him back. He was still with 
out his shoes, and in his bare feet, and he 
stopped as he noticed this and turned 
to go up-stairs for them, and then he 
pictured to himself the baby lying as he 
had left her, weakly unconscious and 
with dark rims around her eyes, and he 
asked himself excitedly what he would 
do, if, on his return she should wake 
and smile and reach out her hands to 
him. 

" I don t dare go back," he said breath 
lessly. " I don t dare do it ; killing s 
too good for the likes of Pike McGone- 
gal, but I m not fighting babies. An* 
maybe, if I went back, maybe I wouldn t 
have the nerve to leave her ; I can t do 
it," he muttered, "I don t dare go 
back." But still he did not stir, but 
stood motionless with one hand trem 
bling on the stair-rail and the other 
clenched beside him, and so fought it on 
alone in the silence of the empty build 
ing. 

The lights in the stores below came 
out one by one, and the minutes passed 
into half hours, and still he stood there 
with the noise of the streets coming up 
to him below speaking of escape and of 
a long life of ill-regulated pleasures, and 




He cursed them under his breath for noisy, drunken fools." Page 689. 



VOL. VIII. 68 



694 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



up above him the baby lay in the dark 
ness and reached out her hands to him 
in her sleep. 

The surly old Sergeant of the Twenty- 
first Precinct station-house had read 
the evening papers through for the third 
time and was dozing in the fierce lights 
of the gas-jet over the high desk when a 
young man with a white haggard face 
came in from the street with a baby in 
his arms. 

" I want to see the matron quick," he 
said. 

The surly old sergeant did not like 
the peremptory tone of the young man 
nor his general appearance, for he had no 
hat, nor coat, and his feet were bare, so 
he said, with deliberate dignity, that the 
matron was up-stairs lying down, and 
what did the young man want with her? 
" This child," said the visitor in a queer 
thick voice, " she s sick. The heat s 
come over her and she ain t had any 
thing to eat for two days, an she s starv 
ing. King the bell for the matron, will 
yer, and send one of your men around 
for the house surgeon." The sergeant 
leaned forward comfortably on his 
elbows, with his hands under his chin so 
that the gold lace on his cuffs shone 
effectively in the gas-light. He be 
lieved he had a sense of humor and he 
chose this unfortunate moment to ex 
hibit it. 

"Did you take this for a dispensary, 
young man?" he asked; "or," he con 
tinued, with added facetiousness, " a 
fondling hospital ? " 

The young man made one savage 
spring at the barrier in front of the high 
desk. "Damn you," he panted, "ring 
that bell, do you. hear me, or I ll pull 
you off that seat and twist your heart 
out." 

The baby cried at this sudden outburst, 
and Rags fell back, patting it with his 
hand and muttering between his closed 
teeth. The sergeant called to the men 
of the reserve squad in the reading-room 
beyond, and to humor this desperate 
visitor, sounded the matron s gong. 
The reserve squad trooped in leisurely 
with the playing cards in their hands 
and with their pipes in their mouths. 

" This man," growled the sergeant, 
pointing with the end of his cigar to 



Rags, "is either drunk, or crazy, or a 
bit of both." 

The matron came down-stairs majes 
tically, in a long loose wrapper, fanning 
herself with a palm-leaf fan, but when 
she saw the child, her majesty dropped 
from her like a cloak, and she ran to 
ward her and caught the baby up in her 
arms. "You poor little thing," she 
murmured, " and, oh, how beautiful ! " 
Then she whirled about on the men of 
the reserve squad, " You, Connors," 
she said, " run up to my room and get 
the milk out of my ice-chest, and Moore, 
put on your coat and go around and tell 
the surgeon I want to see him. And one 
of you crack some ice up fine in a towel. 
Take it out of the cooler. Quick, now." 

Raegan came up to her fearfully. " Is 
she very sick ? " he begged, " she ain t 
going to die, is she ? " 

" Of course not," said the big matron, 
promptly, " but she s down with the 
heat, and she hasn t been properly cared 
for ; the child looks half-starved. Are 
you her father?" she asked, sharply. 
But Rags did not speak, for at the mo 
ment she had answered his question and 
had said the baby would not die, he had 
reached out swiftly, and taken the child 
out of her arms and held it hard against 
his breast, as though he had lost her and 
some one had been just giving her back 
to him. 

His head was bending over her s, and 
so he did not see Wade and Heffner, 
the two ward detectives, as they came in 
from the street, looking hot, and tired, 
and anxious. They gave a careless glance 
at the group, and then stopped with a 
start, and one of them gave a long, low 
whistle. 

"Well," exclaimed Wade, with a 
gasp of surprise and relief. " So, Rae- 
gen, you re here, after all, are you? 
Well, you did give us a chase, you did. 
Who took you ? " 

The men of the reserve squad, when 
they heard the name of the man for 
whom the whole force had been looking 
for the past two days, shifted their po 
sitions slightly, and looked curiously at 
Rags, and the matron stopped pouring 
out the milk from the bottle in her hand 
and stared at him in frank astonishment. 
Raegeii threw back his head and should 
ers, and ran his eyes coldly over the 



MY DISREPUTABLE FRIEND, MR. RAEGEN. 



695 



faces of the semicircle of 
men around him. 

"Who took me?" he be 
gan, defiantly, with a swag 
ger of braggadocio, and 
then, as though it were hard 
ly worth while, and as though 
the presence of the baby lift 
ed him above everything else, 
he stopped, and raised her 
until her cheek touched his 
own. It rested there a mo 
ment, while Bags stood si 
lent. 

"Who took me?" he re 
peated, quietly, and without 
lifting his eyes from the 
baby s face. " Nobody took 
me," he said. "I gave my 
self up." 

One morning, three months 
later, when Kaegen had stop 
ped his ice cart in front of 
my door I asked him whether 
at any time he had ever re 
gretted what he had done. 

" Well, sir," he said with 
easy superiority, "seeing 
that I ve shook the gang, and 
that the Society s decided 
her folks ain t fit to take 
care of her, we can t help 
thinking we are better off, 
see? 

" But, as for my ever re 
gretting it, why, even when 
things was at the worst, when 
the case was going dead 
against me, and before that 
cop, you remember, swore 
to McGonegal s drawing the 
pistol, and when I used to 
sit in the Tombs expecting I d have to out her hands and kiss me through the 
hang ior it. Well, even then, they used bars, why they could have took me out 
to bring her to see me every day, and and hung me, and been damned to em 
when they d lift her up, and she d reach for all I d have cared." 





The Old Tower, Warwick Castle 




AMY ROBSART, KENILWORTH, AND WARWICK. 

By William H. Rideing. 




T must be with an un 
avoidable pang of dis 
appointment that the 
sentimental traveller 
alights at Warwick 
and finds engrafted on 
the old town so much 
that is new and pro 
saic. The pictures of 
it that he has seen have never confessed 
to the modernization ; they have shown 
him only the open-framed, red-tiled, or 
thatched Elizabethan houses, with lat 
ticed windows and projecting gables ; 
the bastions, escarpments, and skyward 
towers of the castle ; the ruined bridge 
across the Avon, with the disabling 
lapses in its span ; the well-preserved 
antiquity of Lord Leicester s Hospital. 
He has forgotten how artists separate 
what they desire from any commonplace 
environment, and he has thought of 
Warwick, and seen it through the eye of 
anticipation, as a place made up of an 
cient buildings and ancient streets, a 
sleepy town, stealing down through time 
with an unchanged front and owing 
nothing to later days and later fashions. 
Alas ! though these historical monu 
ments are still there, many of their sur 
roundings are not in keeping with them, 
but have the freshness, the unromantic 
and unmellowed properties of our own 
times. To what is new they seem to 
bear much the same proportion as the 
ancestral brooch and other trinkets 
which a woman attaches to a costume 
that in its other features is exclusively 
VOL. VIII. 69 



modern though this is only so long as 
our initiatory disappointment is allowed 
to prejudice our observation. It re 
quires a spirited imagination to restore 
to those streets the Elizabethan proces 
sion which throngs out of the pages of 
" Kenil worth " the courtiers and swash 
bucklers, Dick Hostler and Jack Pud 
ding, Wayland Smith and Fliooertigib- 
bet, the gay-hearted Raleigh and the 
dark-browed Varney. The pressure of 
innovation comes to oppose their return, 
not only in the modernization of the 
streets, but in the intrusion at every 
point of assiduous, trifle-hunting tour 
ists. 

Of these tourists there are probably 
two Americans to one Englishman. 
"Bless you, sir! I don t know ow we 
could get hon without them, "the waiter 
at the " Warwick Arms" will tell you, af 
ter wofully recounting the various causes 
of the decline in the town s prosperitj . 

All summer long you hear them scur 
rying through the streets toward the 
Castle, or the Hospital, or St. Mary s 
Church, with guide-books tucked under 
their arms and their satchels swelled by 
new souvenirs of travel in the shape 
of photographs, or paper-weights and 
ink-pots cast in the image of Leices 
ter s famous cognizance of the Bear 
and Eagged Staff. Their pursuit leaves 
no moment unmarked by achievement. 
Yesterday morning it was the Custom 
house and the landing stage at Liver 
pool, and since then they have been to 
Chester and Shrewsbury. To-day they 



710 



AMY ROBS ART, KEN1LWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



are debating how they shall apportion 
their time so that they may be in Lon 
don to-morrow. Shall it be Shottery 
and Stratford, or Warwick and Kenil- 
worth? Shakespeare and Ann Hatha 
way, or Leicester and Amy Robsart ? 
They glance at Vandyke s equestrian 
portrait of Charles the First, so full of 
life that rider and horse seem to be ad 
vancing down the corridor of the Castle ; 
smile at the huge caldron known as 
Guy s porridge-pot ; listen to the legends 
of the pensioners at the Hospital ; hov 
er about the tombs in the Beauchamp 
Chapel, and read with questioning eyes 
the epitaph which describes Leicester as 
the best and dearest of husbands. Then 
we see them flying off to the station, or 
disappearing, with their trunks vividly 
labelled "Wanted," or "Not Wanted on 
the Voyage," down the broad highway 
which leads through the matchless verd 
ure of England to Kenilworth and Cov 
entry. Those who do not touch at War 
wick on their way from Liverpool to the 
Continent compass it on their return 
flight across the Atlantic. The bustle 
continues until summer ends, and we 
cannot wonder that the spectres of the 
past shun it, even though conjured and 
implored by an imagination fully pre 
pared to rehabilitate them. 

But after September the visitors be 
come infrequent, and the old town sinks 
into a torpor in which, as in the human 
countenance after a relapse from tem 
porary stimulation, we can see and feel 
its real age. The furrows are deeper 
than we thought they were at first sight, 
and the survival of antiquity is more 
complete. One speculates as to how the 
place exists, unless it is on the harvest 
of the summer. High Street, up and 
down, between the two old gates, is 
empty, and a footfall reverberates in the 
disoccupation through long distances. 
The signs of the prosperous country 
town are not visible, though Warwick 
is the capital of the county and a parlia 
mentary and municipal borough. There 
are no smart traps from neighboring 
manors with apple-faced English girls 
on the high box-seats and sleek grooms 
in attendance ; no farmers or yokels 
seldom does one see a market wagon 
loaded up with fresh green stuff, or a 
fragrant hay-cart. Since, however, one 



cannot make such a statement as this 
without incurring local displeasure and 
the peril of being confronted with fig 
ures which, in the mind of the disputant, 
are sufficient of an answer to cover one 
with confusion, let us qualify it so far 
as to admit that we are merely recording 
an impression, and that the impression 
does not retain images of these things 
as it does of the vacancy and drowsiness 
which follow the departure of the tour 
ists. There is nothing unfriendly in 
our intention, and it yet remains for us 
to say how charming and pervasive the 
inactivity and somnolency are, and how, 
when we yield to the effect of them, the 
harsher and more prosaic features of the 
town recede as in a mist, leaving what 
is old and mellowed all the more promi 
nent, and making Warwick a very hab 
itable place for kindred spirits, ghosts, 
and sentimentalists. 

At the very entrance of the town 
stands a house which, by the dignity of 
its proportions and the style of its archi 
tecture, arrests attention. It is sadly 
out of repair, but it has a semi-baro 
nial, semi-monastic grandeur in its de 
cay. The grayness of its stone and 
the sagging tiled roof tell that it is at 
least twice a centenarian, and ivy and 
moss spread themselves over the wide- 
arched porch and over the windows, of 
which there are no less than nine, of 
enormous size, partitioned by stone 
mullions, and filled with small, greenish, 
leaded glass. The end windows swell 
out on both stories, and at the level of 
the five gables which spring along the 
roof they form balconies with carved 
stone parapets. An unobtrusive sign in 
the weedy, tangled garden, which is sep 
arated from the street by iron railings, 
announces that a tapestried room may 
be seen between certain hours, and with 
a thrill of satisfaction the visitor who 
cares for the picturesque perceives, by 
another small sign, that there are "Apart 
ments to Let." Originally the old house 
is said to have been a hospital of the 
Knights of St. John ; then it was a school, 
and now so much of it as is habitable is 
rented by two pensioners of the Earl of 
Warwick to such as are willing to put 
up with the inconveniences inseparable 
from its dilapidation for the sake of 
living under so venerable a roof. For a 



AMY ROBS ART, KENILWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



711 



very small sum per week you may have 
a sitting-room and bed-room. Imagine 
the sitting-room : about sixty feet long 
and twenty feet wide, with wainscoting 
of black oak, panelled and moulded 
from the floor to the groined stone ceil 
ing, one end being formed by the mul- 
lioned leaded bay windows aforesaid, 
with tendrils of ivy creeping across the 
small panes of greenish glass. The 
light is never more than twilight, even 
at mid-day, and when you sit down to 
your chop in the evening, with one 
candle burning on the little table, you 
are girt by a shadowy and cavernous 
darkness. The bed-room is inferior only 
to the sitting-room in proportions, and 
for a couch you have a four-post bed. 
There are drawbacks to all this pictu- 
resqueness, as we have already intimated: 
there is no running water, except when 
it leaks in with the rain ; the leaded win 
dows shake fearfully and are no match 
against the boisterous winds which slip 
in and strike the tenant in the back ; the 
only illumination is by lamp and candle, 
and in "the dead vast and middle of the 
night " there are inexplicable rattlings 
as though the old knights, arisen from 
their tombs, were buckling on their 
armor for a new crusade. Living in these 
old-fashioned quarters we feel that the 
gulf between Queen Elizabeth s age and 
our own times is not so very wide, and 
from them it is not difficult to enter 
into the past. 

What Shakespeare is to Stratford, 
Leicester and Amy Bobsart are to 
Warwick. They are the leading person 
ages in the only drama the little town 
knows the " stars " in a performance 
which is repeated so often that by com 
parison a Chinese play is a mere inter 
lude. We refresh our memories of 
them by reading "Kenilworth" again, 
and perhaps, it must be confessed, do 
not find it as absorbing as it was when 
we read it under an apple-tree, though 
our heresy may not be as flagrant as 
that of Mr. Howells. Where now is the 
soldier of fortune who can discourse 
as Mike Lambourne did, with all that 
facility of metaphor and expletive, so 
apt and so varied that they put us into 
good humor with the unconscionable 
villain ? All the characters in those days 
spoke in epigrams, even down to the 



hostler at the "Bonny Black Bear," 
who, when Lambourne is in his cups, 
describes him as speaking " Spanish as 
one who has been in the Canaries." 
What innuendo or quip finds Giles Gos 
ling without a repartee he who poet 
izes his own sack so beautifully ? "If 
you find better sack than that in the 
Shires or in the Canaries either, I would 
I may never touch either pot or penny 
more. Why, hold it up betwixt you 
and the light and you shall see the 
little motes dance in the golden liquor 
like dust in the sunbeam." Knave and 
knight, the rustic boor and the gartered 
courtier have the same knack of saying 
what they have to say with Macaulay- 
like precision and with a like appre 
ciation of antithesis and alliteration. 
There is some contemporary evidence 
that the subjects of the fiery Elizabeth 
garnished their speech no more nor set 
it in finer phrase than the subjects of 
Victoria ; no false modesty led them to 
mince matters and call a spade a silver 
spoon. But Scott s characters have set 
speeches which they deliver ore rotundo, 
spiced with color-giving adjectives and 
neat turns of wit : there is not a flash 
in the pan among them all. Is it life ? 
Was it ever life? Did people three 
hundred years ago speak in this stilted, 
theatrical manner? "There, caitiff, is 
thy morning wage." "Draw, dog, and 
defend thyself!" "Off, abject! Dar- 
est thou come betwixt me and mine 
enemy ! " Perhaps there may be justi 
fication for the assault Mr. Howells re 
cently made on Scott, and at all events 
we advise those who have anathematized 
the courageous American critic to read 
their " Kenilworth " again, and not to 
hurl their stones until they have done so. 
But criticism is not part of our inten 
tion, and we had better come back to 
our tourists, many of whom we may 
say nearly all have copies of " Kenil 
worth " under their arms and do not 
question or dispute the historical foot 
hold which Scott claims for his charac 
ters. We find even so brilliant a critic 
as Mr. William Winter espousing the 
legend with implicit faith, and confessing 
that as he presses to his lips a red rose, 
plucked in the garden of Kenilworth, 
he has the enviable sensation of touch 
ing the lips of the lovely Amy, who" out- 



712 



AMY ROBS ART, KENILWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



weighed England s crown, and whose 
sad spirit is the everlasting genius of 
the place." 

The three great sights of Warwick are 
the Castle, the Hospital, and the Beau- 
champ Chapel, in each of which we are 
reminded of the reality of Leicester, 
though there is but one trifling relic of 
Amy. The town itself is said to have 
been founded by Cymbeline, and it is 
mentioned in the Domesday-book as a 
borough containing no less than two 
hundred and sixteen houses. One of 
the first Earls was the famous Guy, who 
exceeded nine feet in height, and who 
slew a green dragon and a Saracen giant 
in single combat. The title has had 
many wearers the Beauchamps ; Rich 
ard Neville, " the king-maker ;" George 
Plantagenet and Edward Plantagenet. 
For forty-eight years it was dormant, 
and then it was conferred on that over 
reaching John Dudley, the Duke of 
Northumberland, who lost his head 
finally, having done the same thing, met 
aphorically, several times before, on Tow 
er Hill. He was the father of Leices 
ter, whose brother, Ambrose, then held 
the earldom. 

Out of the diamond panes of the 
chamber in our picturesque lodgings we 
look on the smooth grassy court of 
" New Bowling Green," as the dwarfish 
little tavern calls itself, with a preposter 
ous pretence to a youth which must have 
ended at least a century ago, and in the 
long, melodious English twilight we can 
hear the voices of the players softened 
to an -ZEolian pitch in the mild summer 
air. The inn is on a curving street 
which leads down to the Avon, and which 
has scarcely been touched by the tide 
of change that has been so busy with 
alterations elsewhere. Nearly all the 
houses are ancient, so old, so sunken, and 
so bent that one wonders why they do 
not collapse. The roofs sag, the fronts 
bulge, but age seems to have given them 
a malleable quality like whale - bone. 
The highest is not more than two very 
modest stories, the upper projecting over 
the lower, and resting on oaken brack 
ets. They are all of the half-timbered 
variety, the huge beams being visible in 
front and freshly painted in broad black 
lines, while the material between them 
shows white or gray. So small are the 



lattice windows, so low and narrow are 
the doors, that the people for whom 
they were built must have been inferior 
in stature to the Britons of to-day, and 
Earl Guy must indeed have been a phe 
nomenon among them. Marked with 
age as they are, the cottages are very 
habitable however, and where an open 
door allows us to peep in, the interior 
shows us much comfort within a space 
inconceivable as to cubic feet. The 
stone floor is pipe-clayed ; a kettle sim 
mers on the " hob ; " the crockery glis 
tens on a sideboard, and there is evi 
dence of a sociability which we should 
not be unwilling to share in the high- 
backed settle drawn up at right angles 
with the hearth. A thriving box of 
fuchsias and geraniums decorates the 
window, and at the threshold, in a wick 
er cage, there is sure to be a bird a 
starling, a lark, or a fat, confiding bul- 
finch. 

Such is the approach to the river by 
the way of Mill Street, and it was be 
tween these very rows of cottages, as 
like as not, that Queen Bess passed on 
her journey from London to the revels 
at Kenilworth, with Leicester, Sussex, 
Raleigh, and Blount in her train. When 
we reach the brink of the river the 
scene is one such as England alone can 
show. Here there is another group of 
cottages, probably of later date, with 
long, narrow gardens, out of which 
breathes the scent of gillyflowers, mign 
onette, sweet-brier, and moss-rose, a 
tangle of bloom woven as close as a 
fabric. The Avon comes down without 
a murmur or visible motion, between 
banks grassy and solid to the edge, 
without ooze or underbrush, carrying 
on its surface pictures of the sky, the 
fleecy clouds, and the willows which bend 
over and dip their slender branches 
into it. Then it is ruffled by a weir for 
a moment, as an uneasy dream might 
agitate it, before it falls into a sounder 
sleep, and glides as peaceful as ever on 
its course to Stratford. After the weir 
a new vision appears on the placid sur 
face a vision of a great mediaeval 
stronghold, towered and battlemented, 
which springs like a precipice out of the 
foliage along the margin. It has an 
aerial, phantasmal, insubstantial air as it 
floats on the stream, but as we look up 



AMY ROBS ART, KENILWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



713 



from the foot of Mill Street it is veri- is a matter of some mystery, for in one 
fled, battlement by battlement, tower by place Scott tells us that Amy and her 




-A 

r r^l:\\ 

r4r-/- ^V >, 

Mfc^V 

*/gflfA ; / 



Warwiek.. 



The Street Warwick. 



tower, in the walls of Warwick Castle. 
Higher up the river is a handsome 
bridge with carvings and stone balus 
ters, abridge of respectable age ; but the 
bridge by which Elizabeth came here on 
that memorable occasion, when she was 
as much bent on twisting the secret of 
Amy Robsart out of Leicester s heart as 
on pleasure, is in ruins before us. The 
arches are gone and the piers alone 
stand out of the stream, their stones 
quite concealed by moss and ivy. 

According to the novel, while the 
Queen was making her way to Kenil- 
worth in state, poor Amy, alarmed by 
the conduct of Varney and Foster, was 
flying from Cumnor Hah 1 in the same 
direction, resolved to throw herself upon 
the mercy and affection of Leicester. 
Surely lady never was in sorrier plight 
than she in that company of mounte 
banks, with only Wayland Smith to pro 
tect her and provide for her, though 
Wayland, it should be said, deserves to 
rank as high on the roll of " gentlemen 
in fiction," when Mr. Stevenson comes 
to revise it, as any of the more berufned 
and bejewelled personages of " Kenil- 
worth." 

What their route from Cumnor was 
VOL. VHL 70 



escort avoided Warwick, and then that 
they travelled to Kenilworth by the way 
of Warwick and Coventry, the latter a 
rather inexplicable proceeding, for Ken 
ilworth is between the two. Perhaps 
they struck off from the main road, be 
fore reaching Warwick, and in that case 
we can imagine them trudging wearily 
through the quaint villages of Bishop s 
Tachbrook, Offchurch, and Cubbington. 
These places looked much the same then 
as they do now, and if we should see an 
Elizabethan figure at the door of one of 
the thatched cottages we should hardly 
suspect it to be a masquerade. Changes 
are infrequent and slow in their opera 
tion in nooks of this sort, and a new 
window here, or a chimney there, is the 
only alteration a revisiting spirit could 
discover after an absence of a duration 
compared with which its mortal life would 
seem less than infancy. The crouching 
little church at the bend of the road, 
with its square Norman tower, was old 
and gray in Elizabeth s time, and the 
wind and rain have done little more 
in the interval than bevel the edges of 
the stones in the wall and flatten the 
jaws of the hideous gargoyles. No doubt 
the peasants we see are lineal descend- 



714 



AMY ROBS ART, KENILWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



ants of those who joined in the throng 
which filled every approach to Kenil- 
worth on the occasion of the fete. " Fore 
fathers and forem others," as Hawthorne 
says, writing of this neighborhood in 
" Our Old Home," "have grown up to 
gether, intermarried and died, through 
a long succession of lives, without any 
intermixture of new elements, till family 
features and character are all run in the 
same inevitable mould. Life is there 
fossilized in its greenest leaf. The man 
who died yesterday, or ever so long ago, 
walks the village street to-day, and 
chooses the same wife that he married a 
hundred years since, and must be buried 
again to-morrow under the same kindred 
dust that has already covered him half a 
score of times. The stone threshold of 
his cottage is worn away with his hob 
nailed footsteps shuffling over it from 
the reign of the first Plantagenet to that 
of Victoria." 

The wear of season and age, which 
have not impaired the habitableness of 
these humble dwellings, become elo 
quent, however, in the castle at Keii- 
ilworth, which might have been ex 
pected to outlast them for many a year. 
Leicester s palace, that noble struct 
ure which, dating from the time of Hen- 




The Pulpit in Cumnor Church. 



ry I., often sheltered kings, is now but 
a ruin, with stairways leading only half 
way from floor to floor, and no other 
roof than the sky in any of its chambers. 
Still, enough of it remains to enable us to 
trace nearly all the incidents of the story 
as Scott describes them in the romance ; 
and stimulated by the rhythmic cumula 
tive splendor of those portions of the 
narrative which bear all readers along 
with impetuous fascination, the visitors 
witness, when they are sufficiently im 
aginative, the re-enactment of Amy s ad 
ventures. Here is the point at which the 
giant warder was posted, past whom she 
stole with Wayland, while Flibbertigib 
bet restored to the memory of the huge 
creature his part in the coming masque ; 
here was Mervyn s Tower, where she 
sought shelter in the hope of being able 
to communicate with the Earl, and where 
she was discovered by Lamboume and 
Tressilian ; here may yet be seen the 
great hall in which the throne was placed, 
and here, in the Pleasaunce, was the 
grotto in whose cool recess Amy con 
cealed herself and was discovered by 
the Queen. The tourists are strong in 
faith, and do not attempt to separate the 
component admixture of truth and fic 
tion ; the novel is a guide-book to them, 
and Wayland, Flib 
bertigibbet, Tres 
silian, and Lam- 
bourne are all 
accepted as histori 
cal personages. Not 
in all the chronicles 
of England is there 
a chapter equal in 
magnetism to the 
story set forth by 
Scott of the love of 
this unhappy coun 
try girl. 

At Cumnor there 
is much less to sub 
stantiate the ro 
mance than here. 
Not a stone remains 
of the Hall, and 
even its site is ob 
literated. The inn 
is called the "Black 
Bear," but it is not 
the prosperous, 
comfortable hostel- 









Cumnor Church, 



716 



AMY ROBS ART, KEN1LWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



ry over whicli Giles Gosling presided twelve poor brethren, tenants and retain- 
with such good humor and tact" mod- ers of his or of his heirs. Each pen- 
erate in his reckonings, prompt in his sioner receives eighty pounds a year and 



!S"6M^2*H*i> 




payments, having a cellar of sound liquor, 
a ready wit, and a pretty daughter." Such 
inn-keepers have gone out of fashion with 
such shop-keepers as Master Goldthread, 
the mercer. The old church, in which 
Papist and Puritan have preached and 
prayed, has not disappeared, but the 
testimony it bears throws doubt on the 
authenticity of the story that Anthony 
Foster is buried in the chancel "he 
they called Tony Fire-the-Fagot, because 
he brought a light to kindle the pile 
round Latimer and Ridley when the 
wind blew out Jack Thong s torch, and 
no man there would give him light for 
love or money." He lies side by side, in 
effigy, with his wife, and is extolled in 
good Latin as a man of many virtues. 

Coming back to Warwick, we find a 
few more threads to pick up, especially 
in the Hospital, which is Leicester s most 
effective monument. Before the Refor 
mation it was the home of a monastic 
order, but was bestowed on him by the 
Queen, and by him endowed for the shel 
ter and maintenance of a master and 



has private lodgings within the Hospi 
tal, in addition to common privileges in 
kitchen, kitchen-garden, and chapel. So 
liberal is the management, so ample the 
provision, so free the benevolence from 
the stigma and parade of charity, that 
the inmates may well be envied ; but, with 
the perversity of human nature, they 
sometimes mutter against their lot, in 
stead of constantly blessing the memory 
of their patron. The bear and ragged 
staff, the motto and initials of Dudley, 
are visible at every point in the quaint 
buildings, and in the kitchen we are 
shown a faded bit of em broidery, glazed 
in an oaken frame, which is said to be 
the needlework of Amy Robsart a tradi 
tion so insecure at the roots that it puts 
us in mind of that epigram of Mr. Hen 
ry James concerning the method of 
Taine : " A thin soil of historical evi 
dence is made to produce luxuriant flow 
ers of deduction." But centuries shrink 
into neighborly and speakable distance 
here, and allow us to fancy that the ver 
ification by living witness of the tradi- 



AMY ROBS ART, KEN1LWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



717 



tion is almost possible. The past is 
completely ours in that snug kitchen. 
All the oak of rafter, casing, and wain 
scot is darkened to ebony with age, but 
in a perfect state of preservation. The 
floor is of red tiles, and the low white 
ceiling is held up by blackened beams. 
There is a fireplace so capacious that all 
the pensioners might cook their dinners 
at once, and a settle, adorned with the 
omnipresent bear, on which all of them, 
sitting together, might afterward smoke 
their pipes, as, indeed, they frequent 
ly do. The light, sifting through the 
hinged, leaded windows, set in stone 
mullions, burnishes antiquated arms and 
armor hung upon the walls, and brings 
out the sheen on the fragment of Amy 
Robsart s embroidery. Even after night- 



brackets, the buildings form within a 
quadrangle, and here the brick-work is 
picked out with the sixteen quarterings 
of Leicester s arms, richly emblazoned, 
and along the mouldings of the galleries, 
in old English text, illuminated and 
sunken in the oak run various rules for 
the government of the inmates " Honor 
all Men " " Fear God " " Honor the 
King " " Love the Brotherhood "- 
" Be kindly affectioned one to Another " 
" He that ruleth over Men must be 
Just." 

On the highest spot in the town 
stands St. Mary s Church, its lofty 
tower visible for miles around, across 
field and hedge-row, and its chimes 
pealing like music from heaven over the 
fair English landscape. Here, in the 




In the Kitchen. Leicester Hospital, built 1571. 



fall there is enough light from the fire 
that is always kept burning to show the 
motto across the hearth, "Droit et loyal," 
the initials R. L., and the date, 1571. 

Presenting to the street a many- 
gabled front, with peaked windows, 
open timbers, hinged lattices, and carved 



Beauchamp chapel, under canopies of 
lace-like stone and screens of artistically 
wrought metal, lies Leicester, surround 
ed by his coroneted kinsmen and for 
mer Earls of Warwick. There is no 
allusion to Amy, no memento of her. 
Another wife reposes with him, her 



718 



AMY ROBS ART, KEN1LWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



hands piously clasped in prayer as his 
are. The effigy shows him as a solemn- 
faced, bearded man, the picture of con 
jugal propriety, and, if epitaphs are to 
be believed, no man was ever more 
maligned than this gaUant and ambi 
tious courtier of Queen Elizabeth s. 

The researches of George Adlard * and 
others have completely undermined the 
foundations of Scott s romance. Amy 
Robsart never was Countess of Leices 
ter. How could she have been when her 
husband was not created an Earl till 



the earldom. Her marriage was not se 
cret, but was solemnized in the pres 
ence of Edward VI., who records the 
fact in his diary and expresses his ap 
preciation of the amusement afterward 
afforded him by " certain gentlemen 
that did strive who should first take 
away a goose s head which was hanged 
alive on two crossposts." Leicester was 
married secretly, though not to her. 
It was to Lady Sheffield, thirteen years 
after Amy s death and two years previ 
ous to the revels. Amy s father was not 
Sir Hugh, but Sir John Robsart, not a 




......... ^ 

* - 




The Gate, Leicester Hospital. 



three years after her death ? She did Knight of Devon, but a Knight of Nor- 

not appear at the Kenilworth revels, folk. Scott, indeed, has not allowed 

for the castle only came to Leicester with himself to be hampered by any rigid 

* Amy Robsart and the Earl of Leicester : A Critical adherence to historic truth, though it 

inquiry. By George Adlard. London, isTo. is true that Amy died mysteriously at 



AMY ROBS ART, KENILWORTH, AND WARWICK. 



719 



Cumnor Hall, and that Leicester felt 
himself called upon to disprove the 
suspicion which pre 
vailed that he had con 
nived at her taking off. 
That he was indifferent 
to her is shown by his 
actions and by his cor 
respondence. Beyond 
this Scott s authority 
seems to have been a 
mysterious and melo 
dramatic Jesuit named 
Par sons, whose charges 
against Leicester were 
repeated at a later pe 
riod by that garrulous 
old chronicler, Ash- 
mole. Let us not be 
too exacting, however. 
Truth even wavers on 
the lips of History her 
self when she discards 
the masquerade of the 
historical novel and 
puts on the academic 
silk. And it is to be 
noted that the fable of 
Amy Robsart con 
vinces the mind of the 
rustic when fact goes, 
unheeded, in at one 
ear and out at the 
other. Listen to the 
sounds from the canvas 
theatre in the field on the Coventry 
road. They are playing a dramatiza 
tion of "Kenil worth," and, familiar as 



the story is, the audience listen to it 
again with undiminished interest, and 




The Door of Leicester s Hospital. 



audibly sob as the corpulent Tressilian 
pumps up his reproaches against the 
wayward heroine. 




THE REED PLAYER. 

By Duncan Campbell Scott. 

BY a dim shore where water darkening 

Took the last light of spring, 
I went beyond the tumult, harkening 

For some diviner thing. 

Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves, 

Over the ebon pool 
Brooded the bittern s cry, as one that grieves 

Lands ancient, bountiful. 

I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood 

Above the shallows clank, 
As Uriel from some great altitude, 

The planets rank on rank. 

And now unseen along the shrouded mead 

One went under the hill ; 
He blew a cadence on his mellow reed, 

That trembled and was still. 

It seemed as if a line of amber fire 

Had shot the gathered dusk, 
As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre 

Laden with myrrh and musk. 

He gave his luring note amid the fern 

Its enigmatic fall, 
Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn 

And argent interval. 

I could not know the message that he bore, 

The springs of life from me 
Hidden ; his incommunicable lore 

As much a mystery. 

And as I followed far the magic player 

He passed the maple wood, 
And when I passed the stars had risen there, 

And there was solitude. 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



By George A. Hibbard. 




T was a minute past 
the time when the 
" through " night ex 
press should start, but 
still the ponderous en 
gine stood motionless, 
the steam escaping 
with a terrific roar, 
and mounting high in the air, first in a 
vigorous jet, and then spreading in dull, 
whitened clouds that soon mingled with 
and were lost in the denser mass and 
greater volume of the rolling smoke. The 
hands of the illuminated clock, placed on 
the depot wall, had passed the points on 
the dial that indicated the hour of de 
parture, and now stood at not more than 
a minute after ; but even so small a 
particle of time was of importance, for 
this, the night express, was the parti 
cular feature of this particular road, 
and to get it to its destination at 
the advertised instant was the . duty 
and pride of every employe ; for this, 
every resource of the great corporation 
was employed, every sacrifice of other 
considerations made. Over those miles 
and miles of shining rails, on which the 
train must run all night, lay the road 
from West to East and from East to 
West, and upon the speed and certainty 
with which they were covered depended 
many an important affair the success 
or failure of a venture, sometimes the 
life or death of a Cause. 

The station-master hurried up to the 
engine and looked in the window. 

" What s the matter, Irby ? " he said 
to the engineer. 

" Spin-lock s not here," answered the 
VOL. VIII. 71 



man, who sat on the narrow, transverse 
seat in the cab, with his hand on the 
heavy, shining, round-tipped handle of 
the reverse-lever. 

" Where is he ? " 

"Don t know," replied Irby. "He 
stepped off five minutes ago, saying he d 
be back directly." 

"If he isn t here in thirty seconds 
I ll have to give you another fireman." 

Everything indicated readiness for de 
parture. The loungers along the broad, 
cemented walk of the station those 
who had sought a little exercise before 
the long, cramped ride had mounted 
to the cars ; and the porters, after pick 
ing up the little stools placed before the 
steps of the " sleepers," stood ready all 
along the line to swing themselves on to 
the platforms as soon as the series of 
jarring jerks with which a train straight 
ens itself out for work, indicated that 
the "7.30" was off. 

The scene as it now presented itself 
a minute and more after the time 
when "No. 47" should have been under 
way was characteristically American, 
for nowhere else in the world is quite 
its like to be found. The huge arched 
station (so large that, numerous as w r ere 
the hard, clear, powerful electric lights, 
there still were left many areas of gloom) 
echoed and re-echoed with multitudin 
ous sounds, and, closing your eyes, you 
might almost have imagined yourself in 
an asylum for demented noises, the air 
was so burdened with the sustained up 
roar, distressed by such brazen clangor, 
torn by so many a wild shriek. The 
gleaming steel rails banded the broad, 



722 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



boarded space, stretching in innumera 
ble lines far across to the opposite wall ; 
now running with the parallel exact 
ness of a copy-book ; now crossing and 
recrossing each other in what seemed 
inextricable confusion. Long strings of 
cars, their windows all aglow, stood 
here or there just arrived, or just on 
the point of leaving this train "in," af 
ter having run all day along the shores 
of the great lakes ; that ready to plunge 
into the dark Pennsylvania forests, and 
hurry away, perhaps, past some flaming 
oil-well into the more distant coal-fields. 
People swarmed everywhere passen 
gers and employes, baggage-men, brake- 
men, and express-men. Heavy trucks, 
overloaded with luggage, were wildly 
trundled through the place ; small iron 
carriages, piled high with mail -bags, 
were recklessly rolled past ; and in and 
out darted the bearers of flaming torches 
that cast a wild glare about them as they 
moved, who, with long-handled hammers 
tested the car- wheels with ringing blows. 
And away in the distance, where the im 
mense, arched opening of the station 
permitted a glimpse of the darkness 
beyond, gleamed innumerable lights 
green, red and orange some stationary 
and arranged in complex designs, others 
swinging in eccentric circles, or flitting 
like the ignes fatui of swamp- lands, 
along the ground, now appearing and 
now disappearing. 

" Here he comes ! " shouted a voice 
somewhere in remote darkness. 

" Hurry up," commanded the station- 
master; and, with a running accom 
paniment of questions, exhortations, 
and admonitions, lit up by some scat 
tered execrations, a slight man, dressed 
in the blackened and greasy overalls 
and "jumper" of a laborer, ran along 
the walk and mounted the engine. 

" Let her go, Dan," he said. 

The engineer glanced at the conductor 
leaning against the wall ; saw him quickly 
shut his watch and wave his hand. One 
pull on a lever, already under his hand, 
and the piston-rods began to glide out 
and in, the huge driving-wheels to re 
volve, and the train, with almost a dis 
locating shock, so hurried had been the 
start, was finally off. 

" What was it, Jeff? " said Irby. 

" Why," answered Spurlock, with a 



hardly perceptible hesitation, "a little 
celebration of my own. Do you forget 
what night it is ? " 

" No," answered the other and older 
man, a trifle sharply. " But what did 
you promise me ? " 

" It s only once a year," responded Spur- 
lock, sullenly, "and I haven t touched a 
thing for ten weeks." 

Irby did not answer, but peered out 
into the darkness through the narrow 
cab window. 

The depot had been left behind, and 
the engine was now passing through 
the outer business belt of the great city. 
Huge, silent warehouses, with their shut 
ters closed, quite as if they had gone to 
sleep with iron lids shut over their in 
numerable eyes, were to be seen along 
the deserted streets ; high chimneys 
here and there rose above the roofs 
they might have been columns support 
ing the leaden sky the dull clouds of 
smoke that lazily seemed to overflow 
them only distinguishable from the 
dark heavens by their greater density. 
It had been snowing during the early 
evening, but the flakes had melted as 
they fell, and the ill-paved roads were 
full of spreading pools that caught the 
rays cast by the glowing embers in the 
engine s fire-box, and, seeming to hold 
them for an instant in dull reflection, 
threw them weakly back. And now the 
pavements cease altogether; no longer 
are there any gas-lamps or electric 
lights to reveal the dripping squalor, 
but as one looks ahead there are to be 
seen by the spreading illumination of 
the headlight only the shining, converg 
ing rails, and between them, and on 
either side, the sodden, half -frozen earth. 
Now only infrequent buildings start into 
view ; but there appear instead long, 
shadowy lines of freight-cars, apparently 
innumerable, drawn up on either side 
of the track, by which the engine thun 
ders with reverberating clatter the 
strange but still familiar characters, 
letters, and names on their many-col 
ored sides the stars, the diamonds, the 
crosses, the often-repeated initials, the 
numbers, reaching sometimes into the 
tens of thousands only showing for an 
instant in the dim rays cast by the single 
light in the engine, and then quickly 
blotted out by the broad hand of dark- 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



723 



ness. At length those, too, are gone, and 
now there is nothing to be seen but the 
occasional hut of some switch-tea der, 
and the constantly recurring telegraph 
poles that so rapidly flash in and out of 
sight. Far behind appears in the sky a 
dull, orange glow that marks the posi 
tion of the town that has been left be 
hind, but all before is unbroken black 
ness. Now, at last, the train has reached 
the open country, Irby pushes the 
throttle-valve still further open, and the 
engine, with a quiver, almost such as a 
spirited horse will give at the touch of 
the spur, plunges more swiftly forward, 
and finally tears along at almost full 
running speed, over fifty miles an hour 
through the night, 

The narrow place in which the men 
are seated, face to face, is but dimly illu 
minated. They are neither of them par 
ticularly exceptional - looking persons ; 
you might see their like almost any 
day through an engine s window and 
not turn to look again, and still their 
faces are not without a certain stern sig 
nificance the significance to be found 
in the countenances of most men who 
have for any length of time held what 
might be called " non - commissioned " 
office in the army of labor, where, 
though opportunity of honor is rare, re 
sponsibility is great and incessant. 

Irby, ten years the older of the two, 
heavy, but with a muscular strength that 
enables him to move with perfect ease 
in spite of his stoutness, has in his 
countenance that indescribable some 
thing that indicates firmness, even obsti 
nacy ; while in the mobile features, more 
shifting glance, and more changeful ex 
pression of his companion you could as 
readily detect the equally evident, but 
more subtle evidences of weakness and 
irresolution. And yet he was a pretty 
fellow enough with his thick, lustrous, 
black hair, and his small, pointed mus 
tache, his highly colored cheeks and his 
dull, dark eyes. Of graceful build too 
his belt was drawn about a waist as 
small almost as a woman s slight but 
lithesome, a man to surprise you with 
unsuspected strength. 

" Don t it make you feel, Dan, as if 
we were regularly out in the cold," he 
said, " to be on this job to-night? " 

" Well, you see," answered Irby, argu- 



mentatively, " all the other boys have 
got sweethearts or wives, and it s only 
natural they should want the evening to 
themselves. Now what s Christmas Eve 
to us you, who haven t got a belonging 
in the world, as you say, and I " 

Irby paused, whether or not he saw 
something worthy of attention in what 
seemed the impenetrable night, Spur- 
lock could not determine, but the en 
gineer looked through the window with 
what appeared increased attention. 

" Tain t much like one s general no 
tion of a Christmas, "he added at length. 

"No," answered Spurlock. 

Neither spoke again for some time, 
and Spurlock busied himself with the 
flapping canvas curtain that gave doubt 
ful shelter to the occupants of the cab, 
for the icy wind blew briskly as the 
scudding clouds attested. 

" Let me see," said Irby at length. 
" This time of the year rather lends it 
self to reckoning how long is it now 
that we ve travelled along together ? " 

" Going on eight months," answered 
Spurlock, " from the time when you 
first set me straight." 

Irby glanced across at the man before 
him. " Set him straight." Yes, he had 
"set him straight," and the memory 
came to him of what Spurlock had been, 
a picture rose before him of how Spur 
lock looked when he first saw him. A 
thin, bent form, with pallid face, and 
trembling, it would almost seem palsied, 
hands, dressed in a mysterious garment 
that was only a remote suggestion of a 
coat, and with all his other clothes cor 
respondingly frayed and tattered. A 
being, coming from no one knew where, 
and going no one cared whither slink 
ing out to bask in the sunshine, as if 
doubtful if the world, which afforded 
him so little, might not grudge and deny 
him even this ; leading one of those 
mysterious, almost reptilian existences 
in the dark holes and corners of the 
earth, which, were they not so common, 
would seem more awful and more signi 
ficant, but which, seen every day, we 
scarcely notice and easily allow to pass 
from memory. 

Irby had first seen the ill-looking 
creature loitering about the confines of 
the station, sometimes penetrating even 
to the engine-yard and standing at gaze 



724 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



before the big, resplendent, perfectly 
" groomed " locomotive looking at it 
revengefully, as if resentful of the fact 
that this thing of iron and steel should 
receive such care, when he, a creature of 
flesh and blood, was so destitute. Such 
as he was, he had been the jest, the jeer 
of the whole place. There was no one 
so insignificant that he did not dare to 
scoff at him, and it seemed that there 
was no indignity that the poor creature 
would not endure. But one day from 
his lofty post Irby had noticed that a 
row was going on. In that neighbor 
hood in the circles in which his loco 
motive moved, that was a thing of no 
uncommon occurrence, but this particu 
lar difficulty seemed more serious than 
was commonly the case. 

" What s the matter ? " he shouted. 

"Joe Bannager s been givin the 
tramp mor n he can stand an he s showed 
fight," was the answer. 

Irby let himself down from the engine 
and joined the crowd just in time to see 
the burly Bannager very neatly knocked 
out of time by the now animated vaga 
bond, to the admiration of the on -lookers. 

" If you ve got spirit enough for that," 
said Irby, looking curiously at the now 
erect figure of the stranger, "you ve 
got spirit enough to be a man. Come 
with me." 

He had taken Spurlock over to the 
engine, and in its torrid shade had in 
spected him more thoroughly. 

"If I gave you money, would you 
drink it up ? " he asked. 

" Try me and see," said the man. 

Irby handed him a bill, and the next 
day there had appeared before him a 
person whom he did not at first recog 
nize. It was Spurlock, decked in a suit 
of the poorest clothing, but clean and 
decent looking. 

" Give me something to do," he had 
said. 

Irby had again looked at him scruti- 
nizingly. It had always been his Irby s 
boast, that he knew a man, when he saw 
one, who had anything in him, and after 
a moment s contemplation, which the 
other had borne unflinchingly, he spoke 
doubtfully. 

"My fireman s laid up, perhaps I 
might get you taken on." 

"All right," answered Spurlock. 



"You ve picked me out of the gutter, 
now set me on the walk." 

And this, Irby, thought, was the same 
man who now sat opposite to him. 
Indeed, Spurlock had changed. As 
he quickly emerged from his state of 
degradation, he displayed unexpected 
intelligence, exhibiting a surprising 
knowledge about all sorts of unlikely 
things. Irby, who had started in life 
with only a limited knowledge of read 
ing and writing, but who had graduated 
long ago with " honors " from the great 
University of the Newspapers, was thor 
oughly able to appreciate higher ac 
quirements than his own, and both mar 
velled and admired. Spurlock never 
spoke of his past, and Irby had never 
asked him a question. That it was not 
the usual past of a man in his position 
Irby felt sure ; but they were both of that 
world that should in truth be called the 
" great world," instead of the insignifi 
cant portion that now bears that name, 
where few questions are asked, for the 
reason that a close knowledge of the 
strange haps and mishaps of life has 
dulled curiosity. Day and night they 
had travelled together in the little cab, 
over thousands of miles, through heat 
and cold, through storm and sunshine, 
and gradually there had grown up in 
Irby a real friendship for this being 
whom he had, as it were, created. He 
looked at Spurlock, and reflecting that 
had it not been for him, the alert, self- 
respecting man, who was now his com 
panion would have been in a pauper s 
grave or leading a life than which any 
death would be better, he took credit to 
himself for what he could almost regard 
as his handiwork, and beamed upon 
him with something like affection. 

" Seeing the time it is," said Spurlock, 
at length, " I ve got a Christmas present 
for you, Dan, and I don t know but I 
might as well give it to you now as 
another time." 

He reached up and took down his 
coat from the place where it hung, then 
drawing out a tobacco-pouch, cheaply 
embroidered, handed it across to the 
engineer. Irby took it, opened it, and 
found instead of tobacco, a carefully 
folded bill. 

" The money you lent me that time, 
you know," explained Spurlock. 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



725 



Irby stretched out his hand, with the 
powerful, blunted fingers, to the young 
er, man who took it and shook it rough 
ly with an awkward consciousness. Nei 
ther spoke. 

The wide plains that lay around the 
city mere bare, uncultivable barrens, 
had been swiftly traversed, and now 
the track ran over land partly uncleared. 
In and out it darted through the thick 
woods, plunging into the narrow open 
ings among the dark, serried trunks and 
spreading branches, as if into some 
tunnelled mountain. 

" You ve been the making of me, 
Dan," Spurlock went on, " and if I come 
to anything now it ll be your doing." 

"The engine s seemed a different 
place since you ve been on it, Jeff," he 
said, quietly, " an so I guess we re 
square." 

Another of those long silences fol 
lowed, which will occur between people 
who are constantly together one of 
those pauses that indicate intimacy more 
fully than any speech. 

" I wasn t always what you found me, 
Dan," said Spurlock, finally. 

Irby glanced at his companion. 

"But I began bad," the other went 
on, " and I kept on growing worse. I 
was the black sheep of a particularly 
white flock, and, by contrast, my color 
only showed up the more. Where I was 
born, or what or when, don t matter. 
I wouldn t like to show disrespect for 
any of my highly respectable relations by 
bringing them into any such unfortu 
nate society as mine." 

He paused, and the expression of reck 
lessness that had lain on his counten 
ance, almost like a mask so evidently 
unnatural was it seemed suddenly to 
be snatched away. 

"The fiend take it, Dan," said he, 
" there s something in this cursed time 
that sets you remembering." 

Irby s face darkened ; it appeared as 
if the past had also come up before him 
with unusual vividness, and that the vi 
sion was disquieting and painful. 

" I don t think I ever came near being 
respectable in my life but once," con 
tinued Spurlock, dully, almost as if some 
strange power were forcing him to speak 
as if volition had nothing to do with 
it. 



"But," he went on, "we re generally 
standing on the ground even when we re 
looking at the clouds. Oh, of course it 
was a woman that did it. You, Dan, 
you can t understand that ; you you ve 
the face of a true misogynist. You 
see," he broke out, " I haven t forgot 
all that my little fresh-water college 
taught me. You re the kind that are 
superior to that inferior influence." "I 
really believe that I could have re 
formed then," murmured Spurlock after 
another pause, " for I loved her. Strange 
how you feel when you really love a 
woman. There seems to come out of 
the very holes and corners of your be 
ing, feelings and sentiments and aspira 
tions that you never knew you had be 
fore. Mind I don t say that the same 
cause doesn t sometimes work a very dif 
ferent way on your nature doesn t stir 
up and set moving a number of dark, 
hideous things also passions, jealou 
sies, hatreds that you never suspect 
ed were in you. Oh, it s a queer thing 
this love it s like a streak of varnish 
across the natural wood that brings out 
the beauty of the grain and the ugliness 
of the knots as well. I loved her from the 
first time I set my eyes on her pretty, 
pale face. Oh, don t be frightened. I m 
not going to tell you a yarn, for there s 
none to tell. But Agnes Holcombe was 
the only one who could ever have made 
anything out of me." 

"Women," said Irby, slowly, "do a 
deal of good when they don t do a deal 
of harm." 

" She could have been the making of 
me. But circumstances " 

" How long ago was it?" interrupted 
Irby. 

" About eighteen months." 

"Eighteen months." With the in 
stinct that leads every one to measure 
the nearness or remoteness of an event 
by its relation in time to their own li ves, 
Irby thought of himself as he had been 
a year and a half before. That, he re 
membered, was before his quarrel with 
Mabel before the final separation. 
He ground his teeth in sudden rage. 
Could he not get the miserable affair 
out of his mind ; must everything he 
heard or saw always serve to remind 
him of it? 

The train had now for some time been 



726 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



on its way, dashing by isolated farm 
houses, usually, at this hour, merely 
black shapes in the dim landscape, but 
to-night with windows all alight; past 
scattered groups of cottages where the 
smoke, rolling comfortably from the 
chimneys suggested glowing and gener 
ous hearths ; in and out of villages ; 
where a quickly opened, quickly closed 
door would often suddenly disclose some 
bright interior. And now the spread 
ing glow in the sky before them proved 
that they were again approaching a 
city. Stronger, brighter, more diffused 
it grew as the train spun swiftly on ; and 
finally the many detached points of light 
showed that they were quite near. Again 
the engine plunged among long lines 
of coal-trucks and freight-cars again 
clattered by the echoing walls of great 
factories, and finally, at decreased speed, 
puffed into the city. As it chanced 
in this particular place the tracks lay 
along streets that crossed some of the 
great thoroughfares, and sometimes for 
a short distance even ran in them. It 
was hardly more than nine o clock, and 
the sidewalks were thronged. It seemed 
as if the whole town had turned out, and 
yet there must have been many who were 
at home. Every shop was open was 
brilliant with the best display it was 
possible for it to make. Here, as at the 
place they had left, it had evidently been 
snowing during the day, but here the 
wind had blown boisterously and long 
enough to dry the walks and bring a 
crackling sheet of ice on the surface of 
the street puddles. There was a brisk 
ness in the air well accordant with the 
time, and there was an animation in the 
crowd that clearly indicated that it was 
no concourse such as might ordinarily 
be found in and before the stores. It 
was much larger, it was much more 
alert, and it was much more self-satis 
fied and self-important ; certainly it was 
much jollier. You might have jostled 
it as much as you pleased without excit 
ing anything but good-natured remon 
strance, you could tread on its toes with 
nearly perfect impunity. It was a true 
Christmas crowd in every aspect and ev 
ery attribute baskets, bundles, and all 
-and as the great engine slowly ground 
its way along, the bell sounding with 
regular brazen clang, the two men in the 



cab gazed upon the animated spectacle 
with greedy eyes. They looked upon it 
all as aliens in a double sense separat 
ed from it in situation and in mood 
and the knowledge of their twofold re 
moteness filled each with a rebellious 
bitterness that strengthened as they went 
on. It all seemed like some mocking 
show prepared for their special tor 
ment some deluding mirage as tantal 
izing as the semblance of water is to 
the thirsty traveller of the desert. 

The stop in the dark, nearly deserted 
depot, was not long, and soon they were 
out again in the populous quarters of 
the town. It was Christmas time at its 
brightest and best cheerful Noel in its 
most comfortable mood. It was Christ 
mas Eve more mirthful, better perhaps 
than Christmas itself as a promise is 
often better than a fulfilment. That 
feeling of the time that calls upon all to 
"eat, drink, and be merry," found most 
ample manifestation the sense of hu 
man fellowship that, let what may be 
said, is just a little stronger on and 
about the wonderful December day than 
at any other time of the year, was evi 
dent everywhere. Gazing like prison 
ers through prison bars, the two men 
avidly drank in the scene, its very geni 
ality making them the more morose. 

And as the engine passed on again 
into the desolate country between the 
brown banks and broken fences the 
men were almost tempted to rub their 
eyes and ask themselves if really what 
they had seen had not been a dream, so 
sudden had been its appearance, so ap 
parently doubtful its reality, even while 
it was before them, and so absolute its 
eclipse. 

" Agnes Holcombe," said Irby, half to 
drive from his mind the memories that 
tormented him ; half to lead Spurlock 
to talk further of himself. 

"Agnes Holcombe," repeated Spur- 
lock. " That of course wasn t her real 
name, as I soon found out." 

"Not her real name?" Irby half 
asked. 

"No," said Spurlock. "Though 
there s but little to tell I might as well 
tell you that little. It all happened out 
at Arapago." 

"Arapago?" repeated Irby, glancing 
sharply around. 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



727 



" Yes, Arapago," continued Spmiock. 
"It was one of my respectable times 
when I was still struggling. I was clerk 
in one of the big freight depots. One 
night I was sitting in that park that 
looks out over the lake when I saw a 
woman on the next bench to mine. I 
saw that she was pretty and that she 
was crying. The two things were too 
much for me they ought to be for any 
man. I made an excuse to speak to 
her, she answered me and we had a 
long talk. I asked her where she lived, 
but although she would not tell me, she 
promised to meet me on the night after 
the next, at the same place. She kept 
her word, and it was the first of many 
meetings. Dan, I loved that woman, 
and, what is the strangest thing, I loved 
her as I never loved another. It almost 
seemed as if I didn t want her to love 
me ; why, man, the ground she walked 
on, it seemed to me, was the only thing 
that I was fit to touch. There are some 
women who can make you feel like that, 
though, like as not, they re laughing at 
you all the time. One night I followed 
her, to find out if I could know some 
thing about her. 

"Well," said Irby, impatiently, and 
yet hesitatingly." 

" I followed her to a pretty little house 
just where the city begins to break up 
and you get a little air and space." 

" Yes," said Irby, looking at his fire 
man with a curious glitter in his eyes. 

" It was in Canestoga Street, number 
one hundred and seventeen queer how 
you ll remember those little things 
and there she went in, with that air you 
know that one has when going into a 
familiar place." 

" Yes," said Irby, as he leaned forward 
to look at one of the gauges, and then 
again fixed his eyes on Spurlock with 
the same intensity of gaze. 

" She was mad enough when she found 
out what I d done, but she soon forgave 
me. And it was there we met when 
her husband was away." He paused, 
then added quickly, " What s the mat 
ter, Dan ? " 

" Nothing," answered Irby ; "go on." 

"Yes, and when he was there she d 
come to the park sometimes ; but I gen 
erally saw her in the garden. I learned 
all about her from the people in the 



neighborhood, but I never let her know 
that I knew the truth, though she must 
have suspected that I did. I ve seen 
enough not to appear to know any more 
than a woman wants that you should. 
She was married, so they told me, to a 
man a good deal older than herself, who, 
though he was generally well considered, 
was thought by the neighbors a little too 
strict and glum for her. I imagined 
I saw how it was. He was an engineer 
on one of the Western roads, away half 
the time, and the poor young thing was 
left all alone. I think he made her 
pretty unhappy, and so the inevitable 
happened, and I happened to be the in 
evitable, though in this case the inevi 
table wasn t so very much after all." 

" Go on," said Irby. 

" Though neither of us ever spoke 
about it, I gathered from what I picked 
up that it was only when her husband 
Shaw, that was the engineer s name 
was away that I could appear. Then, 
when it was dark enough, I d slip over 
the white picket-fence and sit with her 
in the arbor under the grape-vines. I 
never kissed her but once 

Before Spurlock had time to do more 
than instinctively raise his arm in de 
fence, Irby was upon him, and with an 
iron wrench that he had snatched from 
its place had felled him with one blow 
to the floor, where he lay, an almost 
shapeless heap, on the hot, riveted, iron 
plates. 

What Irby consciously noticed next 
was that the train was swiftly running 
over the causeway built across the wide- 
spreading marshes that lay an hour and 
more beyond the last stopping-place. 
It was not that the sky was clearer and 
therefore gave more light, but there 
was more of it, stretching as it did to 
the horizon, and Irby could distinctly 
see the dull, sullen waters above which, 
on the embankment, the locomotive so 
swiftly moved along ; could mark the 
acres and acres of low-lying land par 
tially covered with rank grass and par 
tially with tall, tangled, aquatic plants. 
It was a sad, desolate place at any time, 
but now, seen only by the uncertain light 
of the stars the wind had torn the 
clouds from the sky it was indeed for 
bidding and awful. 



728 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



In Irby s mind was an uneasy con 
sciousness that something unusual had 
happened, what, he half knew, yet hardly 
could have told. With the instinct of 
his calling, he glanced first at all the 
cocks and levers about him, then looked 
cautiously around. Yes, there it was, 
more like some bundle of old clothes 
than the form of a man, for Spurlock 
had fallen face down, with his arms 
doubled up under him, and there was 
no pallid countenance, no worn, black 
ened hand to show what was really there. 
Irby did not start, he had half-prepared 
himself for what he was to see, but only 
gazed intently, almost apathetically, at 
the object at his feet. Then his eye 
caught something that needed attention 
in the machinery, and he, with action 
almost as automatic as that of any one 
of the engine s appliances, set it right. 
The fires must have burnt low, he 
thought ; but how could he replenish 
them ? Dulled as his mind was, it seemed 
an insurmountable difficulty that Spur- 
lock s body lay on the floor how would 
it be possible to open the furnace door ? 
how shovel in the coal ? But gradually 
perception became clearer that the en 
gine should be run all right seemed to 
him more important than anything else 
and he left the shelf-like seat on which 
he had been sitting, and picking up the 
body carefully, placed it in a corner, 
with the back against the wall of the 
cab and the side of the opposite bench. 
Then he threw open the furnace-door. 
With the glare of what seemed to him 
the nether pit, the tongues of flame, 
writhing and twisting in the strong- 
draft, leaped up, licking around the 
iron edges of their prison-house. The 
whole place was illuminated with the 
fierce, ruddy light, and even the face of 
the man whom he had struck down 
seemed to gain even something more 
than its natural color. Drawing back 
the canvas screen he grasped Spurlock s 
shovel and cast the coals into the fur 
nace s mouth ; then he carefully drew 
together the curtain, shut the opened 
door, mounted to his seat, and glanced 
down the straight road that seemed al 
most to slip under the engine and glide 
away. Fancies, rather than such posi 
tive thoughts as it would seem should 
be the natural and unavoidable out 



come of the situation, filled his brain. 
First, there started into quick vision the 
astonishment, the horror of the officials, 
when he should ride into the next sta 
tion with a murdered man on the en 
gine with him. There seemed some 
thing so grotesquely ludicrous in the 
idea, that he almost laughed aloud. 
Then he listlessly thought of what the 
newspapers would say of the heavy 
headlines and sensational sentences. 
People would talk about it the next 
day Christmas Day Christmas of all 
days. The sense of the awful inharmony 
between what he had done and what the 
feeling of the time enjoined, brought 
him the first thrill of horror that he 
had felt. His regular respiration was 
broken by a quick, raucous gasp, and 
on his brow he felt the chilly dew of 
terror. 

Christmas Eve ! It seemed to Irby 
that everything of any consequence to 
him had happened on Christmas Eve. 
It was on a Christmas Eve that he had 
been married ; it was on the next Christ 
mas Eve that the baby was born ; it 
was only just before Christmas Eve, a 
year past, that they Mabel and he had 
their final misunderstanding and had 
parted ; he swearing that though she 
might wish to seek his forgiveness she 
should not have the chance. So he had 
gone to a distant place, where, under a 
new name perhaps even then apprehen 
sive that he might not be able to with 
stand her pleading should she attempt 
to soften his heart he had sought new 
employment, while she had fled he knew 
not whither. 

He had often wondered, sometimes 
doubted, whether he had not been un 
just to her. There were even times 
when he had accused himself of blind 
cruelty to her, and had felt impelled, 
then and there, to seek her out wher 
ever she might be, and ask her for 
giveness. But he had been too deeply 
hurt ; the wound, to one of his nature, 
was too grievous to permit any such ac 
tion, and he had quickly fallen back into 
his old state of obduracy and inert de 
spair. For days before he had finally 
spoken to her, he had watched and wait 
ed, had reasoned and argued, until it al 
most seemed that he had lost all power 
of continuous thought, so distracted had 



"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



729 



he become ; and now, since they had 
been separated, he had weighed the 
evidence again and again ; had never 
ceased laboriously to revolve the matter 
in his mind ; to seek to comprehend her 
motives and to test his own. He could 
not have made a mistake. It was true 
that she had never confessed anything, 
but again she had never denied any 
thing, merely contenting herself with 
an indignant silence, or with impetuous 
assertion that she disdained to defend 
herself against suspicion, adding that if 
he did not trust her he did not love 
her, and that they had best part. 

And so he, unable to control the 
fierce jealousy, the rugged wrong-side 
of his strong love, and she feigning or 
feeling the deep indignation of affronted 
womanhood, had given to the wind the 
vows they had both made, that they 
would thereafter cling to one another, 
even until the last great parting. No, 
he must have been right there was so 
much to justify him. Though he had 
imagined her so different from other 
women, was there really any reason why 
she should be so ? There was her own 
sister beautiful, headstrong, erring 
Ethel and might not Mabel really have 
been was it not indeed reasonable to 
believe, that she was as vain, as frivo 
lous, as light as the other ? Was it not 
highly probable that as one sister had 
been, so the other would be ? And yet 
at first he had felt that she was of an 
other nature than this wilful being who 
had fled from the tedium of a life in 
which there was only peace and suffi 
ciency, to seek the excitement and lavish- 
ness that she seemed to crave had fled 
from the small but pretty house, on the 
city s outskirts, where Mabel had seemed 
so contented, and where during the long, 
lustrous summer evenings he had timid 
ly courted her ; where, on the brisk, brill 
iant December night, three years ago, 
he had finally married her. 

It was about her sister, Ethel, that they 
had had their first quarrel he peremp 
torily refusing ever to let his wife see 
or communicate with one whom he had 
thought so unworthy of her love and 
countenance, and she, only after argu 
ment and contention, finally yielding. 
It had always been disagreeable to him 
to think of Ethel as his wife s sister. It 



was with real relief that, in the first 
year of their marriage, he had listened 
to Mabel as she told him that she had 
received news of Ethel s death in one of 
the hospitals of an Eastern city, and re 
flected that this being, whose life was 
so worthless to herself and others, could 
no longer come between them. 

Yes, Mabel had always been light- 
hearted and pleasure-loving. But grant 
ing only this, was not that enough to 
cause difficulty in time? Was he the 
man middle-aged, serious, and a trifle 
taciturn to satisfy such a woman ; pret 
ty, with the desire, and even the right to 
have her beauty recognized ; naturally 
longing for the enjoyment that youth 
demands as its peculiar prerogative? 
Was it not only natural that she should 
fancy some one nearer her own age, some 
one with a readier wit, and more adapt 
able manner? He was as conscious of 
his own shortcomings as he was of his 
inability to overcome them ; but he nev 
ertheless suffered grievously, and had 
been continually on the lookout for some 
sign of disapproval, of dislike, on her 
part. It is true it never came, but he 
was always apprehensive ; it was the 
seed-time for suspicion, and the soil in 
which the grain might come to deadly 
fruit was morbidly rich. It was only to 
be expected that he should hearken to 
what people said. When he had received 
the first anonymous letter he had sworn 
that he would not read the thing ; but 
when, with trembling hand and quick- 
beating heart, he had first glanced along 
the cowardly, feigned writing as he de 
liberately read it again, as he had read all 
that succeeded it, he had in his heart be 
lieved what was said. Had she not acted 
strangely for a long time, as if she were 
keeping something from him. All seemed 
calculated to strengthen him in his ap 
prehensions, all to bear witness against 
her. And when he had shown her the 
letters, with their blackening tale, though 
she had appeared indignant, outraged, 
even then she had denied nothing, and 
had refused to defend, to exculpate her 
self. It had been a brief but violent 
scene, and then they she proudly, and 
he besottedly jealous, and passionately 
inflexible had separated. 

It was a common enough story, as he 
knew, but in spite of this knowledge it 



730 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



seemed strangely pathetic to him. And 
that had been the end of the life that 
had begun so happily, but it had not 
been the end of torturing thought, of 
eternal questionings, of occasional self- 
crimination. Now, with a sense almost 
of relief, he reflected that the time of 
doubt was past for him. Since he had 
heard Spurlock s confession he need 
torment himself no more. He had been 
right. Her fancy had been taken by 
the good looks and careless grace of the 
stranger, and she had forgotten his love, 
lost her love if there had really ever 
been any for him. 

It did" not require any great time for 
these thoughts to arise, to eddy giddily 
about, to crowd one another in Irby s 
mind. And yet he was thinking more 
calmly and collectedly now it was 
strange that he should have felt so deep 
ly about it all, at this late day, as to have 
been moved to kill this man. And then 
he reflected how wonderful it was that 
the poor creature whom in pity he had 
befriended and rescued, should have 
been the man who had robbed him of his 
happiness. The injustice what seemed 
to him almost the ingratitude of it 
struck him with sudden force, and he 
glanced with quick-kindling hatred at 
the motionless something in the corner. 

And all the while the engine sped on, 
thundering over bridges, and roaring 
through " cuttings," a terrible, it might 
almost seem in its awful momentum, an 
unmanageable force sped on, pouring a 
dense cloud of smoke from its swaying 
stack, and flinging into the air myriads 
of glowing dancing sparks that streamed 
behind in a cometic trail ! 

Now another city lies not far ahead, 
as Irby well knows. Shall he tell what 
has happened and give himself up? 
Uncertain what to do he determines to 
do nothing. The stop he knows will be 
but short. At so late an hour there will 
be but few about ; none at all who will 
think of mounting on the engine. The 
cab is so high from the ground that no 
one passing on the platform of the 
station can see into it. Why not go as 
he had come, without allowing a person 
to know what had occurred ; then, in the 
long unbroken run to the next stopping 
place, he would have time to reflect de 
cide upon his ultimate course. 



Crouching over the lever he brought 
the engine up to the building that gave 
shelter to the travellers, and stopped it, 
trembling before the lighted windows. 
The sudden illumination disconcerted 
him somewhat and he turned to adjust 
the tattered, greasy curtain more care 
fully. His change of position had 
brought the body within his gaze, and 
he looked at it now for the first time 
coolly and curiously. Blood stood in 
almost inky black spots on the white 
face the distended arms lay along the 
floor in flaccid, impotent immobility. 
Had it not been cowardly to take the 
man unawares ; should he not have given 
Spurlock a chance to defend himself? 
He thought vaguely that if the deed 
were to be done over again he would 
prefer not to do it in that way. 

"Merry Christmas!" 

The voice seemed almost at his elbow, 
and he gave a great start. But it was 
only one of the station people, whom he 
knew, hurrying by on the platform be 
low him. 

" Merry Christmas ! " 

He was afraid that if he did not answer 
the man might return, and so he shouted 
the cheery, conventional greeting after 
him in a voice that he did not seem to 
recognize as his own. 

The time the train could remain at 
this place was nearly up, and he glanced 
at his clock to see if even then he might 
not set the engine in motion. The hands 
stood exactly at twelve, folded together 
in a manner that suggested palms close 
ly pressed in prayer ; and now, as he sat 
waiting for the moment when he might 
be off, the chimes rang out from a church 
near at hand. In the clear night air 
they sounded merrily, and it seemed to 
him that he had never heard sounds 
so sweet, so holy. He knew what it 
meant, they were ringing for the mid 
night service of Christmas. Had he not 
gone once, with her, and as the memory 
came back to him it seemed almost 
brought to him by the wind-borne ca 
dences of the bells he bowed his head 
on his hand that rested on the cold, 
hard handle of the steel beam, and a 
sob broke from him and left him trem 
bling and afraid. He thought of the 
momentous event in remembrance of 
which the bells were ringing the birth 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



731 



of the Child that was born into the world 
to bring the message of hope and of 
salvation ; to teach that lesson of gentle 
ness and peace that the world had never 
known before that it has only so im 
perfectly learned. " Peace on earth and 
good - will toward men." He turned 
again and glanced at the upward staring 
face in the corner. The contrast be 
tween word and fact was so terrible, so 
complete, that its realization overcame 
him, and in his sudden agony he again 
sobbed aloud. 

On flew the train. The flat, open 
country was crossed, and its way now 
lay among high hills that soon would 
become mountains. Irby felt that there 
was something threatening in their rag 
ged outline and wished himself back 
again in the level land. Then he tried 
to dismiss such senseless, such insane 
ideas, from his mind and sought to rea 
son, and to resolve, but found he could 
do neither. Was he becoming mad, or 
had he been mad all the time ? It was 
a new thought, and he pondered over 
it diligently. 

He seemed to hear a noise as if some 
one were moving, and glanced around. 
Spurlock stirred uneasily, raised himself 
slowly on his elbow, then, in an instant, 
was on his feet. It was evident that 
complete intelligence had returned with 
renewed physical strength, his still vig 
orous youth making sudden recovery 
possible. He threw himself instantly 
into a position of defence, as if his last 
conscious thought was still in his mind, 
or was the first to return to it. . 

" Dan," he cried, " what s the matter ? 
Have you gone mad ? " 

But Irby did not answer. The knowl 
edge that, after all, he had not killed his 
companion filled him for an instant with 
strange relief ; then the old fierce hate 
returned, and he looked at the other 
threateningly. 

" What is it, Dan ? " said Spurlock, 
entreatingly ; " can t you tell me ? " 

Still Irby did not speak. 

" Can t you say something ? " contin 
ued Spurlock. 

" No," answered Irby. " I m not crazy, 
whatever you may think although per 
haps I ought to be." 

"Then what is it?" 



" You were telling me a story." 

"Yes." 

" Do you remember there was a 
woman in it ? " 

" Yes." 

" She," said Irby, calmly enough, " was 
my wife." 

"It isn t true, Dan, it can t be true," 
almost shrieked Spurlock, raising his 
voice high above the roar of the train. 

" It was true," answered Irby. 

" But, Dan," implored Spurlock, " I 
never knew, I never could have suspect 
ed. She had another name." 

" Shaw was my name then, is my real 
name now." 

" But I swear to you, swear to you as 
I hope for salvation on the day of judg 
ment, that there was nothing." 

"I know," said Irby, slowly, "and I 
believe you. But you said that she told 
you that she loved you. You confessed 
that yourself, and isn t that enough ? " 

" And what are you going to do ? " 

"What I started to do," answered 
Irby. 

"No, Dan," cried Spurlock, "don t say 
that, don t do that. If I ve done you 
a wrong, I didn t mean it, and 

"I don t pretend," answered Irby, sul 
lenly, " that I can seethe thing clear. I 
only know what I have felt, and what I 
feel. There may not be any justice in it, 
but justice is for them who can think, and 
I can t. I only know that you re the man 
that came between us ; that I tried to 
find then, and that I ve found at last." 

" And you re going to kill me ? " asked 
Spurlock, now, with entire calmness, " is 
that what you mean ? " 

" Yes," said Irby. 

" Then I tell you what it is," continued 
Spurlock, with perfect coolness, though 
with a certain quickness of utterance, 
" I haven t done anything to you, know 
ingly, and if you try that again I m going 
to defend myself. You know I m not 
afraid, and that I ll make a good fight." 

"All the better," said Irby, grimly; 
"I ll feel it the less after it s over." 

" But look here," Spurlock went on, 
" do you propose that we settle this here, 
and now ? " 

" Yes," answered Irby. 

"Then I d like to say something," said 
Spurlock, seating himself, but watch 
ing his companion carefully. " We re 



732 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



both strong men. I m as likely to do 
you an injury as you me. We might 
both meet with an accident, and then 
what would become of the train ? " 

Irby did not answer. After what had 
passed, this calm parleying with life and 
death did not strike him as in the least 
unnatural. Whether or not he should 
kill Spurlock then and there, or wait 
until later, seemed to him a matter that 
might be talked over quite calmly and 
collectedly. 

"It s our duty," said Spurlock, "to 
look out for the train, whatever we may 
feel ourselves." 

Irby thought of the scores of sleep 
ing passengers, and hesitated. What 
Spurlock said was true. A struggle be 
tween them in such confined quarters 
would indeed be something determined 
and dangerous ; and though he had no 
doubt as to its outcome, still Spurlock 
could very easily do him an injury that 
would incapacitate him. 

" I think you re right," he answered, 
briefly, and then he again sat down, for 
he had risen when he had first spoken ; 
" there s more coal needed, put it on." 

Spurlock threw open the furnace- 
door, again allowing the ruddy glow to 
play over the place, cast half-a-dozen 
shovelfuls of coal on the embers fanned 
by the draft to almost a white heat, then 
closed the heavy iron shutter, and took 
his place opposite Irby. 

Mile on mile they rode in silence, 
hardly looking at each other. The 
lights were all out now in the houses 
along the road, the landscape unbrok 
en by a gleam anywhere. It was like 
travelling through some lately deserted 
land. 

"Dan," said Spurlock at length, "I 
don t speak because I want you to let up 
on me, but you know you re the last 
man in the world I d harm." 

" I know it," answered Irby, shortly. 

Then again there was silence, lasting 
for minutes and miles. 

" If there s no way out of this," said 
Spurlock, once more speaking, " I d like, 
Dan, to understand it a little better. I 
want to know what I ve done to you." 

Should he answer him, Irby thought. 
He knew that he could not give ex 
pression to the least part of what he had 
known and suffered, but the instinct 



that makes even the bravest sometimes 
cry out when they are hurt, forbade si 
lence. 

" It was you that spoiled the only hap 
piness that I ever had," he said, relent 
lessly ; "it was you that destroyed my 
confidence in her." 

It appeared incomprehensible that he 
could sit there so calmly discussing his 
own misery with the man who had been 
the cause of it, tossing reasons back and 
across, as if it were the most ordinary 
subject. But so much had happened to 
him that he had not thought possible 
that the position only caused him mo 
mentary surprise. 

" Yes," said Spurlock. " But I didn t 
know I couldn t look ahead." 

"But you must have understood that 
harm was bound to come somewhere 
to someone." 

"A man doesn t stop to think," an 
swered Spurlock, " at such a time." 

" Someone was bound to suffer," said 
Irby. 

"Well," exclaimed Spurlock, bitterly, 
"I think we ve all done that all." 

"I thought it was bad enough when 
I lost the child," continued Irby, disre 
garding the other s speech, " but to lose 
her ! A man don t marry a woman un 
less he has trust in her, and to such 
as I, who have never had a chance to be 
lieve much of anything, it s about the 
only faith that s given to them. When 
you take away such belief you re robbing 
him of everything in this world and the 
next, for some woman s all the religion 
many a man s got. She can make him 
believe that something s right, and that 
right s something, and when you find out 
that she has been deceiving you, there 
don t seem to be anything anywhere. 
She s not only been a worse woman, 
but, Spurlock, I ve been a worse man 
since then." 

His first hesitancy was past now, and 
he was talking unconstrainedly, almost 
argumentatively. 

" I suppose, Dan," Spurlock hastened 
to speak, "it s only natural that you 
should feel the way you do ; I suppose 
I d do the same in your place ; but let s 
try and be reasonable. I grant that 
you ve got grounds of complaint against 
me, and I m willing to give you the satis 
faction you want. That s "only square. 



"AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



733 



But, Dan, we ve been friends so long, 
mates on the engine for some consid 
erable time now, and it isn t as if I d 
been a stranger, and you d learned this 
thing." 

" No," assented Irby. 

"If I should give you revenge, I owe 
you gratitude, and whatever comes I m 
not going to forget that." 

Another city was near, as they both 
well knew, a city where a longer stay 
would be made than at any place since 
they had started on the long ride. 

"In ten minutes we ll be in the de 
pot," said Spurlock, " what s to happen 
then?" 

"Nothing," answered Irby, after a 
moment s consideration. 

" We ll take the train through? " 

"Yes, we ll take the train through," 
answered Irby. 

The track, after passing the station, 
ran directly over a great bridge that 
spanned a broad river, and the train, 
with carefully diminished speed, almost 
crawled along, high over the rushing 
stream that beat with such strong current 
against the massive piers. It was still 
perfectly dark, and the two men felt 
rather than saw, the black waters rolling 
beneath them. Slowly, it would seem 
for the first time almost timidly, the 
engine rolled on, but soon the measured 
clang the almost rhythmic reverbera 
tion of the iron girders, as the wheels 
ground over them ceased suddenly ; 
was succeeded by a more confused and 
unbroken din, and wheeling around a 
bend in the shore, the locomotive took 
up a swifter pace, and soon the lights 
glittering along the wharves, and the 
gas-lamps shining in rows up and down 
the steep streets, were lost from sight. 

It was a straight " run in " now for the 
metropolis, unbroken by another halt. 

For a time the landscape was obscured 
by the flying flakes, for the train had run 
into a snow-squall and the air was full 
of the whirling, downy particles. Final 
ly the storm passed, or the train passed 
it, and as the engine tore on, the two men 
saw that the ground beside the track, 
lit by the dancing light of the cab win 
dows, was unbrokenly white. The train 
frequently raced by small way stations, 
for the country along the river was more 



thickly settled than any through which 
it had passed ; but they were all dark, or 
with only a signal-light at some switch, 
and so the time passed the train grind 
ing swiftly on. At length, at one place 
larger than the rest, there shot up into 
the darkness strange, lambent flames 
that caught and held, though it was no 
strange sight to them, the gaze of both 
the men. Nearer, it was easy to see 
that they rose from the great chimne} T s 
of an iron mill that like huge station 
ary torches lit up all around. Of vivid 
green when they sprang from the chim 
ney s mouths they twisted away in 
strange orange convolutions fantastic 
and fascinating. Now the windows of 
the wide-spreading buildings, row after 
row, came into view ; and now, through 
an opening, could be seen the glowing 
interior, with glimpses of dark, diabolic 
forms and of brilliant masses of heated 
metal that either flowed in slow, fiery 
stream, or cast off, beneath the blows of 
ponderous hammers, bewildering show 
ers of sparks. But, like all else, this was 
speedily left behind. 

" Dan," said Spurlock, finally, "there s 
one thing I wish you d do." 

"What? "asked Irby. 

"Shake hands with me for the time 
that s past when we didn t know." 

Irby hesitated a moment, then held 
out his hand to his companion ; Spur 
lock seized and shook it silently. 

" We ll be in the city in a little more 
than an hour, now," continued Spurlock, 
"and I thought we d better settle up 
everything and then start fresh." 

Irby nodded. 

" They gave me a letter for you just 
as we were leaving, that had been wait 
ing for you at the office," Spurlock went 
on ; " but the hurry of starting drove it 
out of my head, and," Spurlock smiled 
grimly, " you knocked it out." 

He drew a letter from his coat and 
handed it to Irby. 

The day had just broken and the first 
tinges of anything like color appeared 
in the sky. It was still dark, but the 
shape of the great, swelling headlands 
across the broad river that flowed along 
unfrozen, and with swollen flood, could 
now with difficulty be distinguished. 
It was light enough, however, for Irby 
to read the direction on the envelope, 



734 



AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD." 



and as he did so his face, already so pale, 
became a duller white and he slightly 
trembled. 

Then he hastily tore open the letter, 
and read in the dim but strengthening 
light : 

DAN, DEAR : I do not know why I write to 
you at this time unless it is for the very reason 
that it is this time. The day that is so near, is 
so closely connected with so much that was 
most important to me, and must be so to you 
that is if you ever think of me and the past at 
all that I have ventured to do it. I know 
that you have done all in your power to make 
it impossible for me to reach you all uselessly 
heretofore for even if I had been able to ap 
proach you I would not have done so. I was 
very proud, and you hurt me very much. 
But I am changed now, suffering has made the 
girl, intolerant in her ignorance, a woman, who 
can understand and who can condone. I have 
changed, and the consciousness of that fact has 
made me think, that you may have changed 
too, and that perhaps all may be different. We 
have made a mistake, Dan, I as well as you, 
and now I know it. I should not have been so 
resentful of your suspicions ; you should not 
have been so angered by my resentment. You 
were older than I, and you should have been 
more patient. But I am not writing these lines 
to show you wherein you have failed, but rather 
to acknowledge my own errors. For, Dan, I 
did you a wrong, though not, in the way you 
accused me of doing it. I did deceive you, but 
it was not in the way you thought. I deceived 
you once, but even then I did not tell you a 
lie. I only let you go on thinking something 
that was not true. Ethel died last night, 
here, with me by her bedside. It was not true 
the news that came to us from that Eastern 
hospital ; she was very ill, but she recovered, 
and one day, more than a year and a half ago, 
she came to me, when we were living in Arapa- 
go, and begg-ed me to be kind to her. I remem 
bered what you had told me, and recollect- 
that you are a stern man sometimes almost 
hard that you have been hard even with me, 
though you never meant it and I was afraid if 
I let you know that you would not allow me 
to see her. And poor Ethel, if anyone needed 
help in this world, such help as sympathy 
alone can give, it was she. She was never 
really bad, only weak fearfully, fatally weak 
and though God knows that I needed strength 
that was one of the reasons I loved you, Dan, 
you made me feel so secure of myself I could 
aid her. Under the name of Agnes Holcombe, 
the name she had taken when she left her 
home, she lived in the city, supporting herself 
with some little assistance from me. She could 
only come to the house I could only see her, 
when you were away. Perhaps you will under 
stand now what it was I was keeping from you. 



I felt that I must see her, if she was to be 
saved. I was the only influence for good that 
there was near her I alone had power to 
control her, and I did see her and kept the 
knowledge of it from you. There was a young 
man who was in love with her I did not know 
that for some time, she did not tell me, and 
though I did what I could, she insisted upon 
seeing him, slipping out to meet him, even in 
the garden beside the house. Poor girl, it 
seemed as if she craved love more than most of 
us, arid that it was her very need for affection 
that always brought her trouble. 

I did not think that I would ever seek to 
justify myself. At the time of our trouble I 
felt too deeply your unworthy doubts ; the very 
fact that I loved you so much made the wound 
deeper, and I imagined then that I never would 
forget ; but time does so much, and as the day 
has once more come around that has meant so 
much to us, is so nearly here, I have seen things 
differently and I have wanted you to hear the 
truth. I do not know what effect it will have 
upon you, but at least there will no longer be 
any misunderstanding, and whatever the fut 
ure may be for us, it will not be the result of a 
mistake. 

I am no I have some pride left and I will 
not tell you where I am but if you really wish 
to see me you can find me. The postmark on 
the letter will give you a clue. But, Dan, if 
you are coming, do not wait long. I cannot 
bear suspense. If you are coming, come at 
once, and make this for me, what I could not 
expect, and perhaps do not deserve, indeed a 
merry Christmas and a happy New Year. 

MABEL. 



As Irby finished reading the letter 
the sun started up from behind a not 
distant hill and flung its light full into 
the engine windows ; then its brilliant 
rays spread across the small sparkling 
waves of the grandly rolling river, and 
fell on the opposite shore turning the 
snow-covered hills a warm and delicate 
pink. The smoke, rising from the many 
chimneys of a village through which the 
train dashed, mounted slowly and almost 
in unswerving lines in the still air, while 
the unshuttered windows cast back the 
new radiance of the morning, flash on 
flash. It seemed a new world, and to 
Irby it was one. Silently he handed 
the paper, he had just read, to Spurlock, 
who took it wonderingly, and again his 
head sank upon his left hand, which 
hardly for more than an instant had left 
the bar that controlled the onrushing 
engine. 




NEAPOLITAN ART. MORELLL 

By A. F. Jacassy. 



IT B collections are 
rich in fine examples 
of modern European 
art, so rich, indeed, 
as to excite the jeal 
ousy of the great art 
centres of the Old 
World ; however, 
comme toute medaille 
a son revers, that flattering picture has a 
side touch full of significance for the 
observer ; it is that these chefs-d oeuvre 
were dearly paid for at a time when the 
names of the artists had reached the 
pinnacle of fame. It might be said that 
such is the rule everywhere, so it is 
only with us the rule suffers scarcely 
any exceptions, while in certain other 
countries the exceptions are numerous. 
A logical inference to be deducted from 
that fact seems to be that our collectors, 
for one reason or another, perhaps be 
cause diffident of their own judgment 
and seeking security against humbug 
pictures and possible pecuniary losses, 
invariably accept the world s opinion as 
a criterion of choice, making good their 
lack of early appreciation by a willing 
ness to pay generously for acknowl 
edged masterpieces. 

It is a very good fashion to aim at 
buying what is best, but its defect a 
capital one is, what is best is not al 
ways that which is so considered even 
in Paris or London. The art market is 
influenced by many causes having noth 
ing to do with art, and the seUing of 
pictures is a sharp business in which 
well concocted, ingeniously constructed 
advertisement plays as important a part 
as it does in making notorious patent 
medicines. The great public is easily 
led by noise and fireworks, but the col 
lectors ought to make a class apart, 
above the mode of the day, judging pict 
ures, public, and merchants from inti 
mate and discriminating knowledge. 

Certainly our understanding, as well 
as our love of art, has broadened and 
deepened since the days when William 
Morris Hunt, with a true artist s enthu 



siasm, was playing the prophet to Millet, 
and notwithstanding his personal influ 
ence, powerful in a large circle, he met 
with but meagre and disheartening re 
sults. We have progressed wonderfully 
since then, but much remains to be done. 
If we look at France, for example, from 
whence our best art notions come now 
adays and justly, for no school of this 
century has the thoroughness, the com 
pleteness, and the dignity of the French 
we find many art collectors worthy 
of the name of amateurs and of all that 
implies in its best sense ; a phalanx of 
far-sighted men whose pre-eminent char 
acteristic is to be ahead of their time, 
to have the love, feeling, and knowledge 
that make them hunt out talent and 
genius wherever it is to be found, 
whether in or out of the beaten tracks 
heralded by the thousand trumpets of 
renown, or unknown but to a small cir 
cle. They play the forerunners to pub 
lic opinion, which at first opposing and 
ridiculing them, as it does all apostles 
of new creeds, at length, with time and 
patience, follows their lead and applauds. 
That kind of man, the amateur, is unfor 
tunately a rara avis in America, and 
while there is cause for just pride in 
our patronage of art, there is room for 
improvement there are gaps in our 
galleries there are worthy men we do 
not know. 

I want to speak of one of those men, 
as unknown to us as he is to the French 
and English masses Domenico Morel- 
li the patriarch and the head of the 
present Italian school and, in a later pa 
per, of two of his pupils, Michetti, Ge- 
mito, of whom we know something, but 
far from much ; we have had glimpses 
of their earliest work, but not of their 
latest and worthiest. 

The life of an artist, like that of any 
man, to be justly and fully appreciated, 
must be looked at in its relation to the 
times and the society in which it was 
spent ; for sometimes circumstances help 
him to find the path best adapted to his 
genius, while at others they are obsta- 



736 



NEAPOLITAN ART.MORELLL 



cles that throw him out of the right 
way. Only to a few great men is it given 
to rid themselves of the despotic influ 
ence of surroundings to jump and stride 
ahead, opening by the sole force of 
unflinching will and superior genius a 
new path for the coming generations. 
Domenico Morelli is such a pioneer, he 
was the promoter and leader of the 
second Renaissance of true art in the 
terra sacra of the arts Italy. 

Strangely enough, this movement, 
which is intimately connected with the 
national struggle for independence, had 
its birth and attained its highest devel 
opment in the capital of the last prov 
ince wrested from the hands of the 
petty potentates who divided the owner 
ship of Italy in Naples, besotted under 
a corrupted regime, the home of the dir 
tiest, laziest, the most ignorant and su 
perstitious population in the peninsula. 
It is as if each province of the United 
Kingdom had played its part in the 
national regeneration : the North with 
statesmen and men of action, Mazzini, 
Cavour, Garibaldi ; the South with its 
artists, Morelli and Palizzi ; for it was 
in the artistic field that were visible the 
first signs of an awakening of the free 
modern spirit, and the study of the 
present Neapolitan school is a social 
study intimately linked with the history 
of social progress. 

After the great bewilderment of 1789, 
the autocratic power of kings seemed 
reinforced and strengthened by their 
victory over Napoleon, that formidable 
son of the Revolution and the return 
to the old regime, in Naples especially, 
was marked by excesses of all sorts. 
The aristocracy, hand in hand with the 
religious authorities, as if bent on aveng 
ing past persecutions, curbed the peo 
ple under a despotic rule which worked 
infinite damage to its character and 
prosperity. No more freedom of speech 
nor of thought, no more education, no 
books but those glorifying an old and 
rotten past, no more acknowledgement 
of individual worth and talent ; all po 
sitions, honors, rewards went back to 
birth and caste, as if the tremendous in 
fluences of the eighteenth century and of 
the Revolution could be checked or blot 
ted out forever. It was anew the reign 
of permques and powder, a new bud 



ding of old time customs, of sigisbes and 
cavalieri serventi, of bad morals and fine 
manners. There were again two classes, 
not the eternal two, the rich and the 
poor, the wise and the ignorant, but on 
the one side the rulers and courtesans, 
on the other the vast majority of those 
whose lives did not count, who had hu 
man semblance but no souls, who were 
evidently intended for the benefit and 
amusement of the former. These times 
of reaction, permeated with a spirit of 
vengeance, would seem of mediaeval date 
when evoked before the free Italy of the 
present, if living witnesses did not tes 
tify to their reality in the first half of 
this nineteenth century. 

In those days the artists were a de 
plorable set, held in contempt, their 
profession the appanage of wholly in 
ferior and extravagant people. No one 
thought of buying a work of art for its 
own sake, and only the noble families 
had pictures and statues, because such 
were indispensable to the conventional 
adornment of their palaces and gardens, 
and because the title of Meccenas, though 
cheaply and falsely bought, had always 
been one becoming to great personages. 
King and clergy, from necessity imposed 
by a tradition of which they were the 
slaves, were obliged to assume the role 
of patrons of art, but as they cared 
nothing about it, they only demoralized 
and lowered it as they had done every 
thing else, by following the dictates of 
those inane academies, which were noth 
ing but sorts of lounging institutions for 
titled loafers, pretended savants, pedan 
tic rhetoricians, diseurs de beaux riens. 
That academic taste was then a miser 
able mimicry, tainted with affectations 
and mannerisms of the classics, whose 
grandeur served only to throw into 
shameful relief the poverty and servility 
of their degenerate followers. The nar 
row path of imitation leads down always, 
up never, so the course of studies in the 
fine art schools was a sort of pharma 
ceutical routine. There were receipts 
for the color of the flesh and the ar 
rangement of the hair, for the folds of 
drapery and the manipulation of light 
and shade, for the composition also ; in 
such a way, for instance, that if the foot 
of a figure was thrust forward the cor 
responding arm had to be thrown back- 



NEAPOLITAN ART. MORELLI. 



737 




Domenico Morelli. 
(Drawn and engraved by T. Johnson, after photograph.) 



ward, and groups could only be balanced 
in symmetrical forms like pyramids, 
triangles, etc. An infraction of these 
rules, supposed to hold the secret of 
the ancient masters style, was a crime. 
The choice of subjects even was care 
fully limited ; there was not a sentiment, 
an affection that could be expressed by 
brush or chisel, if it had not been pre 
viously treated by the classics. 

Nothing could be more delightfully 
orderly than the appreciation of past 
art, which placed in the first rank as the 
greatest masters the oldest the Greeks, 
then followed them by the Romans, next 
by the artists of the Renaissance, David 
and Canova in their turn, and finally 
VOL. VIII. 72 



the professors of the schools, followed 
a long way behind by the pupils. This 
ludicrous catalogue is but a statement 
of fact, and such was the sort of educa 
tion that Morelli found when he entered 
the academy, somewhere in 1838. His 
comrades looked up steadfastly, as 
generations of their predecessors had 
done, to the hierarchical degrees culmin 
ating in the Greeks ; closed to outer in 
fluences, to the life of the people about 
them, to nature so rich and beautiful, 
to the noble aspirations of the elite of 
their contemporaries toward the redemp 
tion and grandeur of the mother-coun 
try ; their souls and talents stifled in an 
artificial atmosphere. 



738 



NEAPOLITAN ART.MORELLI. 



Domenico, gifted with an ardent, 
poetic temperament, was an ignorant 
boy, as became his humble parentage ; 



lor 







Christ Mocked. 
(Drawn from Morelli s painting by A. F. Jacassy.) 



but as he had original ideas and a strong 
will, the professor, crusted in his routine, 
declared from the very first day that 
there was nothing to hope from him. 
Quite unmindful of that verdict, and 
upheld by faith, Morelli began to study 
hard, and from the beginning in his 
own way as far as the severe discipline 
of the school allowed. Soon his enthu 
siastic language made him a few warm 
friends among his comrades. He in 
stinctively sought for the acquaintance 
of literary students in these ways, as 
in others, the boy gave the measure of 
the man ; for Morelli is one of the few 
artists who fully recognize that art, in 
order to be truly great, ought to go hand 
in hand with literature, which supplies 
it with food for thought and fancy. 
Almost without means, he had to prac 
tise small sacrifices and use every in 
genuity to obtain the necessary materials 
for study. Once in a while he could 
scrape together enough soldi to buy 
books, and in such haphazard and per 
severing fashions he managed to acquire 
a very thorough education. He is a 
scholar, and his range of knowledge, 



which would call for admiration were 
it that of a man who had every facility 
for acquiring it, is not less than sur 
prising when 
one consid 
ers with what 
difficulty 
and how by 
piecemeal it 
was obtain 
ed. 

In those 
times of re 
action the 
memories of 
great events, 
which. w r ere 
to leave an 
indelib 1 e 
imprint on 
the world s 
mind, were 
fresh in all 
thoughts. 
The turmoil 
of the great 
Revolu t i o n, 
appeased at 
the surface, 
was still agitating the masses ; our 
country, in throwing off an oppressor s 
yoke, offered a tempting example which 
the Greeks were following in fighting 
for liberty. All generous hearts of the 
young generation were irresistibly car 
ried by the tide toward a better era. 
Then, in the midst of contradictions of 
present and past and the hopes for the 
future, a boy became quickly a man. 

In Morelli s thoughtful mind new 
ideas found birth, and he began to re 
volt mentally against the schools, real 
izing that their meagre formulas had 
little to do with art, and paintings la 
boriously elaborated according to rigid 
rules, seemed to that lad representations 
of men, of facts he did not meet with in 
this world ; and solely on that account 
he could not acknowledge them admir 
able. What could he feel for the sub 
jects given in the monthly competitive 
trials ? What could he put of himself 
in mythological and religious compo 
sitions except artificiality which jarring 
on his life and ideals, was but the tech 
nical exposition of what he was so poor 
ly learning ; the reluctant rendering of 







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740 



NEAPOLITAN ART. MORELLI. 



that which he had been told to imitate. 
He has said himself very justly, in a 
letter to a friend, that "It is quite as 
impossible to make a good painting with 
mere mechanical rules as it is to write a 
book by learning solely the grammar. 
The books that will live eternally are 
really great because they were written 
by men who felt their subject, and ex 
actly the same is it in painting as in all 
arts." 

Morelli unconsciously felt that if in 
the world of ideas it is easy to destroy, 
leaving to others the care to build, in 
art it is not so. For a decadence that 
one inveighs against, it is necessary to 
substitute another style which, imposing 
itself, condemns the first the altar of 
the god cannot remain empty. With 
renewed vigor, therefore, he went to 
work in his own way, openly seeking 
nature which was such sacrilege in 
the eyes of the professors that they 
promptly became his open enemies, 
as did most of their pupils. All man 
ner of difficulties lay in his path ; more 
grievous than all to him, a dutiful son, 
was the finding himself unable to help 
his poor mother, and the crucial idea 
constantly possessed his mind, that she, 
his best friend, did not understand him, 
and that his independent, stubborn 
conduct toward those whom she con 
sidered his superiors was her Calvary. 
He had to earn his miserable subsist 
ence painting the backs of chairs with 
representations of Napoleon s battles, 
according to the popular taste of the 
period. I wish every young artist could 
have heard as I have, from Morelli s own 
lips, the details of that fight he sustained 
against bad fortune. How many who 
claim themselves born for art to find a 
legitimate excuse for their laziness, 
would learn that with a true artist there 
are no obstacles. Hunger and misery 
he looked on as commonplace incidents, 
like the lack of appreciation ; he found 
his glory in single - handed combat 
against strongly intrenched adversaries, 
his pleasure in developing his character, 
in trying his forces, in perfecting his 
conceptions, in living up to an ideal. 

His search for truth in seeking to 
render nature as he saw it made easier 
the mastering of what he thought good 
in the academy, and he succeeded in 



being first of his class in a competition 
for the painted nude figure, and followed 
this initial success by taking prize after 
prize against the very will of the men 
who gave them, and to whom he was so 
antagonistic. Having at last won a 
purse he set out for Rome. The sight 
of the treasures of the Papal capital 
confirmed his opinions, and when, money 
exhausted, he had to return to Naples, 
he was determined to show what was in 
his mind, and to paint a picture the 
subject of which he naturally took from 
one of his beloved authors, Byron. It 
matters not what definite judgment 
posterity will pass on this poet, he did 
enlist the sympathies of the young, and 
in that cold, hypocritical, pseudo-classi 
cal society, the fervid lines of that great 
rebel sounded like a clarion blast. 

Morelli had selected from his favorite 
poem of "The Corsair" the farewell 
between Conrad and Medora. Subject 
as well as costumes were blamable for 
not being of the traditional pattern, but 
above all, dissolute Naples was scandal 
ized by that painted kiss however 
chaste it was, and the canvas was re 
fused at the Exhibition. The matter 
created quite a stir ; Morelli, fighting 
his ground boldly, protested against the 
verdict, which was finally referred, as 
were all important matters under the 
paternal regime of Bomba, to Mon signer 
Scotti, the King s confessor, who held a 
charge riot unlike that of Grand Inquis 
itor of Spain under Philip H. The cun 
ning old Monsignor, who knew most of 
the secrets of these edifying times, after 
having dutifully wondered how a young 
painter could read such fancy and un 
wholesome stuff as Byron instead of 
nourishing his mind with the "Lives 
of the Saints," asked if it were possible 
that a man and a woman had been used 
for models in the very attitude repre 
sented ; to which Morelli, who had no 
money to pay for models, could verily 
reply that, instead of a live woman s 
head, he had made use of a plaster cast. 
So far as that homme d esprit, Monsignor 
Scotti, was concerned, that plaster cast 
settled the matter, and after a pious 
injunction to choose in the future better 
and worthier subjects, he ordered that 
the painting should be exhibited. This 
first lisp, so to speak, of an artistic reno- 



--"<* te 





Madonna and Child Jesus. 
(From a painting by Morelli.) 




An Arab Musician. 
(After Morelli by A. F. Jacassy.) 



NEAPOLITAN ART.MORELLI. 



743 



vation attracted 
too much atten 
tion altogether, 
and the angered 
professors had it, 
after a few days, 
taken down from 
its place on the 
wall and thrown, 
frame and all, 
from a window 
into the street, 
where it was shat 
tered. Unjust 
treatment could 
not shake the en 
ergy of the young 
artist, who short 
ly after, against 
the verdict of the 
same academici 
ans, won the gold 
medal and schol 
arship for Eome, 
with a scene of 
Greek corsairs on 
the sea-shore, 
which was as se 
verely criticised, 
and for the same 
reason, as 11 Ba- 
cio, save the kiss. 
It was through 
Overbeck, under 
whom Morelli 
studied for a year 
in the Eternal 
City, that he was 
led to take up 
sacred themes; 
but how different 
were the results 
of the rigid mas 
ter s influence on 
his German pu 
pils and on this 
son of the South 
the ones copy 
ing indiscrimi 
nately types, atti 
tudes, draperies, 
all the little trade-marks of the Neo- 
Christian painter ; the other, like a bee, 
sucking the essence of a flower, infus 
ing himself with the pure and naive, 
though not unalloyed, sentiment, the 
chief quality of the man. This is seen 




in Morelli s first picture executed after 
his German experience, and which al 
ready showed, not the unwaverings and 
uncertainties of a man feeling his way, 
but the energy of a reliant innovator who 
begins to reveal himself. The subject 



NEAPOLITAN ART.MORELLI. 



745 



was simple, and treated with that touch 
of human sympathy which stamps the 
religious ideas of our century. The com 
position, unlike the laborious, geometri 
cal groups of the period, was full of fresh 
ness and novelty. In the centre of the 
canvas a Madonna rocks her child to rest, 
while a circle of seraphs accompany her 
lullaby on their stringed instruments. 
Truly modern are these seraphs and 
Madonna, and yet of the same lovely 
family as those of Bellini and Fra An- 
gelico. This work created much en 
thusiasm among the Koman artists, who 
sought out the unknown painter and 
were amazed to find him a poor lad, 
whom they had noticed haunting the 
galleries and low eating-houses. 

It seems to have been the first of a 
long series of works that quickly follow 
ed, until the specious aurora of 1847, 
with its illusive hopes of liberty for the 
down-pressed Italians, recalled him to 
Naples. Although a philosopher, not a 
man of the sword, he could not help 
taking the generous course of every 
patriot, and went to fight the Bour 
bons in the street. Cruelly wounded, he 
was carried to a hospital, and when he 
came out a few months later, he found 
himself unable to withstand the malig 
nant persecutions of the hateful Bom- 
ba. Somehow, he found the means to 
travel, and visited the museums of Paris, 
London, Belgium, Holland, Germany, 
working but little ; but when he came 
back, two years later, he had reached his 
maturity, and thenceforward his pro 
ductions, which I will call in his second 
manner, are those which have made his 
name. 

I select as an example of his later 
pictures before that period the "Boat of 
Life." A bark full of passengers is 
aground on a gray, dull, infinitely ex 
tended laguna ; an Arab, white-robed, 
stands at the prow in the statuesque 
immobility of fatalism ; near him a poet 
has just sprung up with hand raised, as 
if crying the sursum cor da to encourage 
a young volunteer who has waded into 
the dead waters and is trying to float 
the boat again ; a couple of young 
lovers, disdainful of all around them, 
exchange caresses ; while a miser in a 
corner counts stupidly his money, and a 
glutton, his rubicund face sweating 
VOL. VIII. 73 



sensuality and selfishness, oppresses 
with his fat body the miserable who sits 
beside him. Rarely has an allegorical 
idea been expressed in a form so palpa 
bly true, yet so full of enchantment in 
the strange poetry of its general color 
ing. 

But the picture is too literary it be 
longs to a period of preparation, like 
all those of his first manner, whose 
interest lies in that they are the 
promise of a future. Though their 
importance is lessened to some extent 
in our modern eyes, by finding them so 
singularly perverted with souvenirs of 
schools and traditional influences not 
the less real because unconscious we 
cannot forget in judging them that they 
spoke strongly to the men of those days, 
and proved irresistibly sympathetic to 
the young artists. Little by little the 
public gave the cold shoulder to the 
constantly decreasing band of the devo 
tees of routine, and turned itself with 
slowly awakening interest to these living 
subjects. They mark the prelude of the 
new movement, and belong to history as 
the forerunners of the second Renais 
sance. 

A superabundance of youth is their 
condemnation ; they are often too bru 
tal in their research for truth ; they 
speak a dead tongue the rich and florid 
language of the Romanticists. The 
painter wanted to put into them all his 
soul, with his loves, hates, enthusiasms, 
and he lacks the supreme art of choos 
ing, of eliminating, of giving something 
synthetic ; he felt so passionately then 
that his works were hie so many out 
cries of one in revolt ; he had the right 
ideal, but his taste was neither refined 
nor cultivated. Indeed, it is only from 
the brains of a Jupiter that a full-grown 
and armed Minerva can emerge in all 
her perfection. 

It would be instructive and interest 
ing to study the difference between the 
development of the great artists, known 
as the men of 30 in France, and that of 
Morelli. The social conditions were not 
alike, yet not wholly different, and they 
were all self-made men and innovators. 
The French, master-workmen and ene 
mies of the style as embodied in the 
Italian tradition, are the direct descend 
ants of the glorious Dutch painters. 



746 



NEAPOLITAN ART. MORELLI. 



Morelli is also a lover of truth, of sim 
plicity, of honest technique, and as little 
of a rhetorician as Eousseau. He is 
calm, sober of gesture, but there is a 
charm about his work which is the whole 
poetry of the South color. Like the Ve 
netians and Eubens, his colors are few, 
and his gift, like theirs, is to use them in 
the simplest way, with a subtle under 
standing of the value of demi-teintes, yet 
his harmonious coloring is softer than 
theirs, and in a minor key of infinite 
depth and tenderness, brought into 
moving life by a few masterly touches 
a manner born naturally in looking 
at nature around him the Neapolitan 
landscapes draped in soft haze, with 
here and there intense spots of color 
shining ardently, though in their rela 
tive places, under the sun. 

Greco-Roman Naples gave Morelli for 
his studies of humanity the finest collec 
tion of types, from the most refined to 
the most vulgar, of which any city can 
boast. All is to be found there pic- 
turesqueness, gestures, expression, char 
acter. It is a surprise that such a mine 
should remain so little explored, and I 
think the reason lies in that only great 
minds can extract the synthetic from 
such exuberant complexity ; its very 
richness makes the common herd fall 
into prettyness, into brilliancy, and 
multi-colored superficiality. 

Morelli, a nature en dehors, often re 
minds one of Rembrandt, a nature en 
dedans, for the intensity and depth of 
vision and the choice of every-day types 
of humanity. Like him, like the Italian 
classiques, he has found the source of 
his best inspirations in sacred history. 
In Italy they call him the Renan and 
the Strauss of sacred art, because, leav 
ing theological and conventional inter 
pretations to avail himself of the re 
searches, of modern criticism, of enlarged 
historical knowledge, he has succeeded 
in interpreting the Bible in a new way, 
truer and certainly better fitted to our 
comprehension. He is as full of rever 
ence for the divinity of the gospel story 
as were his predecessors, but he recog 
nizes it as practical, and having its roots 
in our daily life. Perhaps because Tol 
stoi speaks more strongly to me than 
Renan or Strauss, Morelli, I think, has 
much in common with the Russian ; 



charity, the same love and respect for 
the poor neighbor, who, though homely, 
unintelligent, almost a beast of burden, 
has a soul, the equal in its coarse envel 
ope of that of any man. 

No picture can better illustrate this 
side of him than his " Buona Novella," 
The Glad Tidings. A narrow slope of 
prairie, occupying the whole length of 
the canvas, is cast into shadow from the 
setting sun, which shines gloriously over 
the quiet waters of a lake and on the 
mountains that pile up on the other 
shore. The antagonism between the 
cool, gray shadows of the foreground 
and the wealth of golden, resplendent 
light which suffuses the rest of the pict 
ure, has its meaning and is eminently 
suggestive. Standing among flowers 
and shrubs, Jesus speaks of the "glad 
tidings of great joy," and before him a 
singularly mixed crowd of followers and 
enemies, where negroes and Bedouins, 
merchants and fishermen elbowing one 
another, listen eagerly. His words, 
the promise of the Kingdom of Heaven 
to the meek, to those who mourn, to the 
lowly, startle the rich, whose counte 
nances show their incredulity and dis 
may ; while in the faces of the poor and 
friendless dawns a gleam of hpe, a pas 
sionate desire to believe in these first 
words of human brotherhood and salva 
tion. Behind the Saviour a woman, with 
the intensity of the new faith shining 
through her maternal anxieties, brings 
her sick babe for healing. All of Mo- 
relli s religious pictures are so full of 
meaning that they compel everyone to 
think : their key-note is their intense hu 
manity. 

Before " Gli Ossessi," The Possessed, 
no one thinks of the small canvas, so big 
the conception is. Jesus walks in sweet 
dignity, to comfort and sympathize with 
the unfortunate creatures who creep out 
to him from miserable lairs, stretching 
their arms, gazing on his face, kissing 
the hem of his garment. A crowd of 
followers, fearful of infection, look from 
afar ; two disciples, who have ventured 
to accompany their Master, stop half-way 
to gaze wonderingly at the dreadful 
caves. From the rugged, gloomy deso 
lation of the dramatic ensemble stands 
out like a lily the Christ s white robe, a 
note of exquisite radiance. 



NEAPOLITAN ART.MORELLL 



747 



Full of poetry and startling originality 
is the "Jesus Tempted by the Devil." 
It is in the arid, sulphurous dryness of 
a desert, whose gnarled and cracking 
surface tells of some primeval cataclysm, 
that the creature of vile earth, a sinister 
creation, creeps forth reptile-like from a 
deep crevasse at the very feet of him, 
whom he is asking to turn his eyes from 
heaven to the stones that lie about, and 
that at a word shall be changed into 
gold. It is the moment before the gen 
tle, earnest face utters the reproof, "Ee- 
tro, Satanas!" 

But merely a nomenclature of Morel- 
li s works would exceed the limits of a 
magazine article, and I am compelled to 
select a few at random to give some idea 
of the artist s range. There is no one 
of his favorite themes that has been dis 
cussed more vehemently, by critics and 
faithful alike, than " The Mother of the 
Redeemer " the proud, loving mother, 
human, and yet not wholly of earth. In 
his " Salve, Regina " he has represented 
her pressing the Divine baby to her 
breast, her eyes closed in the very ec- 
stacy of happiness, her joy all within 
her heart. I can say but little of this, 
and of the numerous other Madonnas, 
among which the large Assumption, 
painted for the royal palace at Naples, 
holds a prominent place. The same 
subjects, even when treated with incom 
parable grandeur of style by Rafael, Fra 
Bartolomeo, Andrea del Sarto, cannot 
make me forget the art of the primitifs, 
clumsy and barbarous perhaps, but so 
full of a spiritual beauty born of faith, 
and made of naive love and reverence 
the pale suffering Virgins, in whose faces 
shine hopes divine, their hands folded in 
ever-prayerful contemplation the flesh 
palpably but a veil to the supreme glor 
ification of a pure soul. 

The picture of Morelli best known 
and most celebrated, no doubt because 
exhibited where it could be seen, at the 
Paris Universal Exhibition of 1878, is 
the " Temptation of St. Anthony." Mo 
relli has said how, having read the story 
of Anthony the Alexandrian, the subject 
suddenly took hold of him ; how he dis 
carded from his mind, as he had done 
from his lectures, the mediaeval legends, 
the extravagant phantasmagorias of 
devils and horrible monsters with which 



the painters of the past had filled their 
canvasses, and saw but the fight against 
temptation of a man, whose abstinence 
and privations from all the joys of the 
flesh had made him a prey to hallucina 
tions. The picture is so well known 
that it needs no description. To the 
criticism that the female figures are ab 
ruptly cut and distorted, Morelli an 
swers that they are such as the saint 
dreamed with his eyes wide open ; to 
my sense they prevent the painting 
from being a chef-d oeuvre, they are 
too incomplete, too indefinite by the 
side of flawless morceaux. But right 
there is the master s failing in overstep 
ping the bound ; for some of his ideas 
are too subtle for definite expression, 
and better suited to other arts, literat 
ure or music. 

Giving most of his time to the com 
position of his subjects, he has produced 
works which for that reason arouse the 
enthusiasm of the painters, yet where 
there is much that is sketchy and ill- 
defined in the rendering, that cannot 
possibly satisfy them. However, when 
he wants he can face pictorial problems 
and difliculties in the broadest way, and 
his technique is admirable in that it 
adapts itself to all things, and is never 
felt. Before his pictures, and they are 
many, one is impressed at once by the 
fact that the man knows all the se 
crets of his profession, but that which 
the mind had decided to say, the hand 
has expressed in an impersonal man 
ner, exempt from smart artifices of the 
trade. 

In that beautiful " Pompeian Bath " it 
seems as if the Flemish masters had in 
spired him in drawing those figures so 
honestly and strongly observed from 
life, their firm and supple modelling, 
their coloring which is that of the flesh, 
not of the skin, the mysterious atmo 
sphere of that interior, which gives to 
each figure, to every object its proper 
place and relation. The rich harmony 
is somewhat higher in key, more lu 
minous, and the shadows more trans 
parent than even those of Terburg. 
But Morelli brings to mind the northern 
painters only because he has in common 
with them those sterling qualities, the 
probity of an artist. A research for 
the beauty of form stamps him distinct- 



748 



NEAPOLITAN ART.MORELLI. 



ly as a man of his country, for that is 
an ideal the Dutch never had. 

The life-size portrait of the Signora 
Maglione, in ball costume, family friends, 
and casual visitors like myself, find ad 
mirable not only in its resemblance to 
the envelope, the exterior, but also to 
that moral expression which is the indi 
viduality, the very ego of a person. The 
broad yet delicate treatment is a feast 
for the eyes of a painter. The merest 
details, amazing at a distance, are done 
in the simplest way imaginable ; the 
paste put right on in a firm and definite 
manner which is the last word of good 
execution. The face and arms, the white 
silk, the pale yellow sortie de bal, the 
tapestried background a play of golden 
and reddish tones everything is mar 
vellous. 

It is a great portrait, one of the best 
of the century, and its place is in a 
public gallery. But it is a pity, that to 
have an idea of Morelli s works one must 
seek introduction into the private houses 
among which they are disseminated, 
and that only travellers with plenty of 
leisure and previous information can 
get at them. With four or five excep 
tions, there are no good reproductions 
of his works, and this accounts for their 
being so little known. To such firms 
as Braun and Goupil, public and artists 
are indebted for those reproductions 
that give to the former the only chance 
they often have to become acquainted 
with the creations of the latter, which, 
through such means, are made to be 
widely known and appreciated. If Mo- 
relli lived in Paris matters would have 
been different, but in Naples he refuses 
to trouble himself with affairs which 
would necessitate much loss of time. 
His friends care but he does not at 
seeing what scanty recognition a life 
long production of great excellence has 
brought him. He stands a striking and 
refreshing contrast to the mercantilism 
which has invaded the art of our time, 
and he is reluctant about exhibiting in 
public, even in Italy, where his name 
would appear in company with that of 
men he hates artists of name, who pro 
stitute their talents to the mode of the 
day. To the courteous requests of the 
French Minister of Fine Arts, and the 
urgent entreaties of his friends, Gerome 



and Meissonnier, that he should be rep 
resented at last year s Universal Exhi 
bition, he found some gentle way to re 
fuse, having always disliked the brassy 
notoriety the "Temptation of St. An 
thony " had brought him. 

So this modest maestro, a plain man 
of unpretentious tastes, spends all his 
days working in the large studio often 
invaded by young artists, his former 
pupils, to whom he gives freely of pre 
cious time and helpful kindness. Sou 
venirs and offerings lie about; on the 
walls are studies by friends many by 
that dearest of all, Fortuny together 
with the last palette used by the lament 
ed Spaniard, and presented to Morelli 
by Pradilla and Villegas in the name of 
the family and of the Spanish artists. 

I should like in closing to speak of 
one of the pictures begun I saw there 
his latest interpretation of Moore s 
" Loves of the Angels " for, like the 
masters of old, he delights in treating 
again and again the same theme. Three 
lovely creatures, their long white wings 
outstretched, nestle amid the flowers on 
a soft slope, and gaze at the stars which 
are beginning to appear in an opal sky, 
while the redness of sunset dies slowly 
over a low horizon. . . . But what 
are words to that fragile and exquisite 
harmony of colors, to such enchantment 
of poses and expressions ? It must have 
been before such a painting that Verdi 
said, the subject was borrowed from the 
legitimate field of the composer, mean 
ing that a subject interpreted in that 
way inspired him with much of the same 
sort of emotion it is the privilege of 
music to give. 

I have spoken of the all-powerful, in 
dividual influence of the master on the 
regeneration of Italian art. To appre 
ciate it, one has only to look at PaLizzi, 
the man who shares with him the honor 
of having been at the head of that move 
ment. This old artist has in his studio 
a very interesting and complete series of 
works showing the development of his 
talent, from the chromo style of 1830, 
passing progressively through studies 
from nature, minutely finished, until, 
step by step, progress by progress, he 
came into possession of a large faire 
which is incomparable. But as Palizzi s 
object is simply to copy what he sees, 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



749 



his stumbling block, therefore, is the 
tableau ; his forte the study in which 
he does give, and in a masterly, bold 
fashion, the sensation of nature ; his 
animals live, breathe, they shine and 
pant in the sun, their expression is ad 
mirable. He is a great painter, he is 
not a great master ; while Morelli, who 
commands admiration as a technician, is 
a master in the same sense as Millet ; he 
makes us think, he tells us something 
new, something he has extracted from 
himself. 

Better than words, an anecdote will 
illustrate the difference between the two 
men. It was at the time Palizzi was 
busy with his great tableau for the Mu 
seum of Capodimonte, "The Coming 
forth from the Ark," in which almost all 
the animals of the earth are represented. 
In his usual way, he had taken from the 



life one beast after another, without 
bothering himself about ensemble, com 
position, etc. Morelli, who watched with 
anxiety the progress of the work, could 
not bring himself to tell his old comrade 
that the whole thing was a mistake from 
the beginning. When a common friend 
then in Naples, Alma Tadema, and of the 
same mind as Morelli, took upon himself 
to try to open Palizzi s eyes : "My dear 
friend," said he to him, " though your 
picture is full of fine morceaux, it is not 
what it ought to be. A picture cannot 
be invented in a moment, it must be 
thought out, composed. Tis just like a 
child of your brain that you must watch 
and help to grow little by little, trying 
to make it as perfect as possible. It is 
only in improving and perfecting your 
first idea that you will find your last 
definite expression of it and the best." 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 

By Octave Thanet. 



THEEE was a vast deal of excite 
ment in Sycamore Ridge when it 
was rumored that Milt Bedford, 
that jewel of his party, but otherwise 
not especially respected citizen, was like 
ly to " get the post-office." 

The place wasn t worth more than 
nine hundred a year ; but in. a South 
western town where you can buy meat 
for eight cents a pound and a boiled 
shirt is high toilet, nine hundred dollars 
is a tidy income. Consider, too, the 
dignity of office and the patronage. 
The postmaster of Sycamore Ridge had 
at his beck one assistant, one janitor, 
and one and a half scrub women the 
half standing for the scrub-woman s 
small daughter who should " pack up 
the water." And one must take into ac 
count that the present postmaster, Cap 
tain Leidig, the incumbent ever since 
the war, had slaved days and schemed 
nights until the office was brought into 
a condition of prime efficiency ; it could 
almost run itself. 



Take the matter by large, the little 
crowd of men discussing it on the ho 
tel platform opposite the railway, were 
agreed to swear at "Milt Bedford s 
cussed luck." 

I have waited so often for trains on 
that platform where they sat, tilting 
their chairs against the clapboards, that 
I know by heart the steel streaks and 
the gaunt, dim sheds and the infre 
quent lamps, and the black shadows 
that crouch like goblin beasts under 
the eaves, at night, and the wide, wide 
street that has an uncanny and lone 
some air, so spacious is it, and so low 
are the little brick blocks of shops and 
the little wooden houses with their 
pointed roofs. 

Being a December night this of 
which I am telling there was a show 
of Christmas bravery in the windows, 
and a barrel of holly at the hotel door. 

Across the street is a small park with 
a trim " bow-dark " or osage orange 
hedge. Two lamps shine hospitably at 



750 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



the entrance. Great gum-trees and 
sycamores make a pleasant shade for 
summer days ; and then, the plash of 
the fountain entices the ear, but it 
tinkles coldly, of a winter night, and 
the white sycamore trunks look spec 
tral. And in winter even the half 
hearted, snowless winter of the South 
west the hillsides grow ragged and 
rusty and the houses look bare ; and 
the engine, that every night at dusk 
drags its lurid eye and trail of fire across 
the bridge between the hills, like a dis 
abled rocket, hisses and shrieks dis 
mally. At intervals a light streams 
athwart the skies above the river, and a 
steamboat pipe vies with the engine- 
throttles. 

To-day the air was so mild that no 
one of the talkers had buttoned his coat 
except General Throckmorton, the con 
gressman from our district. He always 
buttons his coat as a preparation for a 
speech ; a habit acquired in the court 
room. 

" Gentlemen," said Throckinorton 
his voice was soft as silk and flexible as 
a whip-lash, the true Southern orator s 
voice " I reckon Milt Bedford has got 
a better bargain than we all." 

" He ll sure devil the money-order of 
fice some way," a shopkeeper prophe 
sied. 

" Why, the scoundrel can hardly read 
writing," cried Mr. Marsh, the banker. 

" An Cap n Leidig knows whar ever 
town in the kentry does be," said an old 
farmer, " state an caounty an any. 
Never does need t look in the book. 
An he reads them letters right spang 
off, no matter how blind they be. 
More n I cud do." 

"He s a nice man," another farmer 
struck in, "mighty stirrin an liberal." 

" Yes, sir," grunted a one-armed man. 
"That s jest him. Look a that pyark " 
pointing to the sycamores " that s 
his n, but he keeps it up for the public. 
Jest as he always keeps them flower 
pots in the winders." 

"He s a mighty clever man." 

" An a mighty smart man." 

A chorus of praise arose, to which 
Throckmorton listened, smiling. 

He smiled with his mouth, alone ; and 
to smile under such a drooping, inky- 
black mustache as his, with never a rip 



ple in the intense black eyes, is to smile 
like a cynic. Throckmorton looked cyn 
ical. He was a slim, erect man, as dis 
tinctly a Southerner as a gentleman. 
His appearance suggested the planter 
of the caricaturists, without his whip 
or soft hat, and better treated by his 
tailor. 

" Now I, gentlemen," said Throck 
morton, " / call Hiram Leidig a plumb 
idiot." 

The crowd simply gasped ; Throck 
inorton being Leidig s closest friend, 
and a man not to desert a friend under 
stress of weather. 

" Yes, gentlemen, a plumb idiot," he 
repeated, in his gentlest tone ; " here he 
is. He could have made a fortune had he 
stayed in the manufacturing business. 
When the war broke out he was getting 
a salary of twelve hundred dollars, and 
he had invented half a dozen little tricks 
and got patents on them, and saved ten 
thousand dollars. If he d gone back to 
business he would have had a hundred 
or two hundred thousand dollars to-day, 
instead of his little twenty-five thousand. 
But, no; first he must fight for his 
country, and then he gets a notion of 
patriotism and serving his country in 
his head. Patriotism is worse than a 
tick, gentlemen. Here s Leidig has 
worn himself to a puzzle to do ten men s 
work for his office. He is a man of 
talent, a man of inviolable honesty, and 
yet so courteous, so kindly, that every 
child in the town smiles at him on the 
streets. He has done more than any 

one man of his d party in the State 

to make it respectable. And Milt Bed 
ford has done as much as any man 
to make it detested!" ("That s so, 
blame his skin ! " and laughter from the 
hearers.) 

" Well, what does the Government or 
the party give Leidig for his long ser 
vices ? " You all know. Half a dozen 
times he has been within an ace of get 
ting bounced by one party or the other, 
and now he is going to be pitched out 
in good earnest by his very own party 
because he can t be trusted to run the 
office a a party machine, and Milton 
Bedford can! That s the size of it. 
Now, a man who will squander his 
chances of fortune and the best years 
of his life on a Government or a party 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



751 



which kicks fidelity every time is a 
plumb idiot ! " 

" To my thinking, the Government is 
the plumb idiot to lose such a servant," 
said the banker. 

"And we all ain t far from plumb ijits 
t low of it bein done ! " cried the farm 
er. " That ar Milt Bedford ain t got no 
more honesty n a shote. All s pickins 
t him ! " 

"Say, Gineral, are ye shore certain 
baout it?" asked Miller, atfxiously. 
"Captain didn t seem a mite skeered 
up bout it." 

" Eice telegraphed me not to come on 
to Washington," said Throckmorton. 
"It would be useless, he said. Bedford 
has the pull. It has been a still hunt, 
you understand." 

There were honest expressions of dis 
satisfaction. 

Throckmorton unbuttoned his coat. 
His next words appeared to slip from 
his lips by accident. " Yes, gentlemen, 
unless we can persuade Bedford to with 
draw, we must have him." 

The crowd pushed their chairs closer. 
" No violence, gentlemen, I beg," said 
the banker, nervously. 

" Oh, violence ! " said Throckmorton, 
curtly, "Violence is played out. The 
first man on Bedford s side would be 
Leidig, if we tried that game. No, sir ; 
if we overcrow Bedford we have got to 
do it with moral suasion. [Everyone 
looked blank.] For instance, he is the 
real owner of Kurd s big saloon. Are 
we all obliged to buy our liquors at 
Hurd s?" 

A solemn-looking, lean man in a very 
decent black coat answered: "No, for 
sure you are not. You are ruining soul 
and body drinking his abominable stuff. 
I, myself, am the agent for the old-es 
tablished, square-dealing house of Drake 
& Makepeace, of St. Louis, which will 
supply you directly with pure wines, 
brandies, whiskies, liquors, and malt 
liquors at most reasonable prices." 

The crowd were tickled by this, and 
laughed. 

Thockuiort on had shot his arrow ; with 
out any more words he arose, saluted 
the others, and went away. 

It occurred to him that he ought to 
warn Leidig, who would not believe in 
any danger. At the same time he shrank 



from inflicting pain. He loved Leidig. 
The two men had been like brothers 
since the Federal soldier saved the Con 
federate soldier s life and cared for him 
in prison during the war. 

His scheme might succeed. There 
was a chance of intimidating Bedford s 
bondsmen. He had been quietly work 
ing and suggesting for days, and his 
wits were busy with the details as he 
walked past the dazzling windows of 
"Hurd s Palace Saloon." He was so 
absorbed that he jostled Milt Bedford, 
himself, coming out of the door. 

Milt gave his stiff apologies a very 
truculent smirk. 

" You re runnin into me more ways 
than one, I reckon, Gineral," said he, 
" but you can t play off any foul on me, 
by , so don t try it on ! " 

Throckmorton, a lawyer, had no no 
tion of committing himself ; he shrugged 
his shoulders contemptuously, and gave 
Bedford to understand that he consid 
ered him drunk. Then he brushed past, 
leaving Bedford (who really was half 
tipsy) to cool his fury at leisure. 

The encounter increased his perplex 
ity. For the life of him he couldn t de 
cide whether to tell Leidig. Neverthe 
less, he went to the banker s, where, as 
their custom was, Leidig and the three 
others played whist every Thursday 
evening, in a manner to curdle the blood 
of a modern combination whist-player. 
But these primitive players led from 
" sneaks," clung to their picture cards or 
trumps like grim death, and committed 
atrocities right and left with as much 
placidity as if they had been getting in 
the finest coups on record. 

Throckmorton was an indifferent 
player this evening. Even the long- 
suffering Leidig, his partner, remon 
strated at his recklessness with unpro 
tected queens. Later, on their way 
home to Leidig s lodgings, he turned on 
the lawyer with a friendly bluntness: 
"What s gone wrong, Marion? You 
weren t yourself, to-night." 

Throckmorton squirmed out of the 
question, somehow. Leidig, the least 
suspicious of men, believed in a knotty 
law suit and a headache, and wanted 
Throckmorton to stop and get some 
anti-pirene. Throckmorton caught his 
wistful looks at every lamp-post. 



752 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



Leidig was not a handsome man, he 
was too short and too round ; his face 
had kept its boyish look to a surprising 
extent, although he was growing bald 
and wore a big mustache. He dressed 
with great care. According to the black 
maid servant, he covered his off-duty 
coats with a towel, and pressed his trou 
sers between the mattresses of his bed. 
Every morning, winter or summer, he 
used to pick a flower for his button 
hole. He wore a tall silk hat ; because 
in his youth (when he was a young me 
chanic, determined to become a gen 
tleman), gentlemen used to wear tall 
silk hats. For the same reason, he car 
ried a silk handkerchief. Indeed, Syca 
more Ridge considered him a mirror of 
fashion. 

As they walked along perhaps it 
was the full moon pouring a flood of 
glory over the landscape Leidig be 
gan to talk about a girl who was to have 
been his wife long ago. She had died 
as his mother had died, while Leidig 
was fighting on the southwest border. 
And so hard had he taken the blow 
that he never would return to Ohio ; he 
gathered together his property, and set 
tled in Sycamore Ridge. 

Leidig rarely spoke of that old grief ; 
he never had spoken so frankly before. 
Somehow his frankness gave Throck- 
morton a sinister and creepy disquiet 
ude. He interrupted him : 

" Why did you leave the agricultural 
implement business? You needn t go 
back to Ohio, of course ; but why take 
our post-office ? " 

" Marion," said Leidig, solemnly, " the 
post-office saved me. You don t know. 
It was awful ! I brooded over it until I 
was fit to kill myself. God knows, I 
might have killed myself, but they of 
fered me this post-office. They said 
here was a chance to serve the country. 
And I seemed to hear my mother s voice, 
just as it used to sound, evenings, when 
she would tell me stories about the 
Revolution. Mother raised me to love 
my country, ever since I was old enough 
to fire firecrackers. I seemed to hear 
her voice, saying, Son, it s worth while 
serving such a government as ours. I 
had a feeling well, you know the feel 
ing you have for your country." 

Throckmorton s face contracted, while 



his eyes roamed, in a curious way, from 
the stars and the darkling river (they 
stood on the bridge, as Leidig spoke) to 
the lights of the city twinkling like fire 
flies above the black roofs. He made 
an abrupt gesture, spreading his hands 
and clinching them. Then they relaxed 
and dropped by his side. 

" Oh, what s the use ?" said he, " I felt 
that way when when I had a country. 
Now, I see how impracticable such sen 
timent is." 

" No you don t," said Leidig, " / know 
you don t, whether you do or not. Look 
here, Marion, the way you felt for the 
South, I felt for my country, our coun 
try. And I had this kind of a feeling. 
The way to obliterate the war is to fetch 
people close together. You stay here 
awhile, old fellow, says I, and do your 
best for the old flag. Be a decent fel 
low, for they are going to sample the 
North by you. Don t go at them ramp 
ing and roaring and shaking your opin 
ions in their face like a red rag, when 
they re just naturally sore all over. 
Here s a chance/ says I, to do your 
country better service than you did in 
the war ! Consequently, I stayed and 
I tried. Mother raised me to be a gen 
tleman. Leidig is as good a name as 
there is in New York State. I always 
remembered that. A gentleman and a 
soldier, they say, you know. Why 
shouldn t every servant of the govern 
ment be as much of a gentleman as a 
soldier? I hope I haven t made my 
Southern friends ashamed of me. Well, 
I got to love the work, fairly love it. 
Once or twice, as you know there has 
been talk of removing me, and I can t 
tell you the feeling I ve had about the 
whole town standing by me so. It s the 
honor of my life. And to show you, 
Marion, I aint joking and bluffing, when 
I pretend not to be afraid, this time, 
I ll tell you that if they were to turn 
me out, after all these years, it would 
break my heart. I never could hold up 
my head again." 

In such a strain Leidig opened his 
heart, until they reached his lodgings. 
He had two rooms on the ground-floor, 
with an outside door and a corner of the 
wee piazza glassed over for a conserva 
tory ; and he was considered to live in 
luxury. 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



753 



Throckmorton drew a sigh of relief at 
the sight of the gay window. He parted 



fag end of the conflagration) fell upon 
him and forcibly bore him home. Then 




They played whist in a manner to curdle the blood of a modern combination whist-player. 



from Leidig affectionately ; but he said 
nothing of Rice s telegram. 

That night is memorable to Sycamore 
Eidge as the night of what they call 
"The Great Fire." Actually it only 
swept one small street, but it menaced 
the whole town. 

Every soul at the fire admired the 
postmaster, that night ; his daring 
coolness and his chemical-engine saved 
both post-office and town. He risked 
his life half a dozen times. The enthu 
siasm of the witnesses bubbled over. 
Poor Leidig, himself, meanwhile, had 
been flung from a fractured ladder. He 
would not go home, but directed his 
engine, propped up by the janitor and 
Miller. Throckmorton (who nearly 
killed a favorite horse to get in at the 
VOL. VIII. 74 



he hustled the telegraph-operator away 
from the cinders, and sent off a message 
to the Post-office Department, lavishing 
details of Leidig s bravery, regardless of 
expense. 

The fire called a truce to the warfare 
against Bedford. Certainly the Govern 
ment wouldn t have the brass to bounce 
Leidig after his saving the post-office, 
Throckmorton assured Koz Miller. 

" But I can tell one thing, Roz," he 
added, dryly, "you would have to give 
up Christmas or the place one, if Milt 
had come in. Milt aims to do all the 
Christmasing himself." 

" That s so," acquiesced Roz, looking 
foolish. He was a loyal soul and full of 
energy, but he was "just naturally 
obliged to get drunk Christmas week." 
" I couldn t fault the season, like to go 



754 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



dry through it," he said, long before, to 
Leidig. Leidig knew the man. " All 
right," he said, calmly, " it is disgrace 
ful for a government official to get 
drunk. I shall suspend you one week 
between Christmas and New Years 




Indeed, Sycamore Ridge considered him a mirror of 
fashion." 



your salary to go on as usual. You are 
not the assistant postmaster, then. If 
I ever see the assistant postmaster drunk, 
he goes." 

Thereafter, annually, Miller was sus 
pended and, annually, he returned to 
his post, a week later, very shaky in his 
fingers and puffy about his eyes ; but 
deadly sober. Between suspensions he 
was the most temperate of men. 

Bedford, all this time, kept well un 
der cover. Perhaps he knew that Lei- 
dig s injuries were turning out to be 
more serious than any one expected. 
There was a couple of broken ribs, and 
pneumonia had set in complicating the 
case. The doctor talked of "internal 
injuries." "Infernal injuries, I say," 

fumed Throckmorton ; " why the 

must you be prancing on a ladder, a 



man of your flesh ? You are a plumb 
idiot ! " He was too anxious to keep 
his patience, and scolded Leidig out of 
sheer fright. 

Leidig smiled tranquilly. He could 
not drink the choice liquors or smoke 
the expensive cigars that Throckmor 
ton, the banker and other friends were 
always sending ; but he took a boyish 
kind of pleasure in watching the wrap 
ping papers removed ; and he must have 
all the odd assortment of cards stuck up 
around his looking-glass, in full view. 

By and by, Throckmorton did not 
snap at him, but used a studied gentle 
ness. But whenever he left the sick 
room and walked through the little par 
lor, he w r ould glare at the now dishev 
elled rows of flower pots, with the black 
est frown. Maudy Lize, the landlady s el 
dest girl, always a pet of Leidig s, took to 
red eyes and snuffles ; and the black 
maid-servant grinned incessantly, and 
forgot everything that was told her, 
which is the African fashion of showing 
emotion. When a negro stops grinning, 
he begins to howl. 

Besides Throckmorton s telegram, the 
citizens had sent an elaborate letter to 
the Post-office Department; but ten 
clays passed and the Department made 
not a sign ! On the tenth day, Throck 
morton saw Bedford on the street. He 
sat enthroned in a red-wheeled buggy 
between two men. All were smoking, 
all grinning. Seeing Throckmorton, 
Bedford swept his hat off his black 
curls with an exaggerated flourish, and 
grinned more broadly. 

" What does the scoundrel mean by 
that ? " queried Throckmorton. 

He understood directly. 

Two envelopes were handed him at 
his office. One was addressed to Lei 
dig (Throckmorton looked over his 
mail), and had the official superscription 
of the Post-office Department. Throck 
morton tore out the enclosure, a florid 
letter of thanks to Leidig. Although a 
critic in general, Leidig s friend waded 
through the fine phrases well pleased. 

" It will tickle old Leidig," he thought. 
" Oh, well, they are more decent than 
I lowed they were." 

Then he opened the other envelope. 

There was a telegram from Bice, con- 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



755 



else and to the point. " Bedford has 
got the post-office. Damn ! " 

Throckmorton flung the telegram in 
to the fire. He used some vitriolic lan 
guage about the civil service that would 
better not be repeated ; but he under 
stood Bedford s grin. 

Late that afternoon he paid a visit to 
Leidig. Young Dr. Rollin had just 
walked a\vay on foot. Dr. Peters was 
untying his horse at the gate, and old 
Dr. Farwell sat in the buggy. 

"They ve had the consultation," 
thought Throckmorton. And his heart 
choked him. 

" Well, gentlemen ? " said he. Some 
how the sensation that he felt seemed 
to mix itself up with an old pain, and, 
again, he was a lad on the battle-field, 
dizzy with the smoke and roar, and that 
horrible smell of carnage in his nostrils ; 
watching his brother die. 

The old doctor gripped his hand. 

"Dear, dear, dear," the old doctor 
said, " ain t it too bad ? Such a splendid 
man ! " 

Then they explained to him ; but he 
didn t understand, though he nodded 
and said "yes" and went through the 
manual of intelligence, decorously ; the 
internal injuries rather than the pneu 
monia that had supervened were killing 
Leidig, so much he did comprehend, 
and it was enough. Leidig might live a 
week, he might die in two days. Throck 
morton got away from the doctors and 
went in to his friend. Leidig lay quite 
alone, but Maudy Lize cried softly to 
herself in the parlor with the door 
ajar. 

When he stood by the bedside, 
Leidig turned over feebly and smiled. 
"Sit down, Marion," said he ; "no, that s 
the chair with the broken spring ; take 
another." 

He is ashamed of it to this day : but 

Throckmorton groaned, " Oh, d the 

spring ! " and burst out sobbing like a 
baby. 

Leidig soothed him ; yet there were 
traces of tears on his own check. There 
had been a grim half hour for Leidig 
after the doctors were gone, alone, in his 
chamber with the vision of death. How 
does the soul conduct itself, to which, 
of a sudden, awe and mystery have be 
come the inexorable, next realities ? 



Disease blunts the sensibilities ; yet is 
there not always a chill in this going 
beyond the shining of the sun ? 

All Leidig revealed were those tears 
on his cheek and one speech to Throck 
morton. " Don t take on so, my dear ; 
but, indeed, I can t help being glad 
you re so sorry. It has been pretty lone 
some." But, immediately, he was talk 
ing about the post-office, telling Throck 
morton his plans. "And, Marion," he 
added, half apologetically, "would you 
object to writing the department and 
just mentioning I did my best for the 
office afterward, you know." 

Throckmorton still coughing and 
strangling and blowing his nose, fished 
the official letter out of his pocket with 
his handkerchief. 

The sick man s limp fingers fumbled 
in vain at the paper. " I reckon you ll 
have to read it for me Marion," he was 
obliged to say. 

Throckmorton gulped and desperate 
ly went at it. The letters danced be 
fore his eyes ; he had enough to do to 
keep his voice steady through the sen 
tences, but he read to the end. When 
he looked up he was startled by the rap 
ture on Leidig s face. 

" I wasn t sorry before, but now I m 
glad," said he, "Marion, it s worth while 
to serve such a government ! " 

Then and there, Throckmorton re 
gistered an oath that his old friend s 
delusion should not be broken ; and he 
kept his vow. 

It was easier than might be imag 
ined. All Leidig s friends entered into 
the plot. He still saw a few friends, 
and still, every morning, Roz Miller 
reported for directions. He kept on 
reporting just the same after Milt 
Bedford s commission arrived ; and 
Milt himself was swaggering about 
the office with his hat on the back of 
his head, cursing the late trains. Leidig 
couldn t say enough to praise Roz. 
" Why, Marion," was his grand climax, 
"he is keeping sober over Christmas. 
He refuses point-blank to be suspend 
ed!" 

Christmas morning, for a second, 
Throckmorton distrusted poor Roz. 
The assistant came banging and hob 
bling and pounding down the street, 
on his wooden leg, hatless and coatless, 



756 



THE PLUMB IDIOT. 



in the utmost disorder. He tumbled 
into Throckmorton s office. 

" Oh, Lord," he gurgled, spent with 
his efforts, "the fat s sure in the fire, 
now ! Bedford s up with the Captain ! " 

As soon as he could get his breath, 
he related how Leidig had sent an im 
perative message to the post-office, re 
questing him or someone else there 
(Eoz, hard pressed, had set up a mythi 
cal assistant) to come directly to the 
house. Unluckily, Koz was out of the 
office. Bedford, observing the ambigu 
ous direction, opened the note, and 
then remarked to the janitor that he 
would wait on Captain Leidig. " And 
he s gone," said Roz, nearly crying, 
" and he ll Mil the boss, telling him ! 
Oh, dad burn his ornery hide ! " 

He wasted his rage on the two clerks 
and a much scandalized girl typewriter. 
Throckmorton was half-way down the 
street. The lawyer fancied, savagely, 
that he could understand ; Bedford s 
brutal vanity was in arms ; and he 
would take this revenge. Throckmor 
ton ground his teeth. Ten to one the 
cur would blurt out the whole vile 
truth! All the while his long legs 
swung over the ground, his mind was 
gyrating through lurid lies of fires at 
the post-office and fights in the street 
and sudden deaths of Bedford s nearest 
kin anything to get him safely outside 
the house, where he (Throckmorton) 
could deal with him. 

"I m a right peaceful man," said 
Throckmorton, feeling for his pistol, 
" but I ve stood all the nonsense from 
Milt Bedford that I m going to ? " 

But when he softly opened Leidig s 
door, no human being could look 
meeker. The spectacle that met him 
was amazing. He saw the familiar bed 
with the long fold of the white sheet 
over the quilt." He saw Leidig s 
peaceful face laid back on the pillow. 
He saw, on the other side, the ragged 
chrysanthemum petals nodding their 
white against Milt Bedford s blue flan 
nel legs, as Milt stood, shifting his 
weight from one foot to the other. 
His face fronted Throckmorton. It 
wore the strangest expression ; bewil 
derment and awe confused by the sense 
of an ugly kind of comedy in the situa 
tion. That was the way Throckmorton 



chose to interpret it, later. At the mo 
ment his wits were held by the daze of 
the first words that he heard. They 
came from Bedford. 

" So you ben runnin the office jest 
layin here on the bed," said he, slowly ; 
" I expect Roz ben here regular 

Throckmorton beckoned. 

" That s aU right, General," said Bed 
ford, "I catch on. Well, Captain, I 
won t take up your time. I m bleeged 
to you for seeing me, and I sincerely 
hope you ll feel pearter, soon. I wish 
you well." 

" Thank you, sir. I wish you well, sir," 
said Leidig. Clumsily Bedford shook 
hands. Clumsily he tiptoed out, shak 
ing the house at every step. I am told 
that all the way down the street, he 
wagged his head and muttered : "Lord, 
aint he a plumb idiot ! But he s a migh 
ty nice man." 

Throckmorton shot a keen glance at 
Leidig, as the door creaked and closed. 
He ventured to ask : "Did that brute 
say an3 T thing to disturb you ? " 

Leidig s eyes twinkled. He feebly in 
dicated a package on the table. Open 
ing it Throckmorton lifted a bottle of 
rum. 

"Very old Medford, Marion," said 
Leiclig, " he brought it for a Christmas 
present. I expect that was why he came. 
He began a queer farrago about all being 
fair in politics, and no personal feeling, 
and the highest respect for me, and he 
looked very up a tree, when I condoled 
with him on his own disappointment ; 
and finally he presented this. It is 
rather pleasant, don t you think, Marion, 
to know he doesn t keep any grudge 
about the thing?" 

Throckmorton said, "Yes, it was pleas 
ant." 

Then Leidig spoke of his message to 
the post-office, wondering why it had 
not been answered. It had reference to 
his will left in his desk. By this will, 
after legacies to his friends, he left the 
remainder of his property to the town. 
The bequest included his little park 
and about eight thousand dollars. The 
money was to be used to erect a building 
suitable for a post-office in the park, and 
the town was directed to give the use of 
the building to the government, rent 
free. 



FROM THE JAPANESE. 



757 




No human being could look meeker. 



Leidig lived for two days longer. 
Nothing occurred to disturb him any 
more ; and his last intelligible words 
were to Throckmorton, repeating : 



"It is worth while, my dear, to serve 
such a government as ours." 

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps, again, 
he may be right, some day. 



FROM THE JAPANESE. 



Bv R. H. Stoddard. 



" So young he cannot know the way," 
Thus I heard a mother say, 
At the close of a summer day ; 
But he knew the road, it seems, 
Into the shadow-land of dreams, 
And she wept above his clay, 
Since, though young, he knew the way ! 



Gone, where summer moths resort. 
Or small boats that leave the port, 
Sailing over the stormy brine, 
As, with this long sleeve of mine, 
Under the gloom of alien skies, 
I dry my w r eeping eyes ! 



If I could be where the billow whirls, 

In a lacquered skiff, with a paddle of pearls, 

Young no more, but old and gray, 

You may be sure I d know the way. 




Waiting for the Door to be Opened Christie s. 



"CHRISTIE S." 

By Humphry Ward. 



IT is by this title that all the world 
knows the auctioneer s in King Street, 
St. James s Square, which for some 
years has borne the name of Christie, 
Manson & Woods. For a generation or 
more there has been no Manson in the 
firm, and just now all the frequenters of 
the rooms have to regret the departure 
of the last Mr. Christie, who, a few 
months ago, retired from his position as 
head of the firm founded by his grand 
father. Still, though Mr. James Christie 
has withdrawn into well-earned leisure, 
there is no danger that his name will be 
forgotten. " Christie s," the rooms have 
been called for a century or more, and 
" Christie s " they will be called till the 
end of the chapter. 

No greater contrast could be imagin 
ed than is presented by the French and 



the English system of auctions. With 
in and without, in organization and in 
practice, in the habits of those who sell 
and those who buy, London and Paris 
occupy two opposite poles. In Paris 
the auctioneer s business is not only a 
practical but a legal monopoly. It is as 
much protected by rules of law and by 
privileges which the courts maintain as 
though Paris were still in the Middle 
Ages, and as though the Revolution had 
never affirmed the rights of man. And 
yet, if man has any rights, we Anglo- 
Saxons should have imagined that the 
right to sell goods entrusted to him, 
whenever and wherever he could find 
customers for them, was as indefeasible 
as any. In France they do not think so, 
and the Society of Commissaires - pris- 
eurs is as close a corporation as any that 



"CHRISTIE S." 



759 



in London, Amsterdam, or Nuremberg 
used to beat down competition by force 
of law. In Paris anybody wishing to 
sell his goods by auction must employ 
one of these gentlemen, and must pay, 
he and the buyer between them, dues 
so exorbitant that any really commer 
cial community would long ago have 
broken out into rebellion against them. 
And, as every one knows, the commis- 
saires-priseurs have their own building, 
or a building which they own in union 
with their ally, the State, in the many- 
roomed Hotel Drouot. There every 
thing is done in accordance with two 
maxima the maximum of red-tape and 
the maximum of noise. Rigidly closed 
till one o clock in the day, the building 
is then opened to admit the Parisian 
crowd, commonly of mere sightseers, 
who lounge through the rooms making 
it difficult for the true buyer to get a 
sight of what he wants, and when the 
sale comes on there fol 
lows that pandemonium 
of noise, the rival shouts 
of the auctioneer and the 
usher, in an atmosphere 
of growing thickness and 
offensiveness till the sale 
is over. However, with 
the Hotel Drouot and its 
inconveniences, with its 
humors and its chances, 
with its prices, high and 
low, its bargains and its 
" sells," we are not here 
concerned. Our business 
is with the great English 
house which, without any 
legal privilege at its back, 
has, by its own sheer 
strength and merit, at 
tained to a position in 
London equal to that of 
all the salles of the Hotel 
Drouot taken together. 
For, so far as any of the 
choicer kinds of personal 
property are concerned, 
with the sole exception of 
books and prints, Chris 
tie s occupies the position 
of Eclipse in the prover 
bial horse-race. For sales of pictures, of 
fine furniture, of old china, of jewelry, 
and of all kinds of costly curiosities, it is 



" Christie s first and the rest nowhere." 
Several attempts have been made to beat 
down this practical monopoly and to set 
up a rival which should compete on some 
thing like equal terms ; but though we 
do not say that such an object is unat 
tainable, all attempts to attain it have 
failed as yet. In the department of what 
is called literary property, that is to say, 
of books, prints, and old drawings, the 
firm of Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge, in 
their humble, not to say pokey, quarters 
in Wellington Street, Strand, still hold 
a position as high as Christie s them 
selves. When a great library is dis 
persed, such as the Hamilton, or the 
Thorold, or the Osterley Park library, 
it is commonly Sotheby s that has the 
sale of it ; and they, too, have a reputa 
tion for understanding the sale of en 
gravings or Rembrandt etchings which 
is not surpassed by the reputation of 
King Street. But with this exception 







The Entrance to Christie s. 



Christie s has no competitors in London 
for the sale of fine things. Three or 
four other auctioneers have, indeed, fre- 



760 



CHRISTIE S." 



quent sales of pictures, but it is the 
rarest thing in the world for them to 
get hold of works that command or de 
serve very high prices. For example, 
at Messrs. Foster s, in Pall Mall, there 




A Buyer from Paris. 

turned up last year a portrait by Bom- 
ney, which, to everyone s intense sur 
prise, sold for about 3,000. The sur 
prise attached not so much to the fact 
of a Bomney having brought that figure, 
but to such a picture having appeared 
on any other walls than Christie s. 

The history of this great house has 
often been sketched, but it has only late 
ly been brought together in detail in the 
elaborate work of Mr. George Bedford 
-the two quarto volumes which he 
calls " Art Sales ; a History of Sales of 
Pictures and other Works of Art." It is 
upon this inexhaustible spring that we 
must draw for whatever facts regarding 
the prices that have been attained, etc., 
we may have occasion to quote. Mr. 
Bedford s book is not a model of arrange 
ment, but it is an extraordinary aggre 
gate of facts, in which those who have 
time and curiosity may trace the history 
of multitudes of individual pictures and 
other works of art, and, what is much 
more generally interesting, may learn a 
great deal about the vicissitudes that 
have come over public taste during the 
past century and a half in fact, ever 
since public taste may be said to have 
existed in England. But first we may 



follow Mr. Bedford in his sketch of the 
beginnings of auction sales in England 
and of the way in which Christie s grad 
ually evolved itself from the number of 
indistinguishable competitors. We hear 
of various auctioneers in England dur 
ing the seventeenth century, but not of 
the establishment of any regular auction- 
rooms until the closing years of it in 
the reign of William ITE. Then Edward 
Millington established his sale-room, 
called " The Vendu," in Covent Garden, 
and had winter sales at four o clock in 
the afternoon, taking his pictures and 
curiosities down to Tunbridge Wells 
in the summer " for the diversion and 
entertainment of the gentlemen and 
ladies." In due time Millington disap 
peared and the more famous name of 
Mr. Cock emerged. He was the auc 
tioneer that sold the possessions of 
Harley, Earl of Oxford, and it was in 
Cock s rooms that Hogarth formed the 
idea of having that auction of his own 
which was so lamentably unsuccess 
ful. Him followed Langford, and other 
names that occur during the second half 
of the eighteenth century are Prestage 
& Hobbs, Peter Coxe, and Skinner & 
Dyke. It was by these men, whether at 
Covent Garden or in Spring Gardens, 
near Charing Cross, that old masters, 
real or fictitious, were sold to the col 
lectors, who were at that time becoming 
a numerous class, while at certain times 
in the year their rooms were utilized by 
one at least of the new societies of ar 
tists which were forming themselves 
with or without royal patronage. The 
rooms that are of most interest to 
us at the moment are those in which 
the infant Boyal Academy first housed 
itself in Pall Mall. Where these rooms 
exactly were is a matter of dispute, for 
no street in London has been more 
changed by the hands of time and the 
builder than Pall Mall. It is now, on 
the south side at least, a row of palaces, 
" temples of luxury and ease," as Mr. 
Gladstone calls them, clubs those which 
have become a necessity of existence in 
London. Where there has been demoli 
tion and reconstruction on this scale it 
is exceedingly difficult to fix the precise 
latitude and longitude of any house that 
existed in the days before post-office 
directories. We only know with regard 



762 



CHRISTIE S." 



to the Eoyal Academy rooms that they 
were opposite Market Lane, and Market 
Lane is supposed to have been a narrow 
thoroughfare about a hundred yards to 



had set up his studio. Schomberg 
House is also in Pall Mall, close to the 
present War Office, and though half of 
it has long been pulled down, the rest 




At the Private View. 



the west of the Haymarket. This, then, 
would fix the Eoyal Academy rooms on 
the site of the present " Senior," i.e., 
the Senior United Service Club, where 
generals and admirals do congregate of 
an afternoon. It was here that Chris 
tie s had its origin, for in 1762 we find 
the original Mr. James Christie, a 
Scotchman of thirty-two, setting up in 
business as an auctioneer in these rooms. 
The Eoyal Academy had not then come 
into existence, but in 1768 it took par 
tial possession, and two years afterward 
Christie moved westward to a house 
adjoining Schomberg House, where 
Gainsborough, on his arrival from Bath, 



remains as one of those relics of old 
London which still exist side by side 
with the stately monuments of modern 
luxury. Here, then, Mr. Christie estab 
lished himself in the year 1770, at a 
moment when the arts were flourishing 
in England more than they had ever 
flourished before ; when we possessed at 
least three painters of the first rank, 
and when, in the bosom of the young 
Academy, those contending thoughts 
and passions were having free play out 
of which it might be supposed that a 
public love of art would by degrees 
emerge. In " the great rooms in Pall 
Mall," as the catalogue puts it, Christie s 



CHRISTIE S." 



763 



remained for more than fifty years, in 
fact till 1826, when the lease fell in and 
the Crown resumed possession. 

What sort of a man the original James 
Christie was can be seen from Gains 
borough s well-known portrait of him. 
A gentleman and a man of distinction 
this Scotchman was ; genial as well as 
honest, frank and straightforward be 
yond the custom of auctioneers, and a 
man who could make himself valued by 
many of the most eminent men of his 
time, including Sheridan, Garrick, and 
Gainsborough himself. It has been no 
ticed by many that the great painter 



be sold after his death, Christie sold 
them. This was on June 2, 1792, three 
years after the death of the artist, and the 
pictures in the sale included a number 
of those marvellous copies of " old mas 
ters," on which Gainsborough practised 
his brush, and eighty-seven pictures by 
the artist himself, including the wonder 
ful "Representation of St. James s Park," 
which now belongs to Sir John Neeld 
and which has delighted visitors to two 
of our loan exhibitions in recent years. 
The same hand held the ivory hammer 
two years afterward at the sale of the 
collection formed by Gainsborough s 




Behind the Scenes at an Auction. 



showed his particular regard for Mr. 
Christie by adding to his portrait a 
landscape of the artist s own, as though 
to associate himself forever with his 
neighbor. Alas ! the relations between 
an auctioneer and his friends often take 
a melancholy turn, and the moralist 
finds food for reflection in the fact that 
when Gainsborough s pictures came to 



great rival. Sir Joshua Reynolds died 
in 1792, and on March 11, 1794, and on 
the three foUowing days, Christie sold 
his collection of four hundred and elev 
en pictures, while Sir Joshua s own re 
maining sketches were disposed of in 
the following year. Reynolds was an 
enthusiastic rather than a discriminat 
ing collector, and he was not afraid of 



764 



CHRISTIE S." 



ticketing his pictures with the greatest 
names. It is curious to read in the 
catalogue of the collection of so emi 
nent a painter that he believed himself 
to possess no less than forty-four pict 
ures of Michael Angelo and twenty-four 
of Raphael ! Naturally his heirs found 
that the pictures did not realize more 
than about half of the sum they had cost 
him, 10,000 as compared with 20,000. 
The great sale of that period, that of 
the Orleans collection, did not come to 
Christie s ; it was managed in a different 
manner, and in Mr. Bedford s record of 
Christie s sales at this period we find 
nothing more important than the col 
lection of Sir William Hamilton, the 
husband of Romney s "Lady Hamilton," 
Lord Bessborough s collection, and 
some of the pictures from Fonthill. 
Then followed some busy years and the 




A Purchase. 

golden age of English collectors, for 
they were the years of the great war, 
when men like Walsh Porter and Bu 
chanan were pushing here and there 
over the Continent, into Italian pal 
aces and Spanish convents, and the 
houses of the old Dutch burghers, per 
suading the owners to exchange such 
risky property as ancient masterpieces, 
which Napoleon s soldiers might any day 



burn or steal, for solid English gold or 
bills upon London. Christie, of course, 
had no monopoly of these treasures, but 
a very fair share of them came to him 
even after Buchanan and his* contem 
porary dealers had satisfied their private 
clients. Then came the peace and the 
opening up of the Continent to English 
travellers ; fresh importations, fresh in 
terest in art, and great increase in the 
national wealth. One sale may be men 
tioned which took place in 1821, and 
which shows how, in the course of a 
short time, the great reputation of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds had risen rather than 
declined surely the highest test of a 
man s excellence, since the most critical 
moment that his reputation can pass 
through comes about thirty years after 
his death. The sale in question was that 
of the pictures belonging to the Mar 
chioness of Thomond, who had been his 
favorite niece, Mary Palmer, and who 
had inherited almost all Sir Joshua s 
own remaining pictures as well as his 
other property. The excitement of the 
buyers was as great in its way as would 
be the case at the present time ; indeed, 
one doubts whether at any modern sale 
one would see such a list of great social 
magnates as were there gathered into 
James Christie s rooms the Dukes of 
Devonshire and Northumberland, Lords 
Egremont, Grosvenor, Bridgewater, 
Fitz william, Dudley and Ward, Hare- 
wood, Sir Charles Long, on the part of 
the King, and Mr. Alexander Baring. 
What was considered to be the great 
feature of the sale was the series of 
studies of full-length family figures 
which Sir Joshua had made for the New 
College window beautiful women sit 
ting for the virtues Mrs. Sheridan for 
Charity, Lady Dudley for Fortitude, and 
so forth. High prices ruled, and fifteen 
hundred guineas was paid for one of the 
studies by the young Lord Norm an ton, 
who then made his first appearance as 
a collector. Another very high-priced 
picture was the portrait of Mrs. Stan 
hope called " Contemplation," which 
sold for 1,125. This, if we recollect 
aright, is now in the gallery of the Bar 
oness Alphonse Rothschild in Paris, one 
of the most enthusiastic buyers of the 
works of Reynolds, Gainsborough, and 
Rornney, and the purchaser, at a fabu- 



CHRISTIE S." 



765 



lous price, of the almost unknown Rom- 
ney, "Mrs. Stables and Children," at 
the last " Old Masters " exhibition. 
In 1826, as we have said, Christie s 



but those who possess Dutch works 
coming from that sale such as Sir 
Richard Wallace and the Rothschilds 
know that for a picture to have passed 




at Christie s. 



migrated from Pall Mall to the well- 
known rooms just a hundred yards to 
the north, in King Street, St. James s, 
and there the firm has remained domi 
ciled to the present day. Moreover, so 
far as anything can be permanent in 
this world, we may suppose that the 
home of Christie s will be permanently 
established there, for of late years great 
additions have been made to the prem 
ises, a new gallery has been built, and 
everything has been done to make the 
house complete, whether for storing or 
for selling precious possessions. We 
cannot, of course, go through the his 
tory of all the fine collections that have 
here changed hands during these event 
ful sixty-four years, but we may pick 
out one or two of the most famous sales. 
Some very choice collections made little 
noise in the world in general, for in 
stance, the Saltmarshe pictures in 1846 ; 



through the Saltmarshe gallery is a cer 
tificate of nobility. Some other sales, 
such as those of the Fonthill and Straw 
berry Hill collections, were in other 
hands than those of Christie the dis 
posal of Horace Walpole s multitudinous 
knick-knacks being appropriately placed 
in the hands of an auctioneer who was 
at least half a charlatan, the late Mr. 
George Robins, famous in his day for 
his proficiency in what is known as 
" auctioneer s prose." Again, one of the 
greatest of all sales, though managed by 
Christie & Manson, did not take place 
in the rooms. This was the sale of the 
Stowe collection in 1848, w r hen the ex 
travagant career of the then Duke of 
Buckingham came to its natural end, 
and all the treasures which he had ac 
cumulated with so much recklessness 
were scattered to the winds. This sale 
took place at Stowe itself, near Buck- 



766 



CHRISTIE S." 



inghara, and the memory of it abides 
among the older inhabitants of the 
county to this day. We may pass on to 
a sale of a very different kind, and one 
that deserves to be characterized as per 
haps the most memorable of any that 
have taken place, not excluding that of 
the Hamilton collection in 1882. This 
was the sale of the Bernal collection in 
1855. Mr. Ralph Bernal, who was born 
about 1783, was of Jewish origin, and 
nature had endowed him with a seven 
fold portion of the finejftair which she 
has so liberally allotted to his race. He 
was in easy circumstances and was not 
a Jew by religion, so that, like young 
Disraeli, he was eligible for Parliament, 
which he entered as member for Boch- 
ester. That he worked hard in the 
House of Commons and gained a great 
reputation for ability is shown by the 
fact that under Lord Grey s government 
he was chairman of Ways and Means, 
or, as we now sometimes call it, Deputy 
Speaker ; but his name has come down 
to posterity rather as a most consum- 




A Dealer. 



mate judge of works of art than as a 
politician or public servant. He lived 
at a time when no one either knew or 



cared about the choice things which 
nowadays ten thousand collectors seek 
for with frenzy. No one of his contem 
poraries in England though Sauvageot 
and others were equally fine judges in 
France knew so much as he about old 
armor or mediaeval goldsmith s work, or 
the steel inlaying of the Milanese, or the 
makers and decorators of the pate tendre 
of Sevres, or about majolica, or those in 
finitely delicate kinds of Chinese por 
celain for which English and American 
connoisseurs are now prepared to pay 
any price. What times those were for 
the collector ! one is tempted to say as 
one looks through the priced Bernal 
catalogue with its pretty engravings by 
Mason after Eitzcook s drawings. The 
things sold for what we should consider 
literally nothing, though in almost every 
case they marked a considerable advance 
on what Mr. Bernal had paid for them. 
As you w r alk through the South Ken 
sington Museum you can see in num 
bers of the cases specimens of Limoges 
enamel or of " ruby-backed " Oriental 
plates, or of a score of other curiosities 
with labels marking the prices at which 
they were obtained in the Bernal sale : 
3 for the plates, 50 or 60 for the 
pieces of Limoges, and so forth in 
every instance about one-tenth or one- 
twentieth part of what would be paid 
now, so tremendous has been the effect 
of the spread of education, the diffu 
sion of wealth, and the desire to possess 
some at least of the choice works of the 
past. What was remarkable, however, 
in the Bernal collection was not the low 
prices at which things had been bought 
and were sold, but the faultless taste 
that had presided over their acquisition. 
Mr. Woods, the present well-known and 
accomplished head of Christie s firm, is 
fond of quoting this Bernal sale as the 
supreme instance of a perfect collection ; 
there was nothing out of all the 4,294 
objects that was not good, genuine, and, 
it may almost be said, in intact condi 
tion. 

After these choice things had been 
dispersed the world had to wait for 
twenty-seven years before a collection 
of miscellaneous works of art in any 
way comparable to it came before it 
again. That was almost in our own 
time, when the Duke of Hamilton found 



"CHRISTIE S." 



767 



it necessary or desirable to clear out the 
whole of the contents of Hamilton Pal 
ace. The Hamilton collection was not 
like other aggregations of things, good 
and bad, rare and common, that are to 
be found in the great houses of Eng 
land and Scotland ; for toward the be 
ginning of the century a Duke of Hamil 
ton had married a daughter of William 
Eeckford, and all the finest things from 
Fonthill had found their way into the 
Hamilton family ; but even so, accord 
ing to those who were present at both 
sales, the Hamilton collection was not 
to be compared to that of Mr. Bernal. 
It contained a number of extremely fine 
things some glorious pictures, some 
twenty or thirty pieces of furniture, the 
finest of their kind, and some hundreds 
of other objects of the highest class 
but taking the collection as a whole one 
missed that faultlessness, that evidence 
of a fastidious and exclusive taste which 
had marked the earlier sale. Still, times 
had changed in the interval. The gen 
eration that had come into existence was 
the generation that had grown up with 
railways, big steamships, and free-trade. 
Where in 1855 one man had known the 
value of a piece of majolica, or of a Kies- 
ener table, fifty knew it in 1882, and the 
natural result was that what had sold for 
tens of pounds at the earlier date, sold 
for hundreds and even thousands at the 
later. However, this is an old story, 
and we need not tell over again the fol 
lies of which the great collectors and 
the men of the long purse were guilty at 
the Hamilton sale, or at the sale of the 
Fountaine collection of majolica and 
Limoges a few years later. Enough to 
say, that whenever, at the present time, 
things so precious as those come to 
Christie s, there are plenty of people 
gathered together to do them full jus 
tice. 

It must not be supposed, however, that 
Christie s is a net which catches noth 
ing but big fish bred and fed by Bernals 
and Hamiltons. On the contrary, it is an 
ordinary set of auction-rooms, where the 
little purses as well as the big ones may 
find their satisfaction, and in which, as the 
auctioneers would be the first to admit, 
a good deal of poor stuff as well as good 
rubbish as well as priceless treasure 
is brought to the hammer. The rooms 



are open all the year round, and every 
da} 7 , except from the beginning of Au 
gust till the middle of November. As a 




The Auctioneer. 

rule there are two or three sales every 
week, and in the season sometimes a sale 
every day of one kind or another. Satur 
day is commonly reserved for pictures 
and drawings, through an old traditional 
habit which has this much of reason on 
its side, that Saturday being a half holi 
day in the city and for men of business 
generally, such of them as are connois 
seurs are better able to attend sales on 
that day than on any other. Let us 
endeavor to describe a walk through 
Christie s on two or three various occa 
sions, say on an afternoon in January, 
and again in the height of the season, 
when some famous collection is on view. 
In January there may be exhibited in 
various cases, in the different rooms, and 
dotted about the floors, and what the 
catalogue calls " a valuable collection of 
porcelain decorative objects, the prop 
erty of various owners," and on the 
walls there may be hung one or two hun 
dred specimens of Old Masters. You 
enter early in the afternoon, before the 
short winter day has been shrouded in 
twilight. You find perhaps thirty or for 
ty people lounging through the room ; 
a few ladies with or without their hus 
bands or brothers ; an engaged couple 
of aesthetic tastes anxious to pick up 
something for the little house they are 



1*1P 

^m 




CHRISTIE S." 



769 



about to occupy in Kensington ; three 
or four well-known dealers looking 
slightly contemptuous and a good deal 
bored ; half a dozen persons politely 
known as " commission agents/ men of 
very varied attainments in art, some of 
whom know their business while others 
are merely there to take any commis 
sion that they can get, and to obey or 
ders without asking themselves whether 
those orders are sensible or not. For a 
few moments there may look in a peer 
or two, or a wealthy collector, taught by 
long experience that sometimes it is in 
the out-of-the-way sales that one finds 
the best things, and hoping (for who is 
above entertaining such a hope, or grati 
fying it if possible ?) that he may light 
upon some treasure that nobody else has 
discovered and buy it for a song. The 
furniture is of the class which is called 
" decorative," an extremely elastic term 
covering everything from the cheap 
Dutch marqueterie cabinets which are 
made at the present day, as they have 
been made for a couple of centuries, in 
the back streets of Amsterdam, up to the 
choice pieces which bear the genuine 
impress of Paris in the eighteenth cen 
tury. The varieties of quality are end 
less, but it is not often at this time of 
the year that anything of a really choice 
kind finds its way into the auction- 
room. Supposing that it does, however, 
supposing that a genuine Sheraton side 
board of fine finish, or a Louis XV. sofa 
covered with Gobelins tapestry, appears 
in the rooms, there are pretty sure to be 
two or three dealers about who will have 
taken note of it, and who, when the sale 
comes, will be ready for the prey. Of 
course they make no fuss about it ; they 
begin with a low bid perhaps even 
they do not bid for themselves but put 
their commission into the hands of some 
small man, to make it appear that they 
are not in the field ; but soon the thing 
creeps up, and what the outsider might 
have thought would bring 40 is finally 
knocked down for 400. In the cases 
we see an agglomerate of little objects, 
which, generally speaking, we seem to 
have seen a hundred times before, so 
strong is the family likeness between 
one of those curiosity sales and another. 
There will be half a dozen old Chinese 
cups and saucers with enamelled bor- 
VOL. V1IL 75 



ders and floral decorations ; close by will 
be a bunch of old Dutch silver boxes ; 
and next a couple of miniatures, one of 
them true, and one a flagrant modern 
imitation ; a little farther is a bit of old 
cloisonne very much battered, and next to 
it an exquisite Nankin bottle, on which, 
two centuries ago, some Chinese artist 
spent his best labor and much of that 
enthusiasm which fires the artist of the 
East as much as it does his Western 
brother. Then there will be a set of old 
Dresden knives and forks, the one pre 
cious possession, perhaps, of some coun 
try clergyman, come down to him from 
a more fortunate grandfather, and now 
sold in consequence of the cruel fall in 
the value of glebe. Next we may see a 
lovely plaque of repousse silver, from a 
design by Mantegna beautiful in line 
and seemingly wonderful in finish. But 
let us look at it well before embarking 
in a contest for the possession of it, 
for in these things, as every modern 
collector knows, the forger is at work, 
and clever as he is, his hand is not 
altogether beyond detection. Take the 
plaque from its case and examine it w T ith 
a magnifying-glass, and see if it fulfils 
the tests which distinguish an object 
worth 500 from one worth 5. Yes ! it 
shows the sand-marks clearly and be 
yond question, and that head in the cor 
ner is not the work of a cinque-cento 
artist. We will put it back, remember 
ing that in the neighborhood of Genoa 
there are some very clever fellows who 
work up electrotypes just in this way, and 
who have fashions of " giving them age " 
which are dangerous traps to the un 
wary. 

But if we enter the rooms on an after 
noon in May, when all the papers have 
announced, sometimes in special arti 
cles, that "the collection of that w r ell- 
known connoisseur, Sir Caius Verres, 
will be on view in the rooms of Messrs. 
Christie, Manson & Woods, the sale to 
take place on Saturday," we shall see a 
different sight. All that exists in Lon 
don of connoisseurship will of course be 
there, and with the connoisseurs will 
have come the fashionable people, anxi 
ous to see and be seen, and so have some 
thing new to talk about at the dinner-ta 
ble. Besides, Sir Caius Verres has been 
a man of many friends ; his dinner-par- 



770 



CHRISTIE S." 



ties have been famous, though small ; his 
wife s receptions have been as famous, 
though very large ; and there are few 
pleasures so subtle as those of recog 
nizing in the auction-room the plate off 
which we have eaten, the pictures upon 
which we have gazed in the houses of 
our friends. This kind of reflection, 
however, applies only to the fashion 
able many, and not to the serious con 
noisseurs who make a business of seeing 
anything in the way of art that is worth 
seeing, whether with or without a view 
of becoming possessed of it. We need 
not concern ourselves here with the so 
ciety ladies and their friends, who come 
to Christie s merely as a show ; but the 
others are a class by themselves who de 
serve a word or two. Of course all con 
noisseurs do not go to see all collections ; 
men who care for pictures only will not 
busy themselves much with such a col 
lection, for instance, as that of the late 
Mr. Charles Sackville Bale, which was, 
though very much smaller in extent, a 
worthy successor to the Bernal collec 
tion. Possessions like Mr. Bale s, when 
they come to Christie s, attract in the 
first place more foreigners than Eng 
lishmen, for it is still true that Paris has 
much more knowledge and much more 
taste in the matter of objets d art the 
term including pictures than London 
has. Perhaps a dozen Paris dealers will 
come over for such a sale as this, or as 
that of the Londesborough collection of 
armor which was sold two years ago. 
As a rule, they are men of great knowl 
edge and great intelligence ; men who 
have to begin with an artistic instinct, 
and who, in the second place, have 
trained the instinct by a careful study of 
their own national collections, and even 
by reading some considerable part of the 
literature of the subject. Of how many 
of their Anglo-Saxon colleagues or ri 
vals could this be said ? 

To return from this digression to our 
Sir Caius Verres, or rather since there 
is no particular reason for a fictitious 
name when the real ones are so many 
to such a sale as that of the possessions 
of the late Mr. William Wells, which oc 
cupied the best part of a fortnight during 
the present season. Mr. Wells was not 
himself much of a collector, but he was 
the nephew of one of the men who in the 



last generation most abundantly, as the 
phrase runs, "patronized art." This 
uncle, who had a large house at Bed- 
leaf, in Kent, was fond of entertaining 
leading artists of his day, and was an 
especial friend of Sir Edwin Landseer, 
though hardly as good a friend as Sir 
Edwin has proved to be to Mr. Wells s 
descendants. He filled half his house 
with Landseers, but the other half, with 
equal or perhaps superior wisdom, he 
filled with old Dutch pictures of a high 
class. Of these he had a sale in the 
year 1846, and great was the fame of it, 
and high, relative to the standard of 
those times, were the prices that were 
brought. A certain number of the old 
pictures were purchased at the sale by 
the nephew, who also inherited the mod 
ern works, and it was this double collec 
tion which started the series of Wells 
sales in the present year. Those who 
follow these things in the newspapers 
have probably read of the astounding 
prices brought by little pictures by 
Landseer two, three, and four thou 
sand guineas for comparatively unimpor 
tant works of cabinet size, such as "Not 
Caught Yet," which everybody knows 
from the engraving, and the pretty 
" Honeymoon," a picture of two sen 
timental-looking roe-deer. There were 
other examples of a greater art than 
this ; a jewel-like landscape by Hobbe- 
ma, a grave and noble Buysdael, a little 
Adrian van de Velde, which in itself is 
a summing up of the Dutch school, so 
minute and yet so broad, so delicate in 
technique and yet so firm. Nine hun 
dred and forty guineas was a very small 
price for a gem like this. Then, in the 
week after, came the turn of those who 
care for art of another kind, the art of 
the oriental pattern, in which Mr. Wells 
was equally rich. Seldom has such a 
collection of quaint Japan dishes or of 
suites of Chinese vases been seen in 
Christie s rooms, and seldom has the 
fancy of dealer and amateur been car 
ried so nearly to the pitch of frenzy. 
Again, a week later, came the library, not 
so remarkable as the objects of orna 
ment ; and a little while after, the col 
lection of plate, solid, substantial, and 
mostly old, but only of great interest by 
its containing two pieces of absolutely 
unique interest. One was a censer, in 



-CHRISTIE S." 



771 



form like a bit of a Gothic cathedral, of 
English workmanship, and dating ac 
cording to the experts from the time of 
Edward HI., and consequently, if this is 
true, at least seventy years older than 
any other extant piece of English plate. 
The other, also ecclesiastical, was a cen 
tury later in date, and bore the Tudor 
rose and a sort of anagram of Ramsey 
Abbey. Both had been found at the 
bottom of Whittlesea Mere, in Hunting 
donshire, where they had doubtless lain 
since the dissolution of Ramsey Abbey 
by Henry VHI. had led some monk to 
fling them away rather than they should 
fall into the hands of the despoiler. Of 
course the coming of such pieces to 
Christie s caused no little excitement, 
and no one was surprised when the pair 
brought two thousand guineas. 

It is just such a scene as the sale of 
the Wells pictures that Mr. Furniss 
has taken for the subject of his princi 
pal sketch, and by great good luck we are 
able to compare the scene as it strikes a 
clever observer of the present day with 
a corresponding scene sixty-four years 
ago. The firm has lately, by a singular 
chance, become possessed of a picture 
by a comparatively unknown artist, J. 
Gobaud, of " A Sale at Christie s, 1828," 
and this, by the kindness of Mr. \Voods, 
we have been permitted to engrave. The 
art of the picture is not amiss, and the 
historical interest of it is very considera 
ble. It represents the famous sale of 
Lord Carysfort s pictures. Mr. Christie 
himself is in the box eagerly looking to 
ward the bidder in the left-hand corner, 
and on the easel is Sir Joshua s cele 
brated " Snake in the Grass," which now 
hangs in the National Gallery. The na 
tion bought it, with the rest* of the Peel 
collection, for Sir Robert Peel purchased 
the picture at this sale, and there he is 
standing to the right, his hands behind 
him, his frock coat tightly buttoned 
across his small waist. There are other 
famous persons here, as may be seen 
from a sale catalogue of 1875, describ 
ing the picture. 

J. GOBAUD. 

187,5. 

LOT 146. The Sale of Sir Joshua Reynolds s 
Picture of "The Snake* in the 
Grass." A scene at Christie s dur 
ing the sale of the late Earl of 



Carysfort s pictures, June 14, 1828, 
with portraits of the late Sir Rob 
ert Peel, the late Marquis of Staf 
ford, Prince Paul Esterhazy, Lady 
Morgan, the late John Allnutt, 
Esq., Mr. Smith of Bond Street, 
Mr. Eminersoii, and other well- 
known personages. 

Lady Morgan, the bright Irishwoman, 
with many friends and not a few enemies, 
is in the centre of the picture, and the 
bidder, with his hand and pencil raised, 
is the "Mr. Smith of Bond Street," of 
whom the catalogue speaks, and who 
was himself the author of the most fa 
mous of all catalogues, the "Catalogue 
Raisonne of Dutch, Flemish, and French 
Pictures," which is still regarded by 
dealers and amateurs as the principal 
authority on the pictures which it de 
scribes. "The Snake in the Grass" 
was knocked down to this eminent deal 
er, for Sir Robert Peel, at the price of 
twelve hundred guineas. Lord Carysfort 
paid five hundred and ten for it seven 
years before. What would it bring now ? 
Those times, as far as the great works 
of English portrait -painters are con 
cerned, are long past, and can hardly re 
turn again ; though, on the other hand, 
it is difficult to suppose that the fashion 
of the next generation will not turn 
against such freaks of extravagance as 
that which a Rothschild of Paris is said 
to have committed the other day in giv 
ing 60,000 for a pair of full-length por 
traits by Gainsborough. 

Mr. Furniss did not intend, like his 
predecessor, to take the actual portraits 
of the persons present, so we will not at 
tempt to identify his figures. If he had 
wished to do more than generalize his 
impression of the sale, he would have 
given us pictures of many well-known 
men ; of Sir Frederick Burton, the di 
rector of the National Gallery, with sil 
ver hair and a pair of keen eyes behind 
his spectacles ; of his confrere of the Dub 
lin Gallery, Mr. Henry Doyle, famous 
for making a very small endowment go 
a very long way, and for having enriched 
his gallery with many admirable and 
characteristic works, especially of the 
Dutch masters, bought at prices far be 
low their value ; of private collectors 
like Mr. Charles Butler, whose appetite 
for old masters is insatiable ; of Lord 



772 



THE LADY HANNAH. 



Pembroke, who buys Watts to keep 
company with the Vandycks, at Wil 
ton ; of Lord Rosebery, a keen lover of 
the old English school ; of Mr. W. H. 
Smith, who amid the cares of public life 
still finds a moment of leisure to visit 
Christie s, and to add fine examples to 
his collection of modern masterpieces. 
Nor would Mr. Furniss have forgotten 
the professional habitues of the place, 
the pivots, so to speak, on which the 
great machine of art business turns 
Mr. William Agnew, the unquestioned 
head of his profession ; Mr. Vokins, the 
intimate friend of Dewint and David 
Cox, a man of excellent judgment still, 
and of a most racy memory ; Mr. Mar 
tin Colnaghi, the bearer of a name cele 
brated in the picture business, one whose 
knowledge of old pictures is wide, and 
who can tell, when the fancy takes him, 
many a lively anecdote of discoveries 
and artistic bonnes fortunes. It may 
amuse our readers to try to find in Mr. 
Furniss s drawing suggestions of these 
well-known laces. They will find others, 
especially in the separate vignettes ; a 
dealer who seems to have thriven on his 
trade ; a visitor from Paris, bringing, 
doubtless, an excellent judgment with 
him ; and, above all, the auctioneer, who 
for many a year has wielded the ivory 



hammer in the historical rostrum with 
admirable tact, great patience, and im 
perturbable good temper. We began 
this article with the indication of some 
points of contrast between Christie s 
and the Hotel Drouot ; but, after all, 
there is none that is half so striking as 
the difference in demeanor between the 
two auctioneers. While in Paris the 
seller, the expert, and the huissier carry 
on, from the beginning of the sale to 
the end, a hideous rivalry of noise ; 
while the bidder s modest nod or word 
is taken up and translated into a shrill 
volume of sound, as though a picture 
could not be sold in tranquillity nor 
business done in peace, at Christie s 
everything is sober, steady, silently de 
cisive, and, for all that, none the less 
serious and important. We have used 
the word imperturbable, and it is the 
word par excellence that denotes the 
skilled English auctioneer. He never 
loses his presence of mind, he never 
raises his voice or seems to quicken the 
beat of his pulses, whether the bid be 
for a shilling or for a thousand pounds ; 
whether the object he is selling be a 
trumpery bit of bric-a-brac or a master 
piece of Rembrandt. It is the system, 
and it is the outcome of the national 
character. 



THE LADY HANNAH A BALLAD OF CAPTAIN KIDD. 

By James Herbert Morse. 

IF ever you meet with Captain Kidd, 

At dawn, or dusk, or late moonrise, 
Pray hale him hither to Dead Neck Isle, 

Where the Lady Hannah lies. 

The tale is old. At the dead of night, 

Because she wearied of the sea 
And prayed full long for the turf she loved 

"You ll have it soon," quoth he. 

At dead of night they plied the oar 

From where the pirate at anchor lay, 
With taper spars against the stars, 

Until they reached the bay. 

Round Dead Neck Isle they cut the waves 
That never a keel had ploughed before, 

And, where the ancient cedars rose, 
Rose sharply up the shore. 



THE LADY HANNAH. 773 

" Now take my hand," quoth Captain Kidd, 

" The air is blithe, I scent the meads." 
He led her up the star-lit sands, 

Out of the rustling reeds. 

The great white owl then beat his breast, 

Athwart the cedars whirred and flew ; 
"There s death in our handsome captain s eye/ 

Murmured the pirate s crew. 

And long they lay upon their oars 

And cursed the silence and the chill ; 
They cursed the wail of the rising wind, 

For no man dared be still. 

Of ribald songs they sang a score 

To stifle the midnight sobs and sighs, 
They told wild tales of the Indian Main, 

To drown the far-off cries. 

But when they ceased, and Captain Kidd 

Came down the sands of Dead Neck Isle, 
"My lady wearies," he grimly said, 

"And she would rest awhile. 

"I ve made her a bed tis here, tis there, 

And she shall wake, be it soon or long, 
Where grass is green, and the wild birds sing, 

And the wind makes undersong. 

"Be quick, my men, and give a hand, 

She loved soft furs and silken stuff, 
Jewels of gold and silver bars, 

And she shall have enough. 

"With silver bars and golden ore, 

So fine a lady she shall be, 
A many suitors shall seek her long, 

As they sought Penelope. 

"And if a lover would win her hand, 

No lips e er kissed a hand so white, 
And if a lover would hear her sing, 

She sings at owlet light. 

"But if a lover would win her gold, 

And his hands be strong to lift the lid, 
Tis here, tis there, tis everywhere 

In the chest," quoth Captain Kidd. 

They lifted long, they lifted well, 

Ingots of gold, and silver bars, 

And silken plunder from wild, wild wars, 
But where they laid them, no man can tell, 

Though known to a thousand stars. 

VOL. VIII. 76 




JERRY. 



PAKT THIED. 



CHAPTEE I. 

" Dark, dark was all ! A mist 
A blinding, whirling mist of chilly snow, 
The falling and the driven ; for the wind 
Swept round and round in clouds upon the 

earth, 

And birm d the deathly drift aloft with moans, 
Till all was swooning darkness. Far above 
A voice was shrieking with a human cry ! 

THE wind was howling wildly, and 
the snow, falling in swirling sheets, 
was scurrying across the wide 
plain, driving against the great cliffs, 
and banking, dangerously almost, on 
the frail new houses. It had not been 
falling for an hour, and yet all the land 
was covered. The fire burned hotly, 
sending a vivid glow over Joe s chair 
that stood in its accustomed place, and 
seeming as if it strove to touch with 
one little shaft of light Joe s pipe that 
lay in the crack between the logs where 
for years he had kept it. Buck slept in 
his box ; the lamp shone brightly, and 
Jerry, with his arms crossed on the ta 
ble, and his head bowed down on them, 
sat alone. 

There was nothing to indicate that 
Joe might not come in at any moment, 
except that his clothes hung long and 
limp against the wall, that his hat was 
on the peg behind the door, and that his 
boots stood in the corner with some 
mud still on them, and their tops droop 
ing over one another. 

The bread browned in the spider ; the 
coffee-pot steamed on the hearth ; why 
should not the old man come in ? Be 
cause the door was barred, or because 



the window was shut fast, blind and all 
was that a reason ? 

Lonely ? Jerry had never realized 
that such loneliness could be felt. 

Fresh from the whirl of gayety and 
excitement, fresh from the midst of 
luxury and praise, to this. He raised 
his head and looked about him ; this 
was all he owned ; all he owned, for the 
old man had died with the secret of his 
" find " kept close. Jerry was in de 
spair ; he had spent hundreds, and had 
pledged himself for far more ; and now 
Joe was dead, and the secret of where 
he found his gold was dead with him. 

It was not in Durden s Mine ; that 
appalling truth had come home to Jerry 
in the midst of that awful death-scene 
like a merciless blow. For he had been 
so sure that Joe got his gold in Dur 
den s Mine, and Dan Burk, who pro 
fessed to know, had confirmed his sur 
mises and now ? 

A groan broke from his lips. 

"Great God! "he cried, "what shall 
I do ! " 

What, indeed ! The next week the 
engineer would come, and the examina 
tion of the mine begin. Never go to 
the left, the old man had said, but had 
added, " There s death in the mine ? " 
Death. Death was nothing compared 
with failure. He would suffer a thou 
sand deaths rather than fail. 

What should he do ? 

He turned his head from side to side 
to deaden the dull pain that had never 
left it since that bewildering day in the 
Board room ; a heavy, heavy pain that 
would not go. 



JERRY. 



775 



He looked back all along his course ; 
how he had been pushed and driven ; 
how his present position seemed to 
spring on him full-armed, and he so un 
prepared ; how blindly he had gone in 
to this wild scheme that no man with 
any experience would have dreamed of 
attempting. It had wound like a coil 
about his feet a net spread so plainly 
that any eye could see. Nothing but 
invincible ignorance would have dared 
so much so regardless of all conse 
quences. And now the consequences 
were on him, and he was lost in a mist 
of despair. 

Would it not be better to put the en 
gineer at work on the new finds ; while 
he searched for Joe s place of work ? 

Again he shook his weary head ; this 
would lose to him the people s confi 
dence ; and a slow feeling of resentment 
began to burn in him against the poor 
dead man. He had not money to live 
on even, now that Joe was gone ; he was 
afraid to ask Greg if Joe had repaid all 
of Mr. Greg s advances ; he was afraid 
to ask any question ; to meet Dan Burk ; 
to look anyone in the face ; for what 
better was he than a pauper and a 
fraud ? At last he rose and shook him 
self ; whatever else he might be, he was 
surely a fool and a coward. He must 
not dream of flinching now, but must 
fight this thing through whatever the 
end might be. He must put the engi 
neer to work in Durden s Mine ; must 
go in himself regardless of the death 
that was prophesied for him there. 

He laughed. 

It showed what an idiot he was to re 
member even an old man s superstitions ; 
and he tramped up and down the little 
house until the floor shook. To-morrow 
he would put on his old clothes and 
move into Durden s ; he was going to 
live with Greg now, and the change and 
new life would help to rouse him from 
this wretched weakness and despond 
ency ; he would move everything and 
shut up the old house for a while. 

Up and down he tramped until he 
felt better ; well enough to put his sup 
per on the table. 

One week ago he was at that ball. He 
put his cup down ; he seemed to hear 
again the minor chords of the waltz that 
passed by him when he sat alone among 



the flowers and heard that last fare 
well ! He took up his cup again, and 
emptied it ; he would lose his mind if 
he allowed himself to brood in this way. 
He must eat his supper, and then must 
read the sealed paper the doctor had 
given him that morning after the funer 
al. He had put off the reading hour after 
hour : he had said that when he finished 
cooking his dinner he would read it ; 
then, when he had finished eating his 
dinner ; then, when he had finished cut 
ting his wood because the storm was 
coming ; and then, when he had finished 
cooking his supper. Now all was done 
save the eating of his supper, and he 
could have no further excuse. The pa 
per was in the inside pocket of his coat, 
he could hear it crackling a little every 
time he moved ; he was silly to put it 
off any longer ; he would finish his sup 
per and then open it. 

Resolutely he set to work and made 
himself eat as usual ; then he washed the 
few things and put them away, as he had 
done for so many years, then sat down 
by the light. 

It was a large yellow envelope, with 
inky finger-marks on it, and a long 
smirch where it had been glued down. 
Jerry turned it over slowly ; no living 
creature knew its contents. This thought 
gave him a tremulous feeling, as if a 
ghostly company were waiting to see 
him read it, and to watch his action. 

He looked over his shoulder hastily, 
and the clothes of the dead man hang 
ing limp and straight against the wall, 
fluttered slightly as a more violent gust 
than usual struck the house. A cold 
perspiration broke out on Jerry s fore 
head ! For one moment he sat quite 
still, then rose and took the clothes 
down, putting them on Joe s bed. Of 
course the wind had stirred them ; the 
wind was unusually high. 

Then, once more seated near the lamp, 
he took the ugly envelope from the ta 
ble, turned it over once, then tore it 
open. 

Was there anything in it ? 

Nervously enough he held it before 
he looked, then one little scrap of dirty 
white paper was all he found, and on it, 
in cramped, laborious, printed letters, 
these words : 

" Een the dorg korner een the raf- 



776 



JERRY. 



ters een the j ists een the korners " 
that was all ! 

Jerry put the paper down and looked 
about him bewildered what did it 
mean? 

The dog s corner ; that was men 
tioned first. Should he go there ; and if 
he went what would he find? In the 
dog s corner he must look ! 

He called old Buck from out his box, 
putting all the remaining supper on the 
floor for him, then pulled the box away. 
Carefully he rapped the floor it was 
hollow ; but all the floor was hollow. 
He took the lamp from the table and 
looked more closely ; all the boards were 
short, and were more compactly fitted 
together ; more carefully still he looked, 
and in the darkest part of the corner 
he saw a place worn almost smooth, and 
on the edges of it many finger-marks. 

He thought for a moment, then put 
his fingers in this place, and the floor 
came up ! 

Jerry drew a long breath and dropped 
it. He walked up and down the floor 
once or twice : was he dreaming, or was 
he a coward? 

Once more he approached the corner, 
once more fitted his fingers it came 
up readily, and looking he saw that a 
square of the short boards turned on 
well-greased wooden hinges. 

He had often seen such hinges, why 
should they so astonish him ? Then he 
saw something else ; was it another floor 
or a box ? He ran his fingers over the 
whole smooth surface, then carefully ex 
amining he found more finger-marks ; 
he fitted his fingers to them one second 
then a lid was lifted ! 

Had his mind deserted him suddenly ? 

He passed his hand slowly over his 
eyes and brow, then knelt by the open 
hole as if turned to stone ! 

Was any one knocking, or crying, or 
was it the wind ? 

Hastily he sprang up, shutting down 
both floors, and putting the lamp on the 
table. 

Buck was eating his supper quietly ; 
the wind howled despairingly, and he 
could feel the snow banking against the 
window. He could feel it falling flake 
by flake, he knew he could and some 
one was walking and wailing outside ! 

He covered his face with his hands 



was it Joe ? A shudder ran over him 
Joe longing once more to count his 
hoard ! 

With a wild shriek the wind came 
down the gorge, striking like a human 
hand against the door and window. 
Jerry stood still, and cold and white ; 
it came across those lonely graves : those 
lives had been sacrificed for this gold ! 

Greg had left a flask of brandy on the 
shelf ; he needed strength now, and he 
would find it in that flask. 

He took a tin cup and poured some 
in it ; how Fred Greg would scorn to 
drink from such a vessel ; and yet this 
was the same brandy Fred drank in the 
East. It looked like melted gold as the 
light shone through it ; then he tossed 
it off. He stood still for a moment : he 
was on fire there were broken stars 
before his eyes, and red-hot blood in 
his veins ! He walked to the book-shelf 
those were his books, he knew every 
one of them and there was Joe s ax in 
the corner, and Buck lying full length 
before the fire. 

Nothing ailed him, he had taken only 
a little brandy to steady him after a day 
of unusual excitement ; he had often 
seen men take more than he had taken. 

Now he had strength to open those 
floors ; and after that" een the rafters 
een the korners een the j ists" he 
laughed aloud. 

Poor Joe, he said always " een " for 
" in." He felt better now, quite strong 
and well, and had been a fool to think 
he had heard voices, or footsteps, or 
snowflakes falling a perfect fool ! 

He walked to the corner, he knew 
what was there now ; he knew that his 
reputation was saved his name made 
good. 

Eagerly, greedily he lifted the two 
floors ah, those little bags : they could 
hold only one thing gold ! Gold dust 
gold nuggets ? 

Anxiously he opened one one, two, 
three of them five, ten of them and a 
cry burst from his lips ! 

Gold money, firm and solid from the 
mint ! He heaped more wood on the 
fire he spread a blanket on the floor 
a blood-red blanket how the gold 
would sparkle against it ! 

And then bag after bag he emptied 
it. How it clinked how it rang piles 



JERRY. 



Ill 



and piles of it ! He was drunk with the 
sight, and sat on the floor and smiled 
at it, and talked to it like an idiot ; then 
suddenly rising up with arms outspread 
he cast himself upon the glittering heap ! 

" Mine, all mine ! " he cried aloud ; 
a wild, sharp cry that seemed to still the 
wail of the wind as it passed, and an 
awful silence fell. Had he made that 
sound ? 

He got up slowly. What ailed him ? 
Was he mad ? Of course not ; but fool 
ishly he had emptied many of his bags 
of gold ; he must fill them all again and 
put them back ; that corner was the 
safest place in which to keep them. 

Then the words came back to him 
" een the rafters een the korners een 
the j ists." He looked up ; could gold 
be hidden up there in the rafters ? He 
put his hand up in the lowest corner of 
the roof, and something was there 
something soft and round. He paused 
a moment ; should he take it down and 
examine it now, or wait until he had put 
away all his gold, and replaced Buck s 
box. Poor dog, he waited so patiently, 
so still and watchful near the fire. Per 
haps he was accustomed to see those 
little bags taken out and emptied emp 
tied and counted over and over again. 
Old Pete had had those patient ways, 
too. 

Slowly Jerry filled the little bags, 
packing them tightly ; had he done it 
too securely? He looked about him 
bewildered ; he must have, for there was 
no gold to fill the last bag which he held 
in his hands. He passed his hand slow 
ly over his forehead and eyes had an 
unseen hand filched any from him ? 

Out again, hurriedly, eagerly, came all 
the little bags ; how many pieces had 
there been in each ? Many of them he 
had not touched as yet ; he would count 
the pieces in these, and fill the others 
with the same number of coins. 

Bag after bag was carefully set apart 
on the floor ; the unopened ones opened 
and counted, and the rest filled accord 
ingly, and enough was left for the last 
bag none had been taken. 

Then he put them back ; shut down 
the floors ; drew the box into its place, 
and watched as without any command 
the great dog stepped into his resting- 
place. 



give 



While he had been dreaming of the 
equal distribution of land and money, 
and making maudlin speeches about the 
inalienable rights of humanity, old Joe 
was gathering and old Buck was guard 
ing ! 

Humanity had no inalienable rights 
had no right to anything save what he 
could get and hold by his own strength. 
Buck and Joe had been wise had gath 
ered and saved the one thing that would 
make these ignorant hordes respect him, 
and stand back from crowding him 
down ; the one thing that would 
him power in the world. 

He laughed a little, then stood still in 
front of the fire trying to calm his ex 
citement, and decide what he would do. 
Should he hunt for and examine his 
treasure now, or wait until daylight ? 

For a moment he wavered ; he might 
lose some in the night ; but in the day 
light Greg might come upon him at any 
hour he was more secure now. 

He again took up the blurred, rudely 
written paper; "een the rafters een 
the komers een the j ists." He would 
have to tear the house down ! Had the 
old man designed this so that no one 
should have the house he built so long 
ago for his little Nan ? But now he 
must look. 

The rafters were rough logs with the 
bark still on them, and ran the length 
of the house ; nor were they very far 
apart, for the clapboards that stood for 
shingles were nailed to them without 
any intervening sheeting. Jerry was 
tall, and the house was low ; he could 
reach up and touch every rafter except 
the three in the peak of the house, and 
these he could reach by standing on a 
chair. 

He took it all in ; almost he could see 
Joe s long arms reaching up, and his 
bony hands fumbling about the rough 
bark ; and now he could understand 
why he was not allowed to whitewash 
the inside of the house, nor to move 
Buck s box. What a blind fool he had 
been ! If he had had any sense he could 
have read the secret of Joe s life long 
ago, and the mystery that kept him 
aloof from his fellows ; it was all clear 
to him now so clear that the only won 
der was that he had not seen it sooner. 

Now he went back to the place where 



778 



JERRY. 



he had put up his hand, and had felt 
the soft little bundle he had been afraid 
to take down. He went back now and 
lifted his slim, nervous hand that trem 
bled foolishly ; it was there, he had not 
been mistaken, and he brought it to the 
light eagerly. A little roll about the 
size and shape of his finger, and wrap 
ped in a piece of leather that looked as 
if it had been cut from the top of an old 
boot, and tied round with a leather string. 

He sat down by the table, he was so 
nervous, and untied it slowly it un 
rolled before him, an orderly pile of 
bank-bills ! 

One hour ago he had looked on him 
self as a ruined man a pauper a 
fraud ! Now, who could say how much 
he owned ? 

He got up and poured more brandy 
into the cup, but before he drank it he 
wound up the clock ; this task would 
take hours, and he must know when to 
look for interruptions. An intense, ex 
cited quiet seemed to have fallen on him 
now ; he must work steadily and syste 
matically ; he must know exactly where 
he began his search, and carry it on qui 
etly from that point. He marked the 
place, then went regularly on, putting 
all he found on the table. Strange lit 
tle rolls wrapped in scraps of leather, or 
in pieces of the skin of animals, or in 
squares of felt that looked like the re 
mains of old hats, and all of them care 
fully tied. Some were hard, as if they 
were rolls of gold or silver, and some 
were soft as the first bundle had been. 
Carefully, slowly up and down the long 
rafters he felt his way ; up and down all 
the higher ones, filling his pockets that 
he might not have to move too often. 

How careful and ingenious the old 
man had been in hiding his treasure ! 
No one could possibly have found it 
without some clue. Then he emptied 
his pockets on the table. What a pile it 
made ! and how should he store it away? 
One or two of the little packages he had 
found stuffed in between the clapboards. 
How many more might be there he did 
not know ; but he would find out find 
out if he had to pull the house down 
piece by piece ! 

Carefully he went over it all again, 
very carefully; he must not miss one 
inch of that roof. He was not trem 



bling now, but he was cold, cold as 
death ! He piled more wood on the 
fire ; the blaze mounted up higher and 
higher the room was in a glow. Then 
he looked about him ; there was his 
trunk he had bought while he was gone, 
and his valise. Not in the valise, but 
in the trunk ; that had a false bottom 
that opened with a secret spring. A 
new invention, the man had told him ; 
he would put all his money there : the 
bills would not rattle, and would lie flat ; 
and he could put the extra covering on 
the rolls of coin to stop any possible 
sound. 

In a moment the trunk was open, and 
all his clothes out on the floor, all his 
fine new things that had cost so much 
money, and been put on with so much 
pride and pleasure ; what did they mat 
ter now what did anything matter ! 
Down, down to the bottom, down into 
the false tray that was so deftly con 
cealed ; one touch and it flew open. 
Only one thing was there one small 
bundle tied up in an old newspaper. 
Jerry stopped ; his hands fell at his 
side, and the light died out of his eyes. 
"Mammy ! mammy ! " he whispered. 

What came to him that he looked all 
about him; stood up and turned and 
looked about as if listening. What did 
he see or hear ? 

He turned the soiled, crumpled bun 
dle over and over in his hands. The 
same old paper he had put about it as a 
child the same old paper he had left 
there because he had not known that it 
was wretched and dirty and that later 
he had left because of a nameless pathos 
that appealed to him from every smirch, 
and every wrinkle ! Now it came to him 
like a voice or a touch from another 
world ; his life was cut in two, and that 
other life he had lived had died and 
been buried long ago. 

He was another person ; he could not 
be that wild dreamer who had thought 
to equalize all the possessions of the 
earth ; who would now have had him 
give a roll or a bag to every person in 
the town. How strange he had been ! 
No wonder Joe had laughed at him. 

And this little bundle that, for all his 
life until now, had been his only pos 
session ; poor little bundle, the only in 
heritance of his life. 



JERRY. 



779 



He turned to look at the table where 
his treasure lay in piles and heaps 
now ! He thrust the bundle far back 
in the bottom of his trunk far back in 
a hidden corner; the night was going 
and he must work. Hurriedly he began 
to drag the trunk across the floor ; mid 
way he stopped and lifted it ; it might 
jar some of the little bundles from their 
resting-places in the joists ; and he put 
it down very carefully near the table 
and began to pack. All the bundles of 
bills he smoothed out evenly, laying 
them in exact piles in the false tray ; 
then the rolls he covered more securely, 
putting them in even rows, and there 
was a great space left. 

"Een the korners," the paper had 
said. He took the lamp, and moving his 
cot looked carefully on the floor in the 
corner, while visions of another double 
floor, as in the dog s corner, flashed 
across his mind. 

But carefully as he looked there were 
no marks ; he tapped the floor, he tried 
the boards, but with no success, and a 
feverish impatience began to pervade 
him. What had Joe meant "een the 
korners?" 

He lifted the lamp and looked up and 
down where the logs crossed each other 
ah ! In each joint there was a crack, 
an innocent natural crevice, but they 
meant much to Jerry. There they were, 
little rolls and bundles hidden away, 
pushed in carefully and systematically, 
hidden entirely. Slowly but surely he 
pulled them all out, one after another, 
with an absorbed, intense expression on 
his face, and a burning light in his eyes. 
One after another they came out ; how 
many more were there, and how many 
more in the other corners ? How much 
would he have when he gathered it all 
together? how much? And would he 
ever find time and place to count it ? 

Each corner yielded up its treasure, 
and he put it away as he had done the 
rest, then paused and looked about 
him. 

He was very weary, and the night was 
nearly done. Should he put away every 
thing and rest until the day came, or 
should he search further? He was very 
weary, and his head felt strangely heavy. 
Was it the brandy, or the pain that had 
worried him for so long, turned to heavi 



ness? It was something he had never 
felt before, and he must rest. 

It would not do for him to be ill and 
all this money about ; no, he must put 
the house in order, and rest ; perhaps a 
little sleep would send the feeling away. 

Slowly and heavily he moved about, 
shutting down the secret tray, putting 
his clothes back as they had been, and 
carefully rolling the trunk against the 
wall. The fire ; yes, he must make that 
safe, it would never do to let there be 
any danger of that kind, with all this 
money about. How reckless he had 
been all these years, not -knowing the 
wealth hidden all about him ! 

But now he was very weary ; he must 
rest; but he would not put the light 
out a light would be a safety to the 
house; seeing it thieves would think 
him awake, and be afraid to break in. 
But yet the light might guide some 
wanderer there, some traveller lost on 
the trail ; so he must turn it very low, 
for it would not be safe to take stran 
gers in with so much money about. 

He must be careful now, very careful, 
for no one must know of his wealth ; no 
one must know. Nor must he undress, 
that would not be safe ; and the old rifle 
must be loaded and cocked by his bed 
side ; that was what Joe always did ; 
Joe, who was so clever to gather and to 
hide! 

He felt better lying down; but had 
he left any of the little rolls in his pock 
ets that he could not lie easy ? And he 
felt about him on the bed and in his 
pockets. No, they were all safe in the 
trunk, unless he had dropped some on 
the floor. He did not remember hearing 
any of them fall, and yet they might 
have. Would it not be better to get up 
and look ? 

Only he was so weary ; let him rest a 
little while longer, then he would look ; 
yes, he would look, for perhaps he had 
left some on the table, and that would 
betray him to Greg. 

Was Greg there in the room had he 
come softly over the snow from Dur- 
den s? 

He must get up ; he must ! If Greg 
found it out everybody would know, 
and they would force him to share it 
out. Never never ! 

He must hide it : he must send it to 



780 



JERRY. 



old Mr. Greg to buy shares, and make 
into millions and millions ; until it would 
be scattered about him like chips around 
the woodpile yes, like chips ! 

And so he tossed and dreamed, half 
asleep, half awake, while the night 
waned, and the wild wind blew the 
snow-clouds away and let the morning 
stars shine and glitter, and the moon 
turn all the snow-covered world to silver. 

Clear and crisp, and cruelly cold when 
the red sun rose and shone on the work 
of the busy snow-clouds, and stole under 
Jerry s doorway, following a little drift 
of snow that had driven in, and lay 
across the floor a beautiful, unheeded 
stream of gold ; stole in to show that a 
new day had broken over the land, and 
a new time and chance wherein man 
might begin his life afresh. 

A beautiful new day ; a resurrection 
from the death of sleep ; a clearing of 
the soul from troubled visions that once 
more it might look up to God s glad 
light and turn away from sin and dark 
ness ; one more gift of time and oppor 
tunity sweeping in a golden flood before 
each life ! 

CHAPTEE H. 

" Howbeit all is not lost : 

The warm noon ends in frost ; 
The worldly tongues of promise, 
Like sheep-bells, die off from us 
On the desert hills cloud-crossed ! " 

IT was late when Jerry roused from 
his restless dreams, and he wondered 
vaguely what had come to him, and if 
he had slept at all. The fire had smol 
dered into a gray heap ; the sun shone 
under the door, and old Buck lay with 
his nose up on the edge of the box 
blinking at the unaccustomed darkness 
at this hour. 

Jerry sat up and looked about him : 
it surely had been a black, wild, snowy 
night when he lay down, and now the 
sun was shining. 

He got up slowly, staggering a little 
just at first, and his head was very heavy ; 
that was the brandy yes, he had taken 
some brandy. Then slowly across his 
memory came all the scene of the night 
before; and he covered his face with 
his hands could it be true possibly ? 

He walked to the window and pushed 



open both sash and blind, and the sight 
of the whitened world reassured him 
that he had not lost his mind. But it 
was cold, bitterly cold. 

Quickly he made the fire and put on 
the kettle ; now he would go out to the 
bathing-pool and put his head under 
the spout of the spring that would 
clear his brain so that he could think. 

The fire burned brightly, and Buck 
came out of his box to sit near it ; things 
were beginning to look more natural. 

Jerry took out a suit of the rough 
clothes he had worn always, and that 
Joe had put away for him in the old 
wooden chest ; he would put them on 
when he came back from the spring, 
and things would seem more real. 

Once out in the crisp cold air he 
started at a full run up the little 
snow-covered path : he used always to 
run on cold days, and somehow he had 
a wish now to do as he had done always ; 
he wanted to take a fresh hold on the 
old life that had been so real and so 
happy ! Yes, it had been happy, but he 
had not realized it at the time ; this new 
life, into which he had stepped so sud 
denly, seemed like some strange dream 
from which he must soon be roused ; he 
seemed to be able to stand off and look 
at himself as if he were some other per 
son. He could see himself smiling, and 
talking, and bowing in the beautiful 
rooms that were full of light and music 
and lovely women ; he could see himself 
down among the busy offices with his 
face grown keen and sharp after gain ; 
he could see himself mad with joy over 
his heap of gold ! And the person who 
looked was a grave young man, with 
rather a sad face, who trudged back and 
forth to the humble school-house in 
Eureka ; a sad young man with a heart 
all wounded and embittered by the love 
cast back on it. 

Ah, that had been the turning-point ! 
If only the doctor had not cast him off. 

The thought was bitter to him still, 
and hastily he pushed his head under 
the rough spout. The little icicles hang 
ing on the side broke and fell clinking 
down with a sharp rattle ; he laughed a 
happy little laugh, the sound took him 
back so entirely into the old days. And 
the water was so cold, his head felt clear 
and sound in a moment. 



JERRY. 



781 



Now lie could go back and cook his 
breakfast and make his plans in a cool, 
sensible way. 

He rubbed his hair round and round 
with a rough towel ; Joe had made him 
do it in this way always, and he was 
finding Joe to be a very wise old man in 
many ways. 

And they had been happy together in 
all those long, quiet years that were 
gone they had been very happy. And 
the study under the doctor had been so 
pleasant and good, and he had found 
when he went out into the world that he 
knew more than most of the young 
men ; nor had their ways and manners 
been strange to him. Yes, his life had 
been happy ; picking his way slowly 
back to the house ; but there was no 
reason why this new life should not be 
happy also why not ? He took off his 
"city clothes" and put on the rough 
suit that seemed so much more real and 
substantial ; and made up the bread for 
his breakfast, and the coffee, and sliced 
the bacon that he would fry when the 
bread was nearly done. It was all so 
much as usual that he felt quite sure 
Joe was at the spring and would come 
in soon. 

Busily he swept the floor, stepping 
softly lest he should jar some of the 
little bundles out of the joists; but 
when he remembered all the years that 
he had been coming in and out, and Joe, 
stamping heavily, he thought there could 
be no such danger. 

Then looking up, his eyes fell on the 
little flask ; that was what had made him 
so wild the night before, so miserable 
this morning, and it should not stand 
there to tempt him, he would pour it 
out Greg had plenty more. It made a 
little hole in the snow as he poured it 
a little round hole like a bullet and the 
smell sickened him, bringing back the 
horror of the night. He put the empty 
flask back on the shelf, and arranged 
the table for his breakfast ; it was better 
to do things with the usual regularity, 
it would help to calm him from the ex 
citement of the past week, and allow him 
to think quietly of his future. 

He would send his trunk down to 
Greg s, and whatever else they would 
need out of the house ; and Joe s clothes 
and tools he would give to some poor 



emigrant there were plenty of them 
who would be glad to get these things. 

His books he would pack in the old 
chest, and take them with him, too ; he 
paused, and a sudden thought came to 
him that made him turn and look at the 
chest. Surely it would hold all his 
books even with a false bottom put in, 
and his gold bags packed between. And 
books were heavy, so that the weight of 
the chest would not be noticed, and he 
would pack the gold so as not to rattle ; 
this was a good plan, and he felt re 
lieved. 

As to the house ; and he paused again 
in his slow eating to look up at the roof 
it would have to come down, and what 
excuse could he give for taking it down 
himself? This thought worried him. 
He could not say it was from love to 
Joe, affectionate recollection of the old 
man who had been all to him. A real 
pain an acute, accusing pain for the 
poor old man crept into his heart. 
Until now no thought of love or of 
mourning had come to him ; it had been 
painful, and he had missed Joe, but that 
had been all. 

And he hated himself for the coldness 
of his heart. 

No, he could not claim love as a mo 
tive for pulling down the house himself ; 
he could not use the kind old man s 
memory in this way. He would pull 
down the house and say nothing about 
it, and when it was all down he would 
move it into the town, it would make a 
good house for somebody. This was 
the best plan, and surely it was no 
body s business. 

The dog was fed, the things put away, 
then he went to the bottom of his trunk 
once more ; all was safe, and he put his 
clothes back more carefully, and on top 
he put the rest of his coarse clothes ; it 
would be best to dress as he had al 
ways dressed, and to live as he had al 
ways lived, for too much public money 
passed through his hands for it to be 
safe for him to change in any way. 

And not even Greg must know of the 
extent of his fortune, for no one would 
be loath to suspect him of knowing 
Joe s "find," and of concealing the 
knowledge in order to reap all the ad 
vantage. 

Now he must prepare the chest ; and 



782 



JERRY. 



the lid from the second floor in the cor 
ner would make an excellent false bot 
tom, for it was thin and light. 

The tools were all there, and he knew 
pretty well how to use them ; it would 
not take him long; then he must go 
down and see Greg. 

Quickly the hours slipped by, so busy 
was he, but all the little bags were safe 
ly stowed away, with space left for what 
he might find in the joists. 

And gradually, as he worked, the ab 
sorbing thought of his future took hold 
of him again ; in the morning the reac 
tion from the troubles of the night had 
made him long to go back to the whole 
some old times ; but as the hours went 
on, and he realized for what he was pre 
paring, the same excitement crept again 
into his veins. 

So soon as these minor matters were 
made safe, he would map out his future 
course, and pursue it steadily to the end. 

Durden s .should succeed Durden s 
should swallow up Eureka Durden s 
should be the creature of his hand, and 
call him master as long as life pulsed in 
his veins. Only wait a little while 
only be patient and soon all the world 
should see what he could do and be. 

He cooked his dinner and ate it, then 
locked the chest, and the trunk, and the 
house, and set off down the trail toward 
Durden s. He must see Greg, for it 
had occurred to him that it would be 
better to put up another room in addi 
tion to the two which Greg had already ; 
it would be much more convenient for 
them to have such a place, and there 
was lumber to be bought in Eureka and 
plenty of men anxious for the work. 

Certainly it would be best, for things 
had changed, and they could not now 
have all affairs in common. 

To - morrow the Town Committee 
would meet, and the sub - committee 
make a report ; after that he would have 
to report, and he must make out his pa 
pers to-night, and the feeling of a pres 
sure of work seemed to lighten his heart 
and his step. 

He had risked a great deal in giving 
his notes to Mr. Greg for such large 
amounts had done wrong, perhaps, 
but it had been Joe s fault Joe had 
given him unlimited credit. Then again 
there came into his mind the question 



of the motive that had instigated Joe s 
course. On his death-bed he had said 
that he sent him to learn to love money 
to learn to love money. A light 
seemed to break in on him : Joe had 
been afraid that Jerry, not valuing 
money, would share it all out ! Was 
this his only motive? 

He remembered Joe s distress when 
mention was made of buying Durden s 
Mine ; the distress that more than any 
thing else had convinced Jerry that Joe 
worked in Durden s Mine. 

Now that theory was done away with, 
what caused that distress? And his 
death, what caused that? Something 
mysterious which he would not tell ; 
and Greg s story of his absence surely 
looked as if he had some resort and 
place of work other than the mine. 

All this came back to Jerry now that 
his mind was free from the awful anxiety 
that for two days had possessed him 
the anxiety about his notes falling due, 
and, there being no money to take them 
up, what would have happened? The 
whole scheme would have failed, and he 
have been branded forever as an im 
postor. 

Now all was secure, perfectly secure ; 
he could take up his notes and invest 
more could himself run up the Dur 
den s stock a point or two, so that even 
those keen, cautious men in the Board 
would feel secure. In a day or two he 
would take Greg and go in the mine, 
but he would not suggest any of the men 
going with them ; for until they were 
accustomed to the idea of people going 
in and out of this haunted place it was 
best not to ask them, so risking a re 
fusal, for a refusal would set the whole 
town talking, and he must be very cau 
tious about this. 

And besides his report he had a prop 
osition to make to the committee ; it 
was to buy all the lumber now lying in 
Eureka. It would be sold at cost, now 
that Eureka was depressed, and it all 
would be needed in Durden s as soon as 
the rush began. It would be a good 
investment for the committee to build 
the houses, so that the community would 
own them, and when rented or sold, the 
money would come back to the treasury. 
It was a good plan and he would sug 
gest it. 



JERRY. 



783 



And now he began to whistle merrily 
as he walked, for his heart grew light as 
he planned his future, and felt that in 
the present he was safe. Yesterday the 
world had seemed blacker than the 
grave to-day there were no tints need 
ed to brighten it. But it would not do 
to be too gay suddenly Greg nor the 
doctor would understand it, and he 
sobered down before he entered Greg s 
house, where he found him writing let 
ters. 

"Letters for you, too, Wilkerson," he 
said ; "the old gentleman has followed 
you up quickly." 

" A note of mine falls due next week," 
Jerry answered, opening Mr. Greg s 
letter first. "And good news, too," he 
went on, " Durden s stock on a steady 
rise, and Fred anxious to join us." 

Greg shook his head. 

"I shall say no to that," he said. " Too 
many of a family or a class coming in 
will look like a ring, and we cannot 
afford to lose the least bit of ground in 
the confidence of these people." 

Jerry looked up from his letters. 

"Is it well for us to live together, 
then ? " he asked. 

"I have been thinking about it," 
Greg answered, rather hastily, "and 
scarcely think it wise ; and for Henshaw, 
the engineer, I have taken a room at 
Dave Morris s. I tell you, Wilkerson," 
he went on more gravely, "that since I 
worked on that committee I have not 
the least faith in these people ; they 
would turn against either or both of us 
in a minute. They cannot understand 
anybody s working for the. common 
good, and immediately grow suspicious 
of anyone who says that he does. Con 
stantly I hear them going back to the 
doctor s case, and saying how he de 
ceived them. They have to be held 
with a strong hand, or they will turn on 
you." 

Jerry sat quite still ; these were Joe s 
own words " They will kill you in a 
minute " and they would, if he did not 
kill them first ! 

Still, he did not blame them alto 
gether now, for his own views had 
changed as to the rights of the masses, 
and as to the masses themselves ; and, 
perhaps it was well that they had 
changed, for now, instead of trying to 



work out some romantic dream some 
philanthropical impossibility, he would 
take hold of these people and rule them 
as the ignorant needed to be ruled. 

" I will manage them," he answered, 
" and perhaps we had better not live 
together, although it would have been 
very pleasant." 

" Very," Greg assented, drawing idly 
on a piece of paper that lay near him on 
the table ; but the voice was not hearty, 
and Jerry wondered why the wisdom of 
not living together had come to Greg so 
suddenlv yesterday he had insisted on 
it, 

Did he know of anything these people 
were plotting, and so had grown afraid 
of being connected with him? Jerry 
would not look up while he thought, for 
he was afraid the suspicion would show 
in his eyes ; and it was a mean doubt to 
have, but since the doctor had failed 
him he had come to doubt everybody. 
" I shall try to get a room at Mrs. Mil 
ton s," he said, " until I can move my 
own house nearer the mine ; it is too far 
from my work now ; " then he went on 
opening and reading his letters. 

Three or four applications for places 
under him from young men of good 
standing ; two or three inquiries as to 
the real worth of land in Durden s, and 
of the true future of the place ; and 
numbers of answers to his circulars sent 
out two months ago. He read them all 
through gladly enough, for they all 
promised well ; and in a general way he 
told Greg their contents ; but thought 
that as things between them were turn 
ing out so differently from what he had 
expected, it would be wiser to keep his 
own counsel. Nor did he mention his 
plan of buying lumber and building ; 
he would keep this to himself also. And 
he was glad that Greg had declared 
himself so early in the campaign, there 
by giving him time to strengthen him 
self so as to stand alone. It had all 
turned out very well, and it would be a 
good thing to read out these answers to 
his circulars, then propose the building 
plan to the full meeting of the Town 
Committee, and let them see that Greg 
was no more in his confidence than they 
were. 

And he would not, as he had thought 
of doing, send more money to Mr. Greg 



784 



JERRY. 



to invest for him ; but after taking up 
all his notes he would employ a regular 
broker to transact his business for him ; 
for of course all that he told the father 
would be used to help the son, and 
maybe the son would join with any 
party that might form against him 
might even form one. 

And in the half hour that he sat so 
sociably by his friend s fire, the whole 
plan and temper of his life had changed ; 
and the thought came to him, as he left 
the house, that it seemed to be ordained 
that he should stand alone. 

He had grown up with two men whose 
lives hid mysteries, and so touched his 
only on the outermost surface, leaving 
him to live within himself ; and now 
when he thought that he had made a 
friend ; had found one of his own age 
with the same views and ambitions, this 
friend suddenly withdrew from him ; 
because their ambitions were the same, 
perhaps. It was disappointing, but may 
be it was best ; his life would be muck 
more to the purpose, and much more in 
tense, if he lived entirely within himself, 
and frittered away none of his strength 
or energy on love and sympathy. 

A little laugh broke from him as he 
walked, that was not pleasant to listen 
to, and he said aloud " Love and sym 
pathy!" and said it with great con 
tempt. It seemed to him that he had 
given so much, and to what purpose 
to have it all thrown back on him, not 
because of lack in him, but because of a 
love given long ago to a woman. 

And as he stood knocking at Mrs. 
Milton s door, that weary, delicate face 
rose up before him. A strange story 
a sad fate that often he dreamed over : 
and who was the one shut away in the 
convent and why was Paul with the 
doctor? 

" Bless my heart, Jerry Wilkerson ! " 
and Mrs. Milton stood in the doorway 
looking him over from head to heels. 
" Come in come in," she went on, after 
Jerry had shaken hands with her and 
had knocked the snow off his boots 
" it s rale wittles an drink to see youuns 
a-bowin aroun an a-talkin fur orl the 
worl like the doctor ; tucker cheer," 
and she dropped into one of the rocking- 
chairs that had figured so many years 
ago at Lije s funeral ; only now it had 



grown rusty and bare of varnish, and 
the arms were tied in place by pieces of 
string. 

"An how did youuns favor down 
East ? " she asked. 

" Very much," Jerry answered ; " but I 
could not live away from Durden s." 

" Gosh, no ! " scornfully ; " I ain t got 
no stomick fur the pulin way folks lives 
down East, thar ain t no grit bout noth- 
in notter specker grit ! " 

Jerry laughed. 

" But it is very comfortable over there, 
Mrs. Milton, "he said. 

"Durden s 11 do me," she answered, 
taking down a black clay pipe ; " an it 
did fur Joe Gilliam, an it did fur Lije 
Milton, an them were good men as ever 
wuz daubed outer clay ; an youuns orter 
gree to thet, Jerry Wilkerson." 

" I do," and Jerry looked into the fire 
sadly ; certainly Joe had been faithful 
to him. 

" I Hows thar s sumpen on youun s 
mine, Jerry Wilkerson," the old woman 
went on, reseating herself and looking 
at him keenly from out a cloud of 
smoke ; " when a man s wittles don t 
sot easy, or ther s the least little thing 
a-pesterin him, he allers looks like he s 
a-hankerin atter a-buryin ; what s up ? " 

Jerry ran his hand over his face, try 
ing to change his expression ; this old 
woman was so keen. 

" I came to see if I could board with 
you, Mrs. Milton," he said, quietly, "my 
house is too far from my work." 

"I knowed it," nodding slowly, and 
looking into the fire; "Joe s gone, and 
youuns is a-goin to spen what he saved, 
a-boardin . Mussy me, boy, youuns kin 
live a heap cheaper to youuns seff." 

The color rose in Jerry s face. 

"I want to board only until I can 
move my house," he said, " and I am 
going to work, Mrs. Milton, not waste." 

" Jest so, thet s better ; but movin 
thet house ain t a-gointer pay, them logs 
is plum rotten by now ; git youuns a 
little new lumber an put up a shanty 
it ll pay a heap better." 

"Maybe so," Jerry answered. This 
was a good idea to have in people s 
minds ; they would think the old house 
had rotted away ; and as no one used 
the trail now, no one would know it had 
been aided in its fall. 



JERRY. 



785 



"I shall send my trunk and my bed 
down on Monday," he suggested. 

" Well, an the price ? " 

"You must settle that," rising, " you 
know best what it will be worth." 

"Youuns makes a fine trade, Jerry 
Wilkerson," standing between him and 
the door, with arms akimbo ; " Joe d be 
rayly proud to hear how peartly smart 
hisn boy were." 

" I don t think you will cheat me, Mrs. 
Milton ; at least I did not think so," 
laughing. 

" Thet mout be so, an agin it moutent ; 
an I d sot a heap mo sto by youuns if 
vouuns d try to maker trade, I would. 
Youuns tried it on me when youuns 
come alonger Dan Burk to buy the mine, 
an youuns made a rale good trade, you 
uns did," putting her head on one side 
and taking her pipe from her mouth. 
" I reckon youuns is got mo truck sence 
Joe s gone, an don t feel so pertickler 
bad off; ain t thet so ?" 

It was in Jerry s mind, indeed on his 
lips, to say that then he had been buying 
for the people, and now he was making 
only a little arrangement for himself; 
but he remembered Greg s words that 
these people did not believe in such mo 
tives, words he knew to be true, so he 
said only : 

" Yes, Mrs. Milton, I have more money 
now than then." 

"I knowed it," nodding her head, 
"an nobody need not to prophesy to 
know it ; kase orl the town knowed thet 
Joe Gilliam were a savin creetur, an 
lived lonesome ; " she went on more 
thoughtfully, "an did orl fur hisseff 
and fur youuns ; I U be bound Joe 
washed youuns s cloze; now ain t thet 
so?" 

" Yes," Jerry answered, " and mended 
them, too." 

"Great -clay- in- the -mornin ! an a 
heaper gals jest ready to tuck up alonger 
him. Gosh ! " 

Jerry laughed, he could not help it. 
The idea of Joe s marrying seemed so 
queer, it had never occurred to him be 
fore ; and the other idea of the young 
women being willing to take him that 
was still more strange ; marry old Joe ! 
and he laughed. The old woman joined 
in with a grim sort of chuckle over her 
own wit, walking with him to the door. 



"Go long, boy," she said, "an don t 
fotch no beds I se got beds, I reckon, 
an Milley kin rub out youuns s shirts 
onest inner while ; an youuns is jest 
right thet Mandy Milton ain t agoin to 
cheat youuns. I were jest a-foolin ; come 
along when youuns hes a mine to, and 
youuns ll find the inside of Mandy Mil 
ton s han jest sure, youuns will"" and 
she slapped him on the back too heartily 
for comfort almost. " I ain t f urgot thet 
Joe Gilliam, an me, an Lije come from 
the same ole State, and thet fur a while 
Joe Gilliam an Lije were kinder pards 
I ain t furgot farwell," and she stood 
in the doorway to watch him. 

"Poor creetur," she muttered, "to 
think as he s pards alonger Dan Burk, 
the pi sen-meanest parry-toed creetur as 
ever were growed, drat im ; " then she 
shut the door. 

And Jerry went his way up the lonely 
trail, thinking deeply, and readjusting 
his mind to the new order of things 
that had come to him since he had left 
his home, light-hearted, and sure of his 
future. 

CHAPTEE III. 



" Friend, who knows if death have life or life 
have death for goal ? 

Day nor night can tell us, nor many seas de 
clare, nor skies unroll 

What has been from everlasting, or if aught 
shall always be. 

Silence answering only strikes response rever 
berate on the soul 

From the shore that hath no shore beyond it 
set in all the sea." 



SETTLED at Mrs. Milton s, Jerry felt 
more himself than he had done since the 
time that seemed so long ago when he 
had waited to warn the doctor. 

It was better for him to be always 
among his fellows ; the lonely life up on 
the trail allowed him too much time to 
brood and see visions : this busy life 
was more wholesome. 

His report had been received with 
great applause by the committee, and 
his proposition to buy the lumber from 
Eureka, and to build houses, had been 
accepted, and a committee on building 
appointed, of which he was chairman. 

Engineer Henshaw had come, and had 
been settled in his rooms, and now the 



786 



JERRY. 



investigation of the mine was to come 
the next day. 

It was very late ; Mrs. Milton and the 
town of Durden s had been long sleep 
ing the sleep of the weary, but Jerry s 
light burned still, and he wrote busily. 
All day he had worked for the Com 
mune to-night he worked for himself. 
His private affairs were in the most pros 
perous condition ; he had taken up all 
his notes as they fell due ; and had 
spent three days in riding to and from 
the nearest station to send his money 
to be deposited safely in bank. His 
broker had telegraphed its safe arrival, 
and his certificate of deposit and bank 
account had come to him that afternoon. 
He knew now how much he owned : at 
last he had counted all the savings of 
old Joe s long life, and of old Durden 
whose money Joe had found had count 
ed every cent won by those lives of un 
ceasing toil and saving, and knew him 
self to be a rich man. 

It had taken time for him to get the 
money together ; log by log, and board 
by board, he had taken down the whole 
of Joe s house ; he had gotten all that 
was hidden under the floor, and had 
searched the roof most thoroughly. If 
ever it came to his memory that he was 
destroying the place that had sheltered 
all his happiest years, the thought did 
not stay his destroying hand ; rather 
there was a haunting fear always that 
some of the treasure mijhtbe lost ; and 
his most constant dream was that the 
little bundles were rolling away from 
him in the snow and the rain. 

Relentlessly he pulled down all the 
little shelves and conveniences that one 
after another Joe had arranged for him. 
The first shelf put up for his school- 
books ; the larger one put up later for 
books that Joe had given the doctor 
money to buy for him ; the little cup 
board nailed against the wall, that 
served to store his papers in all these 
came down one by one ! Whatever was 
of any use he gave away Joe s clothes, 
and tools, and bed the rest of the 
things he kept to put in his own house 
that was now building. 

All his money was safe now what did 
these old things matter ? But he kept 
the little bags that had held the gold ; 
somehow he could not destroy them ; 



and in one of them he had found a strip 
of paper, and the words on it puzzled 
him ; but he could not destroy the lit 
tle bags. 

His face had grown very sharp in the 
last few weeks, and his eyes burned 
more brightly than ever before, as he 
sat writing under the full glare of the 
lamp. 

He was a rich man now a rich man ! 
Sometimes he said the words over to 
himself until they rang in his ears and 
his heart a rich man! And the re 
spectful letters from his broker, and the 
paternal notes from Mr. Greg, were but 
the forerunning voices of what the world 
would soon sing around him. 

His broker had advised him not to 
take any more stock in Durden s just 
now ; he carried enough to assure peo 
ple of his confidence in the venture, and 
to take any more would look as if he 
wished to prop it up. So some of his 
money was invested in other ways, and 
people in business circles looked on him 
as a " solid man." But in Durden s he 
was still only "Mr. Wilkerson," the chief 
man of the Commune ; the man who had 
the responsibility of the whole town 
and its affairs on his shoulders, but 
who expected to make his money as the 
Durdenites made theirs. No one knew 
of Joe s treasure, and his strange sick 
ness and death were soon forgotten. 

Mrs. Milton had said, and everyone 
believed it, and thought it most natu 
ral that Joe Gilliam had saved a little 
money, and young Wilkerson was living 
on it ; but no one knew of the bank ac 
count, nor of the investments made in 
his name in various prosperous rail 
ways ; only Dan Burk wondered in his 
heart where Joe s money was. He knew 
how much he had saved, and he knew 
that Joe must have saved twice as much ; 
yet no word had come to him no whis 
per of Jerry having found but the little 
he was now spending on his living ; and 
he wondered if the old man had hidden 
it too securely, or purposely had put it 
out of Jerry s reach. 

Burk had been to see Joe once during 
his illness, but Joe had not vouchsafed 
to notice him except to say that there 
was " a curse on the gold, and death in 
the mine" and this looked as if he 
might have buried it out of sight for- 



JERRY. 



787 



ever. Then Dan remembered Jerry s 
visit to the East and hearing that he 
had spent a great deal there ; maybe it 
had gone in this way, maybe ; but then 
this would not account for Joe s great 
desire that Jerry should learn to love 
money. He could come to no satisfac 
tory conclusion, and fell to watching 
Jerry closely for any betraying word or 
action ; he went to see him at all hours, 
hoping to surprise him in some way, but 
gained nothing for his trouble. Jerry 
lived quietly at Mrs. Milton s he was 
building for himself a small house in no 
way better than the houses built for the 
emigrants ; only two small rooms close 
under the cliff near the mine s mouth ; 
he gave no sign in his dress, nor in any 
of his habits, that he was in possession 
of any great amount of money, and Dan 
Burk was puzzled. 

The others who watched Jerry were 
Greg, with always an anxious look in 
his eyes ; and Paul Henley. 

The doctor came and went silently ; 
he attended carefully to his work in Eu 
reka, and kindly to all the sick and dy 
ing ; his life seemed to have lost all in 
terest, and he went about as one to 
whom duty has become habit. His 
great tract of land lay under the sun 
and rain untouched and unsought ; his 
great stacks of lumber had been sold to 
Durden s ; his imported workmen had 
followed their leader Greg, each buying 
his little lot, and building his little 
shanty ; and the land-agents whom he, 
more than Jerry, had foiled, had been 
bought out by the railway company, and 
in a body had gone away in search of 
further prey. 

All things rested in Jerry s hands 
now, and he had begun to think he 
could not fail that all he touched must 
succeed. Nothing surprised him unless 
it went wrong ; then he was provoked. 
He ruled the Town Committee, never 
hesitating to tell them the most biting 
truths ; he dictated to the Building 
Committee ; he asked no advice, and 
told none of his plans. When a plan 
was fully matured in his own mind he 
systematically worked things in that 
direction, then laid the plan before the 
committee, quite sure of its adoption. 

He was fully armed always, and peo 
ple said he was not afraid of the devil. 



More than once Dave Morris had 
bragged of his defeat, elevating himself 
along with the reigning hero a friend 
intimate enough to knock him down ; 
and Dan Burk often had repeated old 
Joe s words, "he would kill without 
thinking," and, if true or not, this was 
believed. 

And Jerry s laws were stringent. 

No whiskey was allowed in the town 
save as rations to men who were work 
ing ; and it was said that Mr. Wilker- 
son would shoot any man he caught 
selling anything stronger than beer. 
Long ago he had established a school 
and church, where services of some kind 
were held every Sunday ; but he had 
no reading-rooms, no lending-libraries, 
nor any news-stalls ; those who wished 
newspapers might take them privately, 
but the fewer the better ; he did not 
think them good for the masses, they 
only fomented discord and discontent. 
He had seen this, and as the people were 
satisfied with the Durden s Banner he 
made no move to introduce papers from 
the outside world. 

As it was, his power was scarcely 
realized ; and Durden s, surprised by 
the order and method with which she 
was governed, followed Jerry quietly 
and blindly. 

His letters were finished now, and he 
pushed aside the coarse curtain that 
shaded the window and looked out. 
The autumn was very late, fortunately 
for his plans, with only the slightest 
snowfalls at long intervals ; allowing 
him to build and prepare for the new 
comers, and to push the work in the 
new " finds ; " a little more good 
weather, and the old mine would be re 
opened, and the railway in ; and of 
course the weather would hold. 

There was a slight covering of snow 
on the ground now, as Jerry looked out, 
but the stars were shining overhead, 
and the moon so brightly that he could 
see the stone meant for Joe s grave 
leaning against the fence. 

" Joe Gilliam s Last Find " was the in 
scription cut on it, with the date of his 
death. 

Jerry turned away ; his last find ! 
Where had his first find been? where 
had he worked all these years ? where 
had he found all his gold ? 



788 



JERRY. 



Up and down Jerry walked ; to-mor 
row, for the second time in his life, he 
would enter Durden s Mine. Would he 
find anything there to tell of that long 
toil and saving ? Might he not have mis 
taken Joe s last words ? 

He had found no mining tools among 
Joe s things ; no lanterns, nor miner s 
lamps, nothing but common saws and 
hammers and hatchets ; no clothes that 
looked as if he had worked under 
ground. Would he find them all in 
some black passage in the mine? all 
piled carefully in some far recess, put 
there by the old hands that could handle 
them no more : or had Joe said true, that 
he had not worked in the mine that it 
was all safe unless you turned to the left. 

He paused in his walking ; some day 
he would examine that turn to the left. 
Die he could not die yet he would 
not die ! If the devil had filled all the 
cracks of the earth with gold, he would 
dig it all out and give it to men, so that 
there wo: T d be no more power in it to 
tempt --them ; and he laughed a little, 
remembering his foolish visions. 

He went to the window again ; his 
head was hot and heavy, and lifting the 
sash he leaned out into the biting wind. 

" Joe Gilliam s Last Find." 

The stone leaning against the fence 
seemed to speak to him. Something 
connected with his work had killed the 
old man ; and his last find, did that 
mean his grave, or the thing that had 
caused his death ? 

He could never find out ; and to-mor 
row he would go into the mine that the 



old inhabitants looked on as fatal to all 
who entered it. 

Mrs. Milton had uttered sad forebod 
ings. 

" My Lije were a good, strong man, 
an he were gone two days," counting 
slowly on her fingers, "two days, a 
Thursday an a Friday, thet were orl 
orl the time he were in thar ; thet were 
orl, but when he come home a Saturday, 
he were done plum done ! " And she 
wiped her nose with the corner of her 
apron; "thar warn t no mo sperrit in 
him, no mo sperrit in Lije Milton," 
shaking her head ; "he never said aneth- 
er cuss, ner tuck anether dram, ceppen 
what the doctor give him ; an he never 
tole what he sawn in thar he never tole 
it." 

Then Jerry had left her : he had 
heard that story long ago from Joe, 
and later had had suspicions of Joe s 
connection with this same story dark 
suspicions that he had stilled ; now they 
all came back to him as he thought of 
the next day, and looked at the stone 
leaning against the fence. 

" Joe Gillianis Last Find " that nar 
row grave up among the rocks the 
common pine coffin the quick forget- 
fulness ! 

He came in hastily from the cold 
night, and shut the window ; he must 
get some rest, or he would not be fit for 
the next day s work. 

Carefully he put the fire together, and 
drew the curtain, then looked at the 
clock ; it was time almost for Mrs. Mil 
ton to get up. 



(To be continued.) 





THE POINT OF VIEW. 



IT cannot be denied that this last decade 
of the century is not precisely the flourish 
ing period of either jovial or sentimental 
celebration, and it is doubtful if the Spirit 
of Christmas Present and Tiny Tim find 
much tolerance at the hands of even the 
most catholic of the ftn-de-siecle critics. 
There are "no new facts to communicate" 
(to quote from the bashful man of science 
recently cited in these pages) as to holly, 
plum-pudding, or the whole duty of man 
to his neighbor under the Christmas-tree or 
elsewhere ; and he would be a bold man 
who should essay a seasonable talk to the 
generation that has run the whole gamut 
of Christmas literature, from the Carol 
and Bracebridge Hall to Mr. Stevenson s 
Christmas sermon. Nevertheless, the dim 
inution, not only of this literature, but 
of the cheery, optimistic note in current 
literature generally, is not altogether owing 
to its past abundance, and is in itself the 
subject for a homily that has not yet been 
read, if one were preacher enough to han 
dle it. If Christmas does not bring new 
expositors of a gospel of good cheer, it sug 
gests at least an inquiry into their absence, 
and a question whether it means loss or 
only change. 

The world has had harder treatment at 
the hands of the pessimists in the last two 
decades, perhaps, than in any like space 
of time before ; but probably no man will 
seriously contend, whatever his philosophy, 
that there has been any real diminution in 
the fund of enthusiasm, initiative energy, 
and on the whole of genuine hope, in the 
race at large. If he be a pessimist himself 
he may lament it that the younger gene- 
VOL. VIII. 77 



rations, at least, will keep on hugging their 
delusions, and believing in the time-hon 
ored possibilities of happiness and fruit- 
fulness ; but he cannot deny the fact that 
the trait is ineradicable, and that it carries 
with it as a corollary a tendency to do 
something for the general good,. If he 
looks, like Cardinal Newman, at, ^3 the many 
races of men, their starts, their fortunes, 
their mutual alienation, their conflicts; 
and then . . . their aimless courses, 
their random achievements and acquire 
ments, the impotent conclusion of long 
standing facts . . . the disappoint 
ments of life, the defeat of good, the suc 
cess of evil, physical pain, mental anguish," 
and all the rest of the dreary catalogue set 
forth by the unerring pen of the * Apolo 
gia," why, so has every man looked at them 
after his kind, and it has made no differ 
ence the sum total of effort and of hopeful 
ness has remained the same. Even beliefs 
may change in part, as they undoubtedly 
have changed in their literal form, and yet 
the bases still remain unaltered with the 
vast majority of men probably with as 
large a majority as ever ; in the last analy 
sis a faith in benevolent design, in an es 
sential and consistent purpose of good, in 
the duty to one s neighbor. Added to these 
are other and greater faiths, from Newman s 
to the simplest individual belief; but so 
much is virtually universal. 

On the whole, too, there has been no de 
crease in the emotional enjoyment of life. 
To reverse the old line in a way that some 
times suggests itself, nos mutamur, et tem- 
pora mutantur in nobis, and the older man 
must recognize that it is he that is changed. 



790 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



and the times only as he sees them ; but, 
taking age for age alike, no one will doubt 
that men love as deeply, feel pleasure as 
keenly, enjoy their happiness as fully as 
they ever did. 

What, then, is the reason for the un 
doubted fact that the cheery side of life 
seems to find less voice in literature ? Or 
if not absolutely, at least relatively less ? 
There are the old stock explanations, the 
greater complexity of contemporary life, 
the growing intensity of the struggle for 
existence, a repressive criticism, and so 
on ; each one of which seems to lead back 
to the same untenable premise, that not 
only the utterance but hopefulness itself 
has actually decreased. But has any one 
thought sufficiently of the fact that the 
mere gigantic increase, if not of literature, 
at least of literary expression, the immense 
ly greater ease of inter-communication, and 
the extent to which nowadays we share 
each other s experiences, have driven writers 
more and more to the exceptional and the 
recondite to the psychological entangle 
ments and the unhappiness which form, to 
quote Mr. William James s phrase, the 
"unclassified residuum" rather than the 
established conditions of life ? 

Contrary to the common belief, it is the 
unhappy and not the happy man who is lo 
quacious. There are very few who are 
compelled to make record of their happi 
ness ; but the Rousseaus and Senancours 
and Amiels (and Marie Bashkirtseffs if you 
like) find voice enough. And now, when 
the channels have become wide and easy, 
the same principle applies with a new force, 
and with results which are portentous. 
Now that the habit of rushing into print 
has so enormously increased, almost every 
one who feels the impulse indulges it, and ex 
liypothesi the great majority who feel it are 
of those to whom unhappiness, commonly 
their own, seems the most important thing 
in life. Add to this the fact that, when 
we all know so much about each other, to 
write about so well understood a condition 
as happiness seems fade and commonplace 
to all except the few who have too much 
real power to fear it ; and here is, I think, 
at least one factor in a possible explanation 
why the short stories and the minor novels 
shun the old open, and take to devious 
ways of entanglement and misery, or to the 



strained realism of showing faithfully only 
the hard, outer shells of things. 

A FEW nights ago, after seeing a good 
American play well acted, I wished, for 
perhaps the hundredth time, that we might 
hand over to our descendants, before this 
nineteenth century closes, a subsidized 
metropolitan theatre devoted to our own 
drama, which, though often crowded out by 
successful foreign plays, can no longer be 
said not to exist. We, who are destined so 
soon to be regarded as odd remnants left 
over from another age, shall never live to 
see such a theatre founded by the govern 
ment, and granted annually for its support 
a large sum out of the public treasury ; they 
do this as well as other things better in 
France, and he who should venture to sug 
gest the scheme at the present stage of our 
civilization would not have to wait long to 
be convinced of its impracticability. But 
neither private munificence nor private en 
terprise need wait upon the passage of a 
bill through Congress. Already we have 
an opera-house second to none, where the 
work of the great composers is produced in 
a manner that falls little short of perfec 
tion ; and every winter we listen with de 
lighted ears to an orchestra established 
in another city by one man s generosity. 
Overflowing houses attest the hearty accept 
ance of these gifts by the music-loving 
public ; their entire success is proved be 
yond dispute. Why, then, should the sis 
ter art languish for like recognition ? How 
much longer must we wait in New York for 
the Comedie Am6ricaine ? 

Ten years remain to us in which to set 
this good work going to us, because if it 
is deferred until the twentieth century we 
shall no longer be identified with it. Not 
half the time we have left is really needed. 
In five years our theatre, well organized and 
conducted, would command attention the 
world over. That it will do so at no very 
distant day is almost certain, since the peo 
ple s interest in the theatre increases con 
stantly. It rests with us to make a day that 
is sure to come our own. But the chroni 
clers are sharpening their pencils and get 
ting out their note-books to set down the 
fact that this century of our republic, with 
all its devotion to literature, its museums, 
its schools of art, never founded a dramatic 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



791 



school, and let its national theatre go a-beg 
ging for the means to undertake it. Such 
welcome and unwelcome things at once, 
tis hard to reconcile." 

Every one knows, of course, that a thea 
tre of the highest class might be carried on 
with a much smaller fund than that required 
for the Metropolitan Opera House, with its 
famous singers, its important conductor, 
and its enormous corps of supernumeraries. 
With the right man at the head of it, a syn 
dicate for the promotion of a national thea 
tre could be formed in one day. Were 
the money a gift, it would be one of public 
benefit, making honor for the benefactors. 
In the end it might prove to be no gift at 
all, but only a good investment ; our thea 
tre-goers have never yet been slow to recog 
nize the best that comes before them. The 
details, to be sure, would take some serious 
thought, but there is the long experience 
of the Comedie Francaise ready to be drawn 
upon. Va pour la Comedie Americaine ! It 
needs but one man to make the effort. 
Where is he ? Naming no names, it can do 
no harm to put the question openly to whom 
it rnay concern. 



THERE is probably no good American cit 
izen of regular occupation (and good citi 
zens, almost to a man, are regularly occu 
pied) who has not at some moment observed 
and deplored the fact that his life, without 
strenuous effort to the contrary, is but a 
mere passing and repassing over the same 
familiar ground. The busy man, whether 
lawyer or merchant, clerk or cashier, soon 
learns the shortest way from his door to his 
business, and the chances are many to one 
that he will always go and come by it. Day 
by day his feet are slowly wearing away the 
pavement in ruts scarcely wider than those 
of the long-silent chariot wheels in Pom 
peii ; were he stricken with sudden blind 
ness he could follow that hurried course in 
the dark ; and as the landmarks along it 
are so hackneyed that he has ceased to 
regard them,, he might as well be blind 
to every non-obstructive thing. Study his 
face, and you will find that he is absorbed 
in his task, whatever it may be. Question 
him about any matter that does not imme 
diately concern that private interest, and 
he will plead in excuse for his ignorance, 



often with a sigh of regret, that he has no 
time for side-issues. 

Now, in nine cases out of ten this is not 
strictly true, though he has made the state 
ment so often that he really believes it, and 
under oath in the witness-box would sol 
emnly state it again. He does not know 
what is the matter with him, but you can 
take your oath, if need be, that the patient 
old scape-goat of the scythe and hour-glass 
is less to blame for it than himself. He has 
simply fallen a victim to the money-getting 
habit a vice like opium - eating or any 
other. Its earliest symptom is a passion 
for overwork, attended by total indifference 
to social and other distractions, including 
every form of literature except the news 
paper; relaxation, when indulged in at all, 
is taken with a rush, like the mid-day meal 
at a lunch-counter, where all eyes are fixed 
upon the clock, and the voice of the ticker 
dominates everything. The acute form re 
veals a kind of mental dyspepsia to which 
enforced leisure brings additional pain 
rather than relief. The brain-wheels, nice 
ly adjusted to their narrow groove, are unfit 
for freer service, and nothing short of re 
casting will make them go. 

The desire to live at ease by achieving 
success in a chosen profession is natural 
and proper, but a reasonable variety in 
one s life is not inconsistent with it. He 
who listens to the clink of coin in his own 
pocket is never to be envied ; on the other 
hand, the poor man with a wide range of 
resources becomes enviably happy in his 
own flexibility of temper which makes 
friends for him on every side. One such 
cheerful soul, no longer in his first youth, 
and anxious to make the most of the fleet 
ing remnant of existence left to him, ac 
tually divides his day into epochs, giving 
an hour to study, an hour to exercise, an 
hour to light literature, and so on. In his 
eagerness to avoid running in a groove, 
he has run into the other extreme with 
as many grooves as his waking hours will 
permit. His plan, if generally practised, 
would have its inconveniences, no doubt; 
yet he is a far more rational creature than 
the man who has merged ail ideas in one. 
He is living his life, at all events ; he will 
not break down before his time, and pursue 
health ever after, restless and miserable, 
with no comfortable tastes or habits to fall 



792 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



back upon. Would that our nervous na 
tion might take to heart and learn to apply 
this lesson in deliberation of an English 
sage : "It does a bullet no good to go fast, 
and a man, if he be truly a man, no harm 
to go slow ; for his glory is not at all in 
going, but in being. " 

WHY do people care so much about what 
is said in newspapers ? They do care, es 
pecially when the something said is said 
of themselves. My friend the Judge re 
marked the other day, on what seemed to 
him the absurd fact, that when a young 
man of questionable wisdom made a re 
mark you gave it such attention as his 
abilities and the accuracy of his informa 
tion seemed to warrant ; but when the same 
young man got his remark committed to 
type, and put into a newspaper, it became 
clothed in an authority which you felt 
bound to respect, and did respect more or 
less, however you might have differed 
from the opinion. But the fact was not so 
absurd as the Judge thought. 

When Brown remarks to Jones, "Rob 
inson is an ass," that is one thing. 
Brown may not really mean what he says. 
His remark is intended for Jones, and very 
possibly he counts upon certain qualities 
in Jones to qualify its force. Beauty lies 
in the eye of the beholder, and of course 
very much of the force of talk lies in the 
listener s ear. Then, too, when Brown 
makes his remark it may be with recog 
nition of the chance that he may feel dif 
ferently about Robinson the next morning, 
and may recall his opinion the next time he 
and Jones meet. But when Brown, the 
editor, composing the opinions of his news 
paper, has his disparaging opinion of Rob 
inson put into type and published, that is 
a different matter. 

In the first place, when the opinion once 



gets into print it becomes something more 
than Brown s opinion. It is the opinion of 
a responsible business establishment, which 
very possibly represents an investment of 
some hundreds of thousands of dollars, the 
profits of which depend in a considerable 
measure upon its reputation, which in turn 
depends, to some extent, on the ability of 
its editor to say the right thing at the right 
time, and defend it. 

And to anything which a responsible 
newspaper prints attach many of the quali 
ties which thus characterize its personal 
remarks. For whatever it says it must be 
ready either to fight, or to apologize and 
pay. Inevitably it will have to apologize 
sometimes ; but the apologies of great news 
papers are far between, and are apt, when 
they come, to relate to matters of minor 
importance. The obligation to be right, 
or at least defensible, in the first place, is 
seriously taken, and an apology is a confes 
sion. 

In the second place, when an opinion 
about Robinson gets into a newspaper it 
is on the way to become the opinion of that 
newspaper s readers, and from that it is only 
a step to becoming the opinion of the pub 
lic. If the remark is so manifestly true, or 
supported by such evidence that the aver 
age intelligence accepts it, it comes with 
the force of revelation, as did the remark 
of the little boy in the fairy tale that the 
king hadn t his clothes on. From private 
opinion to public opinion is as great a step 
as from a liquid to a crystal ; but when 
matters have come to the right point a lit 
tle jar will often precipitate the change in 
an instant. 

Robinson may bear with equanimity the 
knowledge that Brown in talking with 
Jones has called him an ass, but the suspi 
cion that Jones s opinion is public opinion 
may reasonably disconcert him. 



END OF VOLUME VIII. 



L.VIII. NS 1. JULY 1 890 PRICE 25 CENT 

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PETER COLLIER, 

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CAIN 

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Sold by all Druggists. PRICE, 5 CENTS PER BOX. 

Prepared only by THOS. BEECHAM, St. Helens, Lancashire, 
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B. F. ALLEN & CO.. Sole Agents for the United States, 365 
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mail BEECHAM S PILLS on receipt of price. Mention SCBIBNER S 
MAGAZINE. 




POWDER 

Absolutely Pure. 

A cream of tartar baking powder. High 
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They are boned with Coraline, which 
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JOHN E, MORRIS, Asst, Sec y, 



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ublic Libr* 

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T A 



GOLD MEDAL, PARIS, 1878. 

JHER & Co. s 

Breakfast 
Cocoa 

from which the excess of 
oil has been removed, 

Is Absolutely Pure 
and it is Soluble. 

No Chemicals 

are used in its prepar 
ation. It has more 
than three times the 
strength of Cocoa 
mixed with Starch, 
Arrowroot or Sugar, and is therefore far 
more economical, costing less than one cent a 
cup. It is delicious, nourishing, strengthen 
ing, EASILY DIGESTED, and admirably adapted 
for invalids as well as for persons in health. 
Sold by Grocers everywhere. 

W. BAKER & CO., DORCHESTER, MASS. 




p?pRicr$ 



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BAKING 




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Specific fora Weak Stomach. Sick Headache, Impaired 
Digestion, Constipation. Disordered Liiver, etc.. and 

is found efficacious and remedial by "FEMALE SUFFERERS." 
Sold by all Druggists. PRICE. 25 CENTS PER BOX. 

Prepared only by THOS. BEECHAM, St. Helens, Lancashire, 
England. 

B. F. ALLEN & CO., Sole Agents for the United States, 365 
Canal St., N. Y., who (if your druggist does not keep them) will 
mail BEECHAM S PILLS on receipt of price. Mention SCEIBNEB S 
MAGAZINE. 




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Absolutely Pure. 

A cream of tartar baking powder. High 
est of all in leavening strength. U. S. 
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The greatest improvement in Corsets 
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